“Why did the thought of this never come to me? Aye, she—so well-favoured, so well-knit, so comely to behold! And I—a poor thin creature, merely skin and bones! Have I the power to attract him? dare I even try? If I should give my heart’s blood, it were naught: he cares no whit for me. What am I to him?”
Helplessness, still but torturing—how cruelly torturing!—now took possession of all her being. She was even beyond shedding tears. She felt as if she were a shrub that the frost is killing, that is as unable to avoid its doom as to cry for help or to protect itself: anguish was riving her soul as the frost rives the shrub. Resting her head on her wheel, she dropped her hands and looked out into vacancy, musing on her lot. Long, long did her reverie last, with only at times a few burning tears falling from her heavy eyelids on to the wool, there to freeze into a rosary of anguish—tears, as it were, of blood.
The next day she rose somewhat calmer. This was of course; the storm had had time to blow over. What the miller said might or might not be true; but should she droop and complain, now that everything was on her shoulders—the children, and the house matters, and all the trouble and woe?
Who would see to things, unless she did? She knelt down before our Lady of Sorrows, and prayed fervently; and, begging our Lord to set things to rights, she made a vow that she would go on foot to Chenstohova in the spring, and have three masses said, and—as soon as she should be able—take a great lump of wax to the church for tapers to be made of it.
Greatly relieved by this vow, she was able to do plenty of spinning; but the day, though bright and sunny, seemed immeasurably lengthy to her, and her anxiety about Antek increased.
He came at last, but only in the evening, at suppertime, and looking so worn and subdued, and greeting her so kindly! He had bought some rolls for the little ones.
She almost forgot her suspicion. And when he also went to cut straw for fodder, and helped her with the animals, she felt tenderly and deeply agitated.
However, he neither told her where he had been nor what he had done, and she did not venture to question him.
When supper was over, Staho came in: a thing he frequently did, in spite of Veronka’s prohibition; and a little later, quite unexpectedly, who should drop in but old Klemba? They were not a little surprised, for since their expulsion no one in the village had been to call upon them yet: it seemed clear enough that he had come on some business or other.
But he told them quite simply that he had come to see them because nobody else came.
They were sincerely and deeply grateful.
Sitting one alongside of the other on the bench in front of the fire, they then entered into grave and serious conversation, while old Bylitsa now and then put more fuel on the hearth.
“A pretty sharp frost, is it not?”
“So sharp,” said Staho, “one can hardly thresh without sheepskin and gloves on.”
“The worst is that wolves are about!”
All stared at Klemba in astonishment.
“Oh, ’tis quite true. Last night they were at the Voyt’s, burrowing under the sty. Something must have frightened them away, for they did not get at the pig: but the burrow ran quite beneath the foundations; I went myself at noon to see. There must have been five of them at least.”
“That, beyond all doubt, betokens a hard winter.”
“Yes, the frosts have only just begun, and behold, the wolves are here!”
“Near Vola,” Antek said, with much animation, “on the road beyond the mill, I saw tracks of a whole pack, crossing the way slantwise; but I fancied they were the Manor hounds. Very like, they were wolves.”
“Went ye as far as the clearing?”
“Not so; but I hear it said they are only felling the wood bought close to Vilche Doly.”
“The keeper told me the Squire will not take a single man from Lipka to work there: punishing them, I suppose, because they stand up for their rights.”
“Who is to cut down the trees, if not the men of Lipka?” Hanka asked.
“My good Hanka, there are folk in plenty seeking work, begging for work. Are there few in Vola itself? few in Rudka? and in Debitsa, are the paupers fewer? Let the Squire but lift up his voice: he will find hundreds of able-bodied peasants who will swarm round him the very same day. So long as they fell trees only on the purchased land, let them do so by all means; there is but little of it, and besides, it is too far from our village.”
“What if they set to work on our24 forest too?” Stach inquired.
“That we will not permit!” Klemba replied, briefly and with emphasis. “We will fight it out, and the Squire shall learn who is the stronger—he or all the people. Yes, he shall learn.”
Here they dropped the subject, which was a matter too burning to please anyone; but not before old Bylitsa had, in stammering and hesitating tones, had his say about it:
“I know that generation of the Squires of Vola, I know them well: they will steal a march upon you
