The morning after Marynia's birthday was unusually gloomy. The western
wind drove heavy black clouds, which hung over the city, foretelling a
storm. The atmosphere became oppressive and sultry. When Ladislaus
entered the church it was completely dark within. In the Chapel of the
Divine Mother a quiet votive mass commenced almost with his entry, and
the flickering little flames of the candles, lighted before the altar,
poorly illuminated the darkness. Ladislaus began to search with his
eyes for Miss Anney and he recognized her by the light hair protruding
from under her hat. She knelt in the first pew, her hands crossed in
prayer and resting upon an open book. Seeing Ladislaus, she nodded her
head and drew aside, to make room for him, not pausing in her prayers.
He wanted to speak to her but did not dare, and only kneeling, drew
somewhat towards himself the book so that they might pray from it
together. It was, however, so dark that he could read nothing and after
a while he became convinced that he could not pray at all. He was
seized by great emotion, for he understood that a new epoch in his life
had commenced, and that this moment, in which by the consent of Miss
Anney he knelt at her side before the altar to mutually entreat God for
blessing, signified more than any other avowals, and that it was the
first sanctification of their loves and their joint future lives. He
was possessed by a sense of his happiness, but at the same time by some
kind of solemn apprehension at the thought that everything would soon
cease to be only a dream, only a fancy, only a phantom of happiness,
and become realized and accomplished. Through his mind glided the
interrogatories,--How will he be able to bear this happiness, what will
he do with it, and how will he acquit himself,--and from these
questions there was bred in him a sense of immense responsibility,
surcharged with fear. It was like certain worries which hitherto, as a
free man, he had not known or at least had not met face to face. And he
saw before him cares more direct and immediate. The moment of his
interview with his mother was approaching; there were also some secret
obstacles, which Gronski mentioned, and it was incumbent upon him to
weigh everything, to plan, settle various matters, and set aside
anticipated difficulties. In truth, now, if ever, it was worth while
and necessary to trust to the Divine favor, invoke the All-provident
aid, and deliver her to the care of the Future. Ladislaus observed that
similar feelings and similar thoughts must have swayed Miss Anney as
her countenance was calm, composed, grave, and even sad. The little
flames of the candles were reflected in her upraised eyes and for a
while it seemed to Ladislaus that he saw tears in those eyes.
Apparently with the whole strength of her soul she committed him and
herself to God. And thus they knelt beside each other, shoulder to
shoulder, heart to heart, and already united, happy, and a little
timorous. Ladislaus, having suppressed the whirlwind of thoughts, at
last began to pray and said to God, "Do with me whatever Thou wilt, but
grant her happiness and peace." And a prodigious overflowing wave of
love deluged his bosom. His prayer became at the same time a solemn
espousal and internal oath that he would never wrong that most precious
being in the world, and that those eyes would never weep for his sake.
In the meantime the votive mass was nearing its close. When the priest
turned from the altar, his words, in the half-empty chapel, were as if
dreamy and like whispering amidst sighs--as usually happens at the
early morning mass. But at times they were deafened by thunders, as the
storm began outside. The windows of the chapel darkened yet more, and
from time to time livid lightning illuminated the panes; after which
the darkness grew yet denser, and on the altar the little flames of the
candles twinkled uneasily. The priest turned around once more; "Dominus
vobiscum!" after which, "Ite missa est." Afterwards he blessed the
assembled and retired. The small number of faithful who heard the mass
followed his example. Only they two remained. Then she began to say in
a whisper, broken by emotion, "Under Thy protection we flee. Holy
Mother of God," and the further words "Our entreaties deign not to
spurn and from all evil deign to preserve us forever," were said
jointly with Ladislaus, and in this manner the entire prayer concluded.
After this, silence fell between them, was broken only after a long
while by Ladislaus.
"We will have to wait," he said in a low voice. "The storm is yet
continuing."
"Very well," answered Miss Anney.
"My dear, dearest lady--"
But she placed her finger to her lips and silence again ensued. They
did not, however, have to wait very long, for the summer storms come
and pass away like birds. After the lapse of a quarter of an hour they
left the church. The streets were flooded by the rain, but through the
rifts of the scattered and rent clouds the sun shone brightly and, it
seemed, moistly. Miss Anney's eyes winked under the flood of light and
her countenance was as if she was awakened from a dream. But her
composure and gravity did not pass away. Ladislaus, on the other hand,
at the sight of the sun, and the bustle and life on the streets, was at
once imbued with gayety and hope. He glanced once and again at his
companion and she seemed to him as wonderful as a dream, charming as
never before, and adorable simply beyond measure and bounds. He felt
that he was capable of seizing her at that moment in his arms; of
showing her to the sun, the clouds, the city, the human multitude, and
exclaiming: "Behold my wealth, my treasure; this is the joy of my
life!" But, conjecturing properly that Miss Anney would not assent to
any manifestations like that, he subdued this impulse and directed his
thoughts to more important matters.
"My adored lady," said he, "I must give utterance to words which burn
my lips. When may I come to see you?"
"To-day at four," she replied; "I also have to tell you something upon
which everything depends."
"Everything depends upon you, lady, and upon nothing else."
But her clear cheeks were suffused with confused blushes: her eyes
shone as if with disagreeable uneasiness; and she replied:
"God grant--you do not know, sir--you do not know sir--" she repeated
with emphasis. "We will be alone.--But now we must part."
Ladislaus escorted her to the carriage, kissed her hands and remained
alone. Her words, corroborating that which Gronski had intimated as a
result of his interviews with Pani Otocka, disquieted him, however, but
only for a short time, as he was too much in love to suppose that it
could change his love or swerve him from his purpose. At the mere
thought of this he shrugged his shoulders.
"Women," he said to himself, "are always full of scruples and to actual
difficulties they add chimerical ones."
After which, he returned home in the best of humor, and besides
Gronski, found there Dolhanski.
"Behold," exclaimed Gronski, "lo, here is Dolhanski the bachelor.
Congratulate him for he is going to marry."
"No?" Truly? asked Ladislaus, amused.
"With Panna Kajetana Wlocek," added Dolhanski, with sangfroid and
extraordinary gravity.
"Then I tender my best wishes from the whole heart. When is the
wedding?"
"Very soon, on account of the weather, famine, fire, and war, also
similar exceptional circumstances. In a week. Without publication of
the banns, on an _indult_. After the wedding, the same night a trip
abroad."
"And you say all this seriously?"
"With the greatest seriousness in the world. Observe the exquisite
consequences."
"Here Dolhanski spread out his fingers and began to enumerate:"
"Primo, my credit is resurrected, as a Hindoo fakir, who, buried in the
ground for a whole month, awakes after exhumation to a new life;
secundo: Gorek is without a copper coin of indebtedness and without
society; tertio: my marriage settlement surpasses my expectations;
quarto: my fiancee from good luck has grown so beautiful that you would
not recognize her."
"What are you saying?" cried Ladislaus, ingenuously.