'Fire!... fire!' she shouted, and escaped from the room, 'the cottage is on fire, everything is on fire!'

She staggered out like a drunken person, and they could hear her voice farther and farther off, shouting 'Fire!' until the rain drowned it.

'Run, Maciek, and bring her back,' cried Slimakowa. But Maciek did not stir.

'You can't send a man after a mad woman on a night like this,' said Slimak.

'Well, what am I to do with this dog's child? Do you think I shall feed her?'

'I dare say you won't throw her over the fence. You needn't worry, Zoska will come back for her.'

'I don't want her here for the night.'

'Then what are you going to do with her?' said Slimak, getting angry.

'I'll take her to the stable,' Maciek said in a low voice, lifting the child up awkwardly. He sat down on the bench with it and rocked it gently on his knees. There was silence in the room. Presently Magda, Jendrek, and Stasiek emerged from their corner and stood by Maciek, looking at the little creature.

'She is as thin as a lath,' whispered Magda.

'She doesn't move or look at us,' remarked Jendrek.

'You must feed her from a rag,' advised Magda, 'I will find you a clean one.'

'Sit down to supper,' ordered Slimakowa, but her voice sounded less angry. She looked at the child, first from a distance, then she bent over it and touched its drawn yellow skin.

'That b.i.t.c.h of a mother!' she murmured, 'Magda, put a little milk in a saucer, and you, Maciek, sit down to supper.'

'Let Magda sit down, I'll feed her myself.'

'Feed her!' cried Magda, 'he doesn't even know how to hold her.' She tried to take the child from him.

'Don't pull her to pieces,' said the gospodyni, 'pour out the milk and let Maciek feed her, if he is so keen on it.'

The way in which Maciek performed his task elicited much advice from Magda. 'He has poured the milk all over her mouth...it's running on to the floor...why do you stick the rag into her nose?'

Although he felt that he was making a bad nurse, Maciek would not let the child out of his hands. He hastily ate a little soup, left the rest, and went to his night-quarters in the stable, sheltering the child under his sukmana. When he entered, one of the horses neighed, and the other turned his head and sniffed at the child in the darkness.

'That's right, greet the new stable-boy who can't even hold a whip,'

laughed Maciek.

The rain continued to fall. When Slimak looked out later on, the stable door was shut, and he fancied he could hear Maciek snoring.

He returned into the room.

'Are they all right in there?' asked his wife.

'They are asleep,' he replied, and bolted the door.

The c.o.c.ks had crowed midnight, the dog had barked his answer and squeezed under the cart for shelter, everybody was asleep. Then the stable door creaked, and a shadow stole out, moved along the walls and disappeared into the cowshed. It was Maciek. He drew the whimpering child from under his sukmana and put its mouth to the cow's udder.

'Suck, little one,' he whispered, 'suck the cow, because your mother has left you.'

A few moments later smacking sounds were heard.

And the rain continued to drip...drip...drip, monotonously.

CHAPTER VI

The announcement that the railway was to be built in the spring caused a great stir in the village. The strangers who went about buying land from the peasants were the sole topic of conversation at the spinning-wheels on winter evenings. One poor peasant had sold his barren gravel hill, and had been able to purchase ten acres of the best land with the proceeds.

The squire and his wife had returned in December, and it was rumoured that they were going to sell the property. The squire was playing the American organ all day long, as usual, and only laughed when the people timidly asked him whether there was any truth in the report. It was the lady who had told her maid in the evening how gay the life in Warsaw would be; an hour later the bailiff's clerk, who was the maid's sweetheart, knew of it; early the next morning the clerk repeated it to the bailiff and to the foreman as a great secret, and by the afternoon all the employees and labourers were discussing the great secret. In the evening it had reached the inn, and then rapidly spread into the cottages and to the small town.

The power of the little word 'Sale' was truly marvellous.

It made the farm labourers careless in their work and the bailiff give notice at New Year; it made the mute hard-working animals grow lean, the sheaves disappear from the barn and the corn from the granary; it made off with the reserve cart-wheels and harnesses, pulled the padlocks off the buildings, took planks out of the fences, and on dark nights it swallowed up now a chicken, now even a sheep or a small pig, and sent the servants to the public-house every night.

A great, a sonorous word! It sounded far and wide, and from the little town came the trades people, presenting their bills. It was written on the face of every man, in the sad eyes of the neglected beasts, on all the doors and on the broken window-panes, plastered up with paper.

There were only two people who pretended not to hear it, the gentleman who played the American organ and the lady who dreamt of going to Warsaw. When the neighbours asked them, he shrugged his shoulders, and she sighed and said: 'We should like to sell, it's dull living in the country, but my father in Warsaw has not yet had an offer.'

Slimak, who often went to work at the manor, had also heard the rumour, but he did not believe it. When he met the squire he would look at him and think: 'He can't help being as he is, but if such a misfortune should befall him, I should be grieved for him. They have been settled at the manor from father to son; half the churchyard is full of them, they have all grown up here. Even a stone would fret if it were moved from such a place, let alone a man. Surely, he can't be bankrupt like other n.o.blemen? It's well known that he has money.'

The peasant judged his squire by himself. He did not know what it meant to have a young wife who was bored in the country.

While Slimak put his trust in the squire's unruffled manner, cogitations were going on at the inn under the guidance of Josel, the publican.

One morning, half-way through January, old Sobieska burst into the cottage. Although the winter sun had not yet begun to look round the world, the old woman was flushed, and her eyes looked bloodshot. Her lean chest was insufficiently covered by a sheepskin as old as herself and a torn chemise.

'Here!...give me some vodka and I'll give you a little bit of news,'

she called out. Slimak was just going off to thresh, but he sat down again and asked his wife to bring the vodka, for he knew that the old woman usually knew what she was talking about.

She drank a large gla.s.sful, stamped her foot, gurgled 'Oo-ah!', wiped her mouth and said: 'I say! the squire is going to sell everything.'

The thought of his field crossed Slimak's mind and made his blood run cold, but he answered calmly: 'Gossip!'

'Gossip?' the old woman hiccoughed, 'I tell you, it's gospel truth, and I'll tell you more: the richer gospodarze are settling with Josel and Gryb to buy the whole estate and the whole village from the squire, so help me G.o.d!'

'How can they settle that without me?'

'Because they want to keep you out. They say you will be better off as it is, because you will be nearer to the station, and that you have already made a lot of money by spoiling other people's business.'

She drained another gla.s.s and would have said more, but was suddenly overcome, and had to be carried out of the room by Slimak.

He and his wife consulted for the rest of the day what would be the best thing to do under the circ.u.mstances. Towards evening he put on his new sukmana lined with sheepskin and went to the inn.

Gryb and Lukasiak were sitting at the table. By the light of the two tallow candles they looked like two huge boundary-stones in their grey clothes. Josel stood behind the bar in a dirty jersey with black stripes. He had a sharp nose, pointed beard, pointed curls, and wore a peaked cap; there was something pointed also in his look.