She wept as she sought her beautiful white hen. But as she could neither find it nor the cock nor any of the chickens in the corners or on the dunghill, she at length crept back into the house. But she dared not go into the room; she feared her child's eyes. She would bring Mr. Tiralla something to drink when Rosa had gone to bed. "Your health. Much good may it do you!"

But it seemed as though Rosa would never leave her father, and the listening woman neither heard her husband's drunken jokes, nor the maid's ribald laughter that evening. What could the two be doing? She crept downstairs in her stockings; the kitchen door was ajar and Marianna was asleep by the fire, and perfect peace and calm reigned in the sitting-room. It was as though an angel were sitting at table with Mr. Tiralla.

Then Mrs. Tiralla perceived that she could do nothing that evening. Besides, would it not really be better to wait until the early morning? At daybreak [Pg 171] she would find the poultry dead, and before the sun stood high in the heavens Mr. Tiralla would have received his coffee.

Mrs. Tiralla watched and prayed quietly the whole night through. When she crept downstairs next morning there was nobody up. The eastern sky was only faintly streaked with red, the morning light was still very wan and pale, but she could see a little, nevertheless. She groped her way across the yard, holding up her dress so as to prevent it from getting wet. There was not a sound to be heard. But hark, what was that cry that sounded so shrill and penetrating in her ear? She gave a sudden start and let her dress fall on the wet grass. Why, it was the cock! The crowing came from the hen-house. She ran there. Was he really alive? She tore the door open, and out walked the cock, stretching his gleaming neck to its utmost extent and crowing shrilly. The cock was alive. But what about the hen, her beautiful white hen? She had eaten much more—was she alive too?

The woman's eyes almost started out of her head, and she stretched out a trembling finger. There, there came the hen out of the house, shook herself, put her claws first through one of her outspread wings and then through the other, smoothed her white feathers with her beak, and cackled long and proudly. She had already laid her egg that morning.

And the others? Mrs. Tiralla hastily stuck her head into the hen-house. There they were, all sitting on the perch; not one of them was missing, not one dead.

Suddenly a heavy load fell from the woman's heart. There was nothing the matter with her beautiful white hen. She caught hold of the bird, and, pressing it [Pg 172] in her arms, caressed and stroked it in spite of its struggles.

But her joy was followed by the most violent fear, a fear that was mingled with disappointment and relief. Now Mr. Tiralla would not die either. The poison was no good, they had been imposed upon. Or—she put her hands to her head, and then she felt as though she ought to fall on her knees—the saints had not willed it. Yes, they had prevented it. It was poison after all, that, she had in the box. She felt it burning her skin through all her skirts. "Jesus, Mary, Joseph!" She heaved a sigh as she tore the box out of her pocket. The saints were not on her side, so it was still not the right thing; away with it. She wanted to hurl it away, into the pool, or there on the dunghill. But then she let her outstretched arm sink—not there. Innocent people might find it, the animals might eat it. But what should she do with it? All at once she dreaded it; she would not have it in her chest any more. Besides, she had no use for it now; if the saints were on her side, she would not be obliged to give him the poison.

She returned to the house like one who had been saved. There she found everybody astir. Mr. Tiralla had also got up early, and was already busy helping Rosa to fix the wreath over the door. He was standing on a stool and she was handing him the nails, and at every dull stroke from the hammer he gave a laugh, and the child clapped her hands. "Now it's fast. It looks pretty like that."

Mrs. Tiralla beckoned to her husband as she passed by. "Come here a moment."

She was beckoning to him? He felt much surprised, but followed her at once into his room.

As he entered she was standing in the middle of the [Pg 173] room near the table, holding out a little box. There it was, she did not want to keep it any longer, not a day, not an hour, not a moment longer. She urged him to take it.

What was it, eh? He took the box from her and turned it round, eyeing it curiously. Well, what was he to do with it? He was about to open it, but she held his hand fast. No, he must not open it nor look at it. She might perhaps have regretted it then. "Put it away, put it away," she cried hastily, turning her head aside. "It's the poison! Holy Mother, the poison!"

"What poison?" He felt very astonished; where did this poison come from all at once?

"From Gnesen—from the chemist's—you know, the rat poison," she cried irately.

"Yes, I know." Now he remembered it.

"But——" he started. She had brought it to him to-day? And, psia krew! how strange she was. He stared at her with open mouth.

His stupid expression irritated her. Why did he stare at her like that? Oh, yes, he could still look at her, but little was wanting and he would never have been able to look at her again. And she would not have been obliged to look at him either. "Alas, alas!" She buried her face in her hands and groaned aloud. Now she had given it back, now she was powerless, helpless, hopeless. "Give it back to me," she cried, and tried to tear it out of his hand.

But this time he held it fast; he put his big fist, in which the little box lay quite hidden, behind his back. "What am I to do with it?" he asked, all at once suspicious. "I thought the rats had eaten it all, and you've got some still?"

"No—yes, yes, they have—no, no, I didn't give it [Pg 174] all." Her voice was unsteady, hesitating. She felt that he suspected something, and it terrified her.

"Oh, I don't know, leave me," she said suddenly, in a faint voice, and broke into a hopeless fit of sobbing, terrified and completely confused.

"Psia krew!" Mr. Tiralla raised his brows, and his eyes wandered restlessly from his wife to the little box in his hand, and then from the poison to his wife. He opened the box. H'm, there were still five whole powders left in it, and he had only brought six in the first case. Yes, there had been six. And now? "There are still five powders in it," he murmured.

He was only thinking aloud, but she immediately took it as an accusation. Her pallor changed into burning red, she trembled and swayed so much that she had to rest her hand on the table in order to support herself. It was as though she were standing at the bar. But her present danger helped her to regain her self-command; all at once she was no longer at a loss for a lie.

"There were twelve powders in it," she asserted boldly. "I've used the half—more than the half."

"Really?" He shook his head doubtfully. "Twelve powders, really?"

How strangely he said that. She cast a hasty glance at his face in the hope of being able to read his thoughts. But it was as red and fat as always, perhaps even a little redder. It told her nothing.

She turned to go, full of desperate defiance. Let him think what he liked then; it was all the same to her. She saw him go to the old bureau that stood close to the bed-curtains, in which he kept his money and papers, and then she closed the door with a bang.

Mr. Tiralla remained alone in the room. He was standing near his bureau; he had let the box fall, and [Pg 175] it was lying on the dusty flap that he had just drawn out. He looked down at it, and there was a peculiar, uneasy expression on his face, which had never been there before. He passed his hand over his forehead; it was damp. Had that been caused by fear? What absurd nonsense it was to think such things. His Sophia, his dear Sophia! The poor thing was ill, that was all. Who can understand women who suffer from nerves? Nerves are very bad things, very bad. You never know what to expect.

"Nerves, ah, nerves," he murmured, and stared in front of him. Then he took hold of the box once more, but he did not open it. His dread of the poisonous powders was even greater now than when he had brought them into the house. He turned the box round and round, and then shook it. Would it not be best to throw the horrid things on the fire? Let them burn.

But he did not take the box into the kitchen after all, where Marianna was keeping up a flaring wood fire in order to make the coffee. Later on—to-morrow—when Mikolai had come home—then—then he would burn them. They would be well hidden here in the little drawer where he kept his most important papers, his deeds of mortgage from Posen and other securities, the testimonial he had received on leaving the Agricultural College, his first wife's "In Memoriam" card, and his second wife's marriage certificate. So he pushed the box under them all, locked the drawer, tried carefully to see whether the lock were secure, and put the key on the same bunch with the others which he always carried in his trouser pocket.

There, now that was done, now he would get on with the wreath, which was not yet up. He would also tell them to have the yard thoroughly swept, the [Pg 176] stables and sheds tidied up, as well as the coachhouse, thrashing-floor, and harness-room. Everything was to be bright and clean when the young master came home.

But the man no longer felt happy. Why not? Mr. Tiralla sighed and cast a timorous look round the room. His Sophia's black eyes, which were so beautiful that they could steal a man's heart out of his body, could look very terrible—ugh! very terrible. They gazed at him from every corner; their glances seemed to pierce his body. What was it that Marianna used to say? "Let that wicked look fall on the dog," and then she would make the sign of the cross. He did the same now, but he felt that it was of no avail at the present moment. It did not exorcize the restlessness that made him walk up and down the room, the strange feeling of terror that took possession of him and seemed to encircle him in such an incomprehensible way. What did those eyes betray? Thank God, Rosa had not such eyes, that looked like black, poisonous berries, like the deadly nightshade that intoxicates you and then kills you.

Mr. Tiralla stood pondering gloomily, his brows contracted. He did not think much as a rule, but to-day he had fallen into a reverie.

He could not recover his good humour, even after he had put the last nail into the wreath with Rosa, and when she went to a sewing class in the village—she no longer went to school—he felt quite forlorn. Nothing was to be seen of Mrs. Tiralla; nobody knew what had become of her. So he sat down in the kitchen with the maid—he could not stand being alone—and told her to fetch him something to drink.

She had not got the key of the wine cellar, as the Pani kept it, and there was no wine out. But Mr. [Pg 177] Tiralla put his back firmly against the lattice door. It yielded to his strength and flew open, and in the future it was to remain so.

Marianna triumphantly dragged one bottle after the other upstairs.

It was not yet ten o'clock in the morning when Mr. Tiralla had finished the first bottle of Tokay. But even that did not improve his temper. By eleven o'clock the second bottle had been emptied; but his temper was no better, his head was only heavier. It would have to be gin if he wanted to be in a good humour—real Geneva, which looked as clear as water in the glass.

When they sat down to dinner Mr. Tiralla ate nothing, his appetite had vanished, but he told them to bring him some beer. Rosa did not eat anything either, she was too happy to eat. She jumped up every moment from her chair to see what time it was. Was it not yet time to fetch her dear brother?

Mrs. Tiralla also came to dinner, but only for a moment. Her eyes were very red, like those of a person who has wept very much, or who feels worn-out. She said she had a great deal to do still, and had no time whatever for dinner, and ran into the kitchen again almost immediately, where she began to mix flour and lard, break eggs, grate sugar, pound spices, and stone raisins. She intended welcoming her son with a fresh cake, warm from the oven, his favourite cake. That touched Mr. Tiralla.

When he got into the carriage with Rosa—she jumped up like a bird, but he found difficulty in getting to his seat—his face looked brighter. His lip, which was blue and swollen, no longer drooped so much that it almost touched his chin.

Rosa had swung herself on to the front seat next to [Pg 178] her father, and now and then she would take hold of his arm and press it, or poll his ear or stroke his fat, bristly cheek, so that he could not drive. But even if she had not played all these pranks in her great happiness his driving would not have been up to much, for he began to feel the effects of the wine and beer on an empty stomach. He would have liked to sleep; his head fell first to the one side and then to the other, and his eye was no longer steady. He, who generally drove as straight as anybody, could not keep a bee-line to-day.

Roeschen chattered incessantly, even when her father did not answer her. She spoke to the wind, as though it could understand her, and only fanned her so merrily because it was just as happy as she.

The white gossamer threads blew over the big plain, where the fields full of stubble were already being prepared again for the new seed, and hung around the young girl's face. Rosa had put her prettiest dress on, a light blue summer dress. It suited her well, and she did not feel at all cold to-day, although she was very chilly as a rule. Her thin blood coursed warmly through her veins and painted roses on her cheeks, that were usually so pale. How happy she was!

"Mikolai, Mikolai," she sang to the wind. What did he look like? Handsome and smart, of course, much handsomer and smarter than she remembered him. Her eyes gleamed, her lips burned; she would give him a hearty kiss, many, many hearty kisses. It was nice to be able to kiss somebody whom you were very fond of.

Marianna had washed her head the night before with soft soap, and rubbed pomade well into the hair, so that it should shine brightly and be smooth when Mikolai came. As Rosa did not wish to be outdone by [Pg 179] her, she had put her head into a basin of water. But she could not make up her mind to use the greasy pomade, so her dry hair—brittle like that of all anaemic people—was twice as dry as usual, and stood out like a reddish, curly mane round her head. Her blue ribbon could hardly keep the plait together, and the dry, curly mass emitted hundreds of sparks as soon as a sunbeam fell on it.

As they drove through Starawieś they saw Mr. Boehnke coming out of the rectory. They were stopping for a moment at the inn, as Mr. Tiralla felt so chilly that he wanted a glass of gin. They called to him, that is, Mr. Tiralla shouted with a loud voice, "Little Boehnke, heigh, little Boehnke. Psia krew! where are your ears?"

The schoolmaster gave a start. He hesitated for a moment; there was the corner, should he not get out of the way quickly, as though he had not heard the call? However, he crossed the street.

There sat Mr. Tiralla in the carriage, fat and red as usual, and there was nothing in his face, neither pallor nor lines of suffering round his mouth, to betray that he had eaten mushrooms, poisonous mushrooms. Or had she not given him any? If only she had not—oh, if only she had not!

Boehnke came slowly across the broad village street, as though something were holding him back. He had a shrinking feeling when he looked at Mr. Tiralla. The man had received him hospitably, had been delighted to see him, had put food and drink before him, and he had——No, he was a rough customer, a hog, a bully, quite a vulgar fellow, for whom he had no pity. Had she not set the mushrooms before him? She intended doing so.

Boehnke had not heard anything of Mrs. Tiralla for [Pg 180] a long time, as Rosa no longer came to school. He could have gone to Starydwor, as he had so often done before, but he had not ventured to do so. She would be sure to give him a sign. However, she had not given him one, and in spite of his great longing to see her, he was glad she had not. He did not want again to see Mr. Tiralla alive.

But there he was, sitting in his carriage in high spirits, tipping his glass up and laughing to him. Had he the constitution of a giant, or had nothing happened? The schoolmaster stood in front of the carriage with downcast eyes, full of uncertainty and embarrassment.

"Why haven't you been to see us, little Boehnke?" asked Mr. Tiralla upbraidingly. "It's wrong of you; I've had to sit a great deal alone and drink." He gave a loud laugh, but then he added in a gentle voice, "If my Roeschen hadn't been there. I suppose, little Boehnke"—he bent down from the box, gave the other man a dig in the ribs, and whispered with a grin—"I suppose there's a woman behind it in your case as well, eh?"

The schoolmaster recoiled; he felt disgusted. Mr. Tiralla's breath smelt of nothing but gin and alcohol. "Oh, I'll come," he answered coldly, and was about to turn away.

But Mr. Tiralla did not let him off so easily. "We're driving to Gradewitz, will you come with us? We're going to fetch my son from the station; he's coming home. He's bringing somebody with him, a nice young fellow. Get up, little Boehnke, get up. This'll be jolly."

But the schoolmaster refused with thanks. He had something to do, he would have to stop at home, he could not get away—no, on no account.

[Pg 181]

However, when he had seen the carriage drive down the village street as quickly as the uneven road and deep ruts permitted, he turned into the fields and walked towards Starydwor instead of going home. She was now alone. It would be a long time before they came back; he would be able to question her without being disturbed, talk to her and hear why her husband had not had any mushrooms. He ran as fast as he could.

His coat-tails flapped in the wind like raven's wings. A sudden jealousy gripped him; Mr. Tiralla had spoken of a nice young fellow. And Mikolai was also a young fellow. Two young fellows, and with her day and night under the same roof. Stepmother? Pooh! She was still young and so beautiful.

His eyes wandered about restlessly; there was nothing to be seen but a desolate field over which black birds were flying, but in his mind's eye he already saw her. How she smiled! Always beautiful, either merry or sad; always seductive, either good or bad. The same fever was raging within him that had always driven him along this road. He ran until he was breathless; every minute longer that he could be with her before the others returned seemed of the utmost importance. He had hardly any breath left when he reached the farm, and he rushed into the room without knocking. There she stood, she for whom he was longing.

Hardly had Mr. Tiralla driven away with Rosa than Mrs. Tiralla left the maid to bake the cakes alone. There was no need to keep up appearances any longer. What did she care about the stepson who was coming home to-day? She had never liked nor disliked him; still, she felt that he played a more important part in her life now. She must, she would please him. He must like her so well that he would [Pg 182] turn and listen to her rather than to his father. She must win his ear and his eyes, and thereby his heart. She, therefore, went up to her room, combed her beautiful thick hair, so that it looked silkier than ever, and put on a pretty dress; not too grand a one, but still, not her everyday one. If he had eyes, he must be able to see that she had put on her Sunday dress for his sake. She rubbed her cheeks; did they still look pale? She endeavoured to put on a pleasant smile; did she look beautiful now, as beautiful as formerly? She examined herself attentively in the glass upstairs in her bedroom, and then downstairs in the big room; she was wrapped up in her own thoughts.

Thus Boehnke found her.

His noisy entrance had startled her, and she flew at him. Boehnke—what did he want? Why did he come to-day and disturb her?

"So you've really shown yourself again?" she said. "Why have you come to-day? What do you want?"

"Mr. Tiralla—was in the carriage—I met him," he said with difficulty. He stood before her with bent head, as though he were a miserable sinner.

She was half beside herself with anger when she saw him standing like that. Such a wretched coward, and a liar to boot. "Why have you deceived me?" she cried furiously.

"I—I've never deceived you." He understood at once to what she was referring. So that was why she was so angry with him. He raised two fingers as though he were taking an oath, and said eagerly, "By God, I've not deceived you. If you had the right mushrooms, then"—he shrugged his shoulders—"then I don't understand it. I'm blameless."

"They were the right ones," she answered tersely. "He ate them."

[Pg 183]

"Ate them? Ate them?"

"Ate them all."

He stared at her as though he could not comprehend it. "And he—he is—well?"

"He's well."

The schoolmaster put his hand to his head. He could hardly credit that anybody could have eaten those mushrooms—the devil's toadstool and the fly agaric—and remain alive and well. There was something wrong about it. Or there had been some mistake. But he had made no mistake—no, most certainly not, he protested, grasping her hands.

It was as though a stream of longing and love, of despairing, impotent, all-yielding, all forgetting passion were flowing from him to her.

But she remained cool. "My stepson is coming to-day," she remarked.

Then he burst into tears, and falling on his knees before her he pressed her hands, which she had to give up to him, against his face, and kissed them as though he were mad. It was so long since he had enjoyed the sight of her. But now her nearness overpowered him entirely, and he had no longer the strength to struggle against anything. He stammered words full of frantic, jealous passion and sobbed.

"Let my hands go," she said impatiently, endeavouring to free them. "Let them go, I tell you. How can you kiss these hands"—she laughed strangely—"hands that wanted to give Mr. Tiralla rat poison this morning. If the poultry had died from eating the corn this morning, he would by now have lain dead from taking the same poison."

He was not listening to what she was saying. Let her accuse herself, let others accuse her, she was still his sun, his heaven, his highest aim. And he would [Pg 184] never, never, never leave her in the lurch. If she wished it, he would swear it by all the saints. If only she had asked his advice about this too. The poultry had not died from eating the poisoned wheat she had scattered, because—he had once read it somewhere—because strychnine, that fearful poison which kills rats at once, does not harm chickens.

"And human beings?" she interrupted him passionately. She seized hold of the man's shoulders as he knelt before her and stared at his face, which he had raised to hers with a look full of fervour. "What about human beings?"

"Human beings die of it."

Then she let go of his shoulders and with a loud cry put her hands before her face and ran frantically up and down the room like an imprisoned, impotent animal, that would like to dash through the walls.

The man stared at her in astonishment; why was she so beside herself? She knew that rat poison also killed human beings?

She did not answer him. But when he put his arms round her she feebly let her head sink on his shoulder. But only for a few moments, and when he wanted to kiss her she pushed him away. "Go, go—come soon again—but go now. What do I look like?" She smoothed her hair with her hands. "I mustn't look like that—the others can soon be here—go, go." She pushed him to the door almost by force.

He would not have minded, he would have stopped even if the others had come—what did he care for other people and their thoughts? What did it matter that he had told Mr. Tiralla he had something to do and would have to stop at home?

But she begged him pathetically, "Go, for my sake. If you love me, go."

[Pg 185]

So he crept out of the room. But when he came to the front door, over which Rosa's pretty green wreath was hanging, he stood still once more. There was nobody to disturb them, not a human being in sight. He besought her hesitatingly not to send him away without at least one kiss.

Then she gave him one.

It was high time the schoolmaster went, for hardly had Mrs. Tiralla cooled her cheeks with water and smoothed her hair once more when the carriage drove into the yard with cracking of whips, rattling of wheels, and much hallooing.

Mikolai was standing erect in front—or was it not Mikolai who was driving so smartly, and who now drew up before the front door, whilst the horses were going at full trot, and jumped off? No, it was not Mikolai, for he was sitting behind with his father, and had his little sister between his knees. But now he also jumped down, went up to his stepmother, who was standing in the doorway, and held out his hand.

She kissed him on both cheeks and smiled at him. He also smiled, and she felt that the reception had pleased him.

"Here we are," shouted Mr. Tiralla. "Mikolai, my son, help me down from this confounded conveyance." They all helped him.

"Oh, mummy, how dreadful!" whispered Rosa to her mother as she clung to her. "I believe daddy has been drinking too much. He stopped everywhere."

"That doesn't matter," answered Mrs. Tiralla, pushing her daughter aside. Then she bade her son's friend, Martin Becker, who had driven so smartly, a smiling welcome.

Mr. Tiralla had indeed overdone it. He felt very unwell. As they all sat drinking coffee round the [Pg 186] festive-looking table, on which a coloured cloth had been spread, he looked at them with doll eyes. "So now we're all together again." Then he nodded to his son and got up. "I'll lie down a little on my bed. Send Marianna to help me. Psia krew!" He yawned, and staggered to the door.

His son jumped up and wanted to help him, but he sent him back. "No, it's not necessary, go back." And then he added in a furtive whisper, and it seemed as though there were a note of fear in his voice, "Go and talk to her, you must talk to her."

"Father has drunk a little too much," said the man, with a laugh, as he sat down at the table again. How good the coffee tasted; it had neither been so strong nor so pure in the army. And the cakes had turned out a great success. He nodded brightly to his stepmother, as she sat opposite him and his friend. He felt something like gratitude rising in his heart; it was really very nice of her to bake his favourite cakes, and to receive Martin into the house. She was gazing at his friend the whole time. Heigh, was she not going to cast a glance at him too? He cleared his throat and tried to attract her attention by looking her up and down in the same way the soldiers used to look at the girls as they strolled past them, arm-in-arm. She was certainly a good-looking woman, even if she were his stepmother.

But she paid no attention to her stepson, and when he at last addressed some indifferent question to her, she started, turned crimson, and then smiled absentmindedly. Where were her thoughts? Perhaps she felt disheartened because his father was drunk. It could certainly not be very agreeable for a wife. When Mikolai came to think of it, he did not take it amiss that she seemed to have neither eyes nor ears for [Pg 187] anything. But if she did not want to talk, and only sat with her eyes fixed on vacancy, stirring her coffee without drinking it, he would talk to his little sister. Let Roeschen come with him and show him the cattle in the sheds. Had the old sow, which he had purchased from Jokisch, farrowed? And how many cows were there now?

Rosa was in a state of bliss at the thought of having her brother all to herself. She would show him everything, and she had so much to tell him. There was a foal, too, in the enclosure, such a pretty one. It was the brown mare's child, and was as brown as its mother, but it had a white star on its forehead like Mr. Jokisch's horse. She put her hand into her brother's and drew him tenderly out of the room.

Martin Becker and Mrs. Tiralla remained alone in the room. Martin would have liked to go out with them and look at the cattle—he took great interest in such things—but he had remained behind on account of shyness. The girl had not invited him, and the woman's eyes fixed him to the spot. He was not shy as a rule; anywhere else he would have said, "I want to go to the stables too." But he did not feel at home here. Why did Mikolai's stepmother look at him so penetratingly? Was she not pleased that he had come? He dared not look up, he felt her eyes resting on him the whole time. He felt hot and cold in turns. What black eyes the woman had. How stupid that the old man should get drunk now. He simply longed for Mr. Tiralla; he was quite different, he had welcomed him with such a loud laugh and given him a resounding kiss on both cheeks, just as he had done to his son.

The man shuffled his feet restlessly. If it did not suit the woman that he had come with Mikolai, then [Pg 188] he could pack up his belongings and be off again, rather to-day than to-morrow. He felt uncomfortable. If only she would talk; but she never opened her mouth except to say, "Finish what you've got in your cup." So he finished his coffee and let her pour out some more, and when he had finished that he let her fill the cup again. He was trying to make up his mind to get up, make her a bow, and go after Mikolai, whom that nice girl was showing about.

The daylight began to wane. The big, low room was only lighted by two small windows, and in the twilight that filled the room he saw—now that he had made up his mind to rise—that the white face opposite him was smiling. He felt quite embarrassed; was that meant for him? Yes, certainly, she was smiling at him in a friendly way—at least, her mouth was smiling, but her eyes still retained their strange, fixed look. Was the woman sad? It seemed so. True, Mr. Tiralla was no longer a young husband, and he was not a handsome one, but had not the woman a daughter who was so tall and so nearly grown-up that she could soon be a grandmother?

Rosa had pleased the young man. When the girl had returned Mikolai's kiss at the station, shyly and reservedly, but still warmly and heartily, he had almost envied his friend. It must be nice to have a sister like that, and—and to teach such a young girl how to kiss. Where would the two be now? In the cowshed? Or in the enclosure, where the mare was grazing with the foal that Rosa had spoken about? How prettily the little one had spoken about the mare and her child; it had sounded very sweet. Becker sighed involuntarily; oh, what a bore it was to have to sit here in this room, whilst those two were enjoying themselves outside.

[Pg 189]

"Why are you sighing?" inquired the woman at that moment. Her voice sounded soft and veiled in the twilight. The tone frightened him. "What are you thinking of? Don't you like being here?"

He grew still more frightened. Did she know what he had been thinking of? The woman was a witch who could look at you inside and out. He grew red and then vexed; what was it to her what he was thinking of? Well, as she already knew it, yes, he wanted to go away. But he said nothing of that to her, he stammered something, hesitated, and grew quite confused. By gad! how beautiful the woman was!

Mrs. Tiralla bent a little forward over the table, so that her face was nearer to him. In spite of the increasing obscurity the young man saw her eyes gleam. Her voice sounded very ingratiating as she said:

"I'm so pleased that you've both come, you and Mikolai. Mr. Tiralla is old. Now there are some young people in the house." She gave a slight sigh. "And he has got into the way of drinking, I'm sorry to say. It's so lonely for Rosa and me. Such a young girl wants a change too."

Oh, certainly. The young man understood that perfectly, he agreed with her mother that it could not be very amusing for a young girl there. Conquering his shyness, he asked if Miss Rosa had no friends whatever in the neighbourhood, and if she did not take part in any of the amusements in Gradewitz, or whatever the nearest town was called.

"What are you thinking of?" Mrs. Tiralla gave a soft little laugh. "Rosa isn't fifteen yet, she's still a child. Don't say 'Miss,' Mr. Becker. Besides"—she sighed again and became very serious—"my daughter will never care for what you, what people call [Pg 190] amusements. Rosa has chosen another path for herself; she's going to the Grey Sisters, or to the Ladies of the Sacred Heart, who have that large hospital on the Wilda in Posen."

"To the Ladies of the Sacred Heart in Posen?" The young fellow looked quite horrified. Was it possible that that little thing with her curly hair and bright face wanted to be a nun? To be pious was all well and good—Martin liked to go to Mass every Sunday, and regularly went to confession as an orthodox Christian is expected to do—but in a convent! ugh! He shuddered. "Psia krew!" he burst out, "such a young girl doesn't know what she's doing. You shouldn't let her, Mrs. Tiralla," he said, almost upbraidingly. Why did the beautiful woman blink at him so with her black eyes? And she was going to put her young daughter into a convent? He would tell Mikolai, he ought certainly not to allow it. He struck the table a slight blow with his clenched fist that was so full of nervous strength. "That would almost be like murder," he said vehemently, and then added, quite shaken, "Foolish little girl, foolish little girl."

The woman answered nothing. Not a sound was heard in the darkening room during the next few minutes. She sat blinking at the man with her burning eyes. What did he think of her? Did he perhaps believe that she had persuaded the girl to become a nun? Oh, no; he must not believe that. She felt called upon to convince him that she had had nothing whatever to do with Rosa's decision. Had she ever persuaded the child to go into a convent? No, she could not remember having done so—no, certainly not, she had never done such a thing. She was quite innocent of it. But at the same moment her blood rose. [Pg 191] Why did the young fellow trouble himself so much about Rosa? Why did he take such an interest in her? She was about to fire up—ah, now he was even reproaching her for it in words.

"Others who are older should be wiser," said Becker.

But she controlled herself; she must not be angry, it was better to win him with kindness. So she said in a low, dreamy whisper, as though she were speaking to herself:

"I was still a child when I wanted to go into a convent. I was forced to marry Mr. Tiralla. Oh!" She raised her hands with a deep sigh, and clasped them together and pressed them to her pale cheek as though in pain. "I've been married almost sixteen years, sixteen long years, and I still long for the convent. If I might be within those sacred walls, I should be hidden and happy. How can I oppose my daughter if she doesn't wish to become as unhappy as her mother? I can't help it, it's not my fault. You must blame Mr. Tiralla; my child has seen too much." She wiped a few tears away and then held her hand before her eyes, but she was watching the young man through her fingers. Would her fate excite his pity? It made her weep herself when she described it. She longed for his sympathy; she did not know why she especially wanted his sympathy, she merely felt in a dull kind of way that this man must take a much, much greater interest in her than in Rosa.

But Martin Becker answered calmly, "If the Pani has not been happy in her marriage that is no reason why her daughter should not be. She has a gentle disposition, she seems to be very pliable. My father—God give him everlasting peace—always used to say to me, 'Take a gentle wife.' My opinion is that a gentle wife will always have a good husband, because——"

[Pg 192]

He stopped. Mrs. Tiralla had suddenly jumped up; what a namby-pamby the fellow was, to be sure, in spite of his eyes that were shining with mirth and his fresh lips under his small black moustache, and his four-and-twenty years. His way of speaking angered her. He spoke like an old man with the mouth of a youth. Her fingers twitched, she felt so irritated she would have liked to have given him a blow on those fresh lips. What did he know of marriage, or what it was like to have a coarse, hateful, rough, vulgar, ugly old drunkard as your husband? She was raging. She felt she must convince this man, just this man, that it was terrible, and then——

She closed her eyes for a moment as though she felt dizzy.

An intense joy took possession of her. She was still "the beautiful Mrs. Tiralla." Whatever he might think at the present moment, he would learn to think differently. Her irritation disappeared, and she begged him in a voice that was almost humble not to be surprised that she had poured her heart out to him. She was surprised at it herself, but it must have been because she had lived such an isolated life for so long, and had had to be silent for so many, many years.

Then he grew milder too; he was never angry long. The woman certainly had a very touching voice. He also felt flattered that she had shown him such confidence. But he was not able to tell her so, as his former shyness had returned as soon as his anger disappeared. He let her carry on the conversation, whilst he sat silent in the dark room, and as he listened to her he thought how sweetly she was speaking.

They were still sitting thus when the maid burst into the room with the lamp. She started back, half terrified, half bewildered. Had the Pani been sitting [Pg 193] the whole time alone with him in the twilight? H'm! Her eyes flashed, and she could not resist winking at her mistress as much as to say, Do you care for him? She could well understand that the Pani preferred this one to Mr. Tiralla, or to pale, lean Pan Boehnke. The schoolmaster would turn green with envy when he saw this strong, handsome fellow. What a capital joke it would be when those two met.

Marianna could scarcely restrain her chuckling. She was pleased to think that Boehnke was to have this vexation, for was he treating the master as he should? No, he did not wish him well, she felt that. The woman was the Pani, she could do what she liked; but strangers were not to hurt her master, she would not stand that. The maid grinned like a gnome; it served the schoolmaster right. If the Pani had chosen this man, then she, Marianna, would take Mr. Mikolai; he was not at all bad. He was certainly not so well-built as this one, he was a little more thick-set, but he too had a nice face with a little moustache; and when she came to think of it, he was even kinder. He had clapped her on her neck when he had come into the cow-shed with Rosa, where she was just milking a cow. And he had said "Good evening" to her, and had asked her with a merry laugh, "Who's your sweetheart, my girl?" Then she had had to laugh too, laugh so that the cow had grown restive and had knocked the pail, which she was holding between her knees, with its hind legs, so that the milk had been upset, the stool had fallen, and she with it.

[Pg 194]



CHAPTER IX

Mrs. Tiralla was kneeling in the confessional.

When the turn came for the sins against the sixth and ninth commandments, she trembled in all her limbs. How quickly and easily she had hitherto been able to answer in the negative when the question, "Have you had any unclean thoughts or desires?" had been put to her. But what was she to say now? How Father Szypulski, who knew her so well and whom she would probably meet again to-morrow or the day after, would stare at her when she confessed to him what had tortured her day and night for weeks and months, ever since Martin Becker had been at Starydwor. Especially at night when she tossed about so restlessly. If she were to whisper in a trembling voice that she longed for this man as she longed for her eternal salvation? And if the priest then questioned her further, if he went into particulars? If she had to describe every thought, every wish that filled her soul and her body, reveal them in such a way that her penitent confession might be followed by absolution in the Sacrament of Penance?

She felt overwhelmed with shame; she bent her head so low and whispered so softly that the confessor was not able to hear anything.

And Father Szypulski did not ask any questions; it was not necessary to go any further into the matter [Pg 195] with this woman. Every country girl under sixteen had more to confess than she.

After resigning her seat in the confessional to a young peasant woman who looked contrite and anxious, Mrs. Tiralla repeated the prescribed prayers before the high altar, and then hastened home.

She hurried along as much as possible; she had even hurried over her prayers. What had they been doing at home during her absence? Was he sitting with Rosa again? It was not at all proper, the child was too old for that. Yes, the time was approaching when she would have to be taken to Posen, for it was better for her that she should not become acquainted with what could never be her lot—must never be her lot—never, never.

The woman's eyes blazed as she hurried along. She pressed her Prayer-book to her beating heart, and threw her head back with a proud movement. She had been to confession, and she, the beautiful Mrs. Tiralla, was now returning home with her sins forgiven.

As she approached the farm she met the schoolmaster coming away from it. She gave him a nod and wanted to hurry past him. Her uneasiness drove her on—what were they doing at home; what were they up to? But he barred her way, so that she was obliged to stop.

"Ah, Boehnke, I've no time now, I'm in a great hurry. Good-bye, let me go—let me go, I say." With a stamp of her foot she pulled away the hand which he had seized.

But she did not get rid of him so easily. "One moment. Surely you've got a moment to spare for me?"

As she did not listen, but continued to hasten on, he ran beside her. How troublesome he was, if only [Pg 196] she could get rid of him. What did he want with her? Why did he force himself upon her in this way? Heaven forfend that he should return to the farm with her. She was furious; the spring evening was already drawing to a close, Martin would have returned from the fields, and now he belonged to her. And this fellow took upon himself to hinder her.

"I've not seen you for ages," stammered Boehnke. "It's so difficult to catch a glimpse of you."

"That's your fault, Mr. Boehnke," she answered lightly, and shrugged her shoulders. "You could have come more frequently, you know."

"You used to invite me formerly."

"Well, I do invite you." She gave a mocking laugh. "Do you, perhaps, expect me to write you a note every day saying, 'Come'? Come, for goodness sake. You can come whenever you feel inclined."

"I don't feel inclined," he answered bitterly. "How could I feel any inclination to come to Starydwor? But something drags me there all the same. I must come, and that's what is so awful, so awful!"

He shouted the last word in a loud voice, and his eyes, that were generally so dull, glittered as he looked at her.

Ah, so now he was going to reproach her. She slackened her pace involuntarily; there was no necessity for anybody else to hear it. But if he thought that she feared him—pooh! he made a great mistake. What on earth could frighten her now? Nothing whatever, and nobody, if only she could see Martin every day.

She boldly returned the man's upbraiding look, and they gazed at each other, until Boehnke had to cast down his eyes. He knew what kind of woman she was; oh, she was much more guilty than he, for he was [Pg 197] only the one who had been tempted, but she was the temptress. What if he were to tell what he knew? She was entirely in his power. And still he lowered his eyes. He loved her, oh God, how he loved her!

He trembled at the thought that she might belong to somebody else, to that other one perhaps, who was so young and handsome and strong, and who had lived under the same roof with her since last autumn, during the whole winter, the short days, the long nights. What was it Mr. Tiralla had told him? Even he was full of Martin Becker's praises when they sat together in the evening at the inn. Mr. Tiralla had lately come more frequently to Starawieś; he said he felt ashamed of getting drunk in his own house. The truth was, however—the schoolmaster felt sure he was right—that he also was jealous of the young fellow, and that he did not like to see his wife smile at Becker any more than he, Boehnke, did. But she should not smile at him, no, she must not do so. And if Mr. Tiralla did not forbid it, then he—yes, he would do so.

"You're good friends with Becker," he hissed, and he seized the woman's wrists so firmly, in spite of his trembling hands, that she could not get loose.

She struggled, she would have liked to run away; no, she would hear nothing, nothing at all.

But he whispered in her ear in a hoarse voice that was half choked with grief and fury, "You're deceiving Mr. Tiralla and me. But if that fool stands it, I won't. Take care. I know everything—I know you well—I will speak—yes, yes, by God I will if you don't——"

"You're threatening me?" she cried, interrupting him with a shrill laugh. She jerked her hand free and flung his away. "You don't intimidate me. Go, inform against me, I'm not afraid. I"—she spread out her arms and an enthusiastic expression transfigured [Pg 198] her face—"I should love to suffer. Jesus Christ also suffered on the cross. It would be no suffering for me, it would be a joy." Humbly bending her head she made the sign of the cross.

What did she mean? Why did she say that with such fervour? Boehnke did not understand her to-day, although he had hitherto understood her so well. He did not guess that she was seized with an ardent desire to suffer for her love, if necessary.

What could affect her if she only had Martin, only him? And he would soon be hers, she felt it. The woman looked down on the man from a triumphant height.

Boehnke eyed her in perplexity. He tried to endure her gaze, but he felt so confused that he once more had to lower his eyes.

What a poor wretch he was, a real coward. Her voice was full of deep contempt as she said icily, "Let me go on now, Mr. Boehnke."

"No, no," he cried, seizing hold of her dress. No, she must not leave him in anger. He would—he did—recall everything; he had said nothing, he knew nothing, guessed nothing. Only she must not look at him like that, he could not bear it, it broke his heart. He almost whined as he implored her pardon; surely she must know that he was mad, irresponsible, that it made him furious to know that she was always with the other man, whilst he, alas, had to remain so far away from her.

"You needn't stay away, Mr. Boehnke."

"But I can't bear to see you with the other man," he cried. "Can't you understand?"

Yes, she understood very well. She almost felt sorry for him now. Jealousy is a terrible torment. Would Martin have returned from the fields by now? [Pg 199] Would he be sitting with Rosa, or perhaps standing about with Marianna? She grew hot and cold by turns. Both things were dreadful, she could not permit either of them. She, who a moment ago had been so triumphant, felt disheartened and cast down with fear and torment and uncertainty. Oh, this uncertainty was something dreadful; did he not care for her a thousand times more than for that little girl? Yes, it must be true, Boehnke must be suffering too.

Her glance was full of compassion as she looked at him. How he shuffled along; he looked like an old man, and he was so pale and emaciated, there seemed to be no youth left in him. She laid her hand on his sleeve. "Surely we are not going to be enemies, Boehnke?" she said gently.

"No, certainly not," he jerked out. He bent his head, and, hastily pressing his dry lips to the beautiful, white hand which formed such a contrast to the dark sleeve on which it was resting, said:

"Forgive me, for God's sake, forgive me."

"I forgive you," she answered. She stooped and picked up his hat which had fallen off his head without his noticing it. "Here, put it on."

And then she held out her hand, and allowed him to grasp both her wrists and stand thus for a few moments taking leave of her.

He felt a little calmer now; she was not angry with him, thank God, not angry. He stood a long time after she had left him, following her with his eyes. How daintily she tripped along in spite of her haste. Her dress did not knock against her like a heavy sail against a clumsy mast, but the wind played with it wantonly, so that you could see her ankles, her striped stockings, and smart white petticoat even at a distance. Boehnke felt his heart stand still with delight. There [Pg 200] she went to meet somebody else, leaving him behind; but his thoughts hurried after her all the same and clung to her like a chain. She would never be able to get rid of him entirely. And even though she might curse the chain, it would always clatter behind her and warn her that he and she—yes, that they were forged together for time and eternity. That consoled him. And a hope arose within him that the chain might become still stronger and tighter. Then might the angels hide their faces and weep when God cursed them—if only he and she might go to hell together.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Mrs. Tiralla rejoiced to think that she had so easily got rid of the schoolmaster. It would have been so tiresome if he had returned with her. She ran through the gate with a light heart.

The stillness of evening lay over the farm. The pigeons that had their cot on the high pole near the pond were already sitting huddled together on the perch in front of their door, cooing softly. How tender it sounded; it seemed to Mrs. Tiralla as though it had never sounded so tender before. And the cock was strutting about among his hens; the woman thought she could see that he particularly wished to please the white hen. A couple of early white butterflies, the first heralds of approaching spring, were fluttering about, exhausted by their amorous dalliance. Mother stork was standing on her nest on the old barn; the couple had returned the day before in renewed love to the home they had left last autumn. Marianna was crouching on the doorstep peeling potatoes for supper, and quite close to her stood Mikolai with his back against the wall and his hands in his trouser pockets, looking down with a smile at the girl's firm brown neck that showed above her white frill.

[Pg 201]

How beautiful everything was! Mrs. Tiralla closed her eyes as though dazzled, then opened them wide with a dreamy expression and gave a deep sigh full of longing. Everything spoke of love. What did it matter if the butterflies were dead by to-morrow morning, if they were found lying on the ground like small, withered leaves, killed by the night that was still so raw? Had they not spent a merry hour, disporting themselves at love's fair game? She looked round; where was Martin Becker? Had he not returned from the fields with Mikolai?

"Heigh!" Her voice sounded shrill as she called to her stepson. "Where are the others? Your friend and Rosa?"

"I don't know," answered the young man in a calm voice, and went on philandering with the maid, in spite of his stepmother's arrival. He had got hold of a long straw, with which he was tickling her neck, and which he quickly hid behind his back whenever she let the potato-knife fall and laughingly tried to seize it.

Where could Martin and Rosa be? They were not in the room downstairs, for she had looked in at the low window. She gazed around with burning, impatient eyes; where had they hidden themselves? All at once she felt disgusted with the two flirting on the doorstep. Were they not ashamed of themselves? She tore the straw angrily out of her stepson's hand and pulled it to pieces. "Stop that nonsense," she said sharply, frowning. "Go in, Marianna, dalej, don't lounge there any longer. When Mr. Tiralla comes home we are to have supper, dalej."

Disturbed in her amusement, the maid, who was still quite hot from laughing, murmured sullenly, "The master hasn't been out at all; he's in the house. That [Pg 202] man was here"—she turned up her nose—"the schoolmaster from Starawieś. I had to bring some bottles up from the cellar, and they've been drinking beer and gin. Now the master has gone to bed and is asleep." She shrugged her shoulders and shook her head as she tripped away.

"Father drinks," said Mikolai, his laughing face all at once overcast. "He never drank before, why does he do so now?"

He looked at his stepmother inquiringly; he felt as though he must demand an explanation of her. How could she allow him to drink so much? And it was not only beer and wine, for a short time before, when he had gone to the pig-market in Gnesen, he had brought gin back with him, a whole keg of clear gin, some bad stuff made of potatoes, like that given to reapers at harvest-time. And he drank it off as if it were small beer. "Tell me how it is that father has so changed," he continued, in a voice that sounded quite rough. "He used to be so lively formerly. He has always been fond of a drink—who wouldn't be?—but still he never took more than he could stand. But now!" He shook his head, and his glance seemed to Mrs. Tiralla to have suddenly grown suspicious. "I don't know how it's happened."

"I don't know either," said she, as she cast her eyes around. Where had those two crept to? They had both gone, and probably together. Nothing else was of any consequence to her at the present moment. Let Mikolai think what he liked, it was perfectly immaterial to her. "Where can Becker be?" she asked impatiently.

Mikolai's thoughts were still with his father, and he kept staring at the pavement with a heavy frown, which was not at all in keeping with his round, innocent [Pg 203] face. It grieved him very much to think that his old father, of whom he was so fond, should drink like that. It was fortunate that his mother had not lived to see it. It seemed to be quite immaterial to his stepmother. Or was he wrong? She was looking quite pale all at once, positively distraught. He must be wrong, she took it, no doubt, just as much to heart as he did. He felt sorry that he had wronged her if only in thought, and held out his hand to her with a good-natured laugh. "Well, what do you say to breaking the old man of this bad habit in good time? Anyhow, it won't kill him yet."

"Anyhow, it won't kill him yet," she repeated absent-mindedly. But she could not stand it any longer, she must know where the two were. "Where can Rosa be? Psia krew!" she cried in a furious voice.

Her stepson stared at her in amazement. How mad she was; it amused him to see her. She had always been so very refined, but now she could never make a wry face again when his father rapped out an oath or two. Besides, he never meant any harm by it, but she was furious to-day—ugh! He put his arm round her waist and said jokingly, "H'm, the Pani is in a bad temper to-day."

She could not control her feelings any longer, and burst into tears in her despair at not being able to find out where the two had gone. She laid her head on her stepson's arm and sobbed.

Mikolai felt dismayed and then overcome; he resembled his father in that particular, and could not bear to see a woman cry. And especially this woman, who really was good. He had never known that his stepmother was so tender-hearted. How she fretted about his father.

[Pg 204]

Mrs. Tiralla wept a long time on his shoulder.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Martin Becker remained longer in the fields than Mikolai. He had still to sow some clover seed in a piece of fallow-land, when the latter led the horse home with which he had been harrowing.

The young sower whistled as he walked up and down the furrows. A mild breeze was blowing across the fields which had nothing in common with the raw March winds they had been having lately. Was spring really coming? Why, there was Rosa!

He put his hand up to his eyes that the last rays of the setting sun should not hinder him from watching her. The farm was not far from the field they were tilling, and the young girl had just come out of the gate and was walking towards him without hat or shawl, her hands hanging idly by her sides.

As Rosa saw that he was smiling at her, she smiled too; her radiant happiness made her look prettier than usual. "You must leave off working now, Mr. Becker," she cried gaily. "I've come to fetch you. You've been so busy. Aren't you tired?"

"No." As he smiled at her he showed his strong teeth, which looked whiter and more shining than ever under his black moustache.

"Jendrek has never done so much," she remarked knowingly, "and the other labourers haven't either."

"But I'm not a labourer."

"Oh, I didn't mean that"—she turned crimson—"oh, no." She held out her hand artlessly. "Please don't be angry with me. Mother has told me that you've some money and that you really need not work here. I know it very well."

"I like working here," he said quickly. "I like it very much"—he hesitated for a moment and cast a [Pg 205] quick glance at the delicate face that was half averted—"very much indeed."

"That's very nice of you," she said innocently, looking at him with a friendly smile.

He cast a complacent glance at her; how blooming she looked now, much more so than when he came. She would soon be old enough to get married. Many a wooer would come forward; her curly hair that shone like gold was very conspicuous among all the smooth, dark-haired women of the country. She would also have a good dowry; Mr. Tiralla had hinted at that pretty broadly. And Mikolai was a good fellow and an affectionate brother; he would be pleased to let his sister have her portion. And she would be a patient, good wife. Martin felt as though he ought to make hay while the sun was shining.

"I'll stop now," he said, suddenly making up his mind, and throwing the last seeds he had in his bag at random; he put on his coat, which he had hung over the plough. "Shall we go for a little walk, Miss Tiralla?"

Yes, Rosa would like that very much. Had he ever been in the Przykop? Perhaps there would be some violets there now. But he must not say "Miss," she was not grown up, her mother had said that repeatedly, she was only a child.

"Well, then, Rosa—Roeschen, let's go." He held out his hand and she put hers into it, and thus they strolled into the Przykop. There was not a shoot to be seen yet on the alders or willows, or on the few oaks that were scattered about, but the old pines were as green as ever and smelt fresh and alive. The woodpecker was hammering at their bark, and the wood-pigeons were cooing up in their big branches that shone so red.

[Pg 206]

Everything was very quiet in the hollow, and the air was so mild that you could have sat down. Martin felt a wish to do so, but the girl began to look about busily for the bushes in whose red sprigs the sap was already coursing, and to turn the big heaps of brown leaves over with her hands and feet. Would she not be able to find the first violet under one of them? Oh, now she had found one! She shouted with joy.

Who would have thought that this gentle girl could be so jubilant? The young fellow was delighted to hear her, and stood quite still and smiled down on her as she with nimble fingers stuck a violet and a leaf into the top button-hole of his coat. He very nearly gave her a kiss—nobody was looking on, and her shining parting was so near his mouth.

"The stars are twinkling, the night is cold, Open the window for thy lover bold."

he began to sing.

"I don't know that song," she said innocently.

He felt ashamed of continuing it. It was a song that the soldiers used to sing, and also the couples as they walked through the corn in the evenings, but it was not suitable for her ear.

Then they strolled about hand-in-hand. How beautiful everything was. The man had never been accustomed to forest and shade, and the big trees in the Przykop inspired him with awe and reverence. He would never venture to take any liberties here; besides, it would be very wrong of him if he were to disturb this child's innocent mind.

He walked beside the girl as though he had been her brother. "Why are you so silent?" she asked. "Tell me something, but please no stories like those Marianna tells me, something nice. Do you always [Pg 207] go to Mass as frequently as you do here? Shall you go to confession when I go? Is there a nice church at Opalenitza? Have you also a Holy Virgin on the altar who performs as many miracles as ours does?"

Then he spoke to her of his mother. She had been a happy woman, for she had had a good husband. And she had had many children, and they were good and honest, and happy too. Two daughters were married, the eldest son had the farm at Opalenitza, the second was an engineer in the Rhine province, the third had re-enlisted with the chasseurs in Liegnitz, and he, the miller, was the fourth and youngest. If everything went well, and he got a wife who had enough money, with the sum he had, to buy a good mill, then he, the youngest, would be the happiest of them all.

"If only my mother had lived to see it," he said softly, looking at the girl. And then he went on to speak of his parents, who had always been so united, who had almost died together—his father six years ago and his mother only a few months later—and there was so much love in his voice that Rosa began to cry. He did not understand her tears. Why was she crying? He put his arm tenderly round her shoulders and drew her towards him in the quiet Przykop. "Why are you crying, Roeschen, my little girl?"

She said nothing, but continued to cry bitterly. Oh, how happy they had been. Husband and wife always united; many children; and almost dying together. She shivered; that must be even more glorious than in Paradise. She clung to him more closely in her longing and sadness.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

It was late when they came out of the hollow. A grey, rising mist covered the ploughed field as they [Pg 208] crossed it hand-in-hand. They did not let go of each other until they passed through the gateway leading into Starydwor.

Now they were back at the farm again. Marianna was singing as she rattled the pots and pans, Mikolai stood laughing by the kitchen fire, but Rosa's face continued to wear a dreamy, radiant expression. Although she was always such an obedient, conscientious child, it did not affect her in the slightest when her brother shouted to her from the kitchen, "Your mother has been looking for you for such a long time; she's very cross. Where have you been?" She did not notice her mother's eyes resting on her with a piercing expression; she did not feel the oppressive silence that reigned at supper that evening.

Mrs. Tiralla kept an obstinate silence; she seemed so low-spirited that the men involuntarily became low-spirited, too—that is, Mr. Tiralla and Mikolai. Becker's eyes were fixed on his plate; he was quiet and happy, and ate with a good appetite. What did he care if the woman was in a bad humour? Let the old man and Mikolai dance to her piping, he would not. And then the thought came to him that a girl like Rosa would never want to order about, and that a man would fare well with a wife like her: always united, and many children, and, and—he did not get any further. He felt a glance resting on him that weighed him down, so that he could no longer think of all those pleasant things.

Mrs. Tiralla kept her eyes fixed on the young man; her brows were contracted, her lips pouting. She felt so scornful, so angry. So he preferred that chit to her! But then her scorn melted and a world of love, grief, longing, and even humility lay in her glance. If only he would look at her, only for one [Pg 209] short moment. Ah, now he was looking up—her glance had drawn him—he had to look at her, was obliged to.

At that moment, when she was glowing with happiness, she became a most dangerous temptress. A seductive smile parted her lips, her eyes shone in radiant splendour. She had never been so beautiful, never so amiable.

Even Mr. Tiralla profited by her radiant smiles; he simply basked in them. She was looking at him so kindly; ah, there was not another woman who could be compared with his Sophia. Her smile intoxicated him. What did it matter that she had often been very horrid to him? Pooh! that was all forgotten now, it was some nonsense that he must have dreamt. She had certainly been very strange at times—h'm, very strange, but to-day she was an angel. He even forgot to drink when he looked at her. He kissed the tips of his fingers, threw her the kiss, and stared at her with watery eyes.

Martin Becker gazed at her too, as though there were something quite new about her. He had never known that she was so beautiful; by Jove, there was nobody like her. The girl certainly resembled her very little. No wonder that everybody ran after her, as Mr. Tiralla had told him the first day they met; he could easily believe it. He stroked his dark moustache and looked her full in the face with his fine eyes. Then she smiled still more seductively, and he smiled at her again. He liked her very much.

As they said good night to each other her hand nestled in his; he felt its warm softness, and pressed it more firmly than he had ever done before. How thin Rosa's little hands were compared with hers.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

[Pg 210]

Mrs. Tiralla was standing in her room upstairs in front of the looking-glass, undressing. She was doing it very slowly; she felt the whole time as though she must go downstairs once more and walk down the long passage past the young men's door. Was he already asleep?

Mikolai and Becker had gone early to bed, as they had to rise with the lark next morning and go to their work. Rosa had likewise gone to her room after supper. But Mrs. Tiralla had talked some time to Marianna in the kitchen, whilst her husband remained sitting at the table with his head resting in his hands, dozing. He had made no attempt to keep his wife when she left the room.

Did he know by now that he was repugnant to her? Mrs. Tiralla almost thought he did; he often looked askance at her now, whilst his purple lip would droop sullenly. She was glad to think it; good, let him know it; it had taken her long enough to make him understand that she hated and despised him too. Thanks be to God and all His saints, praise be to them a thousand times, Mr. Tiralla had left her in peace for months, from the day his son had returned home, the day she had failed in her attempt with the poisonous corn. The saints had not permitted it at the time, and it was a good thing, for since he had taken such a liking to the bottle, she had got rid of him in that way. She had had nothing to confess to Father Szypulski.

"Thanks be to the holy saints." The woman devoutly made the sign of the cross as she stood before the glass. Then she thrust her hands through her hair and pulled her long, thick tresses down, so that they hung around her like a smooth, silky mantle. She shook them and drew a deep breath. How heavy, oppressive, and disquieting the room felt.

[Pg 211]

She went to the window, opened it with an impatient movement, and leant out as far as she could. It was like spring outside. The night was dark and mild, there was a smell of the earth in the air and the stars were twinkling. Just over the farm there was such a golden light, that she could see a couple walking up and down near the pond with their arms thrown round each other.

It was Marianna. But with whom? The man was tall, taller than Mikolai. A deadly fear overpowered her; she would not stand that, she had better run downstairs. But it was not Becker, he had not that clumsy, rolling gait, he was much more erect. But even if it were not he, how she envied the girl down there.

She pressed both hands to her face; she would not look at them, she would not listen to their whispers. But a shiver ran through her similar to what she had only felt once before in her life, and of which she now no longer knew if it had been sweet or terrible. She felt as she had done that time in the quiet room in early, long-gone-by days, when she had lain on her knees before her best friend and had implored, demanded his help. In those days that shiver full of presage and bliss had almost bereft her of her senses; she could have shouted with joy and still have died of weeping. Now, so long afterwards, she once more felt the same kind of shiver.

She turned away. She staggered from the window to the glass as though she were about to faint, and stared into it with half-closed, swimming eyes. The balmy air blew in through the open window and fanned her bare shoulders, neck, and arms. It felt like a soft hand, and she held her breath as it caressed her. She kept her eyes fixed on the glass; was she [Pg 212] not too old, was she really young enough? Oh, yes. She had to laugh. A voice within her seemed to say, "You still look like a girl and you are still like a girl." And when she came to think of it, was she Mr. Tiralla's wife in the eyes of God? No. He had forced her, but she was not his wife in spite of that. God alone makes husband and wife.

If only he would come now, if only he were here. "Holy Mary, all ye angels and archangels, ye fourteen helpers in need, lend me your aid."

The woman stretched out her arms as though she were intoxicated. Suddenly she thought she heard somebody coming cautiously upstairs. The floor outside her room creaked.

She rushed to the door and unbolted it with a jubilant cry like one who has been saved. There stood Mr. Tiralla.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

The night grew dark, the stars hid themselves behind clouds, as though they were afraid of looking down on Starydwor. The balmy wind, which seemed to carry spring on its wings, had brought rain. All at once there came a heavy shower, which turned into a slow drizzle as soon as the warm air had grown cool, and which continued until the misty, grey dawn broke.

The young men buttoned up their coats before starting for the fields. What a change in the weather! They felt chilled to the bone. Somebody might at least have made them a cup of hot coffee. But nobody appeared, and there came no answer to their soft call of "Heigh, Marianna, heigh!" The whole house was as silent as death; it was as though all life were extinct. There was nothing for it; Mikolai had to make the fire and boil the coffee himself, or they would [Pg 213] have to leave the house on that wet, sullen-looking morning without something warm to drink.

Mrs. Tiralla had heard their call. She was lying on her bed with open eyes, but was unable to rise. She felt worn-out, bruised in body and mind; she had only sufficient strength left to bite her pillow, so as to suppress her sobs. "Holy Mary, wert thou asleep?" Had the angels and archangels not heard her when she called to them? He, he had come—but not the one she had prayed for.

The woman clenched her fists in impotent fury, whilst her glowing cheeks burned with shame. All the aversion, all the hatred she had ever felt for her husband was nothing compared with this intense, blazing passion that raged within her. How was she to avenge herself? If only she had the poison which she, like a fool, had given back to him. Then she would have rushed downstairs and calmly, quite calmly, poured some of the white powder into his half-open mouth whilst he was lying in his bed snoring. It would have acted, she felt sure of that. The saints would not let innocent animals die, but they would look on with a smile when the devils carried Mi. Tiralla's soul off to hell.

The woman uttered wild curses as she reproached herself for her stupidity. How foolish, how unutterably foolish she had been to give up those powders that could have released her. If she had had them now, she would have given ten years of her life, nay more, her hope of everlasting bliss. "Yes, take it," she groaned, starting up in bed and stretching her clenched fists towards heaven, "take it in exchange for them."

Then she prayed. It was a meaningless jumble of words, for she was beside herself, but still she felt [Pg 214] somewhat calmed as she moved her lips and made the sign of the cross and hit her breast. Her thoughts dwelt on the powders as she mechanically repeated the usual prayers. Perhaps she could get them again, after all? He had put them into his writing-desk that day, she had seen him do it. True, it was always locked, but—"Blessed be the Holy Virgin and all the saints," she cried, drawing a breath of relief—but the key was on the ring in his trouser pocket.

She sat down on the side of the bed, and pushing her dishevelled hair away from her distraught-looking face she groped for her slippers. It was still early; he would still be fast asleep and Rosa and Marianna, too, and Martin and Mikolai had already gone to the fields. There would be nobody to frustrate her plans this time.

She could not wait to dress herself properly, but throwing a petticoat on, she thrust her bare feet into her slippers and glided downstairs. She opened the door into Mr. Tiralla's room almost noisily; she was right, there he lay snoring, his eyes closed, his mouth wide open. Quick, quick!

She looked round the room; there stood the old bureau. But, alas, he had got the trousers on in which he always kept the bunch of keys. He had thrown himself on his bed half-dressed; a sock and a trouser-leg were sticking out from under the feather bed which he had drawn around him.

A feeling of intense disappointment took possession of her for a moment. But then a look of contempt crossed her face; he was snoring, he would not notice anything. She conquered the feeling of disgust at having to touch him, drew the feather bed away from his massive body that lay there like a felled log, and put her nimble fingers into his pocket. He was as [Pg 215] lifeless as a stone; she hardly considered it necessary to suppress a cry of joy when she held the coveted key in her hand.

She ran to the bureau and stuck it into the lock; the desk creaked loudly as she opened it. There were the drawers. Heedless of danger she turned her back on the bed and began to search for the powders. She opened and closed one drawer after the other with an angry bang at not finding what she sought. Where were they, where could they be? Stop! In this drawer, quick, what was that that gleamed so white and new under all those papers yellow with age? It was the box, the box! She stretched out her hand to seize it—but the hand remained poised in mid-air.

"Psia krew, what are you doing there?" cried Mr. Tiralla. He had awaked.

She wheeled round and they gazed at each other with pale faces. She stood there like a delicate, feathery leaf that a breath of wind has caused to tremble; but he was trembling too. Neither of them was capable of saying a word. Mr. Tiralla had not uttered a sound since his first cry; he was like a man who is being choked, and his face grew purple as he struggled for air. What was she doing there, what did she want, what was she looking for? Why did she come so furtively when he was asleep? Did she want to rob him? He had never refused her any money, it could not be that she was looking for. Perhaps it was for the——? He grew rigid with horror, his tongue hung out of his mouth and he gasped and gasped. "Let, let——" He could not say anything more, but fury, fear, and the horror of it all, extorted from him an inarticulate cry like that of an animal.

Then she, too, gave a shrill cry and ran out of the [Pg 216] room with hair flying, leaving the drawers and the desk open.

He remained lying on his bed as though paralyzed; only his eyes wandered timidly from corner to corner. He was so terrified; the strong, stout man felt all at once quite helpless. Had she gone—had she really gone? He listened to every sound. But there was nobody creeping outside in the passage, and everything remained perfectly quiet until Marianna's noisy tread was heard. Then her loud singing in the kitchen and her rattling with the rings on the stove gave him courage, and he stood up and tottered to the bureau with shaking knees, took the box with the powders out of the drawer which she had left open, and hid it inside his shirt. If only she did not find it—if only she did not find it!

Then he staggered to the washstand and stuck his head, which felt dizzy, deep down into the basin. How his face smarted. He was cooling it as the maid came in.

Marianna clasped her hands in dismay. "What is it, Panje?" Oh, dear, what a sight Pan Tiralla was. It was awful, his face was scratched all over. Where had he got it? Had he fallen amongst thorns? She ran into the kitchen lamenting and fetched a little lard to put on it.

Mr. Tiralla sat as quiet as a lamb and let the servant smear his scratches with it, but he never said a word, in spite of Marianna's inquiries. Fallen amongst thorns, fallen amongst thorns, yes, that he had! He continued to nod in a stupid kind of way. Then he groaned and moaned like a man who has been heavily wounded, and laid his head on the table. It was all up, all up. And he had believed, when she was so kind to him the night before, kinder than she had been [Pg 217] for a long time—oh, what a fool he had been, what an idiot! He began to cry in a resigned kind of way. He could not think any more; besides, he did not want to think about it any more—what was the good? He could not alter what was coming.

He sent for gin. Ah, that made him feel easier, that did him good. He sat banging the table with his fist, and now and then he would give a hiccoughing sob, "So-phia—So-phia!" He had always loved her so.

[Pg 218]



CHAPTER X

If Mrs. Tiralla believed that she would have reason to fear her husband now, she was mistaken. There was no necessity for her to steal away so that he should not see her, for he kept out of her way as well as everybody else's. They were all so fond of her, they hung on her words; she was a witch, and if he were to tell what he knew about her, who knows, perhaps she might do something worse to him? He was terrified of her in secret. When he heard her steps he would cower involuntarily; he preferred her not to come where he happened to be. He scarcely ate anything at meal time; even if he had been hungry he would not have ventured to partake of anything. The drink he took nourished him; he grew stouter and stouter, and his eyes were embedded in fat. He would only eat what the maid brought him, but he ordered her not to say anything to her mistress about it. "Very good, very good," she would answer, with a nod, but when she spoke to others about her master, she would point to her forehead and say in a sad voice, "Poor master! I think he drinks too much."

Everybody said that Mr. Tiralla had become a drunkard. True, he hardly ever came to the inn now when the gentry were there, but he would drink in secret either at home or at the inn at a different time to the others. He avoided his former companions; they had not seen him for weeks.

[Pg 219]

Loud were the exclamations, therefore, when they caught him early one afternoon sitting all alone at the inn. They had made up their minds to take him by surprise some time, and now they had found him.

"Psia krew, old fellow," cried Jokisch, "where have you been? You and I are neighbours, and still I never see you."

The forester, who had been obliged to complain of Mr. Tiralla formerly, said to him in a friendly, reproachful voice, "I never meet you in the Przykop now." Schmielke and the gendarme also gave vent to their astonishment—why did Mr. Tiralla no more appear at the usual table? The priest, too, had been very much surprised that he never came to church either. That was not right, he really must go. He ought to pray twice as much as others, he the husband of such a pious and—there was a momentary pause and Mr. Schmielke gave a waggish laugh—beautiful wife.

They poked each other in the ribs and laughed. Had he really not noticed anything?

But he glanced at them all in turn with a stupid, dull look, and then went on drinking as if they were not there. He did not want to have anything to do with them; he wanted to be left in peace. Why should it be such a pleasure to them to gloat over him? He had not grown so stupid but that he could feel they wanted to get some fun out of him. He gazed about him with a restless look; now this place was embittered as well. Where could he drink a glass in peace? At home he feared his wife. She was quite friendly to him now, and would often say to him, "Have something to drink, do." And when he had complained of the blood rising to his head, she had told Marianna to bring him a cooling drink from the cellar. "Why do you want to go into the fields?" she had even said; [Pg 220] "let the young folks work there. Stop at home. It's so hot out of doors, you'll get a stroke." She was right, and still he did not believe in her any more. Why did she advise him in such a kind way to remain at home? He would have liked to know—yet he dreaded the knowledge. Is not everybody fond of life? It would be better to pretend that he had not noticed anything.

But inwardly the man was consumed with a terror that burnt him to such a degree that his mouth and throat and chest and lungs were as dry as a parched field that never can get enough moisture. He was obliged to drink to conquer the fear that always gripped him anew, that took possession of him day after day, whether he was in the room or in the passage, in the yard either when the sun shone, or on a moonlit night, in the barn, in the stables, in the house, round about the house, everywhere where his wife happened to be. Hitherto he had only felt safe in the inn, and then only when he was quite alone with his glass and the buzzing bluebottles that flew up and down the dull window-pane.

And now they were spoiling that for him too. He gazed at the laughing men as though they were his enemies. Then, finishing his glass, he turned away without saying good-bye or casting a glance at the numerous strokes which the landlord had chalked on the board, and trotted out of the door with his shoulders drawn up and his big head on one side, as though he were ducking down for some reason or other.

The men felt ready to laugh once more as they followed him with their eyes. "Mad!" exclaimed Schmielke, as he struck his thigh. But they did not laugh after all.

"If he makes himself so drunk every day, he'll not [Pg 221] know soon what his wife is up to," remarked Jokisch, rubbing his nose thoughtfully.

"Who can blame her for it?" said Schmielke, in a tone of excuse. "She must be twenty years younger than he, and Mr. Tiralla has never been an Adonis. Between ourselves I can quite understand that a woman like the fair Sophia favours somebody else. You are still very narrow-minded in this part of the world, gentlemen. I'm only sorry that I'm not the favoured one."

"An idiot, nothing but a stupid boy," cried Jokisch angrily, full of envy.

They were all envious. But Schmielke, the man of the world, consoled himself and the others by saying, "Who knows whose turn it may be next, now that she has begun?"

So they all pinned their faith to that.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Mr. Tiralla tottered slowly down the village street. The sun was glowing so that the dust which flew up in clouds as he shuffled along glistened before his lowered face as though it were mingled with gold. He neither heard nor saw anything, and he was not thinking, either. After passing the last cottage in Starawieś, he mechanically took the parched track across the fields in the direction of home.

The early summer sun was shining down on the immense plains; the fine-looking ears of corn that swayed to and fro were already about as high as a man. The clover lay cut in the meadows, and emitted a powerful smell as it dried quickly in the sun. The air was full of a continuous buzzing of insects that glistened like gold, and of the trills of invisible larks. The blessing of a promising harvest lay spread over the broad fields as far as Starydwor, and everywhere [Pg 222] as far as the eye could see. But Mr. Tiralla's heart did not rejoice as a farmer's should have done. He did not look about him, nor care whether the oats and wheat were getting on, and whether the rye was beginning to turn pale. He pressed his hat further down on his forehead and shuffled along a little more rapidly. Marianna should bring him something at once to his room. He would lock himself in; he had not had his daily quantity yet, those confounded fellows had disturbed him. He still felt very out of sorts.

"Mr. Tiralla! Mr. Tiralla!" shouted somebody behind him.

He did not hear. Then somebody seized him by the coat as he reached the Boẑa meka which stands at the cross-roads.

Mr. Tiralla turned round in terror—was it she? Ah, it was only the schoolmaster. He gave a sigh of relief.

"Why do you hurry so, Mr. Tiralla?" said Boehnke in a breathless voice. "You were almost running. I saw you in the distance when you left the village, and I've been racing behind you the whole way."

"Why did you do that?" asked Mr. Tiralla. "I want to be alone, I must be alone, I'm safest when I'm quite alone." Then he sighed again, and his swollen eyes glimmered as he cast a restless look around.

The schoolmaster sighed too; dear, dear, the man was quite out of his mind. It must be true what they were saying in Starawieś, that Becker had become Mrs. Tiralla's lover. Confound it! "May I offer you my arm, Mr. Tiralla?" he said, going close up to him. "You're walking badly."

"No, no—no, no!" cried the stout man, keeping the schoolmaster off as though he were afraid of him. [Pg 223] And then he added in a gruff voice, as he saw that he would not be repulsed, "Psia krew, what do you want? Go to the devil, little Boehnke."

But the words "little Boehnke" did not have the usual effect on the schoolmaster, for he felt sorry for the man. Besides, he wanted to know, he must know, how far it had gone with Mrs. Tiralla and Becker. You could not believe all the gossip of the inn, but he would get at the truth from the man himself, the husband who had been insulted and deceived.

So after Mr. Tiralla had stumbled several times, Boehnke took hold of his arm. "Do let me accompany you," he said in an anxious, friendly voice.

"All right then," he growled. The man's solicitude did him good after all. Besides, what had he to fear from little Boehnke? He was pale and humble, pleased when you left him in peace, and did nobody any harm.

So Mr. Tiralla put up with the schoolmaster's company and they walked together like father and son. And when they came to the farm gate he did not even object to his going still further with him. "Come along, little Boehnke," he said, "come into my room. Marianna shall fetch us something out of the cellar; I've got the key. Then we two will have a drink by ourselves."

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

It was a long sitting. It had been early in the afternoon when they came from Starawieś, now it was almost evening. During all those hours the house had been as quiet as though not a single soul, as though not even a mouse were there. And still every time a glass was put on the table with more noise than usual Mr. Tiralla had hastily put his finger to his lips, "Sh!" He had drawn nearer and nearer to his friend as he [Pg 224] whispered to him. For the schoolmaster was his friend, and it did him good to have such a friend. Did little Boehnke know what a mouse felt like when it was being enticed into a trap with bacon? Oh, his wife was kind to him now, she was so bright, and smiled the whole day long. She would even have brought him something to drink with her own hands if he had asked for it, she who had formerly turned up her nose and said, "Pooh! you stink!" if he had only drunk one small glass. But who could trust her? "For listen, little Boehnke"—Mr. Tiralla put his arm round the other man's neck and breathed into his ear with trembling voice—"listen! she's laying a trap for me. And when I'm dead, my friend—sh!"—he clapped his hand over the other man's mouth as he was about to jump up—"be quiet. You mustn't betray me, hold your tongue. And when I'm dead, then, oh then——"

Mr. Tiralla could not speak any more. He hiccoughed and sobbed, for he had already drunk a great deal, and then, putting his head on the table, he began to weep.

The schoolmaster sat motionless. He scarcely heard what the man had been saying, for he was listening the whole time for a sound in the house. Would he not soon hear her steps, her voice? How he longed for them. But nothing moved. Everybody was in the fields bringing in the clover, Marianna had said when she brought the last bottle in, and then they had watched her through the window, as she, too, went off with her red skirt up to her knees and her rake over her shoulder. Bringing in the clover! Mrs. Tiralla had never helped to do that before. But this year—the man's face was distorted with jealousy—this year there were two young men there, her stepson and [Pg 225] Becker. Which of the two was it? Perhaps both. The man gave a dull groan. Two lovers. And still he could not learn anything for certain. This man was so awfully stupid, such an idiot.

The compassion which Boehnke had at first felt for Mr. Tiralla was changed into anger. It was the man's own fault, it served him right; why did he not take better care of her? He gave the weeping man a rough push, "Your wife has got some good friends; I suppose you know it?"

Mr. Tiralla did not fire up, but let his head remain where it was. "Leave her. Oh, little Boehnke, the only friend I possess, if you knew, if you knew."

He gave several heartrending sighs, but when the schoolmaster was imprudent enough to ply him with questions in an eager, inquisitive voice, he suddenly grew silent. The other's eagerness had made him suspicious, and he obstinately closed his mouth; he would not be pumped.

So they sat in silence until it was evening, and still the schoolmaster delayed his departure. He must wait, she must be coming. The table and glasses were already swaying backwards and forwards before his eyes, and still he let Mr. Tiralla refill his glass, whilst he did the same to his. What else could he do, so as to beguile the awful time of waiting?

Boehnke had no idea how much he had drunk; if he had known it, he would have been terrified. He had always despised those who drank more than they could stand, and he had always known that he himself could not stand much, but he knew it no longer. She must come some time.

"Your health, Mr. Tiralla!"

"Much good may it do you, little Boehnke!"

They clinked their glasses once more without any [Pg 226] sign of mirth or enjoyment, only for the sake of drinking; the one consumed by the pangs of jealousy, the other pursued by the fear of death.

Then the crack of a whip was heard. At last! There she was—but with the others. The schoolmaster had staggered to the window, and in his haste had upset his chair with such a loud noise that Mr. Tiralla, terrified at what might betray them, screwed up his eyes, put his hands to his ears, and would have liked to creep under the table.

They drove into the yard. The oxen in front of the wagon came slowly along with wreaths of red clover and blue cornflowers round their horns, quite conscious of their finery. On either side a young man was walking with a rake thrown over his shoulder; a dark one on the one side, a fair one on the other; the one slender, the other more thick-set, but both nice-looking and both happy.

Boehnke looked on with envious eyes. And there—he pressed still closer to the window—on the top of the sweet-smelling hay, handsomer and happier-looking than he had ever seen her before, there she sat enthroned. Her light-coloured dress was fresh and clean, her broad-brimmed hat hung down her back, her clear forehead was unprotected; she looked younger and more light-hearted than her daughter, who was crouching behind her. Brown-skinned Marianna was hurrying behind the wagon, laughing. She had fallen off the piled-up clover, and had now to run behind.

It was as though gaiety personified had entered Starydwor. The schoolmaster clenched his fist and shook it at the wagon, and still he would have given his life to have been in the procession and have taken part in Mrs. Tiralla's joy. "How happy she is," he murmured, turning away. He hated her at that [Pg 227] moment on account of her happiness, but then he felt he could not begrudge her it, after all.

He walked past Mr. Tiralla with a gesture of loathing, and without saying good-bye.

"Come again, my friend, my brother, come soon," he said thickly.

Boehnke did not answer. He must go out, out to that deceitful, despicable woman.

He met her in the passage.

Did she know that the schoolmaster was there? Had Marianna prepared her? Anyhow, she looked neither surprised nor terrified. Her blooming face turned neither redder nor paler, it kept the same rosy tint, and there was a kind expression in her eyes as she looked at him. She held out her hand.

"It was so beautiful," she said, smiling, as she drew a deep breath of pleasure.

"So beautiful," he repeated softly, devouring her with his eyes. He drew her away from the light almost by force. When they had reached the darkest corner, he said to her accusingly, "You're deceiving Mr. Tiralla."