“Ye will find him lying in the orchard: it is too hot in the room.—Meanwhile we are boiling some milk for you … and eggs too, if you care.”
Roch was at once in the orchard, bending under the drooping branches, as he made his way to the patient, who lay in a basketwork contrivance, covered over with a sheepskin coat. Lapa, curled up at his feet, watched over him; and Vitek’s stork was strutting bravely about amongst the trees, as if on guard.
In this old leafy orchard, the well-grown trees kept the sun out so completely that only a few spots of light, like golden spinners, moved about on the grass beneath.
Matthias lay upon his back. The boughs waved their dark mantle over his head, murmuring softly, and only now and then, when tossed by the winds, letting a patch of blue sky peep through, and a sunbeam fall on his face.
Roch sat down by his side. The patient at once turned to him.
“Ah! Matthias, don’t you know me? don’t you know me?”
A slight smile passed over Boryna’s face, his eyelids fluttered, and his ashen lips moved; but no sound came from them.
“If it be our Lord’s will, ye may yet recover.”
This he must have understood, for he shook his head, and—unconsciously, it seemed—turned his face away, to look at the tossing boughs, and the bright rays that from time to time shone into his eyes.
Roch sighed, made the sign of the cross over him, and went back.
“Well,” Hanka inquired, “is not Father better now?”
He pondered some time; then replied, in low grave tones:
“A lamp always flickers more brightly just before going out. Belike Matthias is passing away. For my part, I wonder he has held out so long.”
“He eats naught: often will he not even take milk.”
“Ye should be ready for the end any day.”
“We should indeed.—Ambrose told me so only the other day, and advised me not to delay having a coffin made.”
“Ye may,” he answered mournfully; “ ’twill not be empty very long.—The soul that is panting to leave this world nothing can keep back, not even our tears. Else some should remain with us for centuries.” And, supping the milk she had prepared for him, he asked her about things in the village.
What she told him he had learned on his way to her; but she afterwards dilated at length and eagerly on her own troubles.
“Where is Yuzka?”
“In the fields, tumping our potatoes along with the komorniki and Yagustynka. Pete is off to the forest, fetching Staho timber for a new hut.”
“What, is he building one?”
“Aye. Mr. Yacek has given him ten trunks of pinewood.”
“Given him? I heard something of that sort, but could not believe it.”
“For it is incredible! No one would credit the thing at first. The man had promised; but that anyone can do. ‘Promises are toys made to give fools joys,’ as the saying is.—Well, Mr. Yacek gave Staho a letter he was to carry to the Squire. Even Veronka said no to that: why should he wear his boots out for nothing, and be laughed at into the bargain for believing a Squire? But he would have his own way. And when he had given in the letter (he told us) the Squire called him into his room, offered him vodka, and said: ‘Bring ye wagons, and the forester shall mark out ten logs for you.’ Klemba and the Soltys gave him wagons, and I gave him Pete besides. The Squire was actually in the clearing, waiting for him, and himself chose ten of the straightest and longest of all, that had been hewn down in winter for the Jews! And now Staho is setting up a beautiful cabin.—No need to say how or with what excuses he thanked Mr. Yacek; whom indeed we all held for a pauper and a lackbrain, forasmuch as no one can tell what his means are, and he plays the fiddle under the holy figures or in the corn, and sometimes talks in rambling wise, and as one not in his right wits.—Yet is he such a big man that the very Squire does his bidding. Who could have believed such a thing?”
“Look not upon the man, but on his deeds.”
“But to give such a quantity of timber, worth (Matthew says) a thousand zloty at least, and all just for a Thank-you-kindly! Why, it is unheard of!”
“They say he intends to take over the old cabin, to live in for the rest of his life.”
“Absurd! it has the worth of a split wooden clog: no more.—Folk were so suspicious of something underhanded that Veronka went to ask his Reverence about the whole business; who scolded her, and called her a silly woman.”
“So she was.—Take what is given you, thanking God for His goodness.”
“Aye, but to get aught for naught is so monstrous a thing: and out of a Squire besides! So unheard of! Did anyone ever give a peasant anything at all for love? When we want the simplest advice, they look to see what our hands offer. Just accost an official empty-handed: how surely he’ll tell you: ‘Tomorrow,’ or ‘Come next Sunday’! Oh, Antek’s business has taught me how things are done, and I have spent not a little that way already.”
“ ’Tis well ye put me in mind of Antek.—I have been in town.”
“And seen him?”
“No time for that.”
“I too went not long ago, but did not see him. God knows when I shall.”
He smiled. “Sooner perchance than ye think.”
“Good Lord! what is it ye say?”
“The truth. I have been told at headquarters that Antek may be released before the trial. But someone must stand bail for him to the amount of five hundred roubles.”
“The very sum the smith spoke of!” And she told him Michael’s advice, word for word.
“There is something in it; but, coming from him, ’tis unsafe! He surely has only his own gain in view.—Be not hasty to sell: ‘A man rides away from
