For the Right. Karl Emil Franzos

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СКАЧАТЬ was the answer, and no more.

      She glided from her horse, and his arms were about her.

      "Here I am, and here I shall stay," she said at last. "I have scarcely left the saddle since yesterday. It was Jacek, the fiddler, that told me where I should find you. I shall not return to my father--not without you. And if you will not go back with me you must just keep me here. I cannot live without you, and I will not--do you hear? I will not! I want to be happy!"

      She talked madly--laughing, crying on his neck. And then she slid to the ground, clasping his knees. But he stood trembling. He felt as though he were surrounded by a flood of waters, the ground being taken from under his feet. His fingers closed convulsively, till the nails entered the quick--he shut his eyes and set his teeth. Thus he stood silent, but breathing heavily, and then a shiver went through him; he opened his eyes and lifted up the girl at his feet. "Anusia," he said, gently but firmly, "I love you more than I love myself! and therefore I say I shall take you back to-morrow as far as the Pruth, where we can see your father's house, and then I shall leave you. But till then"--he drew a deep breath, and continued with sinking voice, "till then you must stay with an old widow I know in this village. I will show you the way now; she will see to your wants."

      The girl gazed at him helplessly, passing her hand across her forehead once, twice; and then she groaned, "It is beyond me--do you despise me?--turn me from you?"

      "No!" he cried; "but I will not drag you down to misery and disgrace. If you stayed here, Anusia, you could only be a servant-girl in the village where I work. We should suffer--but that is nothing! Marry one another we cannot; not while your father lives, for the Church requires his consent. You could only be my--my----. Anusia, I dare not!"

      Whereupon she drew herself tip proudly, looking him full in the face. "I am a girl of unblemished name," she said. "If I am satisfied to be near you----"

      "You! you!" he gasped, "what do you know about it? You are an honest girl! But I--good God, my mother----. Go! go!" And there was a cry of despair; then he recovered himself "God help me, Anusia, it must be. The woman that will take care of you now lives next door to the church, the old sexton's widow, Anna Paulicz--this way!"

      The girl probably but half understood him. As in a dream she moved toward her horse, seized the bridle, and turned back to Taras mechanically.

      She stood before him. Her face was white as death; she opened her colourless lips once, twice, as though to speak, but sound there was none. At last, with an effort, a hoarse whisper broke from her, "I hate you!"

      "Anusia!" he cried, staggering. But answer there was none--the thundering footfall of a horse only dying away in the night.

      Harvest had come and the harvest-home. The Jewish fiddlers played their merry tunes in the courtyard of the castle at Hankowce, and far into the evening continued the dancing and jumping and huzzaing of the reapers. The baron and his coachman were perhaps the only two of all the village who took no pleasure in the revelry--the one because he had to provide the schnaps and mead that were being consumed, the other because his heart was nowise attuned to it.

      Dreary weeks had passed since that impassioned meeting on the heath, but the girl's parting words kept ringing in poor Taras's ear. "It is all at an end," he said, "and no use in worrying." But he kept worrying, and that she should hate him was an undying grief to his heart. It was little comfort that he could say to himself, "You have done well, Taras; it is better to be unhappy than to be a villain."

      Comfort? nay, there was none! for what self-conscious approval could lessen the wild longings, the deep grief of his love? And so he went his way sadly, doing his duty and feeling more lonely than ever. He did not grudge others their merry-heartedness, but the noisy expression of it hurt him. For this reason he kept aloof on that day, busying himself about his horses, plaiting their manes with coloured ribands, but anxious to take no personal part in the feast. But the shouts of delight would reach him, clashing sorely with his sorrowing heart. Then the poor fellow shut the stables, and, going up to his favourite horse, a fine chestnut, he pressed his forehead against the creature's neck, sobbing like a forsaken child.

      He was yet standing in this position when a well-known voice reached his ear--a man's voice, but it sent the blood to his face. Could he be dreaming? but no, there it was again, and a ponderous knocking against the door, which he had locked. He made haste to open--it was Stephen Woronka, the judge.

      Taras was unable to speak, and the old man on his part could only nod. He looked mournful. "Come!" he said, after a brief pause that seemed filled with pain.

      "Where to?" faltered Taras.

      The judge appeared to consider explanation needless. "I have already spoken with your master; he allows you to go on the spot. Your things can come after you. My horses are ready to start."

      "I cannot," murmured Taras, turning a step aside.

      Old Stephen nodded, as though this were just the answer he expected. "But you must," he said, "we cannot let the girl die, Iwan and me. It is no light thing for us, to let her marry you, for you have just nothing--a poor stranger--and," he added, with a sigh, "my Harasim might be saved by a good wife. However, we have no choice now and neither have you!"

      "Then she is ill?" shrieked Taras.

      "Yes--very; come at once." And such was Stephen's hurry that he barely allowed Taras to take his leave of the baron. The judge drove, and so little he spared his horses, that the vehicle shot along the moon-lit roads like a thing demented.

      "Let me take the reins," said Taras, after a while.

      "No!" returned the judge sharply, adding more gently, as though in excuse: "Anxiety would kill me if I were at leisure."

      "Then she is dying!" groaned the young man in despair.

      "The Lord knows!" replied old Stephen huskily. "We can but do our duty in fetching you. Though she will not see you, she says, raving continually that she will kill you or kill herself if ever you come near her. … What is it that took place between you?" he cried, raising his voice suddenly and turning a menacing countenance upon Taras.

      "That I must not tell," returned the latter firmly.

      The judge gazed at him angrily, but nodded again, "I am a fool to ask you," he murmured. "You have either been a great villain to her, or--or--just very good. … Whatever it was, it is between you two, and you must settle it with her."

      Nothing more was spoken that night. In the early morning, when the horses where having a most needful rest, they only exchanged some indifferent remarks. And starting once more, they hastened towards the purple hills, as fast as the panting creatures could carry them. But it was evening before they crossed the Pruth and approached the village. The air was sultry; clouds hung low in the heavens, hiding the moon.

      The judge pulled up before they reached Iwan's farm. Taras dismounted. "I thank you!" he cried, seeking to grasp the old man's hand.

      But Stephen withdrew it, shaking his head. "I cannot be wroth with you," he said, "but there are things that go hard with a man. … You don't owe me any thanks, however. I have now repaid you for that shot of yours which saved my life. We are quits."

      "But I shall thank you while I live," cried Taras, walking away quickly in the direction of Iwan's farm. He stood by the door with bated breath; it was opened for him before he could put his hand on the latch, by Iwan Woronka.

      "She--she СКАЧАТЬ