Martin had lain awake a long time the night before, for the words, "Are you coming?" still rung in his ears and made his blood course through his veins like fire. There was such a pricking restlessness about him, that he felt as if he could not remain in bed any longer. But when he had at last fallen asleep after tossing about for a long time, he had dreamt of his dead mother. She had appeared to him, and that [Pg 288] portended something. And she had held up her finger as if in warning—or had he only thought of that later on? He could not be sure, but next morning, when he felt as tired, as heavy, and as worn-out as though he had been dragging something that had been too heavy for him, it came over him like a divine inspiration; this could go on no longer, he would have to leave at once and not wait for the time that had been fixed. His mother had come to fetch him, her anxiety for her child left her no peace at the throne of God.

And Martin felt that he would have to go away secretly, without any leave-taking. If she were press her lips to his, if her tearful eyes were to implore him with a look like that of a wounded hind, if she were to say, "My sun, my love, remain in my sky. It is God's will that the sun shall remain in the sky, for otherwise it would be dark night, and then I should die"—then he would not go. He would remain, and then—well, then? He uttered an incoherent prayer. He was sorry for Mikolai; he felt a stab in his heart when he heard him whistling. But he was glad he had not seen Rosa that day. If only he did not see her again.

Martin shunned Rosa. He did not know himself whether the feeling he had for the girl was a pious awe, because she was destined for the convent, or an awe in which there was something like shame, shame because he had listened to her when she lay on her bed and whispered her innermost thoughts aloud.

The man sighed as he passed his hand over his brow on which the sweat was standing. How deeply he had sunk, more deeply than in the deepest pond in the Przykop. The only thing that could help him now [Pg 289] would be to tear himself away from Starydwor by force, without any consideration for anybody.

He remained in his room the whole morning, but when he heard the rattling of plates and Marianna's call to dinner he stole past the sitting-room door and out into the yard. He did not care to eat. He stumbled about among the trees in the Przykop where nobody could see him, and gave a start every time an animal stirred, or a dry leaf fell to the ground. His heart felt broken, but the hope of salvation shone feebly before his eyes. He would soon be away. If only this day were over!

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

It was a short day in November, but still it seemed endless at Starydwor. Mrs. Tiralla was full of anxiety and impatience. Martin had spent the morning in his room, and he had not come to the midday meal. Where was he? She had sought him everywhere and had not found him. She was trembling—where could he be? The calm which she had lately acquired had all at once disappeared; she forgot that the saints held her fate in their hands; all she could think of was that Martin had gone away without a word. Was he coming back?

She wandered about in an agony of fear, she could not remain a quarter of an hour in one place. She ran up and down stairs, from her room down into the passage and then up again, then out into the yard, where she stood at the gate without cloak or shawl, and where the cutting wind caught hold of her apron and spread it out like a sail, whilst she looked about for Martin. But she could not find the one her heart was longing for.

The fields lay desolate, the Przykop yawned like a [Pg 290] grave in which there is no living thing to be found Where had he gone? She sought his footprints, as a dog seeks those of his master, but the rain and snow had obliterated them, and her eyes, full of tears, soon saw nothing but a grey, impenetrable mist.

She ran back into the house and began to question Mikolai. Where had Martin gone? He must know, for between him and his friend there was always a perfect understanding.

Her stepson stared at her in amazement. Why was she so angry? Becker would be sure to come back when it grew dark. Maybe he had gone to the village; it was long since he, Mikolai, knew anything about his whereabouts.

That did not add to the woman's peace of mind. So Martin kept away from Mikolai too. He was separating himself more and more from them all. "O God, have mercy! let him come back, let him come back!" She was like a hunted hind that is seeking a place of shelter.

So she ran to Rosa. It was long since she had been to her room; she had not found time to go. But why had Rosa kept away from her? Surely it was more fitting for the child to come to her mother than the mother to her child? Now, however, in her great anxiety she fled to her tender-hearted daughter.

At first Rosa was somewhat reserved. There was something shy and strange in her behaviour towards her mother, but the latter did not notice anything; all she wanted was a soul, a friend to share her anxiety.

"I don't know where Becker is," she began. "It's already dark and he hasn't returned yet. He has never gone away like this before, never stopped away so long without saying a word. O God, surely nothing can have happened to him?" she cried, pressing her [Pg 291] hands to her temples with an expression of dread. "Oh, this fear, this fear!"

The woman no longer thought of hiding her feelings; there was a look of wild terror in her eyes, and her agitated voice was full of despair.

Rosa's face had flamed when her mother came into the room, but she turned deadly pale now. She did not answer, but she gazed at her mother as though she were trying to read her soul.

A shot was heard in the Przykop. Mrs. Tiralla gave a shrill scream.

"A gamekeeper is shooting," said Rosa.

"They surely can't have hit him? Oh, if he were in the Przykop and they had wounded him? But that"—Mrs. Tiralla gave an excited laugh—"would not be the worst. If only he comes back, if only he comes back! Do you think he could go away without saying good-bye?" she asked her daughter eagerly, casting an imploring glance at her. If only the girl would say, "He'll come back, mother, don't grieve, he'll come back to you." If only Rosa with her innocent lips would beseech the Almighty to give him back to her.

"Pray, my child," stammered Mrs. Tiralla, as she pressed her daughter's folded hands between her own. "Pray. Let us pray together."

A convulsive movement passed over Rosa's pure face. It looked as though she were going to thrust her mother away. But the struggle only lasted a moment. Fixing her eyes on a crucifix that she had hung over her bed, she said with shining eyes, "What shall I say?" just as she had spoken as a child, when her mother, tortured and full of hate, had knelt in the evenings at her bedside and wakened her with her tears and sighs.

[Pg 292]

"Pray, pray."

But Rosa's voice had lost its childish cadence; the clear, silvery ring had gone, and there was something austere and coolly calm in it now. "What do you wish me to say?"

"Oh, you know," groaned her mother. "Pray for him—oh, my fear, my fear. Pray that he may return to me. Child, my child, pray for me."

Freeing herself from her mother's clinging hands Rosa began to repeat the Salve Regina. "Hail, Queen, Mother of mercy. Thou our life, our sweetness, our hope, hail!" Her voice gradually rose and lost more and more of its cool austerity, as though she were intoxicating herself with the sweet beauty of the words, until it became warm and soft and melting as she said, "To Thee we call, to Thee we sigh, as we grieve and weep in this vale of tears." And then passing from the Salve to another prayer, she raised her voice in fervent supplication until it almost became a cry, "Be gracious to him! Spare him! Deliver him from all evil, from all sin!"

"Be gracious to him—spare him—deliver him!" repeated her mother mechanically. She did not know what she was praying, she did not understand that the words her daughter had been repeating were from the litany for a departing soul.

"We, poor sinners, pray Thee to hear us." The mother and daughter mingled their voices in fervent prayer, whilst the words, "Martin, Martin, what has become of you?" echoed in their hearts and rose like a twofold cry from the narrow little room that was gradually growing darker and darker.

"Stop, stop!" The woman sobbed aloud, she could not pray any longer. She threw her arms round her daughter's neck and wept. "Rosa, Rosa, he's [Pg 293] not coming back. Rosa, darling,"—she pressed wild kisses on her daughter's face that was uplifted so piously—"pray, pray—how am I to thank you? No, don't pray any more, rather tell me—hark, there he is!"

In a second she was on her feet, and had rushed to the door, which closed with a bang behind her.

Rosa remained alone in the darkness.

She heard Martin's voice downstairs, and then Mikolai—and then her mother's happy laugh.

But Rosa continued to pray fervently; it was as though she were holding fast to the words of her prayer. The stars had long ago come out above the farm, the new moon was just over the gable, but she still lay on her knees praying. But now it was a soft whisper to the Lord, a blissful communing with the Bridegroom of her soul.

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

It was night at Starydwor. The moon had disappeared, and black clouds, driven along by the boisterous wind, were chasing each other over the house-top and hiding the stars.

Mr. Tiralla was sitting alone in his room. It was really time for him to go to bed, but there was nobody to assist him; Marianna had not come, and he was unable to go to bed alone. At first he had moaned and growled, but now he was calm. The few thoughts he had left were creeping after the servant. Ha, ha! how she was racing; she was running to meet a sweetheart. It amused him to picture her to himself.

What a good thing it was that his thoughts were his own, that they had not taken them from him as well as everything, everything else. He made a grimace as he clenched his fists. "That woman!" [Pg 294] There she had stood—there at the writing-desk, and had wanted to steal his money—no, not his money, the powders, his powders. They were worth more than money. She had wanted to get him out of the way by the help of them. Ha, ha!—he chuckled to himself—but he had hidden them well, she would not be able to find them now.

Next time little Boehnke came he would show him where he had hidden those dear, precious things—no, he would not even show little Boehnke, for who knows, perhaps they would make his mouth water, and he would kill him so as to get them, and then eat them all up himself.

"Now, now, little Boehnke," said the man, shaking his finger at an imaginary person in the corner of the room. Then he added, "No, I'm not angry with you, in spite of your not having been to see me for so long. Take a seat, brother, there, sit down." He dragged a chair nearer with his heavy foot, and smiled at the schoolmaster, who was sitting near him with such a pale face and such hollow eyes.

"Drink, friend, drink," said Mr. Tiralla, as he seized his glass and finished it in one gulp. "Pooh!" He made a gesture of distaste. It did not taste at all nice—or did it taste nice? "No, no!" He raised his fist and struck the glass so hard that it broke into pieces. There, that did him good. Now that enemy could not harm him again.

"Ha, ha!" He chuckled to himself again, and did not notice that the blood was trickling down his finger. "Why are you so quiet, little Boehnke?"

No answer. But the wind moaned round the house and rushed down the chimney screeching, "Oo-hoo, oo-hoo," like an owl.

The man had been accustomed all his life to this [Pg 295] wintry music round Starydwor, but now it terrified him. He attempted to make the sign of the cross and glanced round timidly. The schoolmaster had gone, he was alone, quite, quite alone.

"Who's there?" He started up in terror; he wanted to scream, but he could only utter a few inarticulate sounds. Somebody had opened the door. He blinked and tried to discover who the intruder was, but his eyes had grown very dim. Somebody was coming in, but it was not little Boehnke. Who else could be coming to see him? A man—a woman?

"You?" he shouted, seizing hold of the bottle so as to defend himself with it. What did Sophia want? Was she coming to kill him now in the night? He hurled the bottle and it broke into bits on the floor.

"It's I, father," said Rosa, and she knelt down and collected the broken pieces of glass.

"Oh, it's you." He drew a long breath. Yes, now he could see it, it might be Rosa. The lamplight fell on her curly, reddish hair, and he bent a little forward as she knelt before him and took hold of it. "No, it's not Sophia," he said with a sigh of relief. But he was still suspicious. "What—what do you want?" he stammered.

She was glad to think that he at least recognized her. How unutterably heavy her heart felt. She had knelt in her room until her knees had ached, and had prayed and prayed. There had been no Marianna to groan on account of her everlasting whispering and sighing, for the girl had gone out. And when she had at last finished her prayers, she had sat down on her bed with her hands folded and waited patiently until there was not a sound downstairs. She wished to speak to her father quite alone, without being disturbed by any one. And if he had already gone to bed, she [Pg 296] would sit down on his bed. How often she had had to do that as a child, and he had always been so affectionate to her in those days. Then she would say "Daddy," and stroke his hair as she used to do. Oh, she was quite sure it would be all right, for she had been praying for it so fervently.

But when her father stared at her with his dull, yet fierce eyes, she lost her assurance. "I wanted—I——" she stammered. She would have liked to cry aloud, he looked so awful. No, that was not her daddy, whose hair she had smoothed, on whose cheeks she had imprinted kisses—first on the right cheek and then on the left—her daddy who had called her, "My star, my little red-haired girl, my wee birdie, my sun, the key which is to open the door of heaven for me, my consolation."

She did not know how to begin, so she sat on the other chair near the table and gazed at him intently with her sad eyes. She had thrown the pieces of glass, which she had collected in her apron, into the peat basket near the stove, and now she wrapped her apron round her hands, for she shivered with cold, although the room was so stifling. What she had undertaken to do was too difficult after all; oh, it was her dread of him that made her feel so cold. She had never, never seen anything so horrible as this man who was her father. He used to be big, but now he seemed to have grown small; his coat was much too large for him across the shoulders and hung round him. A horrid grin made his lips droop, and his purple nose positively shone in his pale face, that was of a dirty yellow colour. The rims of his eyelids were puffy and turned outwards. But the worst of all was his eyes. Oh, those eyes!

Rosa felt as though she must protect herself from [Pg 297] that well-nigh lifeless glance, which at that moment, however, had something glittering, even brutish, in it.

What was her father thinking of? Whom did he take her for? She gave a start. "Ha, ha! Marianna," he chuckled, stretching out a shaking finger towards her.

He touched her. "Ha, ha!—hope you're enjoying yourself—ha, ha!"

She had to keep a firm hold of herself so as not to scream aloud, and her hands closed over each other tightly under her apron. The mere fact of folding her hands calmed her. She had so often prayed for strength, and she was sure that He would not forsake her now. She felt as though she were the maiden whom she had been so fond of reading about in the book of holy legends, who had entered the fierce lion's cage undismayed, and had gladly given her blood for the sake of her Heavenly Bridegroom.

"Lord Jesus," she cried loudly and fervently, then, pressing her folded hands to her heart, she smiled at her father. "Daddy, my daddy."

For a few seconds the old man's grin grew even broader, but then his face became calm. Daddy? He looked at his daughter in astonishment and stammered, "Little Boehnke has gone—who's speaking—so kindly?"

"I, Rosa."

He shook his head peevishly. "Don't want her."

A happy thought struck her. Laying her trembling hand on his, she said in a low, persuasive voice, "It's I, Roeschen, your little star, your red-haired girl, your wee birdie, your——" the tears welled into her eyes; she gulped them down bravely, but her voice choked.

Then he continued, "My sun, the key which is to [Pg 298] open heaven's door for me—ah!"—he smirked as though he remembered something, and then added as tenderly as he could in his husky, faltering voice, "my consolation." He looked at her, felt her hair as he had done before, and passed his hands over her as she stood before him tall and slender, for she had jumped up from her knees in her bitter, painful emotion. "Too big—too big—you're not my wee one, not my little daughter—Roeschen—my sun—my consolation." And he looked down at the floor and smiled, as if a tiny little girl were standing there, who was not yet big enough to reach up to the table.

"But I am Roeschen," said the girl quickly, as she seized hold of his hands with her feeble ones, and pressed and shook them as if she wanted to bring him to his senses in that way.

He continued, however, to speak to an imaginary little child on the floor, as though he were mad or intoxicated. "Are you coming to daddy? Poor daddy is always alone, quite alone since little Boehnke has gone." Then he added in a mysterious, almost unintelligible whisper, "Sophia is going to kill him—they'll all help to kill him—poor Mr. Tiralla." He shook his head miserably.

"Father, I—I'm with you—I'll stop with you," cried Rosa, shaken by his plaint. What awful things he imagined, poor, unhappy man. "I'll help you. And the Lord will help you, and His most Holy Mother Mary," she added solemnly, and made the sign of the cross on his forehead and breast as well as on her own. "May the Lord help you and us." And then she said resolutely and courageously—what was the good of hesitating? Had she not promised Mikolai to do it and also prayed about it?—"What you've been saying is not true, daddy. Nobody is going to do you any [Pg 299] harm, neither mother nor anybody eke. You're not kind to mother. You're talking nonsense. Look, here is your Roeschen, feel my hands." She put her dry, burning hands round his wrists. "As true as I stand here, I swear that you've nothing to fear, we all lov——"—no, she must not lie, so she quickly corrected herself—"we all mean you well. Daddy, oh, my daddy!"

She let go of his wrists and impulsively pressed her hands to his cheeks, as she had so often done when she was small and her fingers had seemed no bigger than the legs of a fly that played about on his fat cheeks. "Oh, my dear daddy, if only you would stop drinking. Everything, everything would be better then. Then mother would no longer"—she suddenly stopped and the colour mounted to her brow; she did not mention her mother again. But her voice sounded so honest and convincing as she continued, "Then you would never have cause to fear any more. You would see then that nobody wishes you ill. And how happy Mikolai would be if you were to go into the stables and fields again, and talk to him about the work on the farm. Poor Mikolai, his friend is going away and he'll be so lonely. And you would feel much better yourself. You wouldn't cough so much—Marianna says you spit blood—you would be happy again; you wouldn't sit alone in this room any more, and you would see the wheat and the oats and the red clover that smells so sweet. Just think of it, daddy!"

She grew quite hot in her eagerness; at that moment she forgot all about her convent and that she would not be at Starydwor to see the improvement. And then as the last and best promise she said, "And you would still be saved, daddy; God in heaven would forgive your sins." Her eyes shone as she looked at [Pg 300] him, as though she wanted to infect him with some of her own radiant happiness.

But his eyes did not shine. He was looking down in a dull-witted way and merely muttered, "Yes, you're Rosa."

Ah! now he knew her. The saints be praised, that was a big step forward. Putting her sweet face close to his, and without shrinking back from the poisonous breath that almost suffocated her, she whispered, "And Rosa will love you again, daddy; love you so dearly if you'll only leave off drinking." She pointed to a full bottle standing on the table next to an empty one, and some of the holy fury of the converters who used to fell oaks and shatter idols came over her. Raising her voice till it sounded almost triumphant she cried, "Throw it away, so that it breaks on the floor like the other bottle! Then the horrid gin will run between the boards down into the earth, down into hell, where it belongs. The evil thing will have gone, and we, father, we'll pray and give thanks."

"Listen!" She fell on her knees beside him and piously raised her hands. "Do you hear? The angels in heaven, with your guardian angel at their head, are shouting, 'Hallelujah'."

Mr. Tiralla mumbled something unintelligible.

Rosa did not hear it; she heard nothing more, for her soul had taken wings and flown out of the stifling room. God had heard her, the Lord was with her. The joy she felt almost overpowered her; her cheeks were wet with the tears of sweet exhaustion that comes when every nerve has been strained. What were all the joys of the world compared to the joy of saving her father and of delivering his soul from perdition? She buried her face in her hands, and a tremor passed over her.

[Pg 301]

There was silence in the room, but the storm was whistling and howling outside.

Mr. Tiralla had seized the bottle, but not to hurl it on the ground as Rosa had bidden him; he clasped it nervously to his breast, as if it were a priceless treasure that must be taken care of.

So they even wanted to rob him of that, the last thing he possessed? He would not let them take it from him, he would rather die. "Psia krew!" He swore so loudly that he startled his daughter.

Awakened out of her trance of bliss, Rosa saw with horror that her father was holding the bottle to his lips and drinking, drinking, hiccoughing and groaning, until he could drink no more, until the gin ran out again at the corners of his mouth. He sighed when he had to leave off; but he did not put the bottle on the table again, he hid it under his jersey.

"Go—go, girl," he growled angrily, and glared at her with malevolent eyes. "What do you want from me? My precious bottle"—he patted the place where he had hidden it—"you're the best friend I've got now. Come, my love, don't cry," he said, pinching Rosa's cheek as she sobbed. His spirits had improved since he knew the bottle was safe.

"My darling girl, Why are you weeping?"

he croaked huskily. Then he grinned. His Rosa would soon get married now, would soon have children, many little grandchildren-girls as small as this one, and he gazed once more at the floor. There she was, the little girl who could not reach up to the table. He had long ago chosen a fine, handsome husband for his Rosa. "Look out, he'll soon be coming now." He nudged his daughter with his elbow, and blinked at her with the same expression in his eyes as when he [Pg 302] had been thinking of Marianna. Then he chuckled to himself. What a joke, what a joke! He tried to slap his knee, but he could not; all at once his arm felt paralyzed, as heavy as lead, and his tongue obeyed him even less than his arm. He stretched it out after every sound, but the sounds would not form themselves into words; his furred tongue trembled the whole time.

Oh, what did her father want? Rosa was terrified. How horridly he looked at her with his blood-shot eyes, and why did he wag his tongue like that? "Speak!" she implored him in her terror. "What did you want to say? Do speak."

But he took no more notice of her, his eyes were fixed on the door. The man he had chosen for his little daughter must come that way. He stared and grinned, and then turned up the whites of his eyes. At that moment something cracked either in the wall or stove that sounded like a knock. Aha! he was knocking already.

"Come in." All at once Mr. Tiralla's tongue again obeyed him. Look! was that not Becker, slender and nice-looking, who embraced Rosa with a bridegroom's impatience?

The drunken man sat grinning, as one picture after the other flashed across his sick brain. "Very good, very good," he mumbled, smacking his lips. He gave Rosa a push, "Come, kiss him too, it's Becker, you know. Handsome fellow, good fellow, isn't he? Sweet little bride. I'll look the other way." He gave a hoarse laugh, that came from his throat like a hiccough, and put his hand to his eyes; but he peeped underneath it. "Young Martin, young Rosa—many little ones—one—two—three." He made a fearful grimace as he showed their heights a little above the [Pg 303] floor. "Grandpa Tiralla is glad—many, many—little Martins, little Rosas—all going to console him—aha!"

He attempted to pat Rosa and draw her on his knee, but she thrust him away with a cry of shame and aversion. Pressing her hands to her ears and closing her eyes tightly she rushed out of the room.

The madman followed her with astonished eyes. Who was that? "Hi, hi!"

No answer; he was quite alone.

Ugh! what was that? He stared at his fingers, on which there were several bloody scratches, which he had got from the broken pieces of glass. He suddenly felt that they hurt.

"Blood—blood!" he stammered, terrified, holding his hand up to his swollen eyes. They had wanted to murder him. "Help!" He screamed and stamped about the room.

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

Martin Becker heard the cry for help as he sat up in bed with open eyes. Where did it come from? But he did not attempt to find out, he felt as though he were rooted to the spot. A strange horror paralyzed him. He had not even been able to sleep until midnight, he had lain awake for hours listening, and his nerves were so excited that he could hear all kinds of things. What was that stealing softly down the stairs? Had it not stopped outside his door—or had it crept further along the passage? Oh God, it was she, she, and she would not let him go!

What was it crying so, sobbing, whimpering like a terrified child, and groping along the walls? Hark, something was crunching the sand in the passage, the stairs were creaking. Was that the front door that [Pg 304] rattled? Something was moving about the whole time.

"All good spirits!" The man made the sign of the cross as he murmured the words, and then crept further down under the feather bed. Why, it could not be half as bad as this in a battle. Much rather face a cannon's mouth than that eye—the eye he imagined was fixed on him in the dark.

"Mikolai!" he called, but his friend only muttered in his sleep. How soundly he was sleeping. It would have been so easy now to get up and go away, Mikolai would not have heard, and he could have escaped so easily—and still. Martin lost courage, he dared not do it. Rather leave in the daytime, in open defiance if it must be, by force, than go into that dark passage where there were ghosts and whisperings.

Martin did not know what it was to fear a human being, but he feared ghosts at night. And they were spirits of darkness that raged in that house, he felt sure. So he remained in bed with anger in his heart at his own cowardice, and still not able to conquer it. He would go next day in broad daylight, even if he had to leave his box behind with everything it contained, his dear keepsakes and precious belongings. He would leave Starydwor next day. He stuck his fingers into his ears; the whole house, the night, all the air seemed to be filled with meanings. God be praised—at last! Then he fell asleep, and heard nothing more.

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

Mr. Tiralla had moved along by the walls of his room. He ran like a restless animal in a cage; not quickly—he could not do that—but to and fro as though in despair. "Rosa, Roeschen," he called in a [Pg 305] loud voice. It seemed to him that she had been with him, but he did not know for certain. And that was what he was pondering over now. How awful it was not to be able to recollect anything! She had been such a dear little girl—she had once been his little daughter—but she was that no longer, for she, his consolation, had thrust him away from her. Alas, alas! It was very sad.

He puckered up his face and began to cry. Now he had nothing to console him, everything was gone. "Everything dr—dru—nk up," he stammered, sobbing. All at once he understood things clearly; no, he had nothing more in this world.

Where was Starydwor? It had not belonged to him for a long time, he neither went sowing nor reaping, it was not his any longer.

He had no wife, no children, no friend, and no God. The Almighty would not have anything more to do with him. He had forgotten all, all his prayers; he had ceased to go to confession; he belonged to hell.

"Poor Ti—Ti—Ti——" he said sadly, as he struck his breast with his trembling finger. He could not even recollect his own name—that had been forgotten too. He had nothing, nothing whatever.

Oh, yes, he had. He put his hands to his shaking head, that never kept quiet for a moment. He had saved something, hidden something like a dog his bone. He would go to it now. And even if his father were to beat him afterwards and say, "Boy, why do you eat unripe fruit?" still, what was hidden behind the loose stone in the wall would taste good.

Mr. Tiralla walked to the door; he had suddenly recovered the use of his limbs. He shuffled and staggered, but still he went on. It was a wonder that he succeeded in opening the front door, which was [Pg 306] looked, but all at once he had become possessed of strength in his fingers and strength of will too.

The wind in the yard knocked him down. He fell full length, but picked himself up again. "Dalej, dalej!" Quiet, very quiet—no lamenting even if he had hurt himself on the stones—so that his father should not come and seize him by the collar, "Tell me, my son, where are you creeping off?"

"Dalej, dalej!" He was longing to get there. A bright streak in the sky already cast a faint glimmer of light around. The man looked about as he groped along. Aha, there was the stable! Aha!

Then Mr. Tiralla was happy.

[Pg 307]



CHAPTER XIV

Marianna was humming a song, although she had been up all night and the words almost froze on her lips in the calm, cold, wintry air.

"Black eyes in her head, Just like me, just like me.

Golden hackles on her shoes, Just like me, just like me.

In her pocket not a coin, Just like——"

"Ah!"

She yawned and then tried to dance a few steps. How tired she was. But it had been very nice with Jendrek, he was the best of them all in spite of everything.

She rattled her milk pails merrily as she glided nimbly across the slippery yard to the stables in her low, creaking shoes.

The light was still faint and the air was cold, bitterly cold. A hard frost had come at daybreak, the first that year, and had touched everything with its blighting finger. The pools in the unpaved yard, from which as a rule the rain, dirty water, and melted snow flowed in rivulets to the big pond in the centre, were now united and formed a single white mirror.

The house was still dark and quiet. Marianna's eyes twinkled; aha, they were all still asleep. Good! [Pg 308] then none of them had heard that she had only come home at six that morning. She had not been up to her room yet to take her best dress off, but it would not harm it, even if she were to wear it whilst milking for once. Hark! how the cows were lowing. They were waiting impatiently. But how they would stare when they saw her in her beautiful, new, red dress, with its many pleats, which she had got on purpose to do the thing in grand style with Jendrek, and her spick-and-span new shoes, in which she had danced last night for the first time.

The vain girl tittered as she skipped into the stables where the cattle were lowing dully. "Quiet, quiet there," she said, groping about for the lantern in order to light it, as it was still rather dark. "Yes, yes, here she is, here's Marianna. Psia krew, hold your tongues." At that moment the lantern cast a light around. "Good God!" Breaking off in the midst of her chatter, the servant let the milk pails fall to the ground with a shrill scream. Why, the master was lying there!

She stood as though rooted to the spot. Oh dear, how frightened she had been. What was he doing there? What did he mean by going to sleep there, and frightening people who came unsuspectingly into the stables out of their wits?

"Panje, Panje Tiralla," she called. "Do get up, gospodarz!"

She had come up to him now; he did not move. She gave him a slight push with the point of her new shoe; how tipsy he was. "Wake up, master," she said. "Finish your sleep in bed, I'll help you into it." What pleasant dreams he was having. It seemed to her that there was a smile on his face.

She bent over him. "Panje, Paniczek!" She [Pg 309] looked at him a little more closely, she felt him—then she began to scream so that the walls resounded with it; she mingled her screams with the lowing of the cattle that had started afresh; she screamed still louder, so that she dominated the lowing, screamed so that it sounded across the yard to the sleeping house like a trumpet. Mr. Tiralla was icy-cold; he was dead.

She tore her hair and behaved as though she were mad—her master, her good master! Then rushing out of the stables and across the yard she shouted and shrieked, "Pani, Pani, help! Help, Mr. Mikolai!"

Mrs. Tiralla came immediately. She had lain awake the whole night. How could she have slept when her heart trembled between fear and hope, when at one moment it had seemed to her as though the events of the afternoon had only been a prelude, as though Martin were going away at once and for ever, and the next as though he had been given back to her, and Mr. Tiralla were going away for ever? She had wept and called on the saints. But when the maid's cry for help brought her downstairs, there was no more fear in her heart. She surmised that the decisive hour had come, but all she felt was eager curiosity.

"What—what? Where—where?" she cried, seizing Marianna by the arm with a convulsive grip, as the latter came rushing up to her.

"Dead, dead!" stammered the girl trembling.

"Dead?" Was Mr. Tiralla dead? But tell me then. The woman shook the screaming servant with wild impatience.

"Oh dear, oh dear, my good master is dead," howled the maid. "He's lying in the stables without saying a word."

"Show me."

[Pg 310]

They rushed over to the stables. There lay Mr. Tiralla as the maid had left him; he had not moved. Marianna made the sign of the cross over him and wanted to fold his hands, but Mrs. Tiralla pushed her aside—"Leave him!" What had he got there? The woman's eyes dilated; he was clenching a small box in one hand, a box she knew very well. The lid had fallen on the ground, and the powders wrapped in paper had been torn out and were lying beside him near a brick on which there was a cobweb. She stared open-mouthed—rat poison! Look, there was the grinning death's head above the cross-bones!

In the other hand the dead man was still holding an empty paper, and some grains of sugar still clung to the wild-looking stubble on his sunken chin.

"Jesus! Mary! Joseph!" The widow threw herself on her knees, made the sign of the cross, and bent her forehead to the ground. "I give his soul to you." Her lips continued to move in prayer, whilst her thoughts flew on. So he had got some of the poison after all? He had kept it hidden—she had not known where—he had taken some of it himself—pilfered some of it like a boy pilfers sugar—he had died of it.

She made the sign of the cross again and again. "Holy Mary, reconcile him to Thy Son, commend him to Thy Son, bring him to Thy Son." The saints had willed it, the saints had been gracious to him—and to her too.

Mrs. Tiralla could not help it, but she no longer felt the slightest animosity towards the man lying there. She touched his forehead with her lips, then folded his hands and tried to close his eyes, "May he rest in peace."

Then she sent the weeping servant to fetch his [Pg 311] children whilst she remained on her knees alone with the dead. She felt no fear. It was as though a light had risen for her in the dark stables, and as though she must thank the dead man for it as well as the saints.

Mikolai was not so calm, the calamity had affected him deeply. His father, his old father. And he had died in all his sins without the consecrated candle, without a priest, and without absolution. He could not compose himself, he sobbed so.

He and Marianna vied with each other in weeping. He and she had carried Mr. Tiralla into the house, and their tears had fallen on him like warm rain, drop by drop, a constant flow.

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

The sun had risen over Starydwor when Martin Becker awoke, disturbed by sobbing and wailing. He had slept very heavily. He had been so exhausted by emotion and the decision that he had arrived at after a long struggle that he had not heard Mikolai run out of the room when the maid's loud screams had awakened him, but had slept on like a peaceful child. He finished dressing. He was still so sleepy that he could not understand why he had gone to bed in trousers and socks. But then his eye fell on his box that stood packed and corded. Then he remembered everything. He braced himself up and left the room to announce his intention to Mikolai. Why were they weeping and wailing so?

Marianna ran past him in the passage. She pointed to the door leading into the big room with a convulsive sob, "Holy Mother, holy Mother!" What was the matter with her? What had happened? An accident? The blood suddenly rushed to his head; had [Pg 312] anything happened to Mrs. Tiralla? Of course not—he shook off the sense of oppression which was overpowering him—she did not know yet that he intended leaving that day.

He went into the room from whence the weeping came. It was half-dark, the shutters were closed, and the only light in the room came from the candles burning on the table. He distinguished some dark figures kneeling by a bed, and on the bed an outstretched figure under a white sheet. He started and pressed his hand to his brow; he felt terrified. Who was dead?

At that moment Mrs. Tiralla came towards him with outstretched hand. "Mr. Tiralla is dead," she said.

"Dead—dead?" he stammered. Her voice had sounded almost triumphant. He did not grasp it all at once, it was not a thing that could be turned over in the mind so quickly. He shuddered, and swiftly made the sign of the cross. A dead person in the house! And the woman could say it so calmly, and gaze at him with such a radiant look that the black in her eyes illuminated the darkness like a sunbeam.

The young fellow had a feeling as though he must turn round and run away. He was still hesitating when the woman drew him forcibly towards her, and he felt her icy-cold fingers gripping his wrist.

"Martin, Martin," she whispered softly in his ear, "he's dead, now you needn't go." Her voice was only just audible, for Mikolai and Rosa were kneeling at the bedside.

But Martin had not noticed them. "I shall have to go all the same," he said aloud, without looking at her. "When Mr. Tiralla is buried, I shall go. Holy [Pg 313] Mother, pray for us, now and in the hour of death!" Making the sign of the cross he stepped up to the bed, knelt down beside Rosa without noticing her in his consternation, and quickly repeated a silent prayer.

Whilst kneeling there he heard an angel praying softly. That must be Rosa. Now he saw her. And when he had finished his prayer and made the sign of the cross, he pressed her hand and then Mikolai's.

The three put their heads together like the terrified lambs of a flock over which a storm is raging. "Eternal rest give to him, Lord," whispered Rosa, and the two men murmured in response, "and let perpetual light shine upon him."

Then Martin got up from his knees and went to the door. He longed to be doing something, for there is always much to see to in a house where death has entered, and he had once more a warm, living feeling of how good Mikolai had always been to him, and how much he liked both the sister and the brother. Somebody would have to run to the village to tell Father Szypulski first of all, and if possible bring him quickly to the farm, and then—but the woman barred the way.

"Where are you going?" Her voice no longer sounded firm, it was trembling.

He tried to pass her without answering—no, she should not hold him again.

But she followed him into the passage, where she again seized hold of him. "I shall not let you go, tell me first where you're going."

"Into the village. Let me go, I tell you," He turned his head aside defiantly, so as to avoid her eyes.

"Swear that you'll come back," she whispered hoarsely, "swear by God Almighty, by Mr. Tiralla lying dead in there."

[Pg 314]

"I will not swear." He pushed her away.

Then she threw herself on his breast, and her arms held him like chains. '"Look at me, why do you turn your dear face away? Look at me, it's I, darling, I, whom you love so. Mr. Tiralla is dead."

She no longer spoke in a whisper, she no longer took care that her words should remain inaudible to others, and her voice sounded loud in the echoing passage. "I'm a widow now. I'm free now. Don't go! All I possess shall be yours. And it's no sin if we love each other. I beg of you, I implore you, don't go! Stop, my darling, my Martin, stop!"

She slid down and embraced his knees, sobbing; she pressed her face that was wet with tears against his clothes. "Why are you so cold; why don't you speak to me? What have I done to you?"

He stood like a tree without bending. "You've not done anything to me," he murmured at last, gloomily. "Not to me, but——"

"I've not done anything to him either," she cried, jumping up eagerly and pointing to the door. Then she raised her fingers as though taking an oath. "I swear that I'm innocent, quite innocent; he, he took it himself. I swear by God I've not——"

"Don't swear." He caught hold of her raised hand and pulled it down. "You must not swear."

"Why not?" She stood erect before him with sparkling eyes and head thrown back. "Ask Marianna, ask Mikolai; he, Mr. Tiralla, took the poison himself in the stables; we found it still in his hand. I—I"—she struck her breast and again raised her fingers to swear—"I'm innocent of it. The saints have willed it."

He looked her full in the face scrutinizingly, as though he would pierce her with his eyes. "The [Pg 315] saints have willed it," he repeated, then, as though reconciling himself to the fact. But when she attempted to seize his hand in her elation—ah, he still loved her after all, he could not leave her—he shook his head and looked away from her in fear. "Even if it were heaven on earth here, I would not stop," he whispered. "I see that man"—pointing to the door—"the whole time before my eyes. He must separate us, so help me God. Good-bye."

He held out his hand to her, although he could hardly bring himself to do it. All at once he feared her hand, it was as though something were dragging him away from it. "I prefer to go immediately. Mikolai is there, he'll arrange everything for you. I cannot—cannot stay any longer." And he rushed out of the door and into the yard.

She stood there as if turned to stone, and her eyes were fixed. What, he was going after all? Mr. Tiralla was dead and yet he was going to leave her?

"Martin!" she screamed shrilly, rushing after him. He ran like a stag and she like a hind. "Martin, Martin!" But she could not reach him.

Purgatory and Hell were flaming behind Martin Becker and Eternal Salvation was beckoning to him. So he ran as he had never done before, without coat or hat, and but thinly clad for such a raw day. He would let everything remain behind, box and belongings, everything he called his own, he did not want anything more from Starydwor, for sin was cleaving to it, sin that clave like blood.

He ran through the fields like a boy who has lost his way and is trying to get home to his mother.

She saw him ran, but she could not follow him further, she sank down at the gate. She crouched in the frozen snow with a low cry. How red everything [Pg 316] looked. Was it blood that had been spilt? She shuddered as she gazed around like one demented. Or was it the wintry sun that had dyed everything red? Yes—she drew a deep breath—oh, yes, it was only the sun. The whole sky was aglow, and it was that which made the glistening snow look red.

She would implore the saints to help her. But she could not rise, her ankles felt broken, so she slid on her knees to the grating in the wall, behind which stood the image of the Holy Mother with her Child. The withered wreath was still there, which she had made of corn and flowers and clover, and hung up on a happy day.

"Bring him back, oh, bring him back," whispered the woman beseechingly, and then burst out sobbing. The saints had helped her once, why should they not do so again? Innumerable tears rolled down her cold cheeks and turned to ice on her bosom. She prayed and wrung her hands. She begged for the return of the one as she had formerly begged for the death of the other. One prayer had been granted; Mr. Tiralla was dead. And she knelt there guiltless—for who, who could say that she was to blame?

She looked around with wild eyes. At that moment she saw somebody standing before her, between heaven and earth, accusing her.

"No!" she shrieked, stretching out her arms. How dared he accuse her? Was it she, she, who had given Mr. Tiralla poison? And even if she had attempted to do so before, the poison had no longer been poison in her hands, for the mushrooms had not harmed him, and the corn had not harmed the poultry. "No, I'm innocent, quite innocent of it." The saints had willed it, they had put into his mind to take some of the powder and swallow it. And they had willed [Pg 317] that he should die of it. So his death had been decided upon in heaven.

Folding her hands once more the woman prayed in a whining, fervent voice; would the saints not fulfil her second prayer too, and bring back the man who had fled from her?

Her thoughts grew more and more confused. Now she saw Martin Becker, now Mr. Tiralla, and then the angel with the flaming sword. She cowered; alas, alas, was he going to punish her with its sharp edge?

But suddenly the sword fell from the angel's hand, and lay gleaming in the snow. He laid his cool hand on her burning brow—oh, that was no longer the cherubim who drives sinners out of the Garden of Eden, that was Rosa, Rosa's hand, and that was her dress.

"Help, help!" cried the woman, clinging to her daughter as though she were awaking out of a frightful dream. "You help me. Shall I be lost? Oh, speak! Help, you help me!"

And her daughter answered, "I'll pray for you day and night. Calm yourself, mother, I'll intercede for you." She laid both her hands on the woman writhing in despair, and it was as though a soothing stream, as though a mighty saving flood, proceeded from those delicate, yet firm hands.

That was no longer Rosa, her young daughter, the delicate girl, who now stood with erect head before the sinner imploring help, and seemed to be visibly growing bigger and bigger. And that was no longer Rosa's voice. It was a more powerful voice, which dominated the howling and whistling of the wind.

That was the Bride of Christ. But not the humble, longing maiden; it was the Bride of Christ, the powerful [Pg 318] Church herself, whose voice resounds over the plains as far as the church steeple in Starawieś, and further, much further, resounds powerfully throughout the whole world:

"Ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis!"



THE END