"I tell you, you'll be sorry for it when you're once in the convent," he was saying in a persuasive voice. "It's a dreadful thing to have to nurse the sick, or pray the whole day. The Ladies of the Sacred Heart are all elderly, I've seen them once. And the Grey Sisters--oh, don't tell me anything," he said, putting her off as she was about to interrupt him, "I know what I'm saying. They're all old and ugly. What do you want to do there? Stop at home; we two get on so well together." He drew her more closely to him, and then said very seriously, although two dimples began to show themselves in his round cheeks, "As I'm your brother, I'm going to give you some good advice. See that you marry Martin. I like him just as much as a brother already, so what will it be then? Let him stop here and put his money into the farm, so that we can buy some more land, or perhaps build a distillery, or a brick-kiln. Or let him buy a mill here in the neighbourhood with the money that you'll bring him. It's all the same to me. All I want is that you don't go into a convent." He gave her a friendly push, so that she reeled a few steps away from him, and then catching her again he drew her to his side, laughing. "Won't that be nice, sister mine, eh? What do you say to it?"
"But does he like me?" she inquired, in a soft, timid voice. Her heart throbbed--husband and wife, and always united during many years, and many children. Her face flamed. If only he liked me, she thought, and it was as though she were praying.
"Why shouldn't he?" asked her brother, looking at her tenderly. He was really fond of his good, gentle little Rosa. But then his glance grew criticizing and appraising as he added, "You're certainly not half so pretty as your mother. Psia krew!"--he smacked his lips and his eyes grew ardent--"what a fine woman she is! What a pity--and the old man drinks. But people must not compare you two, that's all. Martin will understand that; besides, he isn't one of those who look at beauty alone."
Suddenly a violent pain pierced Rosa's heart, and she involuntarily pressed her hand to her side; it was as though her heart were broken and she must hold it together. Oh, yes, her mother was beautiful, and how she had laughed when they were turning the clover; just like the wood-pigeons in the Przykop. She could not be compared with her mother, she knew that. Her head drooped in painful humility.
"But you've got something too," said Mikolai consolingly. "Becker has to look out for a wife with money. Although he has some himself, he hasn't enough. Besides, I think he's very fond of you. Tell me"--he put his hand under the girl's chin and looked into her face--"do you like him too? Shall I tell him so?"
The tears welled into Rosa's eyes and rolled down her cheeks. She shook her head without saying a word, and as he urged her, "But why not? Don't be so stupid!" she said quite softly, "I don't want to; no, I would rather not," and then tore herself away from him and ran into the house, and up to the room she shared with Marianna. There she threw herself on her knees beside her narrow bed and began to cry and pray. She had to cry; she would have liked to check the tears that flowed, she did not know why, but she could not. Was that jealousy that was stabbing her heart like a knife? Oh, no, nobody in the world could admire her mother as she did. She would gladly have given her everything--only not Becker. How those two had gazed at each other. They had kept together the whole time in a remote part of the field, always side by side as though they belonged to each other. And her mother had laughed as though she were a young, happy girl, much younger and much happier than she, Rosa, had ever been. Was it not disgraceful to laugh like that when one is so old?
Rosa's lip curled, but then she felt very much ashamed of herself. How horrid it was of her to envy her mother because she had laughed. If only she might always laugh and be happy! Her lot would be to pray, pray always. She would go to the Grey Sisters and nurse the sick, or to the Ladies of the Sacred Heart. That was the only thing she wanted to do, nothing else was worth longing for.
Husband and wife, and always united during many years, and many children--it sounded like distant music. Rosa moved her lips more rapidly; she would have liked to stop her ears, she fought with all her strength against the distant music. "Jesus, my only Friend, I love Thee above everything. Sweetest Jesus, Saviour!" she whispered fervently; her eager eyes were full of longing as she raised them.
Rosa had never had a picture of the Saviour over her bed, nothing but a vessel containing holy water and some consecrated palm branches, but at that moment a picture shone on the bare wall which had never been there before. She stared at it in a transport of joy, and her eyes grew bigger and bigger; her lips faltered as she prayed, and she heaved a deep sigh--there--there--Jesus Christ! How Martin Becker resembled Him in every feature, and how He smiled at her.
The expression in the girl's face grew more and more ecstatic; it was as though all the blood in her body had suddenly become active, as it coursed down into the tips of her toes and then up into her hot cheeks. Rosa glowed with delight--there He was, there He was. It was no longer the Christ Child, whom she had got leave to nurse, it was He, He, so big and so beautiful.