hall in which she was sitting, and said to himself almost joyfully,—
“Ah, ha! sit there, hide thyself! I will find thee.” And he felt with greater force than ever how dear she might become to him, if she would be kind even in a small degree. Meanwhile bells sounded; and a few minutes later, in the fog, still dense at the earth, though the sky above was blue, appeared the dim outlines of the train, which, as it approached, became more clearly defined. The engine, puffing interrupted clumps of smoke, rolled in with decreasing movement, and, stopping, began with noise and hissing to belch forth under its front wheels the useless remnant of steam.
Pan Stanislav sprang to the sleeping-car; the first face at the window was Litka’s, which at sight of him grew as radiant as if a sudden sunbeam had fallen on it. The little girl’s hands began to move joyously, beckoning to Pan Stanislav, who was in the car in one moment.
“My dearest little kitten!” cried he, seizing Litka’s hand, “and hast thou slept; art thou well?”
“I am well; and we have come home. And we’ll be together—and good-day, Pan Stas!”
Right behind the little girl stood Pani Emilia, whose hand “Pan Stas” kissed very cordially; and he began to speak quickly, as people do at time of greeting,—
“Good day to the dear lady. I have a carriage. You can go at once. My servant will take your baggage; I ask only for the check. They are waiting for you at home with tea. Pray give the check. Panna Plavitski is here too.”
Panna Plavitski was waiting, in fact, outside the car; and she and Pani Emilia shook hands, with faces full of smiles. Litka looked for a moment at Marynia, as if hesitating; after a while, however, she threw herself on her neck with her usual cordiality.
“Marynia, thou wilt go with us to tea,” said Pani Emilia. “It is ready, and thou art fasting, of course.”
“Thou art tired, travelling all night.”
“From the boundary we slept as if killed; and when we woke, we had time to wash and dress. In every case we must drink tea. Thou wilt go with us?”
“I will, with the greatest pleasure.”
But Litka began to pull at her mother’s dress.
“Mamma, and Pan Stas.”
“But, naturally, Pan Stas too,—he thought of everything. Thanks to him, everything is ready. He must go with us, of course.”
“He must; he must!” cried Litka, turning to Pan Stanislav, who answered, smiling,—
“Not he must; but he wants to.”
And after a moment all four took their places in the carriage. Pan Stanislav was in excellent humor. Marynia was before him, and at his side little Litka. It seemed to him that the morning brightness was entering him, and that better days were beginning. He felt that henceforth he would belong to an intimate circle of beings bound together by comradeship and friendship, and in that circle would be Marynia. Now she was sitting there before him, near his eye, and near the friendship which both felt for Pani Emilia and Litka. Meanwhile all four were talking joyously.
“What has happened, Emilka,” asked Marynia, “that thou hast come so soon?”
“Litka begged so every day to come home.”
“Dost not like to live abroad?” asked Pan Stanislav.
“No.”
“Homesick for Warsaw?”
“Yes.”
“And for me? Now tell quickly, or it will be bad.”
Litka looked at her mother, at Marynia, and then at Pan Stanislav; and at last she said,—
“And for Pan Stas too.”
“Take this for that!” said Pan Stanislav, and he seized her little hand to kiss it; but she defended herself as she could. At last she hid her hand. He, turning to Marynia, and showing his sound white teeth, said,—
“As you see, we are always quarrelling; but we love each other.”
“That is the way generally,” answered Marynia.
And he, looking her straight and honestly in the eyes, said,—
“Oh that it were the way generally!”
Marynia blushed slightly and grew more serious, but said nothing, and began to converse with Pani Emilia.
Pan Stanislav turned to Litka.
“But where is Professor Vaskovski? Has he gone to Italy?”
“No. He stopped at Chenstohova, and will come the day after to-morrow.”
“Is he well?”
“He is.”
Here the little girl looked at her friend, and said,—
“But Pan Stas has grown thin; hasn’t he, mamma?”
“Indeed he has,” answered Pani Emilia.
Pan Stanislav was changed somewhat, for he had been sleeping badly, and the cause of that sleeplessness was sitting before him in the carriage. But he laid the blame on cares and labor in his business. Meanwhile they arrived at Pani Emilia’s.
When the lady went to greet her servants, Litka ran after her. Pan Stanislav and Marynia remained alone in the dining-room.
“You have no nearer acquaintance here, I suppose, than Pani Emilia?” said Pan Stanislav.
“None nearer; none so beloved.”
“In life kindness is needed, and she is very kind and well-wishing. I, for example, who have no family, can look on this as the house of a relative. Warsaw seems different to me when they are here.” Then he added, with a voice less firm, “This time I comfort myself also with their arrival, because there will be at last something mutual and harmonious between us.”
Here he looked at her, with a prayer in his eyes, as if he wished to say, “Give me a hand in conciliation; be kind to me, too, since a pleasant day has come to us.”
But she, just because she could not be for him altogether indifferent, went always farther in the direction of dislike. The more he showed cordial kindness, the more sympathetic he was, the more his action seemed to her unheard of, and the more offended she felt at heart.
Having a delicate nature, and being, besides, rather timid, and feeling really that a reply, if too ill-natured, might spoil the day’s harmony, she preferred to be silent; but he did not need an answer in words, for he read in her eyes as follows: The less you try to improve our relations, the better they will be; and they will be best if most distant. His joy was quenched in one moment; anger took its place, and regret, still stronger than anger,—for it rose from that charm which nothing could conquer, and to which Pan Stanislav yielded himself with the conviction, too, that the gulf between him and Marynia was in reality growing
