"Be silent!" he cried vehemently, raising his hand as though terrified. "You must not interpret it in that way. I've sinned against the sixth and ninth commandments; I know it now." He bent his head very low.
"Have you betrayed me?" she stammered, turning pale and then flushing.
"I've not betrayed you," he said sadly. "But I've betrayed myself, if you call that 'betraying.' How could I do otherwise? I had to confess that I had unclean desires, that I"--he stopped and pressed his hands to his head--"oh, if I had never come here! Psia krew, if only I had never seen you." He gave a dry sob as though he were a boy, and ran away from her through the gate and over the yard into the house, banging the door after him.
She followed him with her eyes. What she had had a presentiment of had now happened, what she had never dreamt of at first had come after all. She stood as though crushed. She felt a pain as though there were something in her throat. It was her terror that was choking her, but she forced it down. Clenching her fists so tightly together that her nails dug into the flesh, she threw her head back. She would not give him up--and she need not do so either.
But how, how was she to set about it, how was she to bring about that he remained with her for ever? She stared at the empty fields with lifeless eyes. Then she threw herself on her knees in her terror and distress and deep despair. Here under the sky, that looked like a dome over the flat land, she would pray, she would cry at the door of heaven, so that the saints who were inside might hear her and give her advice and be merciful to her.
She knelt a long time in front of the niche in which the image of the Virgin stood. Ah, the Holy Mother up there knew her feelings, for had she not felt seven swords piercing her heart? She would help her, she must help her. She prayed fervently. And whilst praying, all kinds of plans flashed through her mind. Should she, too, go to Starawieś to confession? But how was she to begin? How should she express herself, so that she betrayed nothing to Father Szypulski, and still was delivered from her agony of mind? She did not know what to do. Her agony was so great, it seemed to grow and grow in spite of her prayers, until it was unendurable. If only she could find peace, peace--but she could only find that when Mr. Tiralla was in his grave.
All at once the woman's lifeless eyes grew animated, and a wave of colour mounted to her pale cheeks. The thought had come to her that if Mr. Tiralla were to die Martin Becker would not hurry away from Starydwór. There would be no need for him to hurry away, for she would be free and could love whom she wished. And nobody would object then, not even Father Szypulski.
She buried her face in her hands and shivered with delight. What a life of bliss displayed itself before her eyes! But--all her misery came back to her once more--but who would help her to this? She had no more poison, and her hands--taking them away from her face she stared at them--these feeble hands could not give him such a push that he, staggering at the graveside, as he did already, could tumble in altogether and stretch his aching limbs in welcome peace. Mr. Tiralla wanted to die, she saw it in his face, she knew it. Had he not groaned, "If only I were dead!" when they had helped him a short time ago out of the ditch into which he had fallen in a fit of weakness, when he had gone out to meet the last wagonful of corn?
It would certainly be best for him if he were dead. Rosa shuddered when she saw her father's yellow face and blood-shot eyes, and smelt his foul breath, and Mikolai felt very annoyed with him, although he now and then laughed at what he babbled in his weakmindedness.
If Mr. Tiralla were not there! Oh, would the children not draw a deep breath of relief when their father was out of the house? It was really true his presence weighed on everybody. He was so repulsive to look at, and his continual coughing and groaning were horrible to listen to. If only she could deliver them all from him, and at the same time give the man his freedom! It would, indeed, be a good deed. But how was she to set about it? Mr. Tiralla had an excellent constitution in spite of everything; he would not drink himself to death quickly enough. Now and then he did not even care to drink, and he would sometimes push his glass away as though he disliked it. But he must drink, must drink more, even if she had to fill his glass herself! Martin must not leave Starydwór, he must remain!