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THE YELLOW ROSE
[Illustration: Budapest 1896 17 III Dr. Jokai Mor]
THE YELLOW ROSE
A Novel
by
MAURUS JOKAI
Author of "Black Diamonds," "The Green Book,"
"Eyes like the Sea," "Pretty Michal,"
"Doctor Dumany's Wife," etc.
[Illustration]
London
Jarrold & Sons, 10 & 11, Warwick Lane, E.C.
[All Rights Reserved]
Translated by BEATRICE DANFORD
from the original Hungarian.
Copyright:--
London: Jarrold & Sons.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
CHAPTER I. 7
CHAPTER II. 13
CHAPTER III. 44
CHAPTER IV. 77
CHAPTER V. 94
CHAPTER VI. 97
CHAPTER VII. 107
CHAPTER VIII. 119
CHAPTER IX. 129
CHAPTER X. 147
CHAPTER XI. 165
CHAPTER XII. 181
THE YELLOW ROSE
CHAPTER I.
This happened when no train crossed the Hortobagy, when throughout the
Alfold there was not a railway, and the water of the Hortobagy had not
been regulated. The two-wheeled mill clattered gaily in the little
river, and the otter lived happily among the reeds.
At the first streak of dawn, a horseman came riding across the flat Zam
puszta, which lies on the far side of the Hortobagy River (taking
Debreczin as the centre of the world). Whence did he come? Whither was
he going? Impossible to guess. The puszta has no pathway, grass grows
over hoof-print and cart track. Up to the endless horizon there is
nothing but grass, not a tree, a well pole, or a hut to break the
majestic green plain. The horse went its way instinctively. Its rider
dozing, nodded in the saddle, first on one side, then the other, but
never let slip his foot from the stirrup.
He was evidently a cowherd, for his shirt sleeves were tight at the
wrists--wide sleeves would be in the way among horned beasts. His
waistcoat was blue, his jacket, with its rows of buttons, black, and so
was his cloak, worked in silken flowers, and hanging loosely strapped
over his shoulder. The slackly gathered reins were held in the left
hand, while from the right wrist dangled a thick stock whip. A long
loaded cudgel was fastened to the horn of the saddle in front. In the
wide upturned brim of his hat he wore a single yellow rose. Once or
twice the horse tossed its head, and shaking the fringed saddle cloth,
woke the rider for an instant. His first movement was to his cap, to
feel whether the rose was there, or if perchance it had dropped out.
Then removing the cap, he smelt the flower with keen enjoyment (although
it had no rose's scent), and replacing it well to one side, threw back
his head as if he hoped, in that way, to catch sight of the rose.
Presently (and very probably to keep himself awake) he began humming his
favourite song:
"If only the inn were not so near,
If only I did not find such cheer
In golden quart and copper gill,
I would not linger, my love, until
It ever should grow so late."
But soon his head fell forward again, and he went on nodding, till all
at once, with a frightened start, he saw that the yellow rose was gone!
Turning his horse he commenced searching for the flower amid that sea of
grass, and the yellow blossoms of cinquefoil, and stitchwort, and
water-lilies. At last he found it, stuck it in his hat, and continued
his song:
"An apple-tree stands in my garden small,
The blossoms it bears they hide it all.
Oh there where the full carnation blows,
And a maiden's heart with a true love glows
Is the place where I would be."
And then he went to sleep again, lost the rose, and once more turned to
look for it. When found this time, nestling among a cluster of pink
thistle-heads, he nearly kicked the plant to pieces. Because--because it
had dared to kiss his rose! Then he sprang back to the saddle. Now had
this cowboy been superstitious he would not have decorated his hat for
the third time with the yellow rose. Had he understood bird language, he
would have known what the hundreds of little larks were twittering as
they rose up out of sight, to greet the dawn. "Wear not--wear not your
yellow rose!" But this Hortobagy peasant was hard-headed; he knew
neither fear nor superstition.
He had wasted a good deal of time, however, in seeking this rose--though
possibly more in winning it--for at the watering-hour he should have
reached the Zam herd. By this time the overseer must be cursing him
roundly. Well, let him curse! When one has a yellow rose in one's cap
one is not afraid of an overseer!
The sudden neighing of his horse roused him. A horseman was approaching,
whose steed, a bay with a white star, was evidently an old friend of its
own. The rider was a "csikos," or horseherd, as could be seen by his
wide flying sleeves, white cloak, tulip embroidered, the lasso thrown
around his shoulders, and best of all, by the way he had saddled his
bay--without a girth. The two herdsmen recognised one another, as well
as their horses, and quickening their trot drew close together. Both
men, though distinctly different, were of the true Hungarian type, such
as were the first Hungarians who wandered in from Asia. The cowherd was
broad-shouldered, thickset, and bony, his face roundish and his cheeks
red, while there was something of impudence in the chin, mouth,
eyebrows, and little waxed moustache. His chestnut hair was cropped
short, and his eyes hazel, though at first sight seeming almost green.
The other, the csikos, was strong and square-chested, yet withal
slightly built. He had an oval face, burnt to a golden bronze, with
perfectly regular clear-cut features, eyes dark and shining, and a black
moustache that turned up of itself. Over his shoulders his jet black
hair fell in loose wavy ringlets.
The two horses snorted in friendly fashion, and the csikos was the first
to hail his friend.
"Good day, comrade! You are up early. But maybe you have not slept at
all?"
"Thanks. That's true. There was someone to send me asleep and to wake me
up!"
"And where are you from now?"
"Only from the Mata puszta. I was at the vet's."
"At the vet's? Better kill your horse at once."
"Why?"
"Than let the doctor and his old nag overtake it. He went by in his gig
half an hour ago, jogging along towards the Mata herd."
"Well, well, comrade! The shepherd's white donkey has often beaten your
little bay mare."
"Hm'm. What a pretty yellow rose you have got in your cap, comrade!"
"Who wins one can wear one."
"And may he never repent it!"
The csikos held up his fist with a threatening gesture, till the wide
sleeve slipping back disclosed a muscular sunburnt arm.
Then both riders putting spurs to their horses went their several ways.