“Be glad that God is not just,” she said. “He is merciful.”
“Where was the mercy for Nada?” He whirled about and ran.
She started to follow, then stood where she was.
Far in the west, the moon still made the lake tremble with radiance; but the east was whitening, stars above yonder treetops were gone, and up there, like a gleam of bronze, an early hawk was at hover. On earth lay a frosty silence.
Tauno and Nada stood side by side on the shore. The vilja’s mood was more grave than formerly. “You are always good to me,” she murmured, “but oh, at this meeting, somehow, kindness has glowed from you. I felt it, I feel it yet, as once I felt sunshine.”
“How could I be other than kind, to you?” His tone was harsh.
In her pensiveness she did not notice, simply squeezed the
fingers he had intertwined with hers. “You make me remember things like sunshine,” she told him. “With you by me, I’m no longer afraid to remember. I know you’ll take away the hurt.”
“You, you help me forget.”
“What? But you’d not want to forget, would you? Your won-
derful sea, that 1 never weary of hearing about. I, though, 1 was no more than a silly girl who stumbled into such woe that she drowned herself. Yes, I did; today I dare know it, though 1 can’t understand how I ever got that bewildered.” She smiled. “And over a boy, a mere boy. You are a man.”
“A merman.”
“Well, whatever, Tauno, dearest. Do you know what’s become
of Mihajlo? I hope he’s cheery, wherever he is.”
“Yes, I hear he’s doing well.”
Her look upon him grew disturbed, for he was grimly staring
out across the water. “You’ve been wounded by something new,” she said. “Can I help? How I wish I can.”
Surprised, for never before had she shown perception so close, he let slip: “I may have to leave soon. My sister, that I’ve told you about, she thinks we should and I fear she’s right.” Deep in his gullet: “As far as her reasoning goes; no further.”
Then Nada had recoiled from him, one hand across her open mouth to bar a shriek, the other palm thrust outward in denial.
N0, no, no. Tauno, why pease, no.
She crumpled together and wept. Not until tonight had he seen
that.
He knelt to enfold her in his arms. The slim form clung, he stroked the loose hair of a maiden, he vowed he had misspoken himself and not for anything, ever, would he be sundered from her, and all the while he knew he was being as crazy as she had been when she ended her bodily life.
VIII
ON the feast of St. Matthew the Apostle, the daughter of Andrei and Agnete was christened by Father Tomislav in his church. The name she had chosen was Dragomir. In Denmark, that had become Dagmar, which means “day maiden.”
Tall she stood before the alter, clad in white as though for her bridal, ruddy locks braided and covered as beseems a woman in the house of God. Beside her were her father, back again from the war for this moment; his wife Jelena; Ivan Subitj and his own lady. The dark little building was full of folk from the zadruga and her kindred of Liri, as many as could pack in. At the forefront stood Luka, with a look of hopeless yearning. At the back was Tauno. Some had said it was not right to let him in, but the priest had replied that he was her brother, and in any case there was inevitably much improvisation in this rite, and besides—who knew?-the spectacle might by sudden grace unseal his breast. He kept arms folded and countenance rigid.
Costly was the incense that scented the air, a gift from the zhupan. Fervent was the special prayer which Tomislav spoke, and radiant his face when he bade everybody kneel, took the water, and signed the brow of Eyjan. “I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
Dagmar gasped and nearly fell. Andrei laid his arms around to steady her. Himself gazing Heavenward, he whispered, “Ag- nete, rejoice.”