He had closed the window and he now closed the shutters too. A gleam of prudence had returned; what would people think if they saw her in his room at that hour? He drew her to the old sofa, and she [Pg 257] let him do so; he ventured to kiss her and she allowed him to do that too.

Something rose within her; in her shame and anguish she longed to thrust him back, but--she had need of him, she had need of him. She held her breath so as not to smell his. She suffered him to kiss her, her lips tightly compressed, but when he drew nearer and nearer to her in his intoxication she repulsed him. Then she recollected that she would have to put up with it, for she dared not offend him, she must bind him to her. She tried to find an excuse for her repulse; had he not deceived her once before with the dish of mushrooms? Could she really trust him again?

He swore solemnly that she could, glowing with desire.

Then she said, "Pan Tiralla must die, and you, you must help me."

"I--I?" he stammered, all at once sober. He was sorry for the man, he had been punished enough. Why should he die?

She did not notice his hesitation. "You must drink with him," she whispered hastily; "drink every day with him at our house, so that he drinks more, much more than he does now. He doesn't drink enough at present. You must be with him, you must fill his gla.s.s without his noticing it, you must entertain him the whole time, tell him what he likes to hear, put him in a good humour by saying, 'Your health!' and 'Much good may it do you!' so that he goes on drinking and drinking.

You must help me in this way." She looked at him imploringly.

He avoided her eyes; no, he could not do that, he did not like to. Mr.

Tiralla was rather fond of him, but how much did she care for him, eh?

Not _so_ much. He snapped his fingers in her face. She preferred [Pg 258] another man, Becker; oh, he knew it very well, and that was the reason things were not going quickly enough for her. No, he would not give her a helping hand to that, never, never, he panted, excited to fury by his pa.s.sionate jealousy, and let his hand fall with a bang on the table, "Never!"

She trembled and seized hold of his clenched hand; she must win him, he must help her, he had no right to refuse her his help, what should she do then? Thoughts flew like lightning through her brain; the first of December, the first of December, oh, Martin would run away from her much earlier than that, he was even now like a young bird trying its wings, and she would soon not be able to hold him any longer. Martin, Bohnke--Bohnke, Martin, all ran together. She could not think clearly, she was beside herself with terror. She threw her arms round the schoolmaster's neck and, putting her lips close to his ear, sobbed, "You must, you must, I implore you!"

Her face, which in spite of hot tears and cold dew was still so alluring, so dazzling, was quite close to his. Then he caught hold of her with all his strength. "You've made me a drunkard," he jerked out, from between his clenched teeth, and strained her to his heart, so that she lost her breath, "and you're making me a murderer--but by G.o.d, I love you, I love you!"

[Pg 259]

CHAPTER XII

Winter had come during the night.

Even yesterday the gossamer had flown across the fields and hung fast to the bare bushes and tops of the few remaining turnips; to-day the first snow lay on the ground. There was not much of it, but still it was wet and cold.

The young men, who were sowing the last seeds, finished their day's work in silence, a silence that was as heavy as the grey, lowering sky overhead, and as sad as the damp, sullen-looking fields in November.

They had nothing pleasant to say to each other. Martin's thoughts were far away, he was longing to leave Starydwor, leave it far behind him; and Mikolai was also deep in thought.

The happiness that Mikolai had felt during the summer was a thing of the past. Although a farm of one's own is not to be despised, he would much rather be servant somewhere else than master at Starydwor. How awful his father was! Why, he was out of his mind! If only he could catch that fellow Bohnke by the throat, he thought to himself, clenching his fists in fury. Why did he come creeping to the farm day after day, locking himself in with his father? They never let anybody in, but they would drink and drink, until they had not as much sense left as the cattle. Mikolai swore to himself as he thought of it. And then his stepmother even expected [Pg 260] him to put the horses in and drive that drunken rascal home when he felt too tired to have a chat with Marianna. Let him sleep himself sober in the first ditch he came across; it was quite good enough for him. But instead of that he had to be hoisted up into the cart and driven at a walking pace along the pitch-dark road, so that he, Mikolai, was frozen and wet to the skin and felt thoroughly annoyed. What could she see in the schoolmaster to make her so patient and calm that she put up with his visits, which were certainly not doing his father any good?

The young fellow felt very surprised, and now and then something like suspicion awakened within him. How could his stepmother always be smiling? Was it not rather a thing to cry about? But who could know if her smiles came from the heart? She was, no doubt, to be pitied too. It was wrong of Marianna to speak so unkindly of her mistress. She ought not to shrug her shoulders and make faces, but it was just like a servant. That was another cause of annoyance to the young man. If there had been anything between the schoolmaster and his stepmother, he would, of course, have noticed it of his own accord, he was no longer a foolish boy. Rosa gave him much more to think of than that. He felt very uneasy about her, she was so strange. He could not dissuade her from that confounded wish of hers to go into a convent. She persisted in it more than ever. He had already tired himself out with talking to her about it. She would listen quietly, with her eyes fixed on her hands lying idly in her lap, and then, when he knew of no other argument to bring forward, she would say softly, but more decidedly than if she had spoken in a loud voice, "I shall go into a convent, all the same."

What a pity the girl was so holy. "Holy," that [Pg 261] was what Marianna called her. If only Becker and she had married, how nice it would have been. Mikolai still harped on this, and it was this disappointment that grieved him most of all. Why did Martin not care for Rosa?

As they were returning home together in the early twilight, Mikolai once more took courage. He was certainly not going to offer Rosa again to Becker--he felt too sorry for her to do that--but he wanted to hear why his beautiful plan could not be realized. So he said, "The snow has come, now you'll soon be going," and cast a covert glance at his friend to see what he would say to it.

Martin answered quite simply, "I shall soon be going."

"There's still a fortnight," said Mikolai.

"There's still a fortnight," repeated Martin, and then gave a deep sigh of relief as one who again breathes light, fresh air after it has been sultry and oppressive for a long time.

Mikolai sighed too. _Psia krew_, how difficult it was to sound the fellow. Although he thought he had introduced the subject so cunningly, he saw he would have to be still more explicit. So he continued, "Only a fortnight longer, a very short reprieve. We shall all miss you, Rosa especially. Well, well!" He paused for a moment, and then cast another covert glance at Martin.

The latter's face, however, was inscrutable; it was as though it were hewn out of stone, and he could learn nothing from it. But what was that? It seemed to Mikolai as though his friend's pale face had suddenly flushed. Then he turned his head from side to side, as if his collar were too tight, and swallowed a few times as if he were gulping something down, and then [Pg 262] the corners of his mouth drooped as though something were grieving him. At last Mikolai could no longer restrain himself. Why this dissimulation? He put his arm round the other's shoulders and said in a low, cordial voice, "Marry my sister, do. She's good and pretty and has also expectations. We three will be very happy together. Take her, Martin, I beg of you."

"Let me go!" cried the man, pushing Mikolai away as though he had said something more than unkind. Then he strode over to the other side of the road and kept his head obstinately turned towards the field. He did not look at his friend again, so that Mikolai, who was completely nonplussed, grew silent too.

So they walked along in silence through the soft mud and deep ruts, each on his side of the road. Mikolai's eyes suddenly felt wet. The deuce, what was that? He rubbed them angrily, but they were wet the next moment again. Here, here they had driven last summer--only a few months ago--with hay and flowers on the wagon, and had been so gay. And now? His lips trembled, he felt unstrung. At last he had really seen that things must take their course.

When they reached the farm the house lay in darkness. There was only a light in Mr. Tiralla's room to the right of the pa.s.sage; they could see it shining through the closed shutters.

What, was that confounded Bohnke there again? If you had a sharp ear you could hear somebody speaking in a subdued voice, almost a whisper, and a gurgling sound as though they were drinking quickly and then putting their gla.s.ses down. Mikolai flew into a rage; he felt just in the humour to pitch the fellow out. It was not exactly the thing he cared to do, for a guest is sacred; but that cad was no guest, he was [Pg 263] a monster. He was ruining his father entirely. Mikolai lifted the latch angrily, but the door did not yield, it was locked. Then he shook it in his fury, "Hi, open the door!" He banged and scolded. But everything remained quiet in the room, n.o.body answered and n.o.body opened the door.

Then he rushed out of the house and into the barn in his anger, threw himself down on the straw, clenched his fists and wept aloud until he fell asleep.

When the schoolmaster left the farm at a late hour that evening Mr.

Tiralla was quite drunk. He had only enough sense left to whisper in a tender voice, "Little Bohnke, friend, take care. If Mikolai catches you, he'll chop you into small pieces, perhaps with the hatchet, perhaps with the chopper. Ugh! he's a brute--they're all brutes here--ugh! my friend, you don't know what brutes they all are. My dear, beloved friend." Mr. Tiralla fell on the other's neck, kissed him and stammered in a hiccoughing voice, while he stroked his cheek, "If I--I--ha--hadn't you--G.o.d--bless--you--it would--b--be all--up--with me."

Bohnke left the room filled with a strange emotion. He was not so drunk as Mr. Tiralla--he could still collect his thoughts, if he took the trouble to do so--and he was thinking of the man who loved him as a friend and son. But very soon Mrs. Tiralla took entire possession of his thoughts. He looked around and listened for her step, and strained his eyes so in the dark that they watered. Was he to leave the house without a single kiss? _Psia krew_, he would not do that. He swore in an undertone, for he had suddenly grown brutal. He would be paid, paid for every visit. It was no pleasure to him to get drunk with that fellow. If she did not come now, then----There was still [Pg 264] time to go away and never come back, to become again as he had been before.

If he were to ask to be removed and left the neighbourhood, and never more put his foot inside the door at Starydwor? Let Mr. Tiralla drink himself to death, alone. But if he were never to see this woman again?

The fresh air in the yard cooled his brow as he stepped out of the house. "Ah!" He drew a deep breath; air, thank G.o.d. There was still time, still time.

At that moment he heard the rustle of a dress in the dark pa.s.sage, a furtive whisper of "Pan Bohnke!" and turning round he stretched out his arms in a transport of delight. "My darling, my sweet one!"

She did not respond to his kisses, but he did not notice it in his joy; and he did not see either in the dark how she pressed her eyes together and screwed up her face. All he heard was her whisper in his ear, "How are you getting on? I hope you've filled his gla.s.s frequently? How is he? Please tell me, will it still last long?"

He did not answer her; he had buried his mouth in her hair, and his lips were glued to its silky waves like those of a thirsty man. When she wanted to free herself in her impatience, "Speak, why don't you tell me, how much longer?" he clasped her still more closely without replying. There was no escape for her. They were standing like a pair of lovers, almost melted into one; her head was lying on his breast as though welded to it by the pressure of his arms. Thus her eyes and ears were closed, and he--he only felt her.

At that moment the door of Mr. Tiralla's room was gently opened and the old man stuck his head out timidly. Had his little Bohnke, his friend, succeeded in escaping?

[Pg 265]

The sick man was tortured by the idea that they wanted to kill the schoolmaster just because he was his, Pan Tiralla's, brother and friend, his only friend. If they were to do something to him? If they were to attack him in the dark yard? His terror on his friend's account had given strength to his shaking limbs, and he had been able to stand upright and walk.

He peered around like an owl that is dazzled by the glare; the light from the open door fell on the pa.s.sage. Ha! who was standing there?

The murderers! the murderers! Save yourself, little Bohnke. He was on the point of crying out aloud for help when his voice suddenly snapped--why! it was only Marianna. A grin full of pleasant memories appeared on his wrinkled face--ha, ha! it was Marianna standing there with a lover. But all at once the pleasant grin turned into a terrified grimace; it was not Marianna after all, it must be Sophia, and with her?

The idiot's eyes had suddenly become clear, and he had recognized his friend, his brother. Bohnke was holding his wife in a close embrace, and they were standing like a pair of lovers, breast to breast. Alas, alas! Mr. Tiralla fell back as though a gleaming knife were pointed at his face. The two were talking away so busily, so softly, that they had not noticed him. What were they whispering about? His teeth chattered.

Murderers, murderers! Ugh! they were taking counsel together how they were to kill him--little Bohnke and Sophia--Sophia and little Bohnke.

Little Bohnke! His friend, his only friend!

The man's wrinkled face shrivelled up more than ever, and his figure became quite small. Closing the door carefully and bolting it in trembling terror, he shuffled back to the table, groaning.

His little Bohnke, his friend, his only friend!

[Pg 266]

The man looked round the empty room with a wild glance, as though his terror were pursuing him. There, there, there! He stared at the chair near him; his friend, his only friend had just been sitting there, close to him.

Then he began to cry bitterly, that is to say, his red eyes could no longer weep tears, but he puckered up his face like a whimpering child, and a hiccoughing sob raised his chest in jerks. And then he drank what remained in all the bottles.