had tears in his eyes. “I asked whether she must suffer greatly. ‘Not necessarily,’ said the doctor; ‘she may die as easily as if falling asleep.’”
“Did he tell the mother anything about her condition?”
“He did not. He said, it is true, that there was a defect of the heart; but he added that with children such things often disappear without a trace. He has no hope himself.”
Pan Stanislav did not yield to misfortune easily.
“What is one doctor!” said he. “We must struggle to save the child while there is a spark of hope. The doctor may be mistaken. We must take her to a specialist at Monachium, or bring him here. That will alarm Pani Emilia, but it is difficult to avoid it. Wait; we can avoid it. I will bring him, and that immediately. We will tell Pani Emilia that such and such a celebrated doctor has come here to see some one, and that there is a chance of taking counsel concerning Litka. We must not leave the child without aid. We need merely to write to him, so that he may know how to talk to the mother.”
“But to whom will you write?”
“To whom? Do I know? The local doctor here will indicate a specialist. Let us go to him at once, and lose no time.”
The matter was arranged that very day. In the evening the two men went to Pani Emilia. Litka was well, but silent and gloomy. She smiled, it is true, at her mother and her friend; she showed gratitude for the tenderness with which they surrounded her; but Pan Stanislav had not power to amuse her. Having his head filled with thoughts of the danger which threatened the child, he considered her gloom a sign of increasing sickness and an early premonition of near death, and with terror he said in his soul that she was not such as she had been; it seemed as if certain threads binding her to life had been broken. His fear increased still more when Pani Emilia said,—
“Litka feels well, but do you know what she begged of me to-day? To go back to Warsaw.”
Pan Stanislav with an effort of will put down his alarm, and, turning to the little one, said while feigning joyfulness,—
“Ah, thou good-for-nothing! Art thou not sorry for Thumsee?”
The little maid shook her yellow hair.
“No!” answered she, after a time, and in her eyes tears appeared; but she covered these quickly with her lids, lest some one might see them.
“What is the matter with her?” thought Pan Stanislav.
A very simple thing was the matter. In Thumsee she had learned that her friend, her “Pan Stas,” her dearest comrade, was to be taken from her. She had heard that he loved Marynia Plavitski; until then she had felt sure that he loved only her and mamma. She had heard that mamma wanted him to marry Marynia; but up to that time she, Litka, had looked on him as her own exclusive property. Without knowing clearly what threatened her, she felt that this “Pan Stas” would go, and that a wrong would be done her, the first which she had experienced in life. She would have suffered less if some one else had inflicted the wrong; but, just think, her mamma and “Pan Stas” were wronging her! That seemed a vicious circle out of which the child knew not how to escape and could not. How could she complain to them of what they were doing! Evidently they wanted this, wished it; it was necessary for them, and they would be happy if it happened. Mamma said that “Pan Stas” loved Panna Marynia, and he did not deny; therefore Litka must yield, must swallow her tears, and be silent in presence of her mamma even.
And she hid in herself her first disappointment in life. Yes, she had to yield; but because grief is a bad medicine for a heart sick already, this yielding might be more thoroughly and terribly tragic than any one around her could imagine.
The specialist came two days later from Monachium, and remaining two days, confirmed fully the opinion of the doctor in Thumsee. He set Pani Emilia at rest, though he told Pan Stanislav that the life of the child might continue months and years, but would be always as if hanging on a thread which might break from any cause. He gave directions to spare the little girl every emotion, as well joyous as sad, and to watch over her with the greatest alertness.
They surrounded her therefore with care and attention. They spared her even the slightest emotion, but they did not spare her the greatest, which was caused by Marynia’s letters. The echo of the one which came a week later struck her ears, which were listening then diligently. True, it might dispel her fears touching “Pan Stas,” but it was a great shock to her. Pani Emilia had hesitated all day about showing Pan Stanislav that letter. He had been asking daily for news from Kremen; she had to lie simply to conceal the arrival of the letter. Finally, she felt bound to tell the truth, so that he might know the difficulties which he had to encounter.
The next evening after receiving the letter, when she had put Litka to sleep, she began conversation herself on this subject.
“Marynia has taken it greatly to heart that you sold the claim on Kremen.”
“Then you have received a letter?”
“I have.”
“Can you show it to me?”
“No; I can only read you extracts from it. Marynia is crushed.”
“Does she know that I am here?”
“It must be that she has not received my letter yet; but it astonishes me that Pan Mashko, who is in Kremen, has not mentioned it to her.”
“Mashko went to Kremen before I left Warsaw; and he was not sure that I would come here, especially as I told him that doubtless I should change my plan.”
Pani Emilia went to her bureau for the package of letters. Returning to the table, she trimmed the lamp, and, sitting opposite Pan Stanislav, took the letter from the envelope.
“You see,” said she, “that for Marynia it is not a question of the sale alone. You know that her head was a little imaginative, therefore this sale had for her another meaning. A great disenchantment has met her indeed!”
“I should not confess to any other person,” said Pan Stanislav, “but I will to you. I have committed one of the greatest follies of my life, but I have never been so punished.”
Pani Emilia raised her pale blue eyes to him with sympathy.
“Poor man, are you so captivated, then, by Marynia? I do not ask through curiosity, but friendship, for I should like to mend everything, but wish to be certain.”
“Do you know what conquered me?” broke in Pan Stanislav, excitedly,—“that first letter. In Kremen she pleased me; I began to think about her. I said to myself that she would be more agreeable and better than others. She is such precisely as I have been seeking. But what next? Long before, I had said to myself that I would not be a soft man, and yield what belongs to me. You understand that when a man makes a principle of anything, he holds to it even for pride’s sake. Besides, in each one of us there are, as it were, two distinct persons; the second of these criticises whatever is done by the first one. This second man began to say to me: ‘Drop this affair; you cannot live with the father.’ In truth, he is unendurable. I resolved to drop the affair. I got rid of the claim. That is how it happened. Only later did I find that I could not dismiss the thought of Panna Plavitski; I had always this same impression: ‘She is such as thou art seeking.’ I saw that I had committed a folly, and was sorry. When that letter came, and I convinced myself that on
