that she had a violent palpitation of the heart, with stifling and almost a swoon.
Such attacks were frequent with her; and, when this one passed, calmness came back to all faces. On the way to the house, the child held “Pan Stas” by the hand, and in her eyes, usually pensive, there shone deep delight. From time to time she pressed his hand, as if to convince herself that he had come really to Reichenhall and was near her. Pan Stanislav had simply no time to speak to Pani Emilia, or to make an inquiry, for Litka was showing him Reichenhall, and chattering unceasingly; she wanted to show him all the nice places at once. Every moment she said,—
“This is nothing yet. Thumsee is prettier; but we will go there to-morrow.”
Then turning to her mother, “Mamma will let me go, isn’t it true? I can walk much now. It is not far. Mamma will let me go, will she not?”
At moments again she pushed away from Pan Stanislav, and, without dropping his hand, looked at him with her great eyes, repeating,—
“Pan Stas, Pan Stas!”
Pan Stanislav showed her the greatest tenderness, or tenderness as great as an elder brother might show; time after time he chided her good-naturedly,—
“Let the kitten not run so; she will choke.”
And she nestled up to him, pouted, and answered, as if in anger,—
“Hush, Pan Stas!”
Pan Stanislav glanced, however, frequently at the serene face of Pani Emilia, as if desiring to let her know that he wished to converse with her. But there was no opportunity, since she did not like to destroy Litka’s joyousness, and preferred to leave their mutual friend in her possession exclusively. Only after dinner, which they ate in the garden together, amid foliage and the twittering of sparrows, when Vaskovski had begun to tell Litka about birds, and the love which Saint Francis Assisi had felt for them, and the child, with her head on her hand, was lost completely in listening, did Pan Stanislav turn to Pani Emilia and ask,—
“Do you not wish to walk to the end of the garden?”
“I do,” answered she. “Litka, stay here a minute with Pan Vaskovski; we will come back in that time.”
They walked along, and Pani Emilia asked immediately,—
“Well, what?”
Pan Stanislav began to tell; but whether it was that he wished to appear better before Pani Emilia, or that he determined to reckon with that delicate nature, or, finally, that the last thoughts concerning Marynia had attuned him to a note more sensitive than usual, it is sufficient that he changed the affair altogether. He confessed, it is true, to a quarrel with Plavitski, but he was silent touching this, that before his departure from Kremen he had answered Marynia almost with harshness; besides, he did not spare praises on her in his story, and finally he finished,—
“Since that debt became a cause of misunderstanding at once between me and Plavitski,—a thing which must be reflected on Panna Marynia,—I chose to sell it; and just before I left Warsaw, I sold it to Mashko.”
Pani Emilia, who had not the slightest conception of business, and, besides, was of a simplicity truly angelic, remarked,—
“You did well. There should be no such thing as money between you.”
Ashamed to deceive such a simple soul, he answered,—
“True! Or rather the contrary, I think I did badly. Bigiel, too, is of the opinion that it was not well. Mashko may press them; he may put various demands before them; he may offer Kremen for sale. No, that was not a delicate act, nor one to bring us nearer; and I should not have committed it, were it not that I came to the conviction that it was necessary to drive all that out of my head.”
“But no; do not say so. I believe that there is predestination in everything; and I believe, too, that Providence designed you for each other.”
“I do not understand that. If that be true, then I need not do anything, for in every case I must marry Panna Plavitski.”
“I have a woman’s head, and say stupid things, perhaps; but it seems to me that Providence wills and arranges everything for the best, but leaves people freedom. Frequently they do not wish to follow that which is predestined, and this is why so many are unhappy.”
“Maybe. It is difficult, however, to follow anything but one’s own convictions. Reason is like a lantern, which God puts in our hands. Who will assure me meanwhile that Panna Marynia will marry me?”
“I ought to have news from her of your visit to Kremen, and I wonder that so far I have none. I think that a letter will come to-morrow at latest, for we write every week to each other. Does she know of your departure for Reichenhall?”
“She does not. I did not know myself when in Kremen where I should go.”
“That is well; for she will be outspoken, though she would be so in any case.”
The first day’s conversation ended here. In the evening it was decided at Litka’s request to walk to Thumsee, and go in the morning so as to dine at the lake, return in a carriage, or on foot, if Litka was not tired and they could return before sunset. The two men presented themselves at the lady’s villa before nine in the morning. Pani Emilia and Litka were dressed and waiting on the veranda; both were so like visions that Vaskovski, the old pedagogue, was astonished at sight of them.
“The Lord God makes perfect flowers of people sometimes,” said he, pointing at mother and daughter from a distance.
Indeed, Pani Emilia and Litka were admired by all Reichenhall. The first, with her spiritualized, angelic face, appeared the incarnation of love, motherly tenderness, and exaltation; the other, with her great pensive eyes, yellow hair, and features that were almost too delicate, seemed rather the idea of an artist than a living little girl. Bukatski, the decadent, said that she was formed of mist made just a trifle rosy by light. Indeed, there was something in the little maiden, as it were, not of earth, which impression was heightened by her illness and exceeding sensitiveness. Her mother loved her blindly; those who surrounded her loved her also; but attention did not spoil this child, exceptionally sweet by nature.
Pan Stanislav, who visited Pani Emilia in Warsaw a number of times every week, was sincerely attached to both mother and daughter. In a city where woman’s reputation is less respected than anywhere else in the world, scandal was created by this, without the least cause, of course; for Pani Emilia was as pure as an infant, and simply carried her exalted head in the sky as if she knew not that evil existed. She was even so pure that she did not understand the necessity of paying attention to appearances. She received gladly those whom Litka loved; but she refused a number of good offers of marriage, declaring that she needed nothing on earth except Litka. Bukatski alone insisted that Pani Emilia acted on his nerves. Pan Stanislav adapted himself to those azure heights surrounding that crystal woman, so that he never approached her with a thought dimmed by temptation.
Now he answered with simplicity Vaskovski’s remark,—
“In truth, they both seem marvellous.”
And, greeting them, he repeated more or less the same thing to Pani Emilia, as something that in the given case had attracted his attention. She smiled with pleasure,—likely because the praise included Litka,—and, gathering up her skirt for the road, she said,—
“I received a letter to-day, and have brought it to you.”
“May I read it right away?”
“You may; I beg you to do so.”
They set out by the forest road for Thumsee—Pani Emilia, Vaskovski, and Litka in advance, Pan Stanislav a little behind them, his head bent over the letter, which was as follows:—
My dear Emilka,—To-day I have received thy litany of questions, and will answer at once, for I am in haste to share my thoughts with thee. Pan Stanislav Polanyetski went from here on Monday; hence, two