Генрик Сенкевич
Children of the Soil
Panna Marynia looked attentively at his honest, vivacious face, and thought, “He must be a little whimsical, but he has a good heart.”
Plavitski remarked, meanwhile, that it was time for Mass, and he began to take farewell of Marynia in such fashion as if he were going on a journey of some months; then he made the sign of the cross on her head, and took his hat. The young lady pressed Pan Stanislav’s hand with more life than at the morning greeting; he, when sitting in the little equipage, repeated in his mind, “Oh, she is very nice, very sympathetic.”
Beyond the alley, by which Pan Stanislav had come the night before, the equipage rolled over a road which was beset here and there with old and decayed birches standing at unequal distances from one another. On one side stretched a potato-field, on the other an enormous plain of wheat, with heavy bent heads, which seemed to sleep in the still air and in the full light of the sun. Before the carriage, magpies and hoopoes flew among the birches. Moving along paths through the yellow sea of wheat, and hidden in it to their shoulders, went village maidens with red kerchiefs on their heads, which resembled blooming poppies.
“Good wheat,” said Pan Stanislav.
“Not bad. What is in man’s power is done, and what God gives He gives. Thou art young, my dear, so I give thee a precept, which in future will be of service to thee more than once, ‘Do always that which pertains to thee, and leave the rest to the Lord God.’ He knows best what we need. The harvest will be good this year; I know that beforehand, for when God is going to touch me with anything, He sends a sign.”
“What is it?” asked Pan Stanislav, with astonishment.
“Behind my pipe-table – I do not know whether thou hast noted where it stands – a mouse shows himself to me a number of days in succession when any evil is coming.”
“There must be a hole in the floor.”
“There is no hole,” said Plavitski, closing his eyes, and shaking his head mysteriously.
“One might bring in a cat.”
“I will not bring in a cat, for if it is the will of God that that mouse should be a sign to me, or forewarning, I shall not go against that will. Nothing has appeared to me this year. I mentioned this to Marynia; maybe God desires in some way to show that He is watching over our family. Listen, my dear; people will say, I know, that we are ruined, or at least in a very bad state. Here it is; judge for thyself: Kremen and Skoki, Magyerovka and Suhotsin, contain about two hundred and fifty vlokas of land; on that there is a debt of thirty thousand rubles to the society, not more, and about a hundred thousand mortgage, including thy sum. Therefore we have about a hundred and thirty thousand. Let us estimate only three thousand rubles a vloka; that will make seven hundred and fifty thousand, – altogether eight hundred and eighty thousand – ”
“How is that?” asked Pan Stanislav, with astonishment; “uncle is including the debt with the property.”
“If the property were worth nothing, no one would give me a copper for it, so I add the debt to the value of the property.”
Pan Stanislav thought, “He is a lunatic, with whom it is useless to talk;” and he listened further in silence.
“I intend to parcel out Magyerovka. The mill I will sell; but in Skoki and Suhotsin I have marl, and knowest thou at how much I have estimated it? At two million rubles.”
“Has uncle a purchaser?”
“Two years ago a certain Shaum came and looked at the fields. He went away, it is true, without speaking of the business; but I am sure that he will come again, otherwise the mouse would have appeared behind the pipe-table.”
“Ha! let him come again.”
“Knowest thou another thing that comes to my head? Since thou art an ‘affairist,’ take up this business. Find thyself partners, that is all.”
“The business is too large for me.”
“Then find me a purchaser; I will give ten per cent of the proceeds.”
“What does Panna Marynia think of this marl?”
“Marynia, how Marynia? She is a golden child, but still a child! She believes that Providence watches over our family.”
“I heard that from her yesterday.”
Meanwhile they had drawn near Vantory and the church, on a hill among linden-trees. Under the hill stood at number of peasant-wagons with ladder-like boxes, some brichkas and carriages. Pan Plavitski made the sign of the cross, and said, “This is our little church, which thou must remember. All the Plavitskis lie here, and I, too, shall be lying here soon. I never pray better than in this place.”
“There will be many people, I see,” said Pan Stanislav.
“Gantovski’s brichka, Zazimski’s coach, Yamish’s carriage, and a number of others are there. Thou must remember the Yamishes. She is an uncommon woman; he pretends to be a great agriculturist and a councillor, but he is an old dotard, who never did understand her.”
At that moment the bell began to sound in the church tower.
“They have seen us, and are ringing the bell,” said Plavitski; “Mass will begin this moment. I will take thee, after Mass, to the grave of my first wife; pray for her, since she was thy aunt. She was an honest woman; the Lord light her.”
Here Plavitski raised his finger again to rub his right eye. Pan Stanislav therefore asked, wishing to change the conversation, —
“But was not Pani Yamish once very beautiful? or is this the same one?”
Plavitski’s face gleamed suddenly. He thrust out for one moment the end of his tongue from his blackened little mustaches, and patting Pan Stanislav on the thigh, said, —
“She is worth a sin yet, – she is, she is.”
Meanwhile they drove in, and after walking around the church, entered the sacristy at the side; not wishing to push through the crowd, they sat on side seats near the altar. Plavitski occupied the collator’s place, in which were also the Yamishes. Yamish was a man very old in appearance, with an intelligent face, but weighed down; she was a woman well toward sixty, dressed almost like Panna Marynia, – that is, in a muslin robe and a straw hat. The bows, full of politeness, which Pan Plavitski made to her, and the kind smiles with which she returned them, showed that between those two reigned intimate relations founded on mutual adoration. After a while the lady, raising her glasses to her eyes, began to observe Pan Stanislav, not understanding apparently who could have come with Pan Plavitski. In the seat behind them one of the neighbors, taking advantage of the fact that Mass had not begun yet, was finishing some narrative about hunting, and repeated a number of times to another neighbor, “My dogs, well – ” then both stopped their conversation, and began to speak to Plavitski and Pani Yamish so audibly that every word reached the ears of Pan Stanislav. The priest came out to the altar then.
At sight of the Mass and that little church, Pan Stanislav’s memory went back to the years of his childhood, when he was there with his mother. Wonder rose in him involuntarily when he thought how little anything changes in the country, except people. Some are placed away in consecrated earth; others are born. But the new life puts itself into the old forms; and to him who comes from afar, after a long absence, all that he saw long ago seems of yesterday. The church was the same; the nave was filled, as of old, with flaxen-colored heads of peasants, gray coats, red and yellow kerchiefs with flowers on the heads of the maidens; it had precisely the same kind of odor of incense, of sweet flag, and the exhalations of people. Outside one of the windows grew the same birch-tree, whose slender branches, thrown against the panes by the wind as it rose, cast shade which gave a green tinge to light in the church. But the people were not the same: some of the former ones were crumbling quietly into dust, or had made their way from beneath the earth in the form of grass; those who were left yet were somehow bent, as if going under ground gradually. Pan Stanislav, who plumed himself on avoiding all generalizing theories, but who in reality had a Slav head, which, as it were, had not emerged yet from universal existence, occupied himself with them involuntarily; and all the time he was thinking that there is still a terrible precipice between that passion for life innate in people and the absoluteness of death. He thought, also, that perhaps for this reason all systems of philosophy vanish, like shadows; but Mass is celebrated, as of old, because it alone promises further and unbroken continuity.
Reared abroad, he did not believe in it greatly; at least, he was not certain of it. He felt in himself, as do all people of to-day, the very newest people, an irrestrainable repugnance to materialism; but from it he had not found an escape yet, and, what is more, it seemed to him that he was not seeking it. He was an unconscious pessimist, like those who are looking for something which they cannot find. He stunned himself with occupations to which he was habituated; and only in moments of great excess in that pessimism did he ask himself, What is this all for? Of what use is it to gain property, labor, marry, beget children, if everything ends in an abyss? But that was at times, and did not become a fixed principle. Youth saved him from this, not the first youth, but also not a youth nearing its end, a certain mental and physical strength, the instinct of self-preservation, the habit of work, vivacity of character, and finally that elemental force, which pushes a man into the arms of a woman. And now from the recollections of childhood, from thoughts of death, from doubts as to the fitness of marriage, he came to this special thought, that he had no one to whom he could give what was best in him; and then he came to Panna Marynia Plavitski, whose muslin robe, covering a young and shapely body, did not leave his eyes. He remembered that when he was leaving Warsaw, Pani Emilia, a great friend of his and of Panna Marynia’s, had said laughingly, —
“If you, after being in Kremen, do not fall in love with Marynia, I shall close my doors against you.” He answered her with great courage that he was going only to squeeze out money, not to fall in love, but that was not true. If Panna Plavitski had not been in Kremen, he would surely have throttled Plavitski by letter, or by legal methods. On the way he had been thinking of Panna Marynia and of how she would look, and he was angry because he was going for money, too. Having talked into himself great decision in such matters, he determined above all to obtain what belonged to him, and was ready rather to go beyond the mark than not to reach it. He promised this to himself, especially the first evening, when Marynia, though she had pleased him well enough, had not produced such a great impression as he had expected, or rather had produced a different one; but that morning she had taken his eye greatly. “She is like the morning herself,” thought he; “she is nice and knows that she is nice, – women always know that.”
This last discovery made him somewhat impatient, for he wished to return as soon as possible to Kremen, to observe the young woman further. In fact, Mass was over soon. Plavitski went out immediately after the blessing, for he had two duties before him, – the first, to pray on the graves of his two wives who were lying under the church; the second, to conduct Pani Yamish to her carriage. Since he wished to neglect neither of these, he had to count with time. Pan Stanislav went with him; and soon they found themselves before the stone slabs, erected side by side in the church wall. Plavitski kneeled and prayed awhile with attention; then he rose, and wiping away a tear, which was hanging really on his lids, took Pan Stanislav by the arm, and said, “Yes, I lost both; still I must live.”
Meanwhile Pani Yamish appeared before the church door in the company of her husband, of those two neighbors who had spoken to her before Mass, and of young Gantovski. At sight of her Pan Plavitski bent to Pan Stanislav’s ear and said, —
“When she enters the carriage, take notice what a foot she has yet.”
After a while both joined the company; bows and greetings began. Pan Plavitski presented Pan Polanyetski; then, turning to Pani Yamish, he added, with the smile of a man convinced that he says something which no common person could have hit upon, —
“My relative, who has come to embrace his uncle, and squeeze him.”
“We will permit only the first; otherwise he will have an affair with us,” said the lady.
“But Kremen2 is hard,” continued Plavitski; “he will break his teeth on it, though he is young.”
Pani Yamish half closed her eyes. “That ease,” said she, “with which you scatter sparks, c’est inoui! How is your health to-day?”
“At this moment I feel healthy and young.”
“And Marynia?”
“She was at early Mass. We wait for you both at five. My little housekeeper is breaking her head over supper. A beautiful day.”
“We shall come if neuralgia lets me, and my lord husband is willing.”
“How is it, neighbor?” asked Plavitski.
“I am always glad to go,” answered the neighbor, with the voice of a crushed man.
“Then, au revoir.”
“Au revoir,” answered the lady; and turning to Pan Stanislav, she reached her hand to him. “It was a pleasure for me to make your acquaintance.”
Plavitski gave his arm to the lady, and conducted her to the carriage. The two neighbors went away also. Pan Stanislav remained a while with Gantovski, who looked at him without much good-will. Pan Stanislav remembered him as an awkward boy; from the “Little Bear,” he had grown to be a stalwart man, somewhat heavy perhaps in his movements, but rather presentable, with a very shapely, light-colored mustache. Pan Stanislav did not begin conversation, waiting till the other should speak first; but he thrust his hands into his pockets, and maintained a stubborn silence.
“His former manners have remained with him,” thought Pan Stanislav, who felt now an aversion to that surly fellow.
Meanwhile Plavitski returned from Yamish’s carriage.
“Hast taken notice?” asked he of Pan Stanislav, first of all. “Well, Gantos,” said he then, “thou wilt go in thy brichka, for in the carriage there are only two places.”
“I will go in the brichka, for I am taking a dog to Panna Marynia,” answered the young man, who bowed and walked off.
After a while Pan Plavitski and Pan Stanislav found themselves on the road to Kremen.
“This Gantovski is uncle’s relative, I suppose?” asked Pan Stanislav.
“The tenth water after a jelly. They are very much fallen. This Adolph has one little farm and emptiness in his pocket.”
“But in his heart there is surely no emptiness?”
Pan Plavitski pouted. “So much the worse for him, if he imagines anything. He may be good, but he is simple. No breeding, no education, no property. Marynia likes him, or rather she endures him.”
“Ah, does she endure him?”
“See thou how it is: I sacrifice myself for her and stay in the country; she sacrifices herself for me and stays in the country. There is no one here; Pani Yamish is considerably older than Marynia; in general, there are no young people; life here is tedious: but what’s to be done? Remember, my boy, that life is a series of sacrifices. There is need for thee to carry that principle in thy heart and thy head. Those especially who belong to honorable and more prominent families should not forget this. But Gantovski is with us always on Sunday for dinner; and to-day, as thou hast heard, he is bringing a dog.”
They dropped into silence, and drove along the sand slowly. The magpies flew before them from birch to birch, this time in the direction of Kremen. Behind Plavitski’s little carriage rode in his brichka Pan Gantovski, who, thinking of Pan Stanislav, said to himself, —
“If he comes as a creditor to squeeze them, I’ll break his neck; if he comes as a rival, I’ll break it too.”
From childhood, he had cherished hostile feelings toward Polanyetski. In those days they met once in a while. Polanyetski used to laugh at him; and, being a couple of years older, he even beat him.
Plavitski and his guest arrived at last, and, half an hour later, all found themselves at table in the dining-room, with Panna Marynia. The young dog, brought by Gantovski, taking advantage of his privilege of guest, moved about under the table, and sometimes got on the knees of those present with great confidence and with delight, expressed by wagging his tail.
“That is a Gordon setter,” said Gantovski. “He is simple yet; but those dogs are clever, and become wonderfully attached.”
“He is beautiful, and I am very grateful to you,” answered Marynia, looking at the shining black hair and the yellow spots over the eyes of the dog.
“Too friendly,” added Plavitski, covering his knees with a napkin.
“In the field, too, they are better than common setters.”
“Do you hunt?” asked Pan Stanislav of the young lady.
“No; I have never had any desire to do so. And you?”
“Sometimes. But I live in the city.”
“Art thou much in society?” inquired Plavitski.
“Almost never. My visits are to Pani Emilia, my partner Bigiel, and Vaskovski, my former professor, an oddity now, – those are all. Of course I go sometimes to people with whom I have business.”
“That is not well, my boy. A young man should have and preserve good social relations, especially when he has a right to them. If a man has to force his way, the question is different; but as Polanyetski, thou hast the right to go anywhere. I have the same story, too, with Marynia. The winter before last, when she had finished her eighteenth year, I took her to Warsaw. Thou’lt understand that the trip was not without cost, and that for me it required certain sacrifices. Well, and what came of it? She sat for whole days with Pani Emilia, and they read books. She is born a recluse, and will remain one. Thou and she might join hands.”
“Let us join hands!” cried Pan Stanislav, joyously.
“I cannot, with a clear conscience,” answered Marynia; “for it was not altogether as papa describes. I read books with Emilia, it is true; but I was much in society with papa, and I danced enough for a lifetime.”
“You have no fault to find?”
“No; but I am not yearning.”
“Then you did not bring away memories, it seems?”
“Evidently there remained with me only recollections, which are something different.”
“I do not understand the difference.”
“Memory is a magazine, in which the past lies stored away, and recollection appears when we go to the magazine to take something.”
Here Panna Marynia was alarmed somewhat at that special daring with which she had allowed herself this philosophical deduction as to the difference between memory and recollection; therefore she blushed rather deeply.
“Not stupid, and pretty,” thought Pan Stanislav; aloud he said, “That would not have come to my head, and it is so appropriate.”
He surveyed her with eyes full of sympathy. She was in fact very pretty; for she was laughing, somewhat confused by the praise, and also delighted sincerely with it. She blushed still more when the daring young man said, —
“To-morrow, before parting, I shall beg for a place, – even in the magazine.”
But he said this with such joyousness that it was impossible to be angry with him; and Marynia answered, not without a certain coquetry, —
“Very well; and I ask reciprocity.”
“In such case, I should have to go so often to the magazine that I might prefer straightway to live in it.”
This seemed to Marynia somewhat too bold on such short acquaintance; but Plavitski broke in now and said, —
“This Stanislav pleases me. I prefer him to Gantos, who sits like a misanthrope.”
“Because I can talk only of what may be taken in hand,” answered the young man, with a certain sadness.
“Then take your fork, and eat.”
Pan Stanislav laughed. Marynia did not laugh: she was sorry for Gantovski; therefore she turned the conversation to things which were tangible.
“She is either a coquette, or has a good heart,” thought Pan Stanislav again.
But Pan Plavitski, who recalled evidently his last winter visit in Warsaw, continued, “Tell me, Stas, dost thou know Bukatski?”
“Of course. By the way, he is a nearer relative to me than to uncle.”
“We are related to the whole world, – to the whole world literally. Bukatski was Marynia’s most devoted dancer. He danced with her at all the parties.”
Pan Stanislav began to laugh again; “And for all his reward he went to the magazine, to the dust-bin. But at least it is not necessary to dust him, for he is as careful of his person as uncle, for instance. He is the greatest dandy in Warsaw. What does he do? He is manager of fresh air, which means that when there is fair weather he walks out or rides. Besides, he is an original, who has peculiar little closets in his brain. He observes various things of such kind as no other would notice. Once, after his return from Venice, I met him and asked what he had seen there. ‘I saw,’ said he, ‘while on the Riva dei Schiavoni, half an egg-shell and half a lemon-rind floating: they met, they struck, they were driven apart, they came together; at last, paf! the half lemon fell into the half egg-shell, and away they went sailing together. In this see the meaning of harmony.’ Such is Bukatski’s occupation, though he knows much, and in art, for instance, he is an authority.”
“But they say that he is very capable.”
“Perhaps he is, but capable of nothing. He eats bread, and that is the end of his service. If at least he were joyous, but at bottom he is melancholy. I forgot to say that besides he is in love with Pani Emilia.”
“Does Emilia receive many people?” inquired Marynia.
“No. Vaskovski, Bukatski, and Mashko, an advocate, the man who buys and sells estates, are her only visitors.
“Of course she cannot receive many people; she has to give much time to Litka.”
“Dear little girl,” said Pan Stanislav, “may God grant at least that Reichenhall may help her.”
And his joyous countenance was covered in one moment with genuine sadness. Marynia looked at him with eyes full of sympathy, and in her turn thought a second time, “Still he must be kind really.”
But Plavitski began to talk as if to himself. “Mashko, Mashko – he too was circling about Marynia. But she did not like him. As to estates, the price now is such that God pity us.”
“Mashko is the man who declares that under such conditions it is well to buy them.”
Dinner came to an end, and they passed into the drawing-room for coffee; while at coffee Pan Plavitski, as his wont was in moments of good-humor, began to make a butt of Gantovski. The young man endured patiently, out of regard for Marynia, but with a mien that seemed to say, “Ei! but for her, I would shake all the bones out of thee.” After coffee Marynia sat down at the piano, while her father was occupied with patience. She played not particularly well, but her clear and calm face was outlined pleasantly over the music-board. About five Pan Plavitski looked at the clock and said, —
“The Yamishes are not coming.”
“They will come yet,” answered Marynia.
But from that moment on he looked continually at the clock, and announced every moment that the Yamishes would not come. At last, about six, he said with a sepulchral voice, —
“Some misfortune must have happened.”
Pan Stanislav at that moment was near Marynia, who in an undertone said, —
“Here is a trouble! Nothing has happened, of course; but papa will be in bad humor till supper.”
At first Pan Stanislav wished to answer that to make up he would be in good-humor to-morrow after sleeping; but, seeing genuine anxiety on the young lady’s face, he answered, —
“As I remember, it is not very far; send some one to inquire what has happened.”
“Why not send some one over there, papa?”
But he answered with vexation, “Too much kindness; I will go myself;” and ringing for a servant, he ordered the horses, then stopping for a moment he said, —
“Enfin, anything may happen in the country; some person might come and find my daughter alone. This is not a city. Besides, you are relatives. Thou, Gantovski, may be necessary for me, so have the kindness to come with me.”
An expression of the greatest unwillingness and dissatisfaction was evident on the young man’s face. He stretched his hand to his yellow hair and said, —
“Drawn up at the pond is a boat, which the gardener could not launch. I promised Panna Marynia to launch it; but last Sunday she would not let me, for rain was pouring, as if from a bucket.”
“Then run and try. It is thirty yards to the pond; thou wilt be back in two minutes.”
Gantovski went to the garden in spite of himself. Plavitski, without noticing his daughter or Pan Stanislav, repeated as he walked through the room, —
“Neuralgia in the head; I would bet that it is neuralgia in the head; Gantovski in case of need could gallop for the doctor. That old mope, that councillor without a council, would not send for him surely.” And needing evidently to pour out his ill humor on some one, he added, turning to Pan Stanislav, “Thou’lt not believe what a booby that man is.”
“Who?”
“Yamish.”
“But, papa!” interrupted Marynia.
Plavitski did not let her finish, however, and said with increasing ill humor, “It does not please thee, I know, that she shows me a little friendship and attention. Read Pan Yamish’s articles on agriculture, do him homage, raise statues to him; but let me have my sympathies.”
Here Pan Stanislav might admire the real sweetness of Marynia, who, instead of being impatient, ran to her father, and putting her forehead under his blackened mustaches, said, —
“They will bring the horses right away, right away, right away! Maybe I ought to go; but let ugly father not be angry, for he will hurt himself.”
Plavitski, who was really much attached to his daughter, kissed her on the forehead and said, “I know thou hast a good heart. But what is Gantovski doing?”
And he called through the open gate of the garden to the young man, who returned soon, wearied out, and said, —
“There is water in the boat, and it is drawn up too far; I have tried, and I cannot – ”
“Then take thy cap and let’s be off, for I hear the horses have come.”
A moment later the young people were alone.
“Papa is accustomed to society a little more elegant than that in the country,” said Marynia; “therefore he likes Pani Yamish, but Pan Yamish is a very honorable and sensible man.”
“I saw him in the church; to me he seemed as if crushed.”
“Yes; for he is sickly, and besides has much care.”
“Like you.”
“No, Pan Yamish manages his work perfectly; besides, he writes much on agriculture. He is really the light of these parts. Such a worthy man! She too is a good woman, only to me she seems rather pretentious.”
“An ex-beauty.”
“Yes. And this unbroken country life, through which she has become rather rusty, increases her oddness. I think that in cities oddities of character and their ridiculous sides efface one another; but in the country, people turn into originals more easily, they grow disused to society gradually, a certain old-fashioned way is preserved in intercourse, and it goes to excess. We must all seem rusty to people from great cities, and somewhat ridiculous.”
“Not all,” answered Pan Stanislav; “you, for example.”
“It will come to me in time,” answered Marynia, with a smile.
“Time may bring changes too.”
“With us there is so little change, and that most frequently for the worse.”
“But in the lives of young ladies in general changes are expected.”
“I should wish first that papa and I might come to an agreement about Kremen.”
“Then your father and Kremen are the main, the only objects in life for you?”
“True. But I can help little, since I know little of anything.”
“Your father, Kremen, and nothing more,” repeated Pan Stanislav.
A moment of silence came, after which Marynia asked Pan Stanislav if he would go to the garden. They went, and soon found themselves at the edge of the pond. Pan Stanislav, who, while abroad, had been a member of various sporting clubs, pushed to the water’s edge the boat, which Gantovski could not manage; but it turned out that the boat was leaky, and that they could not row in it.
“This is a case of my management,” said Marynia, laughing; “there is a leak everywhere. And I know not how to find an excuse, since the pond and the garden belong to me only. But before it is launched I will have the boat mended.”
“As I live, it is the same boat in which I was forbidden to sail when a boy.”
“Quite possibly. Have you not noticed that things change less by far, and last longer than people? At times it is sad to think of this.”
“Let us hope to last longer than this moss-covered boat, which is as water-soaked as a sponge. If this is the boat of my childhood, I have no luck with it. In old times I was not permitted to sail in it, and now I have hurt my hand with some rusty nail.”
Saying this, he drew out his handkerchief and began to wind it around a finger of his right hand, with his left hand, but so awkwardly that Marynia said, —
“You cannot manage it; you need help;” and she began to bind up his hand, which he twisted a little so as to increase the difficulty of her task, since it was pleasant for him to feel her delicate fingers touching his. She saw that he was hindering her, and glanced at him; but the moment their eyes met, she understood the reason, and, blushing, bent down as if tying more carefully. Pan Stanislav felt her near him, he felt the warmth coming from her, and his heart beat more quickly.
“I have wonderfully pleasant memories,” said he, “of my former vacations here; but this time I shall take away still pleasanter ones. You are very kind, and besides exactly like some flower in this Kremen. On my word, I do not exaggerate.”
Marynia understood that the young man said that sincerely, a little too daringly perhaps, but more through innate vivacity than because they were alone; she was not offended, therefore, but she began to make playful threats with her pleasant low voice, —
“I beg you not to say pretty things to me; if you do, I shall bind your hand badly, and then run away.”
“You may bind the hand badly, but stay. The evening is so beautiful.”
