“Do they cut down the clearing yet?”
“Are you dwelling in the woods, that you do not know?”
“Not so; but I am not greedy for village news.”
“Well, let me tell you, they are cutting down a bit of the forest that was already bought.”
“Of course; our folk would never permit them to fell the trees on our clearing.”
“Even for that, who would interfere? The Voyt holds with the Manor folk, and the Soltys too, and all the wealthier men.”
“True. Who is it can get the better of a rich man? or who can overcome him?—Well, Nastka, pray look in at our home.”
“Farewell.—Yes, I shall bring distaff and spindle one of these days.”
They separated in front of the miller’s dwelling, and Nastka went on to the mill, down below, while Hanka passed through the yard into the kitchen. She had great trouble in getting there; a number of dogs swarmed round her, barking and driving her to the wall. Eva came to protect her and usher her in; and just then the miller’s wife arrived, saying:
“If you have business with my husband, he is in the mill.”
She met him coming back to his house; he took her to the family room, where she immediately paid all she owed for meal and groats.
“You are living on your cow, hey?” he said, throwing the money into a drawer.
“What would you have?” she replied, offended. “One cannot live on stones.”
“Your goodman is a sluggard, let me tell you.”
“So you say. But what work is he to do? where? with whom? Tell me.”
“Are no threshers needed here?”
“Of course such work is not to his taste; he was never yet a common farm-labourer.”
“I am sorry for the man. He’s headstrong, without respect for his father, and fierce as a wolf; all the same, I am sorry.”
“I—I have heard—that you, Sir Miller, have work to be done; perhaps you might employ Antek. … I beseech you …” Here she fell a-weeping and imploring him very earnestly.
“Let him come.—Mind, I do not ask him. Work there is, but hard work. To hew the trees into logs—ready to be sawn.”
“That he can do: few men in the village as well.”
“That’s why I say, Let him come.—But you, my woman, you do not look after him properly. Not at all.”
She stood amazed, having no idea of what he meant.
“The fellow has a wife of his own. Children too. And yet he is running after another man’s wife.”
Hanka turned white; the words were a thunderbolt.
“It’s true what I say. He wanders nightly. Has been seen out more than once.”
Her relief was immense, and she breathed freely again. She knew all about it … how he was driven to wander by the memories of the wrongs suffered. Oh, she understood him well! but the folk had painted things the colour they preferred.
“It may be that work, if he sets to it, will drive lovemaking from his mind.”
“He is a farmer’s son. …”
“Oh, yes! Quite a Squire, is he not? And he would pick and choose, just like swine before a full trough. If he is so hard to please, why did he quarrel with his father? why run after Yagna? For think of the sin and the shame of it!”
“Sir!” she exclaimed, hastily. “What on earth are you thinking of?”
“I only say the thing that is. All Lipka knows. You may ask,” he rapped out jerkily, in a loud voice; for he was a very impulsive man, who always liked to blurt out things just as they were.
“Well, but may he come here?” she asked, almost in a whisper.
“He may. Tomorrow, if he cares—What ails you? what are these tears for?”
“Nothing … nothing but the cold.”
And she went away, with slow, heavy footsteps, scarcely able to crawl along. The world had grown dark for her, the snow was grey now, she could not find the path she came by, and tried in vain to brush away the tears that were freezing on her lashes. So she walked on, wrapped in darkness, very sudden—and dolorous—O Lord! how dolorous!
“He, in love with Yagna! … With Yagna!” She stood breathless, her heart fluttering like a shot bird.
“But perhaps it is a falsehood; the man may have lied!” In her fright she clung to this possibility and clutched at it with both hands.
“Lord! was there not enough of misery and humiliation already, but this—this too must fall upon my wretched head?” She gave way to her grief for a moment, moaning aloud; then, to overcome it, began to run as though wolves had been on her track, so that she entered her hut all panting and more dead than alive.
Antek had not returned.
The little ones were on their grandfather’s sheepskin, spread out as a rug before the fireplace, and he was making a little windmill to amuse them.
“Hanka, they have brought wool—brought it in three sacks.”
She opened them, and at the top of one found a loaf, some bacon, and at least half a gallon of groats.
“God bless her for her generous heart!” she said, much moved, and thereupon prepared a plentiful supper, and afterwards at once put the children to bed.
The whole cabin was very quiet now. On Veronka’s side they had gone to bed already, and her father had fallen asleep in his pallet near the fire. But Hanka remained in front of the hearth and span.
She span long and far into the night, even to the first cockcrow, and as she twisted the thread, so too she revolved in her mind the miller’s words: “He is running after Yagna.”—Yagna!
The spinning-wheel hummed busily, monotonously, tranquilly. Night, with frozen face, looked in at the window, and rattled at the panes, and sighed, pressing close against the wall. The cold came creeping out of the corners, caught at her feet, spread itself in hoary blotches over the clay floor; crickets struck up their ditty, somewhere behind the hearth, and
