“I am going to Chenstohova. Pray forgive me if I have sinned in aught against you.”
“Your words are kind, and I thank you,” the old dame growled; “but what ye have done, ye have done.”
“Let us not go into that!—I entreat you most sincerely to pardon me.”
“I bear you no malice in my heart,” Dominikova returned, sighing heavily.
“Nor do I, though I have suffered not a little,” Yagna said gravely; and then, as the Mass-bell was ringing, went to dress for church.
“Do you know,” Hanka said, after a pause, “that Yanek, our organist’s son, is coming with us to Chenstohova? His mother told me herself that he has insisted on making the pilgrimage.”
Hearing these words, Yagna rushed out half dressed.
“In the company of our little priest, we shall journey better and more respectably. … And so, farewell!”
They parted on friendly terms, and she went on to church, telling her news as she went. Everybody was surprised, and old Yagustynka shook her head, saying:
“There’s more in this than meets the eye! If he goes, it is not willingly. Not he!”
But there was no discussing the matter now: half the village was in church, and the Pilgrimage Mass had already begun.
Yanek was serving, as usual; but his face looked paler, and bore an unusual expression of pain. Then his eyes were discoloured, and still brimmed with tears, through which he saw, as through a mist, the church, and Teresa lying on the pavement all the time with outstretched arms, and Yagna’s terrified glances, and his mother, sitting in the Manor pew, and the pilgrims coming up to receive Holy Communion: all these were dimly seen through his tears, while pang after pang rent his heart, overwhelmed with mortal anguish.
From the altar, the priest took leave of the pilgrims, and, as they pushed their way out of the church, sprinkled them with holy water, and gave them his blessing. The banner was raised, the glittering cross opened the way before them, a hymn was struck up—and they set off upon their journey.
Yagna accompanied them, along with her mother and the rest of the village. She looked very ill, and her soul was quivering in the grip of agony. Swallowing down her bitter burning tears, she kept her eyes fixed on the boy who was all in all to her; but now she viewed him from afar, because his mother and brothers and sisters crowded jealously round him, and she could not even see him properly, much less have speech with him.
Matthew, her mother, and several others addressed her, but she paid them scant attention. She thought of this only: that her Yanek was going away forever; that never, never should she see him more!
They accompanied the pilgrims as far as the crucifix at the edge of the forest; these continued their march, singing until they were out of sight, and only a cloud of dust told vaguely of their whereabouts.
“Why is this?” she moaned, dragging herself wearily back to the village.
“I shall fall down, I shall die!” What she felt within her she really took for the coming of death, so completely had the agonies she had endured shorn her of her strength.
“What, oh, what shall I do now?” she said, looking out upon the day, so desolate for her, so hateful with its dazzling light.
She longed, how intensely! for the silent hours of night; but they brought her no consolation. Until dawn, she went wandering about the premises, along the road, even as far as Podlesie and that cross where she had for the last time seen Yanek; and with eyes that smarted with the strain, she looked up the long wide sandy track, as though seeking some trace of his footsteps, the place where his shadow had passed—a clod of earth his foot had touched.
Alas! there was nothing—nothing for her anywhere—no more love—no more hope!
Even her tears failed her in the end, although her eyes, full of awful desolation and despair, glittered like fathomless fountains of sorrow.
Now and then, when she prayed, there would burst from her lips the bitter complaint: “O my God! wherefore, whereto, is all this suffering?” …
XIII
Life was fast becoming impossible at Dominikova’s. Yagna was always straying about like someone distraught, heedless of everything in the world. Andrew did his work in a slovenly way, and his absences at Simon’s grew more frequent. The farm had fallen into complete neglect. Sometimes the cows were driven unmilked to the pastures, and the pigs were squealing for food all day long, and the horses gnawed at their empty racks. The old dame could not do all by herself, having to grope about with her stick, half blind and her eyes bandaged. No wonder if she almost went mad with trouble and mortification.
She hired a komornitsa for the work, and did all she could, both by herself and by her influence over her children. But Yagna seemed deaf to all entreaties and remonstrances; and Andrew, when threatened, would answer back insolently:
“Ye have driven Simon away: work ye by yourself. He wants you not, is in no trouble, has a hut, has money, has a wife, has a cow—and is an out-and-out good farmer!”—But, saying these words, he took good care to keep out of her reach.
“Aye, aye,” she answered, with a dreary sigh; “truly, that unnatural wretch has contrived to succeed in all things.”
“Yes, and he manages so well that even Nastka is astonished!”
“I must” (she spoke her thoughts aloud) “hire someone to work regularly, or take a farm-servant.”
Andrew scratched his head, and said with some hesitation:
“But why take a stranger, when Simon is there, if ye’ll but say the word?”
“Do not meddle when you’re not asked!” she snarled; but all the same, she felt—and it was a bitter pill to swallow—that she would sooner or later have to give way and come to terms with Simon.
But what made her most anxious was Yagna’s state. From her she
