“Let them try,” said Klemba. “We are not little children. They shall not succeed.” And no more was said.
Then they spoke of Magda, and how the organist had expelled her. Here again, Klemba gave his decision:
“Aye, the deed was not very charitable. But then one cannot force them to set up an infirmary in their home for Magda, who is neither kith nor kin to them.”
The talk then became desultory, and the guests left them somewhat late. As he went, Klemba, after his short-spoken and simple fashion, told them, “if they lacked of aught, just to let him know, and he would behave as a neighbour should do.”
And now Antek and his wife were alone.
Hanka hesitated a long time; but at last, after many timorous catchings of the breath, she asked him if he had found any work.
“No. I was at more than one manor, and looked about me there, and among the folk too; but I found nothing.” This he said with a low voice and eyes on the ground; for though he had indeed wandered about, he had done nothing more, and made no attempt to get work.
They went to bed. The children were asleep by this time; they lay at the foot of the bed for the sake of greater warmth. Darkness reigned, save for the moonbeams that darted through the sparkling frozen panes and threw a luminous band obliquely athwart the room; but the two could not sleep. Hanka tossed from side to side, considering whether she had better tell him about the sawmill now, or wait till the morrow.
“Yes, I went seeking work. But even had I found something, I would not have left the village. To go astray about the world like a masterless dog is not to my liking.” So he whispered, after a protracted silence.
“Why, that is just what I too was thinking—just the very same as you!” she said joyfully. “Why go away and seek for bread, when we can get quite good work here at home? The miller assured me he had something for you to do at the sawmill, and that you might begin tomorrow. You would get two zloty fifteen groschen!”
“What?” he snarled. “Did you go a-begging to him?”
“No, no,” she explained in much fear. “I only went to pay what I owed him; and he told me himself he intended to send for you.”
Antek did not answer. The two lay motionless and speechless side by side; but sleep fled from their eyes. They were thinking, thinking, down in the mysterious depths of their minds; sometimes breathing a sigh, or at others letting their souls melt away in the dull dead stillness. Outside, far, far and faint on the countryside, they heard dogs baying, and cocks flapping their wings, and crowing at midnight, and the muffled murmur of the wind soughing overhead.
“Do you sleep?” She crept a little closer to him.
“No.—Slumber has forsaken me.”
He was on his back, his hands clasped behind his head. So near her! yet in heart and thoughts so far off! He lay very still, almost without breathing, forgetful of everything; for once more Yagna’s eyes shone out of the dark—deep blue in the moonlit night.
Hanka approached him yet nearer, and rested her burning face upon his shoulder. No suspicions now remained in her heart, nor any regrets, nor the least drop of bitterness; only true love, faithful affection, full of trust and self-surrender. And she came close—close to his heart.
“Antek,” she asked him with a thrill of eagerness, “will you go to work tomorrow?” She was so fain—so longing to hear his voice, and converse with him, heart to heart.
“Perhaps I shall. Yes, I must go; I must.” But his mind was filled with other thoughts.
“Pray, Antek, go. Go, I pray you.” With a tender appeal, she put her arm around his neck, and sought his lips, which hardly breathed, with the burning kisses of her mouth.
Not the least emotion did he feel. He paid no heed to her embraces, he was not even aware of her at all, as with eyes wide open he gazed into those other eyes—Yagna’s eyes.
III
It was not very early in the morning when the miller took Antek on as a workman, and, leaving him in the yard amongst great piles of logs, went to Matthew, who was just then getting some timber placed in the sawmill, and setting the saws in motion. After a few words with him, he called out to Antek:
“Then you are to work here, and obey Matthew in everything: he is my deputy.” So saying, he walked away, for a very bleak and piercing wind was just then blowing from the river.
“I suppose you have no ax?” Matthew inquired, after coming down and greeting him in a friendly way.
“I have brought a hatchet: I was not aware. …”
“You might as well use your teeth. The wood is frozen hard, and brittle as glass: a hatchet would not bite into it. For today, I’ll lend you an ax; but you will have to whet it. And to a flat edge, mind.—Bartek, get to work with Boryna and let this oak-log be ready presently: the other will have been sawn in no time.”
From behind an enormous log that lay in the snow, there rose up a tall and wiry but stooping figure of a man, wearing clogs and red-striped trousers with a pipe in his mouth, a grey sheepskin cap on his head, and a tawny leather furred jacket on his back. Resting himself on his ax, he whistled through his teeth, and exclaimed merrily:
“We are going to be wedded together. All right. We shall be a happy pair, and never fall out or fight!”
“A fine forest. The trees are as straight as tapers.”
“Aye, but full of knots all the same. ’Tis awful … as if the timber had been sown with flints. The days are few, when the ax is not notched by them. You mustn’t sharpen your ax quite smooth, but
