here, you take everything from me.  I told you I had come home to do some useful work, in which I might find peace, forgetfulness, and redeem my former sins; only recently I resolved to bring over my father’s collections; and you want me to renounce all that, bid me go away and begin again a wandering, aimless, life.  But have your wish; I will go if you tell me the same three days hence, for I fancy you did not quite understand what all this meant for me.  Now you know, I only ask for three days’ respite, nothing more.”

Aniela covered her eyes with her hands and moaned:  “Oh, my God! my God!”

There was something inexpressibly touching in the low cry, like the wail of a child at its own powerlessness.  There was a moment I felt tempted to promise everything she asked.  But in that wail I saw the promise of a future victory, and I would not lose its fruits.

“Listen to me,” I said, “I will go at once, this very moment, and put seas between us, if you tell me that it is necessary for your own peace of mind.  I speak to you now as a friend, a brother!  I know from my aunt that you loved me; if that love be still alive I will go at your bidding.”

Sincere pain on my part dictated these words; but it was a terrible trap for Aniela, which might wring a confession from her.  If that had happened—­I do not know—­maybe I should have kept my word, but as the heavens are above us, I would have taken her into my arms.  But she only shuddered as if I had touched an open wound; then her face flamed up in anger and indignation.  “No!” she exclaimed with desperate passion, “it is not true! not true!  You may do as you like, go away or stay, but it is not true!” The very passion with which these words were uttered showed me that it might be true.  I felt inclined to tell her so with frank brutality, but I saw my aunt coming towards us.  Aniela was not able to conceal her emotion, and my aunt looking at her asked at once:—­

“What is troubling you, child? what have you two been talking about?”

“Aniela was telling me how grieved her mother was about the sale of Gluchow—­and I do not wonder she took it so much to heart.”

Whether Aniela’s strength was exhausted, or the untruth I made her take a silent part in filled the cup of bitterness to overflowing, she burst into incontrollable sobs that shook her like a reed; my aunt folded her into her arms and hushed her as if she were a little child.

“Aniela, my darling, there is no help for it; let us submit to God’s will.  The hail has ruined five of my farms, and I did not even say a word about it to Chwastowski.”

The mention of the five farms appeared to me so inappropriate, selfish, and futile in presence of Aniela’s tears that it made me quite angry with my aunt.

“Never mind the farms,” I said brusquely, “she is grieved about her mother;” and I went away in sorrow, for I felt I was torturing the woman I loved beyond anything.  I had conquered along the whole line, yet I felt profoundly sad, as if the future were full of unknown terrors.