“He will not come back! All is lost!” exclaimed Panna Anulka to herself at the first moment.
And a marvellous thing! There were five men in that mansion, one of whom was young and presentable; and besides Pan Grothus, the starosta, Pan Serafin was expected. In a word, rarely had there been so many guests at Belchantska. Meanwhile it seemed to the young lady that a vacuum had surrounded her suddenly, and that some immense want had come with it; that the mansion was empty, the garden empty, and that she herself was as much alone as if in an unoccupied steppe land, and that she would continue to be thus forever.
Hence her heart was as straitened with merciless sorrow as if she had lost one who was nearest of all to her. She felt sure that Yatsek would not return, all the more since her guardian had offended him mortally; still, she could not imagine how it would be without him, without his face, his laughter, his words, his glances. What would happen to-morrow, after to-morrow, next week, next month? For what would she rise from her bed every morning? Why would she arrange her tresses? For whom would she dress and curl her hair? For what was she now to live?
And she had a feeling as if her heart had been a candle which some one had quenched by blowing it out on a sudden. There was nothing save darkness and a vacuum.
But when she entered the room and saw that Hungarian cap on the floor, all those indefinite feelings gave way to an enormous and simple yearning for Yatsek. Her heart grew warm in her again, and she began to call him by name. Therewith a certain gleam of hope flew through her spirit. Raising the cap she pressed it to her bosom unwittingly; then she put it in her sleeve and began to think thuswise: “He will not come as hitherto daily, but before the return of Pan Grothus and my guardian from Yedlinka, he must come for his cap, so I shall see him and say that he was unjust and cruel, and that he should not have done what he has done.”
But she was not sincere with herself, for she wished to say more, to find some warm, heartfelt word which would join again the threads newly broken between them. If this could happen, if they could meet without anger in the church, or at odd times in the houses of neighbors, means would be found in the future to turn everything to profit. What methods there might be to do this, and what the profit could be, she did not stop to consider at the moment, for beyond all she was thinking how to see Yatsek at the earliest.
Meanwhile Pani Vinnitski came out of the chamber in which the wounded men were then lying, and on seeing the excited face and reddened eyes of the young woman she began thus to quiet her.
“Fear not, no harm will come to them. Only one of the Bukoyemskis is struck a little seriously, but no harm will happen even to that one. The others are injured slightly. Father Voynovski dressed their wounds with such skill that there is no need to change anything. The men too are cheerful and in perfect spirits.”
“Thanks be to God!”
“But has Yatsek gone? What did he want here?”
“He brought the wounded men hither—”
“I know, but who would have expected this of him?”
“They themselves challenged him.”
“They do not deny that, but he beat all five of them, one after another. One might have thought that a clucking hen could have beaten him.”
“Aunt does not know the man,” answered Panna Anulka, with a certain pride in her expression.
But in the voice of Pani Vinnitski there was as much admiration as blame; for, born in regions exposed to Tartar inroads at all times, she had learned from childhood to count daring and skill at the sabre as the highest virtues of manhood. So, when the earliest alarm touching the five guests had vanished, she began to look somewhat differently at that duel.
“Still,” continued she, “I must confess that they are worthy gentlemen, for not only do they cherish no hatred against him, but they praise him, especially Pan Stanislav. ‘That man is a born soldier,’ said he. And they were angry every man of them at Pan Gideon, who exceeded the measure, they say, at Vyrambki.”
“But aunt did not receive Yatsek better.”
“He got the reception which he merited. But didst thou receive him well?”
“I?”
“Yes, thou. I saw how thou didst frown at him.”
“My dear aunt—”
Here the girl stopped suddenly, for she felt that unless she did so, she would burst into weeping. Because of this conversation Yatsek had grown in her eyes. He had fought alone against such trained men, had conquered them all, overcome them. He had told her, it is true, that he hunted wild boars with a spear, but peasants at the edge of the wilderness go against them with clubs, so that amazes no one. But to finish five knightly nobles a man must be better and more valiant and skilful than they. It seemed to Panna Anulka simply a marvel that a man who had such mild and sad eyes could be so terrible in battle. To her alone had he yielded; from her alone had he suffered everything; to her alone had he been mild and pliant. Why was this? Because he had loved her beyond his health, beyond happiness, beyond his own soul’s salvation. He had confessed that to her an hour earlier. And yearning for him rushed like an immense wave to her heart again. Still, she felt that something between them had changed, and that if she should see him anew, and see him afterward often, she would not permit herself to play with him again as she had played up to that day, now casting him into the abyss, now cheering him, giving him hope, now thrusting him away, now attracting him; she felt that do what she might she would look on him with greater respect, and would be more submissive and cautious.
At moments, however, a voice was heard in her saying that he had acted too peevishly, that he had uttered words more offensive and bitter than she had; but that voice became weaker and weaker, and the wish for reconciliation was growing.
“If he would only return before those men came from Yedlinka!”
Meanwhile an hour passed, then two and three hours. Still, there was no sign from Yatsek. Next it occurred to her that the hour was too late, that he would not come, he would send some one to get the cap. After that she determined to send it to Yatsek with a letter, in which she would explain what was weighing her heart down. And since his messenger might come any moment she, to prepare all things in season, shut herself up in her small maiden chamber and went at the letter.
“May God pardon thee for the suffering and sadness in which thou hast left me, for if thou couldst see my heart thou wouldst not have done what thou hast done. Therefore, I send not only thy cap, but a kind word, so that thou shouldst be happy and forget—”
Here she saw that she was not writing her own thoughts at all, or her wishes, so, drawing her pen through the words, she fell to writing a new letter with more emotion and feeling:
“I send thy cap, for I know that I shall not see thee in this house hereafter, and that thou wilt not weep for any one here, least of all for such an orphan as I am; but neither shall I weep because of thy injustice, though it is sad beyond description—”
But reality showed these words to be false, since sudden tears put blots on the paper. How send a proof of this kind, especially if he had thrown her out of his heart altogether? After a while it occurred to her that it might be better not to write of his injustice, and of his peevish procedure, since, if she did, he would be ready for still greater stubbornness. Thus thinking, she looked for a third sheet of paper, but there was no more in her chamber.
Now she was helpless, for if she borrowed paper of Pani Vinnitski she could not avoid questions impossible of answer; then she felt that she was losing her head, and that in no case could she write to Yatsek that which she wanted to tell him; hence she grew disconsolate and sought, as women do usually, solace in suffering; she gave a free course to her tears again.
Meanwhile night was in front of the entrance, and sleighbells were tinkling—Pan Gideon and his two guests were coming. The servants were lighting the candles in every chamber, for the gloom was increasing. The young lady brushed aside every tear and entered the drawing-room with, a certain timidity; she feared that all would see straightway that she had been weeping, and have, God knows what suspicions,—they might even torment her with questions. But in the drawing-room there were none save Pan Gideon and Pan Grothus. For Pan Serafin she asked straightway, wishing to turn attention from her own person.
“He has gone to his son and the Bukoyemskis,” said Pan Gideon, “but I pacified him on the road by showing that nothing evil had happened.”
Then he looked at her carefully, but his face, gloomy at most times, and his gray, severe eyes were bright with a sort of exceptional kindness. Approaching, he placed his hand on the bright head of the maiden.
“There is no need for thee to be troubled,” said he. “In a couple of days they will be well, every man of them. We need say no more. We owe them gratitude, it is true, and hence I was anxious about them, but really, they are strangers to us, and of rather lowly condition.”
“Lowly condition?” repeated she, as an echo, and merely to say something.
“Why, yes, for the Bukoyemskis have nothing whatever, and Pan Stanislav is a homo novus. For that matter, what are they to me! They will go their way, and the same quiet will be in this house as has been here hitherto.”
Panna Anulka thought to herself that there would be great quiet indeed, for there would be only three in the mansion; but she gave no expression to that thought.
“I will busy myself with the supper,” said she.
“Go, housewife, go!” said Pan Gideon. “Because of thee there is joy in the household, and profit—and have a silver service brought on,” added he, “to show this Pan Serafin that good plate is found not alone among newly made noble Armenians.”
Panna Anulka hurried to the servants’ apartments. She wished before supper to finish another affair most important for her, so she summoned a serving-lad, and said to him,—
“Listen, Voitushko; run to Vyrambki and tell Pan Tachevski that the young lady sends this cap, and bows very much to him. Here is a coin for thee, and repeat what thou art to tell him.”
“The young lady sends the cap and bows to him.”
“Not that she bows, but that she bows very much to him—dost understand?”
“I understand.”
“Then stir! And take an overcoat, for the frost bites in the night-time. Let the dogs go with thee, too—that she bows very much, remember. And come back at once—unless Pan Tachevski gives an answer.”
Having finished that affair she withdrew to the kitchen to busy herself at the supper which was then almost ready since they had been expecting guests with Pan Gideon. Then, after she had dressed and arranged her hair, she entered the dining-hall.
Pan Sarafin greeted her kindly, for her beauty and youth had pleased his heart greatly at Yedlinka. Since he had been put quite at rest touching Stanislav, when they were seated at the table he began to speak with her joyously, endeavoring, even with jests, to scatter that shade of seriousness which he saw on her forehead, and the cause of which he attributed specially to the duel.
But for her the supper was not to end without incident, since immediately after the second course Voitushko stood at the door of the dining-hall and cried out, as he blew his chilled fingers,—
“I beg the young lady’s attention. I left the cap, but Pan Tachevski is not in Vyrambki, for he drove away with Father Voynovski.”
Pan Gideon on hearing these words was astonished; he frowned, and fixed his iron eyes on the serving-lad.
“What is this?” asked he. “What cap? Who sent thee to Vyrambki?”
“The young lady,” answered the lad with timidity.
“I sent him,” said Panna Anulka.
And seeing that all eyes were turned on her she was dreadfully embarrassed, but the elusive wit of a woman soon came to her assistance.
“Pan Yatsek attended the wounded men hither,” said she; “but since auntie and I received him with harshness he was angry and flew away home without his cap, so I sent the cap after him.”
“Indeed, we did not receive him very charmingly,” added Pani Vinnitski.
Pan Gideon drew breath and his face took on a less dreadful expression.
“Ye did well,” remarked he. “I myself would have sent the cap, for of course he has not a second one.”
But the honest and clever Pan Serafin took the part of Yatsek.
“My son,” said he, “has no feeling against him. He and the other gentlemen forced Pan Tachevski to the duel; when it was over he took them to his house, dressed their wounds, and entertained them. The Bukoyemskis say the same, adding that he is an artist at the sabre, who, had he had the wish, might have cut them up in grand fashion. Ha! they wanted to teach him a lesson, and themselves found a teacher. If it is true that His Grace the King is moving against the Turks, such a man as Tachevski will be useful.”
Pan Gideon was not glad to hear these words, and added: “Father Voynovski taught him those sword tricks.”
“I have seen Father Voynovski only once, at a festival,” said Pan Serafin, “but I heard much of him in my days of campaigning. At the festival other priests laughed at him; they said that his house was like the ark, that he cares for all beasts just as Noah did. I know, however, that his sabre was renowned, and that his virtue is famous. If Pan Tachevski has learned sword-practice from him, I should wish my son, when he recovers, not to seek friendship elsewhere.”
“They say that the Diet will strive at once to strengthen the army,” said Pan Gideon, wishing to change the conversation.
“True, all will work at that,” said Pan Grothus.
And the conversation continued on the war. But after supper Panna Anulka chose the right moment, and, approaching Pan Serafin, raised her blue eyes to him.
“You are very kind,” said she.
“Why do you say that?” asked Pan Serafin.
“You took the part of Pan Yatsek.”
“Whose part?” inquired the old man.
“Pan Tachevski’s. His name is Yatsek.”
“But you blamed him severely. Why did you blame him?”
“My guardian blamed him still more severely. I confess to you, however, that we did not act justly, and I think that some reparation is due him.”
“He would surely be glad to receive it from your hands,” said Pan Serafin.
The young lady shook her golden head in sign of disagreement.
“Oh no!” replied she, smiling sadly, “he is angry with us, and forever.”
Pan Serafin glanced at her with a genuine fatherly kindness.
“Who in the world, charming flower, could be angry forever with you?”
“Oh! Pan Yatsek could—but as to reparation this is the best reparation in his case: declare to Pan Yatsek that you feel no offence toward him, and that you believe in his innocence. After that my guardian will be forced to do him some justice, and justice from us is due to Pan Yatsek.”
“I see that you have not been so very bitter against him, since you are now taking his part with such interest.”
“I do so because I feel reproaches of conscience, and I wish no injustice to any man, besides, he is alone in the world, and is in great, very great, poverty.”
“I will tell you,” answered Pan Serafin, “that in my own mind I have decided as follows: your guardian, as a hospitable neighbor, has declared that he will not let me go till my son has recovered; but both my son and the Bukoyemskis might go home even to-morrow. Still, before I leave here I will visit most surely Pan Yatsek and Father Voynovski, not through any kindness, but because I understand that I owe them this courtesy. I do not say that I am bad, still, I think that if any one in this case is really good you are the person. Do not contradict me!”
She did contradict, for she felt that for her it was not a question merely of justice to Yatsek, but of other affairs, of which Pan Serafin, who knew not her maiden calculations, could know nothing. Her heart, however, rose toward him with gratitude, and when saying good-night she kissed his hand, for which Pan Gideon was angry.
“He is only of the second generation; before that his people were merchants. Remember who thou art!” said the old noble.