And the world turned round them both, and they both went down headlong into the boiling whirlpool. Both loved passionately, as they once had loved before—fainting, swooning, near to death.
As once—as of old—as in the past!
They forgot all—all save the tempest of fire that was carrying them away—all save their own insatiable desire. As the thunderbolt unites with the tree which quenches its fire and is itself consumed, so they each destroyed the other’s passion in the tempest of their own. And for that one short minute of a rapture soon to expire forever, after this last exuberant outburst, their former love had revived.
A moment afterwards, they were again seated side by side, feeling their souls very dark within them. Each glanced at the other by stealth, and as if in terror: each shunned meeting the other’s eyes that spoke of shame and regret.
Once more, with lips eager for kisses, he sought her lips, but without success: she turned away from him with aversion.
In vain he whispered in her ear the sweet names of endearment he had once given her. She looked up at the moon, and replied not a word. In him, this bearing of hers aroused resentment, cooled passion down, and brought petulance and ill humour in its stead.
They sat together, unable to speak, each impatient of the other’s presence, each waiting for the other to rise and go.
Yagna’s flame was out to the last spark; nothing was there but ashes now; and she spoke first, with barely concealed animosity.
“In truth, ye did take me like a robber—by sheer might and main.”
“Well, Yagna, and are you not mine—mine?” He would have embraced her again, but she pushed him violently from her.
“Neither yours nor anyone’s!—Understand that!—No, nor anyone’s!”
She fell a-crying once more, but this time he neither fondled nor soothed her. After some time, however, he asked her very seriously:
“Yagna, will you flee with me?”
“And whither?” she returned, her wet eyes looking him full in the face.
“Why not to ‘Hamerica’? Would you go, Yagna?”
“But what would ye do with your wife?”
He started as though stung.
“Tell me true: will you give her poison?”
He caught her round the waist, showered kisses over all her face, and begged and entreated her to run away with him—somewhere—and be with him for evermore. He spoke a long while of his plans and hopes; he had suddenly caught hold of that idea—flight with her—as a drunken man catches at a fence to steady himself. He talked, too, like a drunken man, for he was carried away by his feverish excitement. She heard him out, and then said, with frigid scorn:
“Because ye have forced sin upon me, do ye think me such a fool as to believe this nonsense?”
And though he swore he was but telling her the truth, and swore it by all holy things, she would not even listen, but shook herself free of him, and said:
“Not even do I dream of going. Why should I? Am I so ill off, though alone?” Throwing her apron over her head, she looked cautiously round. “ ’Tis late; I must hurry away.”
“Wherefore in such haste? Will anyone come from your home for you?”
“But for you ’tis time: Hanka has made the bed, and yearns sorely!”
The words made him snarl like a dog.
“Of him that is waiting for you down there at the tavern,” he said venomously, “I do not remind you.”
“Know, then,” she said, with biting emphasis, “that more than one is waiting: aye, and are ready to wait even till morning! You would have it you are the only one, forsooth! You are too saucy!”
“Then off with you—go! Go, even to that old Jew!” he almost spat the words at her.
But she stood there still. They were both together, panting heavily, staring one at the other out of eyes full of hate, each seeking what words might wound the other most deeply.
“Ye had something to say to me: say it now, for never will I meet you again.”
“Fear not: never will I ask you!”
“I would not, were you to come whining at my feet!”
“Without doubt; you are too busy, having to meet so many every night.”
At that, crying: “May you die the death of a dog!” she leaped over the stile and into the field.
He did not follow, nor call after her, but looked on as she ran through the fields and disappeared like a shadow among the orchards; rubbed his eyes, as if only just waking, and grumbled in sullen ill humour:
“My wits are clean gone from me! Lord! how far astray a man can be led by a woman!”
On his return to the hut, he somehow felt extremely ashamed. He could not pardon himself for what he had done: it obsessed and haunted him cruelly.
His bed—made in the orchard, the heat and flies within doors being intolerable—was awaiting him.
But he could not sleep. He lay looking up at the stars that twinkled overhead, and listening to the quiet footsteps of the night … and … making up his mind about Yagna.
“Neither with nor without her can I live!” He cursed her under his breath, and sighed in pain, turning from side to side, throwing off his covering, and wetting his feet to cool them in the long dewy grass. But no sleep came, and his thoughts persecuted him as before.
In the hut, one of the children set up a wail, and Hanka murmured some words. He lifted his head; but soon all was still again. And then his mind began to swarm with thoughts; the memories of past joys came floating about him, like fragrant spring breezes. But he was not now to be their slave any more; now he could resist their charms, and contemplate them with calm deliberation, and in their very presence take a firm resolve, as solemn as if he were at Holy Confession.
“This must cease—and forever!—’Tis a foul offence against God!—Would I have folk speak about me anew?—Am I not
