When Marianna was sent to the grocer's in the village, she used to talk to everybody about the lively time they would soon be having at StarydwÓr. The young master was coming home, and was bringing somebody with him. "Nice young gentlemen, two at once," holding up two fingers. And then she would laugh so merrily, so incorrigibly, so shamelessly, with dancing eyes and big white teeth, that the listeners had to laugh too.

Jendrek was the only one who did not laugh. He was not at all glad to hear that two more were coming. He had no fault to find with the old man, who had given him many a cigar and penny for a drink, but he did not approve of those young fellows. He would prefer to seek another place and another sweetheart.

Mr. Tiralla was rather pleased that Jendrek wanted to leave, although he would never have had the heart to give him notice. For when Mikolai was at home, his dear Mikolai, he would help him.

And Marianna did not mind much either. Let him go. Two handsome young gentlemen were coming now. True, she had not seen the young master yet, as she had not been very long at StarydwÓr, but according to Rosa's enthusiastic accounts her little brother must be something wonderful, splendid, the like of which had never been seen before. And the other one, his friend?

"Oh, I love those my brother loves," Rosa had replied.

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

"God be with you," said Marianna, in a calm voice, as she shook hands with Jendrek, and put up her mouth for him to kiss. He was going to Mr. Jokisch, so it was not as though he were going far away. "If ever you care to see me, you need only whistle under my window, and I'll come out," she added.

Mrs. Tiralla, however, seemed to take Jendrek's departure to heart. "I'm sorry you're going," she said to him, pressing a two-shilling piece into his hand, as she shook hands with him. "Think kindly of us." She looked so long and earnestly at him as she said this that he felt quite touched. The Pani had grown much thinner lately, what could be the matter with her? And she was as pale as she had been when she was so anxious about Marianna's illness. H'm, that girl did not deserve that the Pani should feel anxious about her. The Pani was much too good for her and also for the master; she was much too good for the whole confounded place.

If Mrs. Tiralla had been able to read Jendrek's thoughts, she would not have fretted so much about what he did, or did not, know, and about what he would tell when he was no longer in their service. She felt very uneasy when she saw him going to somebody else. She always had that feeling of terror and uneasiness now. The doctor put it down to nerves. A doctor had been sent for; Mr. Tiralla would not hear of anything else, and she had even asked for one herself in the hope that he might be able to help her.

Now she was constantly taking medicine to soothe and strengthen her nerves, and still she found no peace by day or by night. Her eyes were dilated from want of sleep, from staring into the dark. Her hands had become thin, nearly as thin as Rosa's, and she had grown as slender as a young girl; she could almost have worn her child's dresses. She was too slender. The woman looked at herself in the glass with a feeling of dismay. Was that really her face, the "beautiful Sophia Tiralla's" face? Her skin, which had been as smooth as satin, had begun to fade. Was her beauty disappearing? Was she to lose that as well, and at her age? A deep sigh full of the most grievous impotence filled the lonely room.

Mr. Tiralla was whistling in the yard. Rosa and he were feeding the poultry, and the birds were pecking and scraping and cackling and quarrelling, as they greedily looked for the yellow corn that had been scattered to them.

The woman stared at the two from her window with burning eyes. There they stood, Mr. Tiralla so broad and beaming. He had grown quite cheerful lately, for the day after to-morrow, perhaps even to-morrow, Mikolai was coming. Everybody in the house was delighted except her. When Mikolai was there, there would never be another chance.

That was Mrs. Tiralla's fixed idea. In a transport of despair and fervour, hatred and devotion, all strangely mingled, she flung herself on her knees before the picture where she had prayed for so many years, and which reminded her so strongly of her best and only friend's delicate, beautiful face. "Help, help!" After praying and weeping for a long time, weeping so bitterly and so copiously that her face and hands and even her bosom were quite wet with tears, she rose. She had made up her mind. Mikolai was coming to-morrow, therefore quick, at the eleventh hour.

She went to the lumber-room and fetched the poison. The yellow grains looked exactly like those her husband had just been scattering. She would throw some of them to the poultry that very evening when they were hungry. And if they died--what a pity it would be about them--then Mr. Tiralla should get some of the powder in his wine or coffee.

Rosa had gone to the Przykop with Marianna to fetch some branches and moss. She had made up her mind to place a wreath over the front door in honour of her brother's return; he should see at once how happy she was that he was coming back to her. And the stranger's first impression of the old house, with its dark, yawning passage, would thus be made a pleasant one also. Rosa had never had any fault to find with her home; still, she felt in a dull kind of way that Marianna was right when she used to say, "Ugh! how uncomfortable this place is!"

So the two gathered some of the green, damp moss, with small, delicate, feathery leaves on short stalks, that covered the ground in the morass like a carpet. Rosa was going to wind it round a rope; she had made many wreaths like that for the Holy Virgin's altar at Starawies and for the Boza meka, which stood on the outskirts of her father's field, and they used to look lovely when she stuck a few flowers among the moss. True, she had no more flowers, for the few that she once had in the little garden behind the palings had lived only a very short time; they had soon been choked by the weeds that flourished so luxuriantly there. But if she put some of the bird-cherries which grew on the roadside into it, or some of the cranberries that shone like drops of blood in the moss, the wreath would look very bright.

Rosa was very happy and excited to-day. The sedate girl was completely changed; she tore up handfuls of moss and, standing behind Marianna, threw them gleefully on her cap and down her neck, as she bent forward. And when the latter, scolding and panting, loosened her frill and picked the earth and bits of moss off her neck, she jumped upon her like a wild cat, put both arms round her, and imprinted numerous boisterous kisses on her brown throat.

"Just look at little Rosa, she's like a lover," cried Marianna. Throwing her arms round the girl she wrestled with her and kissed her merrily, so that Rosa's delicate little face glowed and she was quite breathless.

What a beautiful day it was! At last the two let go of each other, and falling on the grass lay there and laughed. There was only a little bit of sky to be seen between the interlaced branches; they were quite alone. Then Rosa, summoning up her courage, said to the maid:

"Do tell me, Marianna, I should so like to know what happens when a man says to a woman, 'I love you.' Does he kiss her then as I kissed you? And then does she kiss him as you kissed me? I should like to know it; please tell me." She folded her hands as she always did when she was praying.

Marianna laughed.

Why did Marianna laugh so? Rosa felt annoyed; the girl had no right to make fun of her. "Don't laugh," she said angrily, stamping her foot.

"You'll find out what it's like when somebody says to you, 'I love you,'" said Marianna, hardly able to contain herself. How stupid the girl was still.

"Nobody will ever say to me, 'I love you,'" whispered Rosa, bending her head, suddenly saddened. "I'm going into a convent. But, of course"--she jumped up, and opening her eyes wide spread out her arms--"of course, He'll love me as I love Him." Passing from sudden sadness to brightness, she sang in a loud voice:

Marianna joined in, she knew the hymn. The maid's deeper voice mingled with Rosa's treble; they sang with great fervour:

"Pray to God for us, O Mary."

It sounded beautiful. The tree-tops ceased their rustling, the autumn wind stopped blowing; the Przykop had grown perfectly calm and was listening.

Then the two went home hand-in-hand with their aprons full of moss. They had not spoken much more, for Rosa had grown quiet. When Marianna, who could not stand the silence any longer, had begun to tell a gruesome story about a servant girl who had once lived at StarydwÓr and had buried her child in the Przykop, Rosa had given her such a look that the talkative woman had held her tongue as though she had received a blow on her mouth.

The late afternoon sun was shining on the roofs of the old farm when they reached home. Marianna had also brought a quantity of mountain ash with her, and Rosa at once sat down on the doorstep and began to make the wreath. First a bunch of green moss, then red berries, then green moss again; it grew rapidly under her practised fingers. Putting her head on one side and raising the wreath she eyed her handiwork with complacence.

Just then her mother came past; her dress touched the girl as she sat on the doorstep.

"Good evening, mummy."

Mrs. Tiralla did not hear; she was like a woman walking in her sleep, and had not noticed her child. She was enticing the poultry to come and eat. "Chuck, chuck, chuck, chuck, chuck."

The birds came running, and in front of them all was a white hen, a very good layer.

Mrs. Tiralla hesitated for one moment--that was her favourite hen--should she not shoo it away? But then she decided to scatter the corn after all. There must be a victim.

And the beautiful white hen flew at the other greedy hens with open beak, and ate almost all the corn herself. The cock, her lord, was the only one she did not venture to chase away, so he got a little as well, and the chickens furtively pecked a few grains too as they stood behind their mother.

Now all the corn had been devoured. The woman, who had been crouching on the ground, got up with a sigh; now she would soon see the result. She went back into the house without noticing Rosa.

But the latter caught hold of her dress, "Mother, do look. To welcome Mikolai." She held out the green wreath joyfully.

"For Mikolai?" The woman stared at the wreath. For Mikolai! She had to restrain herself from screaming. It would not only be of use to welcome the living, such wreaths are made for the dead too. She shivered and rubbed her cold hands together, as she cried, "I feel chilled," and then, running past Rosa, who was grieved that her mother took so little notice of her beautiful wreath, she hurried upstairs and locked herself into her room. She would not see nor hearken to anybody. And still she listened to every sound downstairs, and would have liked to see what the poultry were doing. Had the beautiful white hen fallen down already, stiff, with outstretched legs?

Her longing drew her to the window, from whence she cast a covert glance from behind the curtain. But she saw neither hen nor cock. Had they been able to run away? Where were they now?

The shades of evening grew heavier and heavier; soon the farm lay in complete darkness, and the woman could distinguish nothing. Her eyes smarted as she stepped back from the window. She felt tired to death.

Then she heard her husband call to Marianna, as he came in from the fields, to bring him something to eat and drink. That drove her on. Yes, he should have something to eat and drink--but from her hand.

"Hi, where are you all? Sophia, Rosa, there's a postcard," shouted Mr. Tiralla.

Doors banged. Then a jubilant cry was heard from Rosa. "He's coming, he's coming. Mikolai is coming to-morrow afternoon."

To-morrow? Already? The listening woman shuddered with terror; it must be done then. Putting her trembling hands into her pocket, she got hold of a little box, and in the little box was----

Clenching her teeth together she went downstairs. She wanted to go into the yard, but whilst flitting through the passage she heard her husband and Rosa talking together in the sitting-room.

"Where's your mother?" Mr. Tiralla was asking. Call her; she's to come. I'm so happy."

"She won't come," answered Rosa timidly.

"Why not?"

"Because she has locked herself into her room. Oh, father, I believe she's not well."

"Well or not well," shouted Mr. Tiralla--he banged the table, and Rosa began crying--"to the devil with her if she doesn't come down. I've had enough of it now She's to come down at once. Psia krew!"

H'm, his son's arrival had evidently given him courage; how would he otherwise have dared behave like that? So rough, so brutal. Good!--she put her fingers once more into her pocket and gripped the little box--she would soon come.

First of all, however, she went into the yard to look for her white hen. Where was it lying? Where had it crept to? She sought for it in every corner; she trembled whenever she saw something white gleaming, a piece of paper, a rag, or a little chalk that had crumbled off the wall--could this be it, or that? She felt so miserable that she at last did not know if she wanted to find it or not.

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 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 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 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 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 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 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. 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 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.

RÖschen 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 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 anÆmic 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 Starawies they saw Mr. BÖhnke 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 BÖhnke, heigh, little BÖhnke. 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!

BÖhnke 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.

BÖhnke had not heard anything of Mrs. Tiralla for a long time, as Rosa no longer came to school. He could have gone to StarydwÓr, 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 BÖhnke?" 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 RÖschen hadn't been there. I suppose, little BÖhnke"--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 BÖhnke, 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.

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 StarydwÓr 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 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 BÖhnke found her.

His noisy entrance had startled her, and she flew at him. BÖhnke--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."

"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 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."

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 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 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 RÖschen 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 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.

"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 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. 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----"

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 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 BÖhnke. 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 BÖhnke 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.