“I think,” said Pan Stanislav, “that news of the change in Pan Ignas’s fortune has spread rather widely; and second, I think that this letter, sent to your address, is directed really to Ignas.”
“That may be. It is not an honest letter; but still they may be very unhappy.”
“It is certain that their position cannot be pleasant. Osnovski was right when he wrote that there is even for Pani Bronich an immense disappointment in all this, and that she is trying vainly to deceive herself. As for Panna Castelli, you know what Svirski told me? I do not repeat to thee his words literally; but he said that now only a fool, or a man without moral value, would marry her. They understand this themselves, and certainly it is not pleasant for them. Perhaps, too, conscience is speaking; but still, see how many dodges there are in that letter. Do not show it to Ignas.”
“No, I will not,” answered Marynia, whose warmest wishes were on the side of Panna Ratkovski.
And Pan Stanislav, following the thought which was digging into him for some time past, repeated to her, word for word almost, what he had repeated to himself,—
“There is a certain logic which punishes, and they are harvesting what they sowed. Evil, like a wave, is thrown back from the shore and returns.”
Hereupon Marynia began to draw figures on the floor with her parasol, as if meditating on something; then, raising her clear eyes to her husband, she said,—
“It is true, my Stas, that evil returns; but it may return, too, as remorse and sorrow. In that case the Lord God is satisfied with such penance, and punishes no further.”
If Marynia had known what was troubling him, and wanted to soften his suffering, and console the man, she could not have found anything better than those few simple words. For some time Pan Stanislav had been oppressed by a foreboding that some misfortune must meet him, and he was in ceaseless fear of it. From her only did he learn that his sorrow and remorse might be that returning wave. Yes, he had had no little remorse, and sorrow had not been wanting in him; he felt, too, that if suffering might and could be a satisfaction, he would be ready to suffer twice as grievously. Now a desire took him to seize in his arms that woman full of simplicity and honesty, from whom so much good came to him; and if he did not do so, it was only from fear of emotions for her, and out of regard for her condition, and that indecision which fettered him in his relations with her. But he raised her hand to his lips, and said,—
“Thou art right, and art very kind.”