Yagna was not back yet. She had gone out to see some girl friends; but, agitated by the spirit of unrest, she could stay nowhere. Again and again she had felt forced to leave their huts, and in the end she wandered alone about the village. She gazed long upon the waters, now dark, yet visible as they trembled to the breeze; on the gently stirring shadows; on the cottage lights that shot over the surface of the pond and died away in the distance. Then, impelled onward, she cast a glance beyond the mill at the meadows, wrapped in warm white mist, while the lapwings flapped about, flying over her head.
There she gave ear to the waters that rolled through the sluices down the river’s murky throat, beneath the lofty slumberous alder-trees; and she fancied the sound was a mournful call—a tearful melodious complaint.
From one end of Lipka to the other she wandered, lost like those waters that can find no outlet, and beat forever sadly between impassable rocky walls.
Something was gnawing at her heart. It was not sorrow, not yearning, nor the sensation of love. Her eyes were burning with an arid glow, and she felt an awful sob swelling her bosom as if about to tear it asunder.
Now, after a time—she knew not how—she found herself close to the priest’s house. A carriage and horses were outside the porch; she heard them pawing restlessly. There was a light in one room only, where the visitors were playing at cards.
On all this she gazed idly to her heart’s content; then passed along the fence between Klemba’s lands and the priest’s large garden. She slipped close to the quickset hedge, in great nervous agitation: the overhanging boughs dashed the dew from their leaves into her face. On she moved mechanically, never thinking where her steps were leading her … till the organist’s one-storied house rose up barring the way.
The four front windows were all open and lighted.
She crept along, hugging the shadow of the hedge, till close enough to look in.
A lamp hung from the ceiling; under it the father and mother were taking tea with their children; but Yanek was walking about the room, and talking to them.
She could catch every one of his words, every creak of the boarded floor, the ceaseless tick of the clock, and even the organist’s heavy breathing.
Yanek was speaking of things so much beyond her that she could not make out one word.
But, fixing her eyes on him as on the picture of some saint, she drank in every sound of his voice, sweeter to her than the sweetest honey. As he walked, he at times was unseen, towards the end of the room: then again he reappeared, coming into the lamplit circle. Several times he stopped by the window, and she shrank back, fearing to be seen; but he always looked only up into the star-besprinkled sky, saying a few pleasant words that brought a laugh to the others’ lips and bright looks into their eyes. At last he sat down by his mother’s side, and his little sisters climbed upon his knees, clinging to his neck, while he hugged them fondly and caressed them, and played with them till the cabin echoed to their innocent laughter.
The clock struck. His mother rose, saying:
“You are forever chattering, but ’tis bedtime; and you have to start by daybreak tomorrow.”
“True, Mother dear.—Alas! how short this day has seemed to me!” he complained.
Yagna’s heart was wrung so sorely that the tears welled up to her eyes.
“But,” he added, “our vacation is nigh; and the Rector has promised to let me go home sooner, if his Reverence will but write to ask him.”
“I shall beg him to do so; fear naught, he will write,” said his mother, who was making a bed for him just opposite the window.
Their farewells were long and loving; his mother held him to her breast, as she kissed him.
“To bed now, my dearest, and sleep sound.”
And now at last he was alone!
Yagna saw how they walked on tiptoe in the other rooms, and spoke in whispers, not to disturb him. They closed the windows, and soon the whole house was noiseless, that Yanek might sleep more soundly.
Yagna too would have gone home, but for something that kept her rooted to the spot; and she stood spellbound, staring into that last open lighted window.
Yanek read for some time out of a great book; then, kneeling down by the window, he crossed himself, clasped his hands in prayer, raised his eyes to Heaven, and began in an impressive whisper.
It was dead of night. Silence reigned; the stars were twinkling in the heights of heaven. A warm fragrant breath came from the fields, and at intervals there sounded the rustling of a bough, the faint warbling of a bird.
Yagna was now growing more and more beside herself. Her heart throbbed madly, her eyes glowed with fire, her full lips were burning hot. Instinctively, she stretched her arms out to him; though at the same time she was shrinking back within herself, she felt a strange resistless agitation take hold of her, and had to lean against the fence that creaked again to her trembling.
Yanek looked out of the window and around, then went on with his prayer.
What then took place within her, she was never able to understand. Such a fire ran through all her limbs, and with such penetration, that she was ready to cry aloud with the delicious pain of it. Shudders came over her like swift lightning flashes; she felt a burning whirlwind rushing away with her; wild cries, impatient to break forth, thronged all her being, tense with an unspeakable longing. She wanted to crawl towards him—nearer—nearer—but only to lay her lips on his white hands—kneel to him—gaze on him close at hand—pray
