What the priest had said, Yanek’s father thought, no doubt; for, when the farm-servant came home with the horses from the pastures, and Yanek vaulted upon one of them, the old man cried:
“Get down this instant! It is unseemly for a clergyman to ride barebacked, or to keep company with herdsmen!”
Dearly as he would have loved a ride, he nevertheless alighted meekly and, twilight having fallen now, went into the garden to say his evening prayers. But he could not keep his mind on them. There was a girl, somewhere about, trilling a song; some women were gossiping in a neighbouring orchard, and every word came wafted over the dewy grass to him; children shouted as they bathed in the pond; in another direction, the sound of laughter struck his ears; and then came the lowing of the cows, and the metallic cackle of the priest’s guinea-fowls pierced the air, and the whole place was full of sounds of every kind, and like a hive of humming bees. All this put him out; and when he had at last collected himself, and, kneeling down at the edge of a rye-field, raised his eyes to the starry heaven, and his soul to the Infinite beyond it, he heard such a sudden din of piercing shrieks and howls and curses that he ran back to the house, not a little alarmed and shaken, to ask his mother (who had just come to call him in for supper) what the matter was, and whether the people there were fighting in earnest.
“Oh, ’tis only Joseph Vahnik, back from the police office a little in his cups, and he’s fighting his wife. The woman had long stood in great need of a good drubbing. Do not trouble, she will take no harm.”
“But she screeches as if she were being skinned alive!”
“That’s her way: if he had taken a stick to her, she’d have been quiet enough. And she’ll get even with him tomorrow, she will!—Come, dearest, or supper will be cold.”
He went to bed, utterly worn out, and having scarcely touched any food. But as soon as the sun rose next morning, he was on his legs: going about the fields, bringing clover to the horses, teasing the priest’s turkeys till they gobbled at him indignantly, making friends with the dogs, that tried to fawn on him till they well-nigh broke their chains; scattering grain to the pigeons, helping his youngest brother to drive the cattle, and Michael to chop wood; looking whether the pears in the orchard were ripe yet; frolicking with the colt, going everywhere and greeting everything he saw with eyes of love, as friends and brothers—even the flower-dight hollyhocks, the little pigs basking in the sun, the very weeds and nettles themselves! And his mother, following his gambols with loving looks, murmured, smiling fondly at the lad:
“He’s out of his wits—clean out of his wits!”
And so he wandered about, radiant as that July day: smiling, sunny, full of warmth, and embracing the whole world with intense affection … until, the Mass-bell beginning to tinkle, he quitted all to hasten away to church.
It was a Votive Mass, and Yanek walked out of the sacristy in front of the priest, in a new surplice, freshly adorned with red ribbons. The organ pealed forth, and from the choir there came a big bass voice which made the flames of the altar-lights tremble. Quite a number of worshippers were kneeling round the altar, when the service began.
Yanek, though serving Mass and praying fervently between his responses and the acts of his ministry, could not help noticing Yagna and her gleaming dark-blue eyes, fixed upon him, and the lurking smile on her parted crimson lips.
After church, the priest took him to his house directly and set him amanuensis work to do for him till noon, when he was free to visit his acquaintances in the village.
He went first to see the Klembas, his nearest neighbours, but found none of them at home. Only, looking through the passage open at either end, he saw that something moved in a corner, and heard a husky voice:
“Here I am … I, Agata!” She raised herself up, and lifted her hands in astonishment. “Lord! ’tis Master Yanek!”
“Pray you, do not rise! … What, are ye unwell?” he asked her kindly, and, seating himself on a stump that he brought in, looked into her face, which he could scarcely recognize, so worn and wasted it was.
“I am waiting upon the Lord and expecting His mercy.” Her voice had a strangely solemn sound.
“What is it that ails you?”
“Naught. But Death is growing ripe within me for the harvest. The Klembas have only taken me in here that I might die amongst them: so here I am—praying and awaiting the end … waiting for Dame Crossbones to knock and say: ‘Come away with me, you weary soul!’ ”
“But wherefore are you not lying within—in the cabin?”
“Ah, I would not be in the way till my time comes. As it is, they had to take their calf hence to make room for me. … But they have promised to lay me in their dwelling-room for my last hours—on a bed, beneath the Holy Images, and with the Taper of the Dying lit in my hand! … And to bring the priest, and dress me in my best clothes, and
