“Poor woman … how can I … how can I?” he stammered, humbled in the dust; and she started up with a fierce cry of mad fury.
“Wherefore, then, did you take me? wherefore entice me? wherefore lead me on to sin?”
“Hush, hush! All the village will be here!”
Once more she fell on his breast, embraced and kissed him frenziedly, and exclaimed with all the might of her love and terror and despair:
“O my only one, my chosen one amid a thousand! Slay me, but repel me not!—Do you love me, say? do you love me?—Then comfort me this once, for the last time; gather me in your arms and leave me not to agony and ruin!—You are all I have in the whole wide world; yea, all! Let me but stay with you. … I’ll serve you as faithfully as any dog … aye, I’ll be your slave!”
Such were the words of passion she sobbed out, wrung from the bottom of her broken heart.
Matthew was as one held in a vice, and squirming and writhing to get free. Avoiding a straightforward answer, he strove to soothe her with kisses and caresses and words of affection, agreeing to all she said, and all the while looking around with impatience and dread; for he suspected that John was sitting on the stile just outside.
A moment later, the true state of things flashed suddenly on Teresa’s mind: she thrust him from her, with words that struck him like blows:
“Liar and cur! You have always lied to me, but never shall you deceive me any more! … You are afraid—afraid lest John beat you; and therefore you turn and twist now, like a trodden worm! And I trusted to him as to the best of men? O Lord, O Lord! And John, who has been so good to me! The presents he has brought—presents for me!—Never yet did I hear him speak an unkind word; and how have I repaid him? By giving my trust to a traitor, to a villain! … Go your ways to Yagna!” she shrieked, rushing towards him with clenched fists. “Go—and may the hangman wed you both!—A well-matched pair—a wanton and a thief!”
And with an awful shriek, she fell fainting to the ground.
Matthew stood beside her, at a loss what to do; his mother sat whimpering by the wall.—Then John strode in from the orchard to his wife, and spoke to her … words of tender sorrowing consolation.
“Come to my home, forlorn one, come! Fear me not; I shall do you no hurt! Oh, no! you have suffered enough as it is.—Come, my wife!”
He took her by the hand, and helped her over the stile; then, turning to Matthew, he thundered:
“But the wrong you have done her, never will I forgive—never while there’s life in me!—So help me God!”
Choked with shame, Matthew answered never a word. His soul was full of such bitterness, such grinding torments, that he flew to the tavern and drank all night long.
The event was at once known throughout the village, and all were full of admiration and respect for John’s conduct.
“There’s not another man in the world like him!” the women said, moved even to tears; but at the same time they blamed Teresa with the utmost severity; all except Yagustynka, who took her part with great zeal.
“Teresa is not in fault!” she cried, when hearing her spoken against in orchards and enclosures. “She was all but a child when John’s military service began. Alone and childless as yet, she wanted some loving friend about her. And Matthew, like a hound, caught up the trail; and he flattered and fondled her, and took her out to hear the band play … till the poor silly girl’s head was turned!”
One of them said with a sigh:
“Why is there no law to punish such deceivers?”
“He has some grey hairs already, yet runs after women as ever!”
“But how’s a wretched bachelor to live, unless he takes another’s property?” objected the young men, jeering.
“If she’s not to blame, no more is he,” said Staho Ploshka; “where there’s no giving, there’s no taking.” For which ribaldry he was well-nigh assaulted by the women.
But the matter was not discussed very long: the harvest was at hand, the weather magnificent. On the uplands, the rye was, as it were, asking to be reaped; the barley was not much behind, and they went daily to inspect it. Already reapers were being engaged by the richer peasants.
The organist opened the harvest with a dozen or so of hired women reapers; his wife and daughters too took a hand in the work, while he superintended them all most watchfully. Yanek came only after Mass to help, and did not enjoy the fun long; his mother sent him home as soon as the noonday heat set in, fearing lest the sun might give him a headache. Kozlova grumbled:
“He’s going to find shade at Yagna’s—that’s his game!”
At home, however, it was not only very hot, but very troublesome because of the pitiless attacks of the flies there: So he went out into the village, passing outside the Klembas’. There he caught the sound of moans, issuing from within the wide-open cabin door.
It was Agata, lying in the passage, close to the threshold; everybody else had gone a-reaping.
He carried her into the room, laid her on a bed, gave her to drink, and revived her, so that, after a time, she opened her eyes.
“ ’Tis the end coming, young master,” she said with a childlike smile.
He would have run for the priest, but she caught at his soutane to prevent him.
“Today the Blessed Virgin said to me: ‘Be ready for tomorrow, weary soul!’ So there is time still, young master!—Tomorrow!—Thanks, thanks, O most merciful Lord!” she faltered, and her voice trailed away into silence. A smile flickered on her lips; she clasped her hands and, looking far away, sank into a state of profound mental prayer. Yanek, now sure that her last hour was drawing near, went to fetch
