Few, however, opened their eyes as yet, being somewhat languid, as is usual after Sunday or a fair.
Then came the day, misty before sunrise, but with the lark chanting his matins, the waters bubbling their joyful carol, the corn giving forth its melodious many-sounding voices; and presently with the plaintive bleating of the sheep, the screaming of the geese, human calls resounding, gates creaking, horses neighing, and all the bustle and movement of those rising to their daily work. But everything was still and quiet yet in Boryna’s hut.
They were sleeping, overcome by the grief that had wrung their hearts so sorely.
In came the wind through open windows and doors, whistling and blowing the old man’s hair about, and tossing the flame of the last taper in every direction.
And he lay still as a stone, no longer ready to rush to work himself, nor to urge others to toil: deaf to every call how for evermore!
The wind was rising higher, streaming through the orchard with great force, making the trees shake and rustle and sway and toss, and seem peeping in through the windows at Boryna’s ashen face. So did the tall slender hollyhocks, bending and bowing at the windows, not unlike red-cheeked country lasses. Now and then a bee from the Manor hives looked in, or a butterfly, glancing in the light; a swallow would dart in and out with a hesitating twitter; and flies and cockchafers, and every kind of living creatures came likewise: so that the room was filled with a quiet buzz and drone and whirring hum—the voices of all these things, repeating:
“Dead—dead—he is dead!”
The sun rose—a huge red-hot globe, stilling all those voices; and then it suddenly veiled its glorious all-powerful and life-giving face, now hidden behind dense-volumed vapours.
The world grew grey; in a minute it began to rain abundantly in warm tiny drops, and soon their fall was heard through every field and orchard, pattering continually.
The roads cooled and exhaled the peculiar smell of rain; the birds sang loud and lustily to welcome it; the world was bathed in its greyish tremulous spray; and the thirsty cornfields, and the shrivelling leaves, and the trees, and the rills with their dry parched throats, and the baked clods of earth—all drank deep and heartily, uttering, as it were, a silent thanksgiving.
“Thanks, Brother Rain! Thanks, Sister Cloud! We all thank you!”
Hanka, who slept by the open window, was waked first by the rain driving in her face, and ran at once to the stable.
“Up, Pete! the rain has come—Run and heap the clover in cocks—quick, or it will mowburn and rot!—And you, Vitek, lazy boy! drive our kine afield.—All the other folk’s kine are out by now.”—As she spoke, she let the geese out of the fowl-house, and they hastened to splash joyfully in the pools of water.
While she was thus engaged, the smith came, and they settled together what would have to be purchased in town for the funeral feast next day. He took the money; but on starting in his britzka, he called her and whispered:
“Hanka, let me have one-half, and I’ll never breathe a word about your robbing the old man!”
She flushed red as a beetroot, and cried out in a passion:
“Say what ye will, and to the whole world!—Look at that man! He thinks that all are like himself!”
He glared at her, pulled at his moustache, and drove off.
Hanka was very busy indeed, and her voice was soon heard giving orders everywhere.
Two fresh tapers having been lit at Boryna’s side, a sheet was spread over the body. Agata went on praying, and every now and then putting more juniper-berries on the hot coals.
After breakfast, Yagna came from her mother’s, but was so frightened of the dead man that she never went in, and only wandered outside, watching Matthew as he worked at the coffin. He had done hammering now, and was just painting a white cross upon the top, when he saw her at the stable-door, silent and looking upon the black coffin-lid with a great sinking at heart.
“Yagna!” he whispered compassionately, “you’re a widow now—a widow!”
“Yes, yes, I am!” she returned in a sad subdued voice.
He felt much pity for her; so worn, and pale, and unhappy-looking, and like a child that has been ill-used.
“ ’Tis the common lot!” he told her, gravely.
“A widow! a widow!” she repeated. Tears welled up to her dark-blue eyes; a deep sigh burst from her bosom. She ran out into the rain and wept there so plentifully that Hanka came to bring her within doors.
“Of what use is weeping? We too have much to bear. But to you, forlorn one, it is in truth a still greater blow,” she said kindly.
Yagustynka, always the same, here observed:
“Weep away! But ere the year be out, I’ll sing you such a new wedding-song as will make you dance like mad.”
“Such jests are ill-timed now!” Hanka said reproachfully.
“I say true; ’tis no jest! Why, is she not wealthy and lovely and young? She will need a stout stick to keep the men away from her!”
Hanka, going out to take the pigs their wash, looked along the road.
“What,” she thought with misgiving, “can the matter be? He was to be set free on Saturday: it is Monday now, and there’s no news of him!”
But she had no time for brooding. Her assistance was wanted to make the rest of the hay and all the clover just mown into cocks, for the rain never left off, and was falling in torrents.
In the evening, the priest came with the organist and the Confraternity, bearing lighted tapers, to lay Boryna in his coffin. Matthew nailed it down, the priest recited some prayers, sprinkled holy water over it, and it was taken to church
