“The Voyt’s leman, you!”
The words had stabbed her like a knife; and she felt suffocated with the shame of it.
But, in God’s name, was she to blame in all this? He had made her drunk—so drunk that God’s world had vanished from her eyes!—And now they all accused her; the whole village fled from her as from one tainted, polluted: no one stood up in her defence.
And whither should she go now? They would slam the doors in her face—nay, set their dogs upon her. To flee to her mother’s availed nothing: she, in spite of entreaties and wailings, had all but driven her away. … And, had it not been for Hanka, she would have done herself a mischief. … Aye, it was she—the wife of Antek—who alone had held out a helping hand to her and protected her from her enemies! … No, no, no! she was not guilty, the Voyt was! guilty of tempting her, of forcing her to sin. … But the most guilty of all was … he! … that old monster! (She meant her husband!) “He has fettered my whole life. … Had I been a free woman, would any have dared to injure me so? Nay, none. … And what have I enjoyed with him? Neither life nor freedom!”
As she went on brooding, her grief turned to passion, and she set to pacing the room under its sway. “In truth, he is the fountainhead of all I suffer. … Without him, I should have lived in quiet still, as all the others do. … The devil set him in my way, tempting my mother with that land. … And now I must endure … endure!—Oh, may the worm devour you speedily!”
At this height of fury, she looked through the window, and perceived the litter with her husband in it under the trees. She ran out and, bending over him, hissed cruelly:
“Die, old dog! die! And the sooner, the better!”
He rolled his eyes at her and mumbled something; but she had gone. The outburst relieved her: she had someone on whom to revenge her grievances!
When she returned, the smith was standing in the porch, but feigned not to see her, and continued talking to Roch, raising his voice:
“Matthew is telling everyone in the village that ye are to go at their head and encounter the Germans.”
“As they have begged me, I intend to go with them and meet our new neighbours,” he replied, with a stress on the last word.
“The Lipka people are forging fresh fetters for themselves—that’s all. The affair with the Squire has turned their heads, and they fancy that a mob with sticks and shouts can deter the Germans from buying.”
He was so angry that he could scarce control himself.
“Perhaps they may prefer not to buy: who knows?”
“Oh, indeed! The lots are measured out; the families have arrived. They are digging wells and laying cornerstones!”
“This much I know: the deed is not yet signed before the notary.”
“It is as good as signed: so they have sworn to me.”
“I speak of my own certain knowledge; and, should the Squire find better purchasers. …”
“Not in Lipka, at any rate: no one smells very strong of money here.”
“Gregory has made a few calculations, and, as I take it. …”
“Oh, Gregory!” he interrupted rudely. “He is a meddler who misleads folk, and will only bring evil on them!”
“Well, we shall see how it turns out; we shall see!” Roch returned with a quiet smile, noting how the smith in his exasperation was tearing out his moustache.
“Here comes Paul of the police station!” he exclaimed, seeing the messenger enter the enclosure.
“An official paper for Anna Boryna,” Paul said, taking an envelope out of his pouch.
Hanka turned it about uneasily, uncertain what to do with it.
“I’ll read it for you,” Roch said.
But as the smith came behind, to read it over his shoulder, Roch folded the paper immediately, saying without interest:
“A permission for you to visit Antek twice a week in future.”
Roch waited till the smith had gone, and then followed Hanka into the cabin.
“The letter was not what I told you: I did not think the smith ought to know of it. Ye are advised that, either on your giving a sufficient guaranty or paying five hundred roubles into court, Antek will be set free directly.—What ails you?”
No reply. Her voice had failed her; she stood motionless, her face suffused with crimson first, then pale as death, her eyes blinded with tears. She stretched out her arms and, drawing a deep breath, fell on her face before the holy images.
Roch went out and, sitting down in the porch, read the document over again, smiling with joy. It was some time before he looked in again.
Hanka was on her knees, glowing with gratitude, her heart almost bursting with gladness. Short broken sighs and whispered ejaculations seemed to be filling the room with flashes and pillars of flame, fed with the fire of her lifeblood, and rising up to the feet of Our Lady of Chenstohova. The bliss of it was almost too much for her to bear: her tears flowed in torrents, washing away the memory of all her past sorrows and sufferings.
At length she rose, and, wiping her tears away, said to Roch:
“And now I am ready for anything in the future. The worst that may hap will be less evil than what has been.”
He looked with astonishment at the change that had taken place in her. Her eyes sparkled; her cheeks were no longer pale, but full of colour; she stooped no more, and looked ten years younger.
“Sell the things, quick,” he said; “get the sum together, and we shall go to fetch Antek
