Page:Littell's Living Age - Volume 162.djvu/248

236 Yet, while all these beautiful things were passing away, a little weed had taken root, and was slowly developing to life.

Magda herself resembled the dying sunflower at this time; her glowing head was bent in depression, and she had lost her erect and regal carriage, — and sometimes, when she went to the well to draw water, she would put her hand to her side and gasp for breath.

The hope of a child of her own to love, which had been for so long denied her, had come at last; but now it had only come to bring her shame and remorse.

When the neighbors, seeing her toil and pant under the weight of the heavy water-bucket, would say to her, "Magda, why does not your husband draw the water for you? Every goodman should do so for his dame when she is in that way," — she would only shake her head, and say, "No, no; I can carry it myself. Why should he help me? it is no business of his."

She had always avoided Danelo since that luckless day in the forest, and he had since then lost all charm and grace in her eyes, as utterly as had the bleached ferns and the naked beech-tree. For him, on the contrary, the attraction had but gained strength; what had been at first but the fancy of a hot-headed youth, had grown into a man's passion. Though no longer actually resident in the village — for he had been obliged to take service elsewhere — he was often seen at Rudniki. With reckless disregard for her reputation, he followed her about, or lay in wait for her whenever she left the hut. She hardly returned any answer to his eager questions, and changed her direction whenever she saw him coming; but for all that, the link between them was guessed at, and the village gossips began to speak evil things of Magda.

Filip alone suspected nothing; he was utterly absorbed in the working of the church gates. But a time came at last when his eyes were opened, though the days were now growing short — for it is not necessarily in the long summer days that our vision is always the clearest.

One December evening, as Filip was returning from a neighboring fair, he drew up his sledge before the door of a roadside propinacya (public-house). A motley group of sledges and carts was already gathered in front of this place of refreshment, and sounds of noisy hilarity came from the open door.

Leaving his jaded horses alone — for there was no fear of their running away — he entered the tap-room, where he was greeted by boisterous and half-tipsy expressions of welcome.

"Holloa, brothers! Here's a wonder! Filip Buska in person coming to drink with us!"

"We must all be on our good behavior," said another, "or the Pan Wojt will read us a lecture."

"Sit down, man, and fill your glass like a Christian," said a third.

"I cannot," said Filip decidedly; "I only came in here to ask for a drink for my beasts. I must go home — I have work to do."

"Work, work, work! That is what you are always saying."

"It might be as well for some of you if you said so too a little oftener."

"There now, brothers! Did I not tell you that he would read us a lecture! And what is your work, neighbor Filip? What can you have to do on a Saturday night?"

"I am working at the chancel gates, you know. They must be finished by Easter if possible. And it is only now that the wood is dry enough to begin the carving. The centre panel with St. Peter and his key will give me no end of trouble."

"St. Peter and his key indeed!" laughed the wittiest, who was also the noisiest of the group of drinkers. "So you have turned locksmith, neighbor Filip? But I am thinking you had better have begun by making a lock to your own house door! — ha! ha!"

"What do you mean?" said Filip.

"What do I mean? Why, that a man with a handsome wife should be careful about his door fastenings, and not wait until the steed is stolen to shut the stable."

Filip stood rooted to the spot for a full minute, staring at the speaker as if he had not grasped the meaning of his words, and seemingly unaware of the hoarse chorus of laughter with which this speech had been greeted. Then turning suddenly on his heel, he left the room without another word; and oblivious of the refreshment of which his jaded horses stood so much in need, he threw himself on to the sledge, and lashing the unfortunate animals to their utmost speed, he soon disappeared in the driving snowdrift.

By no word or sign did Filip betray to Magda his knowledge of her guilt; he was only a little more silent, a little more gloomy than usual, and he no longer worked at the altar gates with the same interest as before. Often he would sit