She no longer left the cabin at all: a vague terror oppressed her.
All the village was out in the meadows: the haymaking had been going on since dawn; ever since the very first faint flush in the sky, they had started for the meadows. Rows of peasants in shirtsleeves, looking like grey storks, were now all over the lands, whetting their flashing scythes, and mowing amain all day long; all day the hammers rang upon the scythes, and the girls sang their merry impromptus as they raked up the cut grass.
All those verdurous glossy flats were swarming with people, noise and clamour; loud ditties and peals of laughter resounded to the accompaniment of the tinkling blades, and the work went on everywhere with energy and goodwill. Every day, too, when the bloodred sun was descending towards the woods, and the air full of the twittering of the birds, and grass and corn alike seemed quivering to the crickets’ merry notes, while the frogs in the marshes struck up their croaking serenade, and perfumes rose from the incense-breathing earth—then all along the roads were crawling great heavy wagons filled with hay; the mowers went home with songs, and on the meadows, now yellow and trampled, stood close crowds of haycocks and ricks, like so many fat gossiping dames, squatting down to have a quiet talk together. Amongst these the storks strutted, above them the lapwings wheeled, with their sad piping cry; and on towards them the white mists came driving up from the marshes.
Through Boryna’s window there came these voices of men and of the land—the glad sounds of life and toil, and the aromatic scents of corn and meadow and sunlight; but Yagna was deaf to them all.
The undergrowth round the cabin protected it from the glare and spread within it a greenish slumberous twilight. Flies buzzed; and now and then Lapa, watchful beside his master, would yawn, and then go and fawn upon Yagna, who sat for hours without motion or thought—as still as a statue.
Matthias spoke no longer, moaned no longer. He just lay still; but his eyes rolled unceasingly—those bright eyes of his, as shiny as glass globes, following her with cold persistency, piercing her through and through like knife-blades.
She turned her back on him, endeavouring to forget. It was in vain—in vain! They peered out at her from every sombre nook, floated in the air, glowing with fearful brilliancy, and a fascination so irresistible that she had to obey their call and stare back into them as into some unfathomable abyss.
At times, as though waking from a horrible dream, she would beseech his mercy: “Prithee, look not thus: ye are tearing my soul out of me: look not thus!”
No doubt he heard her: a quiver passed over him, his face twitched dumbly, as if to cry out, his eyes stared yet more gloomily, and big teardrops rolled down his livid cheeks.
Then, driven by sheer terror, she would rush from the hut.
Hidden in the shade of the trees, she would peep out at the meadows full of people and of tumultuous joy.
And the sight made her cry bitterly.
Then she fled to her mother’s. But hardly had she looked in and seen the darkened room and scented the rank pungency of the medicines, when she would hasten away once more.
And again she would weep.
Then she wandered abroad, and looked out upon the countryside with longing eyes. But thence sprung yet more bitter and dreary and agonizing tears; and she mourned grievously over her own sad lot, like a bird with broken wings, deserted by its mates.
Thus one day after another went by without any change. Hanka, along with the rest of the village, was absorbed in haymaking, and it was only on the third day that she stayed at home since morning.
“ ’Tis Saturday: Antek is sure to come!” she thought joyfully, setting the cabin in order to receive him.
Noon came and went, and he was not there yet. Hanka ran beyond the church to look up the poplar road.
They were carting the hay, hurrying it home, for the weather was about to change. The air was stiflingly sultry, cocks were crowing, hailstorm clouds hanging about in the sky, winds wheeling and whirling.
All expected a storm with a great downpour, but there only came down a short though plentiful rain, at once swallowed up by the thirsty soil, and only cooling the air a little.
The evening, somewhat less sultry, was redolent of hay and of the sprinkled earth. Mists rolled along the ways; the moon had not risen yet; the dark sky was but scantily studded with stars. Through the orchards, the light of the cabins glimmered like glowworms, reflected in the pond and multiplied to myriads. Everywhere the people took their supper out of doors. Hard by, the air trembled with the ripplings of a pipe; from the fields came floating the crickets’ feeble ditty, along with the voices of the land-rail and the quail.
At Boryna’s, too, they were all outside the hut: the hay being brought home, Hanka had invited them to a first-class supper; and the great dish clinked with the tapping of the spoons in a lively measure. Yagustynka’s rasping tones were often heard, accompanied with shouts of laughter. Every now and then, Hanka would fill the dish again from the pots, while anxiously watching all the time for any least sound on the road; and she frequently slipped out into the enclosure, looking for Antek.
There was not the least trace of him; and only once did the shape of Teresa, leaning against the hedge, no doubt waiting for somebody, meet her eyes.
Matthew, unable that day to get speech of Yagna, who was then sullen and unpleasant of mood, was beginning to wrangle with Pete out of sheer ill humour, when Andrew came to call his sister, whom her mother wanted to see.
The party broke up thereupon; but Matthew lagged behind for
