"Now look," said Timar to her, opening his hands a little. "Is it not a

pretty little thing? It is as lovely a green as the young grass, and its

tiny foot is like a miniature human hand. How its little heart beats!

How it looks at us with its beautiful wise black eyes with a golden ring

round them! It is not afraid of us!"

Noemi, wavering between fear and curiosity, stretched out a timid hand,

but drew it quickly back.

"Take it, touch it--it is the most harmless creature on God's earth."

She stretched out her hand again, frightened and yet laughing, but

looked into Timar's eyes instead of at the frog, and started when the

cold body came in contact with her reluctant nerves; but then suddenly

she laughed with pleasure, like a child which would not go into the cold

water, and then is glad to be there.

"Now look, he does not move in your hand; he is quite comfortable. We

will take him home and find a glass, put water in, and then place a

small ladder in it which I can cut out of wood. The frog shall be

imprisoned in it, and when he knows that rain is coming he will climb up

the ladder. Give it to me; I will carry it."

"No, no; I will keep him, and carry him home myself."

"Then you must hold your hand shut, or he will jump out; but not too

tight so as to press him. And now let us go, for the dew is falling, and

the grass is wet."

They turned homeward, and Noemi ran on, calling from afar to Therese,

"Mother, mother, see what we have caught! a beautiful bird."

Mamma Therese prepared to scold her daughter severely.

"Don't you know that it is forbidden to catch birds?"

"But such a bird! Herr Timar caught it, and gave it to me. Just peep

into my hand."

Frau Therese threw up her hands when she saw the green tree-frog there.

"Look how it blinks at me with its beautiful eyes!" cried Noemi, beaming

with delight. "We are going to put him in a glass, catch flies for him,

and he will foretell the weather for us. Oh, the dear little thing!" And

she held the frog caressingly to her cheek.

Therese turned to Timar in astonishment. "Sir, you are a magician! Only

yesterday you could have driven this girl out of her senses with such a

creature as that."

But Noemi was quite enthusiastic about the frog. While she laid the

table on the veranda for supper, she delivered a complete batrachian

lecture to her mother on what she had heard from Timar: how useful, as

well as wise, amusing, and interesting frogs were. It was not true that

they spat venom, as people said, that they crept into sleepers' mouths,

sucked the milk of cows, nor that they burst with poison if you held a

spider to them--all this was pure calumny and stupid superstition. They

are our best friends, which guard us at night; those little soft

foot-prints which are visible on the smooth sand round the house, are

the consoling sign of their nightly patrol: it would be ungrateful to

fear them. Timar had meanwhile prepared a small ladder of willow-twigs

for the little meteorologist. He put it in a wide-mouthed bottle, which

he half filled with water, and covered with a pierced paper, through

which the imprisoned prophet was to receive its provision of flies. It

of course went down to the bottom, and declined either to eat or to

talk. Noemi welcomed this as a sign that the weather would remain fine.

"Yes, sir," said Frau Therese, as she brought out the supper to the

little table at which they all sat down; "you have not only worked a

miracle on Noemi, but have really done her a great benefit. Our island

would have been a paradise if Noemi had not been so afraid of frogs. As

soon as ever she saw one she grew quite white and got a fit of

shivering. No human power would have induced her to go across the fence

to where the innumerable frogs croak in the marsh. You have made a new

creature of her, and reconciled her with her home."

"A sweet home!" sighed Timar. Therese sighed aloud.

"Why do you sigh?" Noemi asked.

"You know well enough."

And Timar too knew to whom the sigh was due.

Noemi tried to give a cheerful turn to the conversation. "I took my

aversion to frogs from the time when a naughty boy played me a trick,

and threw a great big toad, as brown as a crust, at me. He said it was a

bull-frog, and that if he struck it with a nettle it would roar like a

bull. He did strike the poor thing, and then it began to moan piteously,

so that I can never forget it, as if it would call for vengeance against

our whole race; and its body was covered with white froth. The bad boy

laughed when he heard the uncanny voice of the poor beast."

"Who was that wicked boy?" asked Michael.

Noemi was silent, and only made an expressively contemptuous movement of

the hand. Timar guessed the name; he looked at Frau Therese, and she

nodded assent--already they can guess each other's thoughts.

"Has he never been here since?"

"Oh, yes; he comes every year, and never ceases tormenting us. He has

found a new way of laying us under contribution. He brings a large boat

with him, and as I can not give him any money, he loads it with honey,

wax, and wool, which he sells. I give him what he wants, that he may

leave us in peace."

"He has not been here lately," said Noemi.

"Oh, nothing has happened to him, I expect his arrival any day."

"If only he would come now!" said the girl.

"Why, you little goose?"

Noemi grew crimson. "Only because I should prefer it."

Timar, however, thought to himself how happy he could make these two

people with a single word. But he gloated over the thought, like a child

which had some sweets given to it, and begins by eating the crumbs

first. He felt an inward impulse to share the joys and sorrows of these

islanders.

Supper was over, the sun had set, and a splendid, still, warm night sunk

on to the fields; the whole sky looked like a transparent silver

veil--no leaf stirred on the trees. The two women went with their

visitor to the top of the great bowlder; from there one had a wide view

over the trees and the reed-beds far across the Danube. The island lay

at their feet like an enchanted lake with variegated waves. The

apple-trees swam in a rosy, and the pomegranates in a dark-red, sea of

blossom; the poplars looked golden-yellow, and the pear-trees white with

snowy bloom, and the waving tips of the plum-trees were radiant in

brazen green. In the midst rose the rock like a lighted cupola, wreathed

with fiery roses, on whose top old lavender bushes formed a thicket.

"Superb!" cried Timar, enchanted with the landscape outspread before

him.

"You should see the rock in summer, when the yellow stonecrop is in

bloom," exclaimed Noemi, eagerly; "it looks as if it had on a golden

robe. The lavender blossom makes a great blue crown for its head."

"I will come and see it," said Timar.

"Really?" The girl stretched out her hand to him joyously, and Michael

fell a warm pressure such as no woman's hand had ever given him in his

life. And then Noemi leaned her head on Therese's shoulder, and threw

her arm round her mother's neck. All nature was under the spell of deep

repose undisturbed by any human sound. Only the monotonous chorus of the

frogs enlivened the deep shadows of the night. The sky offered a curious

spectacle; half was blue, and the other opal green. There are two sides

even to happiness.

"Do you hear what the frogs are saying?" whispered Noemi to her

mother--"'Oh, how dear you are, how sweet!' They say that all night

long--'Oh, you darling, you sweet!'" and she kissed Therese at every

word.

Michael, forgetful of himself and of the whole world, stood on the rock

with folded arms. The young crescent glittered between the quivering

foliage of the poplars, now shining like pure silver; a wonderful new

feeling crept into the man's breast. Was it fear or longing?--memory

aroused or dawning hope?--awakening joy or dying grief?--instinct or

warning?--madness, or that breath of spring which seizes on tree and

grass, and every cold or warm-blooded animal?

Just so had he gazed at the waning moon, which threw its long reflection

on the waves as far as the sinking ship. His involuntary thoughts talked

with the ghostly magnetic rays, and they with him.

"Do you not understand? I will return to-morrow, and then you will

know."

CHAPTER IV.

A SPIDER AMONG THE ROSES.

People who live by their labor have no time to admire the moonlight from

mountain-tops, or to waste in observation on the beauties of nature: the

flocks of sheep and goats already waited to be relieved of their milky

tribute by their mistress. Milking was the office of Frau Therese, and

it was Noemi's duty to cut grass enough for the herd. Timar continued

the conversation meanwhile with his back leaning against the

stable-door, and lighting his pipe just as the countryman does when he

is courting the peasant girl.

The great boiler must be refilled with fresh rose-infusion, and then

they can all go to bed. Timar begged for the bee-house to sleep in,

where Frau Therese spread him a couch of fresh hay, and Noemi arranged

his pillow. Very little was needed to woo him to slumber. Hardly had he

lain down before sleep closed his eyes; he dreamed all night that he had

become a gardener's boy, and was making endless rose-water.

When he awoke the sun was already high in the heavens. The bees buzzed

round him busily; he had overslept himself. That some one had already

been here he guessed, because near his couch lay all the toilet

necessaries he had brought in his knapsack. A poor traveler who is used

to shaving every day feels very uncomfortable when unable to go through

that operation; his mind is as much disturbed by that confounded stubble

as if it were a prick of conscience. When he was ready, the women

already awaited him at breakfast, which consisted of bread and milk, and

then they went to the day's work of rose-gathering.

Michael was, as he desired, set to rose-crushing. Noemi picked off the

petals, and Frau Therese was busy with the boiler. Timar told Noemi all

about roses. Not that they were like her cheeks, at which she would have

burst out laughing, but he imparted to her what he had learned about

them in his travels: learned things which Noemi listened to with

attention, and which instilled into her a still greater respect for

Timar. With young and innocent maidens a clever, intelligent man has a

great advantage.

"In Turkey they use rose-water in eating and drinking. There, too, whole

groves of roses are planted; there beads are made of roses pressed into

the form of balls and strung together: that is why they are called

rosaries. In the East there is one lovely kind of rose from which attar

is made; it is the balsam rose, and grows on trees of ten feet high,

whose branches are bent to the ground by their snow-white burden. Their

scent surpasses that of any other kind; if you throw the petals into

water and set them in the sun, in a very short time the surface is

rainbow-colored with the oil that the petals exude. It is the same with

the evergreen rose, which does not shed its leaves in winter. The Ceylon

and Rio roses dye the hair and beard light, and so fast that they do not

lose their color for years; for this purpose alone there is a

considerable trade in them. The leaves of the Moggor rose stupefy; you

are intoxicated by their scent as if with beer. The Vilmorin rose has

the property that, it if is bitten by a certain insect which is

obnoxious to it, it throws out great tubers, which are said to send a

crying child to sleep if put under its pillow."

"Have you been everywhere where roses grow?" asked Noemi.

"Well, I have been a good deal about in the world. I have been to

Vienna, Paris, and Constantinople."

"Is that far from here?"

"If one traveled on foot one would get to Vienna in thirty days from

here, and to Constantinople in forty days."

"But you went in a ship."

"That takes longer still; for I should have to take in cargo on the

way."

"For whom?"

"For the owner I was traveling for."

"Is Herr Brazovics still your principal?"

"Who told you about him?"

"The steersman who came with you."

"No longer now--Herr Brazovics is dead."

"Dead! so he is dead? And his wife and daughter?" interrupted Frau

Therese, quickly.

"They have lost everything by his death."

"Ah, just God! Thy avenging hand has reached them!"

"Mother, good mother!" cried Noemi, with gentle entreaty.

"Sir, there is one more thing you ought to know. When that blow fell on

us, when I had implored Brazovics on my knees not to drive us to

beggary, it struck me that this man had a wife and child. I determined

to find out his wife and tell her my misery--she would help me and take

pity on us. I took my child in my arms and traveled in the hottest part

of the summer to Komorn. I sought her out in her fine large house, and

waited at the door, for they would not let me in. At last Frau Brazovics

came out with her five-year-old daughter. I fell on my knees, and begged

her for God's sake to take compassion on us, and be our mediator with

her husband. The woman seized my arm and thrust me down the step; I

tried, in falling, to protect my child with both arms, that it might not

be hurt, and struck my head against one of the two pillars which support

the balcony. Here is the scar still visible. The little girl laughed

aloud when she saw me limping away and heard my baby cry. That is why I

sing 'Hosanna,' and blessed be the hand which thrust her away from the

steps down which she cast us."

"Oh, mother, don't talk so!"

"So they have come to misery? Have they become beggars themselves--the

haughty, purse-proud people? Do they wear rags, and beg in vain at the

doors of their former friends?"

"No, dear lady," said Michael; "some one has been found to take care of

them."

"Madman!" cried Therese, with passionate force. "Why should he put a

spoke in fate's wheel? How can he dare to receive into his home the

curse which will ruin him?"

Noemi ran to her mother and covered her mouth with both hands; then she

fell on her neck and sealed her lips with kisses. "Dearest mother, do

not say such things. Do not utter curses; I can not bear to hear

them--take them back. Let me kiss away the dreadful words from your

lips."

Therese recovered herself under her daughter's caresses. "Do not be

afraid, silly child," she said, shaking her head. "Curses fall idly on

the air. They are only a bad, superstitious habit of us old women. God

never thinks of noticing the curses of such worms as we are, and keeping

them till the day of judgment. My curses will take effect on no one."

"It is already fulfilled on me," thought Timar. "I am the madman who

received them into his house."

Noemi tried to bring the subject of roses back. "Tell me, Herr Timar,

how could you get such a Moggor rose whose scent stupefies?"

"If you wish, I will bring you one."

"Where do they grow?"

"In Brazil."

"Is that far?"

"The other side of the world."

"Must you go by sea?"

"Two months continuously at sea."

"And why would you go?"

"On business--and to fetch you a Moggor rose."

"Then do not bring me any."

Noemi left the kitchen, and Michael noticed that tears were in her eyes.

She only returned to the distillery when she had filled her basket with

rose leaves, and shook them out on to the rush-matting, where they made

a large hill.

The boiling of yesterday's rose-essence lasted till midday, and after

breakfast Frau Therese said to her guest that there was not much work

for to-day, and that they could go for a walk in the island. One who was

so great a traveler might be able to give good advice to the islanders,

as to what vegetables they might usefully and profitably introduce into

their little Eden. Frau Therese said to the dog, "Stop here and watch

the house! Lie down in the veranda and don't stir!" Almira understood

and obeyed.

Michael disappeared with his companions among the plantations.

Hardly had they vanished into the wood before Almira began to prick her

ears uneasily and to growl angrily. She scented something. She shook her

head, rose from time to time, but lay down again. A man's voice became

audible, which sung a German song, whose refrain was, "She wears, if I

can trust my eyes, a jet-black camisole." The person coming from the

shore sings, of course, on purpose to attract the attention of the

inhabitants. He is afraid of the great dog--but it does not bark.

The new arrival appears from among the shadows of the rose-arbor. It is

Theodor Krisstyan.

This time he is attired like a fashionable dandy, in a dark-blue tunic

with golden buttons; and his overcoat hangs on his arm. Almira does not

stir at his approach. She is a philosopher, and reasons, if I fly at

this man, the end of it will be that I shall be tied up and not he. I

shall do better to keep my opinion of him to myself, and to look on in

armed neutrality at what he does. Theodor drew near confidently, and

whistling to his huge black enemy. "Your servant, Almira. Come,

Almirakin, you dear old dog--where are your ladies? Bark a bit to please

me. Where is our dear Mamma Therese?" Almira could not be induced to

answer.

"Look, then, little doggie, what I have got for you--a piece of meat;

there, eat it. What? Don't you want it? You fancy it's poisoned, you

fool? Gobble it up, you beauty!" But Almira would not even sniff at the

piece of meat, until Narcissa (it is well known that cats have no

decision of character) crept up to it, which made Almira angry, and she

began to scratch a large hole in the ground; there she buried the meat,

like a careful dog which makes provision for a day of necessity.

"Well, what a distrustful beast it is," murmured Theodor to himself. "Am

I to be allowed to go in?"

But that was not allowed. Almira did not say so in words, but she curled

her lip to let him see the beautiful white teeth underneath.

"Stupid creature, you don't mean to bite me? Where can the women be?

Perhaps in the distillery?"

Theodor went in and looked round--he found no one. He washed his face

and hands in the steaming rose-water, and it gave him especial pleasure

to think that so he had spoiled the work of a whole day.

When he wanted to come out of the distillery, he found the entrance

barred by the dog. Almira had laid herself down across the threshold and

showed him her white teeth. "Indeed, so now you won't let me come out,

you churl? Very well, I can wait here till the women return. I can find

a little place to rest on." And so saying he threw himself on the heap

of rose leaves Noemi had turned out. "Ah, what a good bed--a Lucullan

couch! Ha! ha!"

The women came back with Michael from their walk through the island.

Therese saw with uneasiness that Almira was not lying in the veranda,

but was guarding the door of the distillery.

When Theodor heard Therese's voice, he thought of a good trick to play.

He buried himself in the rose leaves, so that nothing was to be seen of

him; and when Noemi, with the words, "What have you here, Almira?"

looked in at the door, he put his head out and grinned at her: "Your own

beloved bridegroom is here, lovely Noemi!"

Noemi, starting back, screamed aloud.

"What is it?" asked the mother, hastening up.

"There, among the roses . . ." stammered the girl.

"Well, what among the roses? A spider?"

"Yes . . . a spider . . ."

Theodor sprung laughing from his bed of roses, and like one who has

surprised his dear ones with a capital joke, rushed with shouts of

laughter to Mamma Therese, embraced her, without noticing her angry

looks or Noemi's disgusted face, and kissed her several times.

"Ha! ha! Did I take you by surprise? You sweet dear mamma, be happy:

your dear son-in-law is here; he has risen like a fairy from the roses.

He! he!" Then he turned toward Noemi, but she slipped away from his

embrace, and then first Theodor Krisstyan was aware of the presence of a

third person--Michael Timar.

This discovery damped his joviality, which indeed was only put on, and

for this reason it was disagreeable to see some one with whom most

unpleasant recollections were connected.

"Your servant, Mr. Supercargo!" he addressed Timar. "We meet here again?

You have not any more Turkish pashas in your ship? He! he! Don't be

afraid, Mr. Supercargo."

Timar shrugged his shoulders and said nothing. Then Theodor turned to

Noemi, and put his arm caressingly round the girl's waist, who in

answer to it pushed him away and turned her face from him.

"Leave the girl alone!" said Therese shortly, in a severe tone. "What do

you want now?"

"There, there--don't turn me out of the house before I have got in. Is

it not permissible to embrace my little bride? Noemi won't break if I

look at her? What are you so afraid of me for?"

"We have good reason," said Therese, sullenly.

"Don't be angry, little mother. This time I have not come to get

anything from you: I bring you something--a great, great deal of money.

Ho! ho! a heap of money! So much that you could buy back your fine house

that you once had, and the fields and gardens on the Ostrova Island--in

short, all that you have lost. You shall have it all again. I know that

I, as a son, owe you the duty of making good all that you lost by my

poor father's fault."

By this time Theodor had become so sentimental that he was shedding

tears, but it left the spectators unmoved: they believed as little in

his tears as in his laughter.

"Let us go in, into the room," said he, "for what I have to say is not

for every ear."

"Don't talk such nonsense," Frau Therese said, angrily. "What do you

mean by 'every ear' here on this lonely island? You can say anything

before Timar: he is an old friend--but go on. I know you are hungry, and

that's what it all means."

"Ah, you dear good mother! how well you know your Theodor's little

weakness of always having a splendid appetite. And you do so thoroughly

understand the exquisite Greek _cuisine_, at sight of which one would

wish to be all stomach. There is no such housekeeper in the world as you

are. I have dined with the Sultan of Turkey, but he has no cook who can

compare with you."

Frau Therese had the weakness of being sensitive to praise of her

housekeeping. She never grudged good things to any guest, and even her

deadly enemy she could not send away empty.

Theodor wore a so-called Figaro hat, which was then in fashion, and

managed that the low door-way of the little cottage should knock it off

his head, in order to be able to say, "Oh, these confounded new-fangled

hats! but that's sure to happen when one is used to high door-ways. In

my new house they are all folding-doors, and such a splendid view over

the sea from my rooms."

"Have you then really a home anywhere?" asked Therese as she laid the

table.

"I should think so! At Trieste, and in the finest palace in the town. I

am agent to the principal shipbuilder."

"At Trieste?" interrupted Timar. "What's his name?"

"He turns out sea-going vessels," said Theodor, casting a contemptuous

look at Timar. "He is not merely a barge-builder--and for that matter

his name is Signor Scaramelli."

Timar was silent. He did not care to let out that he himself was having

a large vessel built for the ocean trade by Scaramelli.

"I am just rolling in money!" bragged Theodor. "Millions and millions

pass through my hands. If I were not such an honest man, I could save

thousands for myself. I have bought something for my dear little Noemi,

which I once promised her. What did I promise? A ring. What sort of a

stone? A ruby, an emerald? Well, it is a brilliant, a four-carat

brilliant: it shall be our betrothal ring. Here it is." Theodor felt in

his breeches-pocket, fumbled a long time, made at last a terrible

grimace, and stared on the ground. "It is lost!" groaned he, turning his

pocket out, and showing the treacherous hole through which the valuable

engagement-ring with the four-carat diamond had escaped. Noemi broke

into a hearty laugh. She had such a lovely ringing voice when she

laughed, and one seldom had a chance of hearing it.

"But it is not lost!" cried Theodor; "you may spare your laughter, fair

lady!" and he began to draw off his boot--and there really was the ring,

which fell out of the turned-over top of the boot on to the tray.

"There it is! A good horse does not run away. My little Noemi's

engagement-ring has never left me. Look now, Mamma Therese--your future

son-in-law has brought this for his bride; there, what do you say to

that? And you, Mr. Underwriter, if you understand these things, what do

you value this diamond at?"

Timar looked at the stone and said, "Paste. In the trade it is worth

about five groschen."

"Hold your tongue, Supercargo! What do you know about it? You understand

hay and maize, and perhaps never saw a diamond in your life."

And so saying, he placed the despised ring, which Noemi would on no

account wear, on his little finger, and was busy all through the meal in

showing it off. The young gentleman had a fine appetite. During dinner

he talked very big about what a gigantic establishment this

shipbuilder's was, and how many million square feet of wood were

required every year. There were hardly any trees left in the

neighborhood fit for building ships. They had to be brought from

America. There were only a few left in Sclavonia. Only after he had

dined well, he came out with the principal affair.

"And now, my dear lady, I will tell you what I have come about."

Therese looked at him with anxious distrust.

"Now I will make you all happy--you, as well as Noemi and myself. And

besides, I can do Signor Scaramelli a good turn. That's enough for me.

Says Scaramelli to me one day, 'Friend Krisstyan, I say, you will have

to go off to Brazil.'"

"If only you were there now!" sighed Therese.

Theodor understood and smiled. "You must know that from there comes the

best wood for shipbuilding. The makaya and the murmuru tree, used for

the keel; the poripont and patanova, from which the ribs are made; the

royoc and grasgal-trees, which do not decay in water; the

'mort-aux-rats'-tree, the iron-wood for rudder shafts, and sour-gum-tree

for paddle-floats; also the teak and mahogany for ship's fittings,

and--"

"Pray, stop with your ridiculous Indian names," interrupted Therese;

"you think you will turn my head by reeling out a whole botanical

catalogue, so that I sha'n't see the wood for the trees. Tell me why--if

there are such incomparable trees in Brazil--why you are not there

already?"

"Yes, but that's just where my grand idea comes in. Why, said I to

Signor Scaramelli, should I travel to Brazil when we have plenty of wood

close by even better than that of Brazil? I know an island in the middle

of the Danube which is provided with a virgin forest, and where grow

splendid trees, which can compete with those of South America."

"I thought so," murmured Therese to herself.

"The poplars take the place of the patanovas; the nut-trees far surpass

mahogany, and those we have in hundreds on our island."

"My nut-trees!"

"The wood of the apple-tree is much better than that of the

jaskarilla-tree."

"Indeed; so you have already disposed of my apple-trees!"

"Plum-tree wood need not fear comparison with the best teak."

"And those too you would cut down and sell to Signor Scaramelli?" asked

Frau Therese, quietly.

"We shall get a mint of money for them; at least ten gulden for each

tree. Signor Scaramelli has given me _carte blanche_. He has left me

free to make a contract with you. I have it in my pocket; you have only

to sign and our fortune is made. And when once the useless trees here

are cut down, we will not stay here, but go and live in Trieste. We will

plant the whole island with 'Prunus mehaleb'--you know they make Turkish

pipe-stems from it. This tree requires no care; we need only keep one

man here; he would sell the yearly crop of tubular stems to the

merchants, and we should receive five hundred ducats for every rood--for

ten roods five thousand ducats."

Timar could not suppress a smile. Speculations of such rashness had not

occurred even to him.

"Well, what is there to laugh at?" Theodor said, in a lordly manner. "I

know all about these things."

"And I understand, too," said Therese, "what you want. As often as my

unlucky star brings you here, you appear like a bird of prey, and I may

be sure you have some malicious scheme against me. You know that you

will not find any money with me, but you help yourself. Once before you

came with a boat and carried off what we had saved for our own use, and

turned it into money. Now you are no longer satisfied with the fruit of

which you took tithes more jealously than any usurious pasha. You want

to sell the trees, too, over my head--those trees, my treasures, my only

friends in the world, which I have planted and nurtured, which keep me,

and under which I can rest. Fy! for shame! to tell me such stories of

getting money for these trees, to build ships of them. For certain, you

would only cut them down to sell them for a trifle to the nearest

charcoal-burner--that is your splendid plan. Who are you going to take

in? Not me, who know your cunning. I tell you, have done with your

foolish tricks, or you may yet learn what is the use of Turkish

pipe-stems!"

"No, no, Mamma Therese, I am not thinking of joking; you may be sure I

did not come here for nothing: remember what day it is. It is my

_fete_-day, and the day of my little darling Noemi's birth. You know my

poor father and hers betrothed us to each other when we were little;

they settled that as soon as Noemi was seventeen we should be united. I

should have come from the ends of the earth for such a day as this. Here

I am, with all the warmth of my loving heart; but people can not live on

love alone. It is true I get good pay from Signor Scaramelli, but that

goes to the splendid furniture of my house in Trieste. You must give me

something with Noemi, so that she may make an appearance consistent with

her rank. The bride can not enter the bridegroom's house with empty

hands; she is your only daughter, and has a right to require of you that

you should provide for her handsomely."

Noemi had sat down sulkily in a corner of the room, and remained with

her back to the company and her head against the wall.

"Yes," continued Theodor. "You must give Noemi a dowry. Do not be so

selfish. Keep half your trees, for all I care, and leave the other half

to me; where and how I sell them is my affair. Give Noemi the nut-trees

for a dowry: for those I have, really, a certain purchaser."

Therese had come to the end of her patience. "Listen, Theodor. I do not

know whether to-day is your _fete_ or not, but one thing I do know, that

it is not Noemi's birthday. And yet more surely I know that Noemi will

not marry you, if you were the only man on God's earth."

"Ha! ha! leave that to me--I am not afraid."

"Just as you like; but now, once for all, you shall never have my

splendid nut-trees, if Noah's ark was to be built of them. One single

tree I will give you, and that you can use for the end you will come to

sooner or later. You say to-day is your _fete_-day, and that would be a

good day to do it."

At these words Theodor rose, but not to go on his way--only to turn the

chair he had been sitting on, and place himself astride on it, with his

elbows on its back, and looking into Therese's eyes he said with

provoking coolness--

"I must say you are very kind, Mamma Therese; you seem to have forgotten

that if I say one word--"

"Say it then! You can speak freely before this gentleman: he knows

everything."

"And that this island does not belong to you?"

"Yes."

"And that it would only cost me one word, either at Vienna or

Constantinople--"

"To make us homeless and shelterless and beggars."

"Yes; I can do that!" cried Theodor Krisstyan, who, now showing his true

colors, looked with greedy eyes at Therese and drew a paper from his

pocket, which he held toward her. "Here is the agreement, and here is

the date. You know what I can do, and I will do it, if you do not sign

this contract immediately." Therese trembled.

"No, sir," said Timar, laying his hand gently on Theodor's shoulder.

"You can not do that."

"What?" asked he, throwing his head back defiantly.

"Lay information anywhere of the existence of this island, and of its

unauthorized occupation."

"Why should I not do it?"

"Because another has already done it."

"You!" cried Theodor, raising his fist to Michael.

"You!" exclaimed Therese, pressing her hands to her brow.

"Yes; I," said Timar, steadily and calmly. "I have given information

both at Vienna and in Constantinople, that here close to the Ostrova

Island a nameless and uninhabited islet has been formed in the course of

the last fifty years. Then I begged of the Vienna Government as well as

of the Sublime Porte to leave me the usufruct of the islet for ninety

years: as an acknowledgement of ownership, the Hungarian Government is

to receive every year a sack of nuts, and the Sublime Porte a box of

dried fruit. The patent in question and the imperial firman are already

in my hands." Timar drew the two deeds out of the envelope he had

received at his Baja office, and which had, so much pleased him. When he

became a great man, he had determined to procure comfort and peace for

this poor storm-driven family. That sack of nuts and box of fruit had

cost him large sums. "But," he concluded, "I hastened to transfer the

rights thus obtained to the present inhabitants and colonists. Here is

the official deed of settlement."

Therese fell speechless at Michael's feet. She could only sob and kiss

the hands of the man who had freed her from this incarnate curse, and

driven away the phantom which oppressed her heart by day and night.

Noemi held her two hands on her heart, as if afraid that it would cry

aloud, and betray what her lips suppressed.

"You see then, Herr Theodor Krisstyan," said Michael, "that you have

nothing to get on this island for the next ninety years."

Pale with rage, Theodor screamed, foaming at the mouth, "And who are you

who dare to meddle in the affairs of this family? What gives you a right

to do it?"

"My love!" cried Noemi suddenly, with all the strength of overpowering

passion, while she fell on Michael's breast, and threw her arms round

his neck.

Theodor said not a word more. He shook his fist in silent rage at Timar,

and rushed out of the room. In his look lay that hatred which does not

hesitate to use a dagger or to mix poison. But even when he was gone,

the girl still held Timar's neck in her embrace.

CHAPTER V.

OUT OF THE WORLD.

What induced Noemi to throw herself on Timar's breast and acknowledge

openly that she loved him? Did she wish thus to banish forever the man

whose presence was hateful to her, and make it impossible for him any

longer to desire her as his wife? Had this child of solitude no idea of

the etiquette which demands that such feelings should be concealed in a

maiden's breast? Or did she confuse love with the gratitude she could

not help feeling toward the man who had freed her and her mother from

anxiety, and won for their lifelong enjoyment the possession of this

little paradise? Perhaps she was alarmed when she saw her tormentor

feeling for a weapon, and had instinctively thrown herself on her

benefactor's breast to protect him from attack. She might have thought

that this poor ship's captain, whose mother was as poor as her mother,

had said that he had "no one" in the world; why should she not be "some

one" to him? Would he have returned here if something had not attracted

him, and if he cared for her why should she not love him?

No, no; no explanation, no reason, no excuse was needed; here was

nothing but pure, unselfish love.

She did not know why, she asked for no reason--she only loved. She loved

without inquiring whether it was allowed by God and man, whether it

would bring her joy or sorrow. She did not long to be happy or great,

her lord's liege lady, crowned with the silver crown, and blessed by the

Triune God--she only loved. She never thought of humiliation with bent

head, she asked neither the protection of a husband nor the pity and

forgiveness of God--she only loved. Such was Noemi.

Poor Noemi! what you must suffer for this! . . . Michael had for the

first time in his life heard it said that some one loved him. From real

inclination, as a poor ship's captain in another man's service, without

selfish interest, for his own sake alone. A miraculous warmth overflowed

his heart, the warmth which will awake the dead from their long sleep at

the resurrection. He raised his hands timidly and trembling to the

shoulders of the girl, and asked, with softly whispering voice, "And

that is really true?"

The maiden moved the head which lay on his heart and nodded to him.

"Yes; it is true."

Michael looked at Therese. She came toward them, and laid her hand on

Noemi's head, as if to say, "Well, then, love him!" It was a solemn and

silent scene, in which each could hear the heart-beats of the other.

Therese broke the silence first. "If only you knew," she said to Timar,

"how many tears the girl has shed for you. If you had seen her go daily

up the rock, and look for hours over the quiet landscape, where you

vanished from her sight. If you had heard her whisper your name in her

dreams!"

Noemi made a deprecating gesture with her hand, as if to entreat her

mother to betray no more. But Michael only noticed it by drawing her

closer to himself. See, here at last is one being in the wide world who

knows how to love him; who in the "Man of Gold" loves the man and not

the gold. And it seemed to him as if he had been in banishment, as long

as he had walked through the world, and only now had found a new earth

and new heaven, and in them a new life. He bent to kiss the girl's brow,

and felt her heart throb against his.

And around him were only springing flowers, fragrant shrubs, humming

bees, and singing birds, which all proclaimed "Thou shalt love!"

Speechless bliss led them out into the air, and when they looked into

each other's eyes, both thought, "How wonderful! thine eyes are the same

color as mine." The brilliant sky and the fragrant earth had agreed to

inthrall them--their own inclination completed the spell. When a child

who has never loved, and a man who has never been loved, meet each

other, how is it likely to be with them?

The day drew to a close, but they had not yet been satisfied with joy.

The evening fell, the moon rose. Noemi led Michael to the top of the

rock, whence she had once looked after the departing guest with tears.

There Timar sat down among the sweet lavender; Noemi placed herself

beside him, and leaned her curly golden head on the arm of the man,

whose enraptured face was raised to the sky. Therese stood behind them

and looked down smiling. The silver moon shone radiant from the

golden-dusky vault, and the tempting phantom spoke, "Behold this

treasure! it belongs to you. You found it; it gave itself to you and is

yours. You had obtained all except love, only that was wanting, and now

you have found that too. Take, enjoy to the dregs the cup which the

Almighty has given you. You will become a new man! The man whom a woman

loves becomes a demi-god. You are happy; you are beloved." . . . Only

the inner voice whispered, "You are a thief!"

* * * * *

With the first kiss a new world had arisen for Michael; a wonderful

change had taken place in his soul. The first feeling which overpowered

him was a secret dread, a fear of happiness; should he submit to it or

fly from it? Does a blessing or a curse rest on it? does it bring life

or death? what follows on it? What deity will answer these questions?

The flower is answered when it unfolds its cup, the butterfly when it

opens its wings, the bird when it builds its nest; but not the man when

he asks, "Is it good or evil to follow the call of my heart?"

And his heart said, "Look in her eyes!" It is not sinful to be

transported by a glance of the eye, and this intoxication lasts. Michael

forgot the whole world when he looked in her eyes; a new creation arose

for him, full of bliss and joy and earthly happiness. The exquisite

presentiment stupefied him.

Since his youth no one had loved him. He had once hoped for affection,

struggled for it with might and main, and when he thought he was at the

goal, his joy was turned to ashes by crushing disappointment. And here

to his face he is told that he is beloved. Everything tells him so; the

animals which lick his hand, the lips which betray the heart's secret,

the blush and the glance which tell more than the mouth. Even she who

ought to guard the secret jealousy, the mother of the loving girl, even

she betrays it--"She loves so passionately that it will be her death!"

No; that it shall not be. . . .

Timar passed on the island one of those days which outweigh an eternity.

A day full of endless feeling--a day of self-forgetfulness and waking

dreams, when what a man has longed for in visions of the night actually

stands before him.

But when on the third night, after a season of ideally rapturous

intercourse, he returned from the moonlit world of enchantment to his

solitary dark bedroom, the inward accuser, who would not be silenced or

lulled to sleep, called him to account.

This voice would not let him sleep. He was restless all night, and dawn

found him out under the trees; his decision was made--he would go away

and not come back for a long time, till he was forgotten. Till he also

had forgotten that he had lived three days in Elysium, that he had been

permitted to know happiness.

When the sun rose, he had been round the whole island, and when he got

back he found Frau Therese and her daughter busy preparing breakfast.

"I must go away to-day," said Michael to Therese.

"So soon," whispered Noemi.

"He has a great deal to do," said Therese to her daughter.

This was only natural enough. A captain is only a servant who must look

after his affairs, and not waste the time for which he must account to

his employer.

He was not pressed to stay--it was quite right that he should leave. He

will come back, and they have plenty of time to wait for him--one year,

two years, till the hour of death, till eternity. But Noemi did not

touch her glass of new milk: she could not have swallowed a drop. He

must not be detained; if he has business he must go and attend to it.

Therese herself brought out his gun and knapsack, and said to Noemi,

"You carry the gun, that Almira may not hurt it. Go with him to the

boat."

Timar walked silently beside Noemi; the girl's hand rested in his;

suddenly she stood still. Michael did so too, and looked in her eyes.

"You want to ask me something?" he said. The girl thought awhile, then

she said, "No; nothing." Timar had learned to read her eyes; he guessed

her thoughts. Noemi wanted to ask him, "Tell me, my beloved, my all;

what has become of the white-faced girl who once came with you to the

island, and was called Timea?"

But she said nothing, only walked on silently with his hand in hers.

Michael's heart was heavy when they said good-bye. When Noemi gave him

his gun she whispered to him, "Take care of yourself, that no harm may

come to you;" and when she pressed his hand, she looked at him once more

with those heavenly blue and soulful eyes, and said, with a voice of

entreaty, "You will return?"

Michael was fascinated by the entreating voice. He pressed the child to

him and murmured--"Why don't you say 'Wilt not _thou_ return?' Why am I

never to hear _thou_?"

The girl cast down her eyes and gently shook her head. "Do say 'thou,'"

he begged once more. She hid her face on Michael's breast, but would not

do his will.

"So you can not, or will not, call me 'thou?'--one single word--are you

afraid?" The maiden covered her face with both hands, and was silent.

"Noemi, I beg of thee say that one little word and make me happy. Do not

let me go without it."

But she shook her head silently and could not utter it.

"Then farewell to you, dear Noemi," faltered Michael, and sprung into

his boat. The rushes of the marsh soon hid the island from his gaze. But

as long as he could distinguish its woods, he still saw the girl leaning

on an acacia-tree, sadly gazing out with her head on her hand; but she

did not call after him the desired word.

CHAPTER VI.

THE TROPIC OF CAPRICORN.

After Michael had rowed across to the other side, he gave over the boat

to a fisherman to keep till he came back. But would he ever come back?

He wished to go on foot as far as the wharf, where Fabula was busy with

the lading of his ships. It is hard work to row against the stream, and

in Timar's present frame of mind he was in no mood for muscular

exertion; there was in his heart a stronger current, to contend against

which he needed all his strength.

The district through which he had to pass was a widespread alluvial

deposit of the Danube, like those found in the lower reaches of the

river. The capricious stream has burst some dam, and altered its course.

Every year it tears portions from one bank and carries them over to the

other. On this deposit the trees uprooted with it form a new growth, and

through this dark natural forest wind lonely paths--the roads of the

osier-cutters and fisher-folk. Here and there you come to a forsaken hut

with a shingle roof whose walls are covered with creepers. These

sometimes shelter a snipe-shooter, conceal a robber, or form the lair of

a wolf and her cubs.

Michael, deep in thought, strode silently on through this desert: he had

thrown his gun over his shoulder.

"You can never return here," said Timar to himself. "If it is difficult

to carry through one lie with consistency, how can you manage two?--two

contradictory lies? If you accept Noemi's love, you will be inseparably

bound to her, and must live henceforth two lives, both full of deceit.

. . . You are no boy, to be passion's tool, and perhaps it is not

passion which you feel, possibly merely a passing desire or only

gratified vanity.

"Then the rejected bridegroom--how is he to be got rid of? He would kill

you, or you him--a delightful relationship indeed to end on the

scaffold!"

He took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow; it soothed his

burning temples to let the breeze fan them.

"Am I never to be happy?" he sighed. "All these years I have worked

early and late for other people; why should I be so wretched? I adored

my wife, and her coldness has brought me to despair; but Noemi loves me.

That can no longer be altered, and in the island, outside the world, the

laws of society and religion have no power. . . . I could easily pay off

that fellow who comes between us, and then I could live here in peace

for half the year. Timea would only suppose that I was away on

business."

The wind of spring rustled through the young poplar stems. Here, where

the path turned, stood a hut made of interwoven osier-twigs, whose

entrance was concealed by brambles. Timar stood still and put on his

hat. At that moment two shots rattled close to him, the two balls

whistling over his head with that unpleasant sound which resembles the

buzz of an approaching wasp or the clang of an aeolian harp. Michael's

hat, pierced by two balls, flew from his head into the bushes. Both

shots came from the ruined hut. For the first instant the shock

paralyzed his limbs; they came like two answers to his secret thoughts.

A shudder ran through his whole body: the next moment rising fury took

the place of fear; he lowered his gun, cocked both barrels, and rushed

angrily toward the hut, from which the smoke of the discharged weapon

poured through the crevices.

Before the muzzle of his gun stood a trembling man--Theodor Krisstyan.

His discharged pistol was still in his hand, he held it now as a

protection to his head, and shook so that every limb quivered.

"It is you--you!" cried Michael.

"Mercy!" stammered the trembling wretch, throwing away his pistol, and

stretching both hands entreatingly to Michael: his knees knocked

together, and he could hardly keep his feet; his face was pale as death,

his eyes dull, he was more dead than alive. Timar recovered his

composure: fear and anger had left him--he lowered his gun. "Come

nearer," he said to the assassin.

"I dare not," faltered he, clinging to the wood-work. "You will kill

me."

"Don't be afraid; I don't want your life. There"--he discharged his gun

in the air--"now I am unarmed, and you have no cause to fear." Theodor

crept out. "You wanted to kill me," said Michael. "You wretched

creature! I pity you!"

The young rascal dared not look at him.

"Theodor Krisstyan, so young, and already a murderer!--but you could not

do it. Examine yourself; you are not naturally bad, but your soul has

been envenomed: I know your history, and I make excuses. You have good

capacities, and use them badly--you are a vagabond and a swindler; does

such a life content you? Impossible!--begin afresh--shall I help you to

a post in which you can, with your education, honestly support yourself?

I have many connections: it is in my power: there is my hand on it."

The murderer fell on his knees before the man he would have killed,

seized the offered hand with both his own, and covered it, sobbing, with

kisses.

"Oh, sir, you are the first man who has ever spoken thus to me; let me

kneel at your feet! From boyhood I have been chased from every door like

a dog without a master; I had to steal or beg every morsel I eat; no one

gave me a hand but those who were worse than myself, and who led me

further astray. I have led a shameful, miserable life, full of deceit

and treachery, and I tremble before any one who knows me; and you hold

out a hand to me--you, for whom I have been lying in wait like a

brigand, you will save me from myself! Let me kneel before you, and thus

receive your commands!"

"Stand up! I am no friend to sentiment; tears make me suspicious."

"You are right," said Theodor, "and especially with such a well-known

actor as I am, who if you say to him 'Take that groschen and cry,' could

at once break into floods of tears. Now people don't believe me if I

really weep; I will suppress my tears."

"All the more because I do not intend to address a moral lecture to you,

but only to speak of very dry business matters. You spoke of your

connection with Scaramelli, and a business journey to Brazil."

"All lies, sir."

"So I thought. You have no connection with Scaramelli?"

"I had, but it was broken off."

"Did you run away, or were you dismissed?"

"The former."

"With trust-money?"

"With three or four hundred gulden."

"Say five hundred. Would you not be glad to return them to the firm? I

have relations with their house."

"I do not want to remain there."

"And what connection has this with the Brazilian journey?"

"There is not a word of truth in it; no ship-wood comes from there."

"Not even those you mentioned, among which were dye and chemical woods?"

Theodor smiled. "The truth is that I wanted to sell the trees of the

ownerless island to a charcoal-burner to get a little money; Therese

guessed at once my real object."

"Then you did not come to the island for Noemi's sake?"

"Oh, I have as many wives as the countries I have visited."

"H'm--I know of a very good situation for you in Brazil, an agency for a

lately commenced enterprise, where a knowledge of the Hungarian, German,

Italian, English, and Spanish languages is necessary."

"I speak and write all these languages."

"I know it--and also Greek, Turkish, Polish, and Russian: you are a

clever fellow. I will procure for you this situation, in which you can

make use of your talents. The agency of which I speak carries with it a

salary of three thousand dollars and a percentage of the profits, the

amount of which will depend on yourself."

Theodor could hardly believe his ears. But he was so accustomed to

pretense that when he was overcome by real gratitude he had not the

courage to give it expression, lest it should be taken for acting.

"Is this your real meaning, sir?"

"What motive should I have at this moment for jesting with you? You

attempted my life, and I must secure myself. I can not send you out of

the world--my conscience forbids it--so I must try to make an honest man

of you in the interest of my own safety. If you are in good

circumstances, I shall have nothing to fear. Now you can understand my

course of action. As a proof that my offer is in earnest, take my

pocket-book. You will find in it the necessary journey expenses to

Trieste, and probably as much as what you owe to Scaramelli. At Trieste

you will find a letter which gives you further directions. And now we

will part--one to the right, and the other to the left."

Theodor's hand shook as he received the pocket-book. Michael lifted his

pierced hat from the ground. "And you can look on these shots just as

you like. If they were the attack of an assassin, you have every reason

not to approach me in any region within reach of the law; but if they

were the shots of an insulted gentleman, you know that at our next

meeting it is my turn to shoot."

Theodor Krisstyan bared his breast, and exclaimed passionately, "Shoot

me if ever I come in sight of you again! Shoot me like a mad dog!" He

raised the discharged pistol, and pressed it into Timar's hand. "Shoot

me with my own pistol it you ever meet me in this world! Do not ask, say

not a word, but kill me!"

He insisted on Michael's taking the pistol, and putting it in his

pocket.

"Farewell!" said Timar, and then he left him and went on his way.

Theodor stood still looking after him. Then he ran, and caught him up.

"Sir, one word--you have made a new man of me--allow me, if ever I write

to you, to begin with the words, 'My Father.' In those words once lay

for me shame and horror; let me find in them henceforth a fountain of

trust and happiness--my father, my father!"

He kissed Michael's hand with impassioned warmth, rushed away, threw

himself down on the grass behind the first bush that hid him from

Timar's eyes, and wept--real, true tears.

* * * * *

Poor little Noemi stood for an hour under the acacia-tree where she had

taken leave of Michael. Therese, as she stayed out so long, had gone to

seek her, and now sat beside her daughter on the grass. Not to be idle,

she had brought out her knitting.

Suddenly Noemi exclaimed, "Mother, did you hear?--two shots on the other

shore!"

They listened. There was deep stillness in the drowsy air.

"Two more shots! Mother, what is it?"

Therese tried to calm her. "They must be sportsmen, child, who are

shooting there."

Noemi's cheeks lost their color, and she looked as pale as the acacia

blossoms over her head. She pressed her hands vehemently to her breast

and faltered, "Oh, no, no! he will never come back!"

It grieved her to the heart that she had not said the little word "thou"

to him when he begged so hard.

* * * * *

"Master Fabula," said Timar to his faithful steward, "this year we will

not send the crop either to Raab or Komorn."

"What shall we do with it, then?"

"We will grind it here. I have two windmills on my property, and we can

hire thirty water-mills; those will suffice."

"Then we must open a huge warehouse, where we can sell such a quantity."

"That will not be wanting. We will load the flour into small ships,

which can go up to Karlstadt; thence we will transfer it in barrels to

Brazil."

"To Brazil!" screamed Fabula, quite frightened. "I can't go there with

it."

"I was not thinking of sending you there, Master Fabula; your department

is the grinding and the transport to Trieste. I will give the agents

and millers their orders to-day, and you can scold and manage in my

absence just as if I were there."

"Many thanks," said Master Fabula, and shook his head violently as Herr

von Levetinczy left the office. "That will be a gigantic folly," he

grumbled to himself. "To begin with, the flour will be musty before it

arrives; then no one will buy it; thirdly, nobody will ever see the

color of money which has to come from Brazil. How could he claim it?

there is no fiscal authority there, or even a vice-consul. In short, it

is just another of those colossal, everlasting pieces of folly of our

Herr Levetinczy, but it will turn out well, to every one's surprise, as

every stupid thing does that our master undertakes. And I don't doubt

that our flour-ships will come back laden with gold-dust from Brazil;

but for all that it is a great folly."

Our Herr Fabula was perfectly right. Timar was of the same opinion. He

ran a risk in this speculation of losing at least a hundred thousand

gulden. But this idea was not of to-day. It had long been in his mind

whether a Hungarian merchant might not make better profits than in grain

contracts and the chartering of cargo-ships. Would it not be possible

for those goods which have to struggle with foreign competition to find

their own place in the great bazaar of the world's market?

The export trade in flour was an old plan of his. To prepare for its

execution he had completed his mills, and built a large vessel at

Trieste. But the reason of his hasty determination to begin work at once

was only on Noemi's account; and his meeting with Theodor had brought

this decision to a head.

This business was only a pretext; the principal thing was to put a

hemisphere between himself and that man. Those who saw in what ceaseless

labor Timar spent the next weeks--how he hurried from one mill to

another, and from there to his ships; how he dispatched them the moment

they were laden, and personally superintended the transport--all said,

"What a pattern of a merchant! He is tremendously rich; he has

directors, agents, captains, stewards, overseers, foremen, and yet he

sees to all himself like a common contractor. He understands business."

(If only they had known what depended on this business!)

Three weeks passed before the first ship laden with barrels of Hungarian

flour lay ready to weigh anchor in the harbor of Trieste. The ship was

called "Pannonia;" it was a beautiful three-masted galliot. Even Master

Fabula was loud in its praise; for he was present at the loading of the

flour. But Timar himself never saw it; he had not once come to Trieste

to see it before it started. During those weeks he remained in

Levetinczy or Pancsova. The whole enterprise was in Scaramelli's name;

Timar had his reasons for keeping his own name out of it; and he only

communicated in writing with the fully empowered firm of Scaramelli.

One day he received a letter from Theodor Krisstyan. When he opened it

he was surprised to find money in it--a hundred gulden note. The

contents of the letter ran thus--

"MY FATHER,--When you read these lines I shall be

afloat on board the splendid ship 'Pannonia,' as

Brazilian agent of the house of Scaramelli.

"Accept my warmest thanks for your kind recommendation.

The bank has advanced me two months' salary, of which I

inclose a hundred gulden, with the request that you

would be good enough to pay it over to the landlord of

The White Ship at Pancsova. I am in debt to that amount

to that poor man, and am thankful to be able to pay

this sum. Heaven bless you for all your goodness to

me!"

Timar breathed freely. "The man has already improved; he remembers his

old debts and pays them with his savings. What a sweet thought to have

brought a lost sheep back to the fold--to be the savior of an enemy who

attempted one's life--to give back to him life, the world, honor, and

bring to light a pearl purified of the mire in which it lay! Is not this

a truly Christian act? You have a generous soul. If only the inward

accuser would not reply, 'You are a murderer!'

"You do not rejoice to have saved a man, but rather at getting rid of

him. If you received news that a tornado had caught your ship and sunk

it with every soul on board, what joy it would give you! You are not

thinking of the flour-trade with its profits and losses, but that every

year in the swamps of La Plata and the river Amazon that fearful specter

walks--the yellow fever--which, like the tiger, lies in ambush for the

new-comer. Of every hundred, sixty fall victims to it. It is that of

which the prospect gives you pleasure. You are a murderer!"

Timar felt the satisfaction of a man who has succeeded in putting an

enemy out of the way--a joy with which bitter self-condemnation and

anxious forebodings were mingled.

* * * * *

From henceforward Timar was transformed. He was hardly to be recognized.

The usually cold-blooded man betrayed in everything a singular

restlessness; he gave contradictory orders, and forgot an hour after

what he had said. If he started on a journey, he turned back half-way;

he began to avoid business, and seemed indifferent to the most important

affairs; then again he grew so excitable that the smallest neglect

enraged him. He might be seen wandering on the shore for half a day at a

time, with his head down like one who is nearly mad, and begins by

running away from home. Another time he shut himself into his room and

would not let any one in; the letters which came to him from all parts

lay unopened in a heap on his table. This shrewd, clever man could think

of nothing but the golden-haired girl whom he had seen for the last time

leaning on a tree by the island shore, with her head supported on her

arm. One day he determined to return to her, and the next to drive the

remembrance of her from his breast. He began to be superstitious; he

waited for signs from Heaven, and visions to decide what he should do.

Dreams always brought the same face, happy or sad, submissive or

inconsolable, and he was more crazy than ever. But Heaven sent him no

sign.

One day he decided to be reasonable and attend to his business affairs;

that might perhaps steady his brain. He sat down before the heap of

letters and began to open them all in turn. All that came of it was that

he had forgotten at the end of a letter what he had read at the

beginning. He only cared to read what was written in those blue eyes.

But his heart began to beat fast when a letter fell into his hands which

was heavier than the rest; he knew the handwriting of the address; it

was Timea's.

His blood ran cold. This was the sign from Heaven, this will decide the

conflict in his soul.

Timea writes to him--the angelic creature, the spotless wife. A single

tender word from her will exercise an influence on her husband like a

cry of "danger" to a drunken man. These well-known characters will call

up the saintly face before his mind's eye, and lead him back to the

right path.

In the letter is a small object; it must be a loving surprise, a little

souvenir. Yes! to-morrow is her husband's birthday. This will be a

charming letter, a sweet remembrance. Michael opened the envelope very

carefully, after cutting round the seal. The first thing that surprised

him was a key which fell out--the key of his writing-table.

But in the letter were these words: "MY DEAR SIR,--You left the key of

your writing-table in the lock. That you may not be uneasy about it, I

send it to you. God keep you!--TIMEA."

Nothing further. Timar had forgotten to take out the key that night when

he came home secretly, when the conversation with Athalie had so

disturbed his mind.

Nothing but the key and a couple of frigid lines. Timar put down the

letter in vexation.

Suddenly a dreadful idea flashed through his mind. If Timea found this

key in his writing-table lock, perhaps she looked through the desk.

Women are curious, and do such things. But if she did search in it, she

must have found something she would recognize. When Timar disposed of

Ali Tchorbadschi's treasures, he had been careful not to part with some

objects, which, if they came into the trade, might have led to

discovery, but had, for the most part, only sold the separate diamonds.

Among the precious objects was a medallion framed in brilliants, which

contained a miniature portrait of a young lady, whose features bore a

striking likeness to those of Timea. It must be the picture of her

mother, who had been a Greek. If Timea found this medallion, she must

know all; she would at once recognize her mother's portrait, and

conclude that this jewel had belonged to her father. This would lead her

to the further conclusion that her mother's valuables had fallen into

Timar's hands, and thus she would arrive at the knowledge of how he had

become rich, and that he had married her at the price of her own money.

If Timea was curious, she now knows all, and then she must despise her

husband.

And do not the words of the letter betray this? Does not the wife wish

her husband to understand, by the forwarding of the key, that she had

discovered his secrets?

This thought was decisive to Michael as to whether his path was to lead

up or down! Down!

"It is all one," thought he. "I am unmasked before the woman. I can no

longer play the honest man, the true-hearted, generous benefactor. I am

found out. I can only sink lower still!"

He was determined to return to the island. But he would not retreat

like a defeated foe. He wrote to Timea, and begged her to open all the

letters which should come during his absence, to inform his agents of

their contents, and, where a decision was necessary, to dispose, in the

name of her husband, of all as she chose. At the same time he sent the

key back, that it might be at hand if any documents were wanted.

That was his trump card. With the feeling that his secret was near

discovery he hastened to lead up to it, and possibly that very thing

might prevent its revelation. He left orders to his agents that all

letters concerning his affairs were to be directed to his wife. He was

going away for a long time, but he did not say where to.

Late in the afternoon he started in a hired carriage. He hoped his track

would be lost, and did not take his own horses. A couple of days ago he

had been superstitious, and awaited signs from Heaven, from the

elements, to show him the way. Now he noticed them no longer. He was

determined to return to the island. But the sky and the elements tried

to frighten him by evil omens, and even to detain him by force. Toward

evening, when the long lines of poplars on the Danube shore were already

in sight, suddenly a reddish-brown cloud appeared in the sky,

approaching with great rapidity. The peasant driver began to pray and

sigh, but when the smoke-like cloud drew nigh, his prayers changed to

curses. The Galambocz gnats are coming!

They are creations of the Evil One, trillions in number, and living in

the holes of the Galambocz rocks: suddenly they come out in swarms,

forming a thick cloud, and if they descend into the plain, woe to the

cattle they find in the open!

The flight of gnats covered the plain through which Timar had to drive;

the tiny stinging plague swarmed over the bodies of the horses, creeping

into their eyes, ears, and nostrils. The terrified animals could no

longer be controlled--they turned round suddenly with the carriage, and

bolted in a north-westerly direction. Timar ventured on a jump from the

carriage; he leaped cleverly and safely without injury; the horses flew

off and away. If he had attended to omens, this might have been

sufficient to turn him also aside. But he was now obstinate. He was

going on a road where man no longer asks for help from God. He was going

where Noemi drew him and Timea drove him. North pole and south pole,

desire and his own will, pressed him on.

When he jumped from the carriage, he continued his journey on foot,

keeping along the wooded river-bank. His gun had remained in the

carriage, he had come with empty hands: he cut himself a walking-stick,

and that was his only weapon: provided with this, he tried to make his

way through the thicket. There he lost himself; night surprised him, and

the more he wandered the less he found an outlet. At last he came on a

hut built of osier-twigs, and decided to spend the night there.

He made a fire out of the dry branches lying near: fortunately he was

carrying his game-bag when he jumped from the carriage, and in it were

bread and ham; he broiled the ham over the fire and ate it with the

bread.

He found also something else in the bag, the pistol with which Theodor

had attacked him from the hut; perhaps from this very hut--quite

possible that it was the same. He could make no use of the pistol, for

he had left his powder-horn in the carriage; but it did him a service by

strengthening him in his fatalism: a man who had escaped so many dangers

must still have some work to do in the world. And indeed he required

some encouragement, for after nightfall it began to be uncanny here in

the desert. Not far away wolves were howling, and through the bushes

Timar saw the shining green eyes: one and another old Sir Isegrim came

up to the back wall of the hut and executed a fearful howl. Timar dared

not let the fire out all night, for it alone kept away the wild beasts.

When he went inside, the uncomfortable hiss with which snakes receive

human beings struck his ear, and a sluggish mass moved under his foot;

perhaps he had trodden on a tortoise. Timar kept up the fire all night,

and drew fantastic figures in the air with the glowing end of the

fire-stick--perhaps the hieroglyphics of his own thoughts.

What a miserable night! He who has a home provided with every luxury,

and a comfortable bed; in whose house rules a lovely young woman whom he

can call his wife--spends a lonely night in a damp, fungus-grown hut:

wolves howl round him, and over his head adders creep slowly through the

rush-woven roof. And to-day is his birthday; a happy family festival

indeed--in such surroundings! But they suit him--he wants nothing else.

Michael had a pious mind. From childhood he had been used night and

morning to put up a silent prayer. He had never lost the habit, and in

every danger or trouble of his eventful life, he had taken refuge in

prayer. He believed in God; God was his deliverer, and whatever he

undertook succeeded. But in this dreadful night he dared not pray; he

would not speak with God.

"Do not Thou look where I go." From this birthday he gave up prayer. He

defied fate.

When the day dawned, the nocturnal beasts of prey slunk back to their

lairs. Timar left his inhospitable refuge, and soon found the path which

led direct to the shore of the Danube: here a new horror awaited him.

The Danube was enormously swollen, and had overflowed its banks. It was

the season of the spring floods after the melting of the snow; the

foaming yellow stream was filled with uprooted reeds and tree-trunks.

The fisherman's hut which he sought, and which stood on the point of a

hill, was in the water up to the threshold, and the boat he had left

there was tied to a tree close by.

He found not a creature there. It is impossible to fish in such a flood,

and the people had removed all their nets. If he wanted a sign from

heaven, a direction from God's finger--here he had it. The swollen river

barred his way with its whole majestic strength; at such times no one

ventures on the river; the warning was there, the elements commanded him

to return.

"Too late," said Timar. "I can not go back; I must go on."

The door of the hut was locked, and he broke it open to get his oars, as

he saw through a chink that they were kept there. Then he got into the

boat, tied himself in, loosed the boat, and pushed off. The current

seized him at once, and rushed on with him. The Danube was at that time

a powerful master, and uprooted forests in its rage; a mortal venturing

on its surface was like a worm floating on a straw, and yet this worm

defied it. He alone managed the two oars, which also served to steer

with. On the rapid waves his skiff danced like a nutshell, but the wind

was contrary, and tried to drive him back to the shore he came from. But

Timar succumbed neither to wind nor water.

He had thrown his hat to the bottom of the boat; his hair, wet with

perspiration, fluttered in the wind, and the waves splashing over the

side threw their icy spray in his face--but they did not cool him. The

thought was hot within him that Noemi might be in danger on the island.

But the idea did not paralyze his arms. The Danube and the wind are two

mighty powers--but stronger still are the passions and the will of man.

Timar felt this. What activity in his mind, what muscle in his arm! It

was a superhuman task in which he succeeded, to cross the current at the

head of the Ostrova Island. Here he rested awhile.

The island of Ostrova was overflowed, the water was rushing among the

trees. Here it was easier to get on by pushing his oars against the

trunks; at the back of Ostrova he must let himself float down-stream to

arrive at the ownerless island. When he had reached the right spot, and

came out from among the trees, a new and surprising spectacle lay before

him. The ownerless island was usually hidden behind a thick bed of

osiers, over which only the tree-tops were visible; now none of the

reeds was to be seen, and the island lay out in mid-stream. The flood

had covered the reeds, the trees of the island stood in the water, and

only at one place the rock raised its head above the surface.

With feverish impatience he let his boat float down. Every stroke

brought him nearer to the erratic bowlder, whose crown was blue with

lavender flowers, while the sides were shining gold with climbing

nasturtium which clung to the stone; and the nearer he came the greater

was his impatience. He could already see the orchard, whose trees stood

in the water half-way up their trunk; but the rose-garden was dry, and

there the lambs and kids had taken refuge. Now Almira's joyful bark fell

on his ear; the black creature came running to the shore, rushed back,

came on again, leaped into the water, and swam toward the new arrival

and back again.

Does Michael see that rosy face there at the base of a blooming

jasmine-bush, hurrying toward him to the very edge of the rushing water?

One more stroke, and the boat has reached the shore. Michael springs out

and the waves carry off the boat; he no longer wants it, and no one

thinks of drawing it ashore.

Each only saw the other. Around them the paradise of the first

man!--fruit-laden trees, blossoming fields, tame animals, surrounded by

a watery ring, and therein--Adam and Eve.

The maiden stands pale and trembling before the new-comer, and as he

rushes toward her, when she sees him before her, she throws herself with

a burst of passion on his breast, and cries, in the self-forgetfulness

of ecstasy, "Thou hast returned! Thou, thou!" and even when her lips are

closed they still say, "Thou, thou!"

Around them is Eden. The jasmine-bush sends down on them its silvery

flower-crown, and the choir of nightingales and blackbirds sing "Gospodi

pomiluj."

CHAPTER VII.

SWEET HOME.

The waves carried off Michael's boat. That of the islanders, which had

brought them here, had long rotted away, and they had never had another.

The new-comer could not leave the island before the first fruit-dealers

arrived. Before that time weeks and months must elapse.

Happy weeks, happy moons! Uncounted days of unbroken joy! The ownerless

island was Timar's home. There he found work and rest. After the flood

had passed away, the work of getting rid of the water left in the

hollows gave him plenty to do. The whole day he was busy digging canals

to carry it away; his hands looked like a laborer's from the blisters

with which they were covered. When he threw spade and pick over his

shoulder in the evening, and came back to the little cottage, he was met

afar off, and lovingly welcomed. And when he had finished his canal and

drawn off the marshy water, he looked upon his work as proudly as if it

was the only one in all his life which could lay claim to be called a

good action, and which he could confidently submit to his inward judge.

The day of the opening of this canal was a festival on the little

island. They had no church festivals and did not count Sundays: their

saints' days were those on which God gave them some special joy.

These islanders were sparing of words. What the holy David said in one

hundred and fifty psalms, was by them expressed in a sign, and what the

poets have sung of love in all their verses, one glance of the eye was

sufficient to tell; they learned to read each other's thoughts on the

brow, they learned to think together.

Michael admired Noemi more every day. She was a faithful, grateful

creature; she knew no care nor anxiety for the future; happy herself,

she diffused happiness around. She never asked him, "What will become of

me when you go? Will you leave me or take me? Is it good for me to love

you? What church has given you its priestly blessing? Ought you to be

mine? Has no other a right to you? What are you out there in the world?

What sort of world do you live in?" Even in her face, her eyes, he never

read a disquieting doubt--ever and only the one question "Lovest thou

me?"

Frau Therese reminded Michael one day that he was tarrying long here;

but he assured her that Master Fabula was looking after everything, and

when Therese looked at Noemi, whose soft blue eyes ever turned like the

sunflowers to the sun of Michael's face, she could only sigh, "Oh, how

she loves him!"

Timar found it very necessary to dig all day, to drive piles, and bind

fascines, in order by hard bodily labor to calm his even more heavily

tasked mind. What is going on in the world? Thirty of his ships float on

the Danube, and a fleet on the sea: his whole wealth, a property of more

than a million, all lies in the hands of a woman. And if this woman in

some giddy mood squanders the whole and scatters it to the winds,

ruining her husband and his house, could he reproach any one? Was it not

by his own will? He was happy here at home, and yet would have liked to

know what was going on over there. His spirit lived in two places, was

torn in two parts: there, his money, his honor, his position in the

world; here, his love held him fast. In truth he could have got away.

The Danube is not a sea; he was a good swimmer, and could at any time

have reached the opposite shore; no one would have detained him. They

knew he had work to do out in the world. But when he was with Noemi he

forgot again everything outside her arms; he was sunk in love, bliss,

and wonder.

"Oh, do not love me so much!" whispered the girl to him.

And so day after day passed by. The time of fruit-ripening drew near,

and the branches were weighed down by their sweet burden. It was a

pleasure to watch the daily progress of the fruit, how every day it

developed more. Pears and apples began to put on their distinctive

colors; the green is tanned to a leathery yellow, or receives gold and

red streaks. The brown tone colors purple on the sunny side. In the

golden tint mingle carmine splashes, and in the carmine greenish specks;

the scented fruit smiles at one like a merry childish face. Timar helped

the women to gather it. They filled great baskets with this blessing of

heaven. He counted every apple he threw into the basket, how many

hundreds, how many thousands. What a treasure! Real gold!

One afternoon, when he was helping Noemi to carry a full basket to the

apple-room, he saw strangers arrive at the cottage: the fruit-buyers had

come, the first visitors for many months past, bringing tidings from the

outer world.

They negotiated about the fruit with Therese--the usual system of

barter. Frau Therese wanted as usual to have grain in exchange, but the

peddlers would not give her as much as before. They said wheat had

become very dear. The corn-merchants of Komorn had made large purchases

and driven up the prices; they ground it themselves, and sent it over

the seas. Therese would not believe this--it was only gossip of the

fruit-hawkers; but Timar paid great attention to it. That was his idea;

what had come of it since then? Now he had no more rest for thinking of

business and the cares of property. This news was to him what the bugle

call is to an old soldier, who at the sound wishes himself back in the

battle-field, even from the arms of his beloved.

The islanders thought it quite natural that Michael should make

preparations to leave them. His business called him; and then he would

return the following spring. Noemi only begged him not to throw away the

clothes she had spun and woven for him, and which he had worn while with

her. He will preserve them like a jewel.

And then he must often think of his poor Noemi. To that he could not

answer in words.

He bribed the fruit-women to stay a day longer. And all that day he did

nothing but visit, arm in arm with Noemi, all the places which had been

witnesses of his tranquil happiness; here he plucked from a tree, and

there from a flowery cluster, some leaflet to keep as a memorial. On

every leaf and petal whole romances were written which only two people

could read.

The last day passed so quickly! The boatmen wanted to leave in the

evening, so as to row while it was cool. Michael must say farewell.

Noemi was sensible, and did not cry; she knew he would return, and was

more occupied in making provision to fill his knapsack.

"It will be dark when you get to the other side," she said, with tender

anxiety. "Have you any arms?"

"No. No one will hurt me."

"But yet--here is a pistol in your haversack," said Noemi, and drew it

out; and then her check paled, for she recognized Theodor's pistol, with

which he had often, when he came to the island, bragged and threatened

that he would shoot Almira. "This is _his_ weapon!" Timar was struck by

the expression of her face.

"When you left here," said the girl, who was all excitement, "he watched

for you on the other side, and shot at you with this pistol."

"What makes you think such a thing?"

"I heard two shots, and then yours. So it was this pistol that you took

from him?" Timar was surprised that love can see what the eye can not

reach. He could not tell a lie. "Did you kill him?" asked the girl.

"No."

"What has become of him?"

"You need fear him no longer. He is gone to Brazil; a hemisphere lies

between us and him."

"I wish there were only three feet of earth between us!" cried Noemi,

impetuously, seizing Michael's hand.

Michael looked in her face surprised. "You! you! with such murderous

thoughts--you, who can not bear to see a chicken killed, who can not

bring yourself to tread on a spider or to stick a butterfly on a pin!"

"But any one who would tear you from me, I could kill, were he a man, a

devil, or an angel--!"

And she pressed the dearly beloved man to her breast in a passionate

embrace. He trembled and glowed.

* * * * *

On reaching the other side, Michael again visited the fisherman's hut.

Two things occupied his mind: the slender figure among the evening mists

on the flower-crowned rock, waving to him its tender farewells; and then

that other figure conjured up by his imagination as it looks at home in

Komorn. Well, he will have time to picture this image to himself on the

long journey from the Lower Danube up to Komorn.

When the old fisherman saw Michael, he began to sigh (fishing-folk do

not swear). "Just think, my lord, some rascal of a thief has stolen your

boat during the floods: he broke into the hut and carried off the oars.

What thieves there are in the world, to be sure!"

It did Timar good that at last some one should call him a thief to his

face; that was what he was--and if he had stolen nothing more than a

boat! "We must not condemn the man," said he to the fisherman. "Who

knows what danger he was in, or how much he needed a boat. We will get

another. But now, my friend, we will get into your boat and try to

arrive at the ferry to-night."

The fisherman was persuaded by a promise of liberal payment to undertake

this, and by daylight they had reached the ferry where the ships

generally took in their cargo. There were post-carriages at the inn on

the bank, of which Timar engaged one to take him to Levetinczy. He

thought he would there receive reports from the agent of what had passed

during the last five months, so that when he got home to Komorn nothing

new or surprising should greet him.

There was a one-storied residence on the estate at Levetinczy. In one

wing lived the steward and his wife, while the other was given up to

Timar. A staircase from this wing led to the park, and by this means he

could gain access to the room which he had chosen as an office. Michael

must pay attention to the trivial details if he wished to carry out his

wearisome deceit consistently. He has been absent for five months, and

has, of course, been a long way; but that hardly agrees with his arrival

without luggage. In his knapsack there is only the suit of striped linen

made for him by Noemi, for the suit in which he had gone to the island

was intended for the cold season, and that, by now, was torn and worn

out; his boots were patched. It would be difficult to account for his

appearance. If he could get through the garden and by the outside steps

into his office, the key of which he carries with him, he could there

change his clothes quickly, get out his trunk, and when to all

appearances he looked as though just come from a long journey, he could

call in the steward.

All began well. Timar arrived without being seen, by the garden steps,

at the door of his office.

But when he was going to open it with his private key, he made the

disquieting discovery that another key was already in the lock. Some one

was in the room! But his papers and ledgers were all there, and no one

had any business inside. Who could the intruder be? He pulled the door

open angrily and went in, and now it was his turn to be startled.

At his writing-table sat the last person he expected to find there. It

was Timea. Before her lay the great ledger, in which she was at work.

A storm of mingled feelings burst over Michael--alarm because the first

person he met after his secret journey was his own wife, pleasure at

finding her alone, and astonishment that this woman was at work here.

Timea raised her eyes in surprise when she saw Michael enter; then

hastening toward him, she offered him her hand in silence. This white

face was still an unsolved enigma to her husband. He could not read in

it whether she knew all--whether she guessed something or not. What lay

under this cold indifference? restrained contempt or concealed love? Or

was the whole only the indolence of a lymphatic race? He had nothing to

say to Timea.

His wife seemed not to remark that his clothes were torn--women can see

without looking. "I am glad you have come," said she gently. "I expected

you any day. You will find your clothes in the next room; when you have

dressed, will you please come back here? I shall have finished by that

time." And then she put her pen in her mouth.

Michael kissed Timea's hand. The pen between her teeth did not invite

him to kiss her lips. He went into the adjoining room; there he found a

basin of water, a clean shirt, and his clothes and house-shoes as at

home. As Timea could not know the day of his arrival, he must take for

granted that she had made ready for him every day--and who knows for how

long? But how comes this woman here, and what is she doing? He dressed

quickly, hiding his cast-off clothes in a corner of his wardrobe. Some

one might ask him what caused these holes in the coat-sleeves, which are

quite through at the elbows. And this linen suit with the colored

embroidery, would not a woman's eye decipher something from it?--women

understand the mysteries of needle-work. He must hide the clothes. He

and the soap had hard work to wash his hands clean. Would he not be

asked what he had done to make them so black and horny?

When he was ready he went back to the office, where Timea was waiting

for him at the door, and putting her hand on his arm, said, "Let us go

to breakfast."

From the office they passed through the dressing-room to get to the

dining-room. Another surprise awaited Michael there; the round table was

laid with three places--for whom were they intended? Timea made a

signal, and through one door came the servant, through the other

Athalie. The third place was for her.

On Athalie's face an unconcealed anger shone when she saw Timar. "Ah,

Herr von Levetinczy, you have come home at last! It was a kind thought

of yours to write to your wife, 'Take my keys and books, and be so good,

dear wife, as to do all my work for me,' and then to leave us five

months without news of your whereabouts."

"Athalie!" said Timea, sternly.

Michael sat down in silence at his place, which he recognized by his own

silver drinking-cup. He had been daily awaited here, and the table laid

for him. Athalie said no more, but whenever she looked at Timar he could

read her vexation in her eyes. This was a satisfactory sign.

When they rose from table Timea asked her husband to go with her to the

office. Michael began to think what he could invent when she should ask

him about his journey. But she never referred to it even remotely. She

placed two chairs at the desk, and laid her hand on the open day-book.

"Here, sir, is the account of your business since the time when you gave

over its direction to me."

"Have you carried it on yourself?"

"I understood that you desired me to do so. I found by your papers that

you had undertaken a new and wholesale enterprise--the export of

Hungarian flour. I saw that here not only your money, but also your

credit and your mercantile honor, were at stake, and that on the good

result of this affair hung the foundation of an important branch of

trade. I did not understand this business, but I thought that it

depended more on conscientious and faithful stewardship than on

knowledge of affairs. I trusted this to no third person. Directly I

received your letter I started for Levetinczy, and took, as you desired,

the conduct of business into my own hands. I studied book-keeping and

learned to deal with figures. I think you will find everything in

order--the books and the cash balance." Timar looked with admiration at

this woman, who knew how to apply the millions passing through her hands

with such calm good sense, to their right object, to receive and expend

moneys, and with a skillful hand to withdraw endangered funds; and who

knew even more than that. "Fortune has favored us this year," continued

Timea, "and made up for my inexperience. The five months' income

amounted to five hundred thousand gulden. This sum has not lain idle.

Taking advantage of the powers intrusted to me, I have made

investments."

What sort of investments are they likely to be which occur to a woman?

"Your first experiment with the export of flour succeeded entirely.

Hungarian flour became at one stroke an article in request for the South

American markets. So your agents write from Rio Janeiro, where all with

one accord praise the ability and uprightness of your chief agent,

Theodor Krisstyan." Timar thought to himself, "Even when I do evil good

comes of it, and the greatest folly I commit turns into wisdom--when

will this end?" "After receiving this intelligence I began to consider

what you would have done. One must seize an opportunity and occupy with

all speed the newly opened markets. I hired immediately many mills,

chartered more ships, had them laden, and at this moment a new cargo is

on its way to South America, which will defy competition."

Michael was astonished. In this woman there was more courage than in any

man. Another woman would have locked up the money that it might not run

away, and this one ventures to carry on her husband's enterprise, only

in tenfold measure. "I thought you would have acted thus," said Timea.

"Yes, indeed," muttered Timar.

"My expectations, moreover, were justified by the fact that, as soon as

we threw ourselves more openly into this undertaking, a whole herd of

competitors appeared, who are grinding away for dear life, and packing

off their good in barrels to America. But this need not cause you any

anxiety--we shall beat them all. Not one of them knows the secret of the

superiority of the Hungarian flour."

"How is that?"

"If one of them asked his wife, perhaps she would have known--that is

how I discovered it. Among all the samples of American wheat, I can find

none as heavy as ours. We must, therefore, make flour of our heaviest

kinds, so as to carry off the prize from the Americans. I selected our

heaviest grain; our rivals here use lighter corn, and they will find

their mistake, while we shall maintain our position."

Michael kissed Timea's hand with the sacred awe with which we kiss our

beloved dead, who no longer belong to us, but to the ground, and who can

not feel our caress. Whenever during his life of happy forgetfulness on

the island he had thought of Timea at all, it was as amusing herself,

traveling, going to watering-places, having plenty of money, and wasting

it as she chose. Now he saw in what her amusement had consisted--keeping

books, sitting at a desk, conducting a correspondence, and learning

foreign idioms without the help of a master--and all this because her

husband had desired it.

His wife gave him a report of all branches of his extensive business. It

was now all as familiar to her as if she had known it from childhood,

and everything was in perfect order. While Timar ran over the accounts,

he acquired the conviction that if he himself had had to do it all in

those few months, he would have been hard at work all day. What labor

this must have cost a young woman who had to learn everything by

experience! Indeed she must have had but little time for sleep.

"But, Timea, this is a tremendous task which you have accomplished in my

stead!"

"It is true, and at first I found it very difficult, but by degrees I

got used to it, and then it was easy enough. Work is wholesome."

What a sad reproach!--a young wife who finds consolation in work.

Michael drew Timea's hand to him. Deep sadness clouded his brow, his

heart was heavy. If only he knew what Timea was thinking.

The key of the desk was constantly in Timar's mind. If Timea had

discovered his secret, then her present conduct to her husband was only

a fearful judgment held over him, to mark the difference between the

accuser and the accused.

"Have you never been in Komorn since?" he asked Timea.

"Only once, when I had to look in your desk for the contract with

Scaramelli."

Timar felt his blood run cold. Timea's face betrayed nothing.

"But now we will go back to Komorn," said Timar; "the flour is in full

swing; we must wait for news of the fate of the cargoes now at sea, and

they will not arrive before the winter. Or would you rather make a tour

in Switzerland and Italy? This is the best season for it."

"No, Michael; we have been long enough apart, we will remain at home

together."

But no pressure of the hand explains why she would like to remain at

home with him. Michael had not the courage to say a tender word to her.

Should he lie to her? He would have to live a lie in her presence from

morning to evening. His silence even was a falsehood.

Looking through all the papers took the whole time until late dinner,

and to this meal two guests were invited--the bailiff and the reverend

dean. The latter had begged to be at once informed of Herr von

Levetinczy's return, that he might call upon him immediately. As soon as

he received the news he hastened to the castle, and of course put on his

new decoration. The moment he entered he let off some oratorical

fireworks, in which he lauded Timar as the benefactor of the place. He

compared him to Noah who built the Ark, to Joseph who saved his people

from famine, and to Moses who made manna fall from heaven. The flour

trade which he had set on foot was pronounced the greatest enterprise

Europe had ever seen. Long live the Columbus of flour export!

Timar had to answer this address of welcome. He stammered and talked

great nonsense. He had to control himself that he might not laugh aloud,

and say to the worthy preacher, "Ha, ha! do not fancy that I had this

idea in order to make your fortune; it was only to get a young rascal

out of reach of a certain pretty girl, and if any good came of it, it is

only by means of this woman here near me. Laugh then, good people!"

At table good-humor reigned. The dean and the steward were neither of

them despisers of the bottle. The wit and anecdotes of the two old men

made Timar laugh too; but whenever he cast a glance on Timea's icy face,

the laugh died on his lips. She had left her merriment elsewhere in

pledge.

It was evening before they rose. The two old gentlemen reminded each

other jocosely that it was quite time to leave, for the husband had

returned to his young wife after a long absence, and they would have

much to say to each other.

"Indeed you will do wisely to go soon," whispered Athalie to Timar.

"Timea has such dreadful headaches every evening, that she can not sleep

before midnight. See how pale she is!"

"Timea, you are unwell?" asked Timar, tenderly.

"There is nothing the matter with me," answered she.

"Don't believe her; ever since we came to Levetinczy she has suffered

from headache. It is neuralgia, which she contracted by overtaxing her

brain, and by the bad air here. I found a white hair in her head the

other day. But she conceals her suffering till she breaks down, and even

then she never complains."

Timar experienced in spirit the tortures of a criminal stretched on the

rack. And he had not the courage to say to his wife, "If you are

suffering, let me sleep in your room and take care of you." No; he was

afraid of uttering Noemi's name in his sleep, and that his wife might

hear it, as she was kept awake by pain half the night. He must shun his

marriage-bed.

The next day they started for Komorn, and traveled by post, Michael

sitting opposite the two ladies. It was a tedious journey: in the whole

Banat the harvest was over; only the maize was still standing, otherwise

they saw nothing but monotonous fields of stubble. None of them spoke;

all three found it hard to keep awake. In the afternoon Timar could no

longer endure the silent looks, the enigmatical expression of his wife;

under pretense of wanting to smoke he took a seat by the driver in the

open _coupe_, and remained there. When they got out at a post-house,

Athalie grumbled at the bad roads, the dreadful heat, the annoying

flies, the stifling dust, and all the rest of a traveler's trials. The

inns are dirty, the food disgusting, the beds hard, the wine sour, the

water impure, and the countenances of all the people frightful. She

feels so ill all through the journey, she is quite knocked up, she has

fever, and her head will burst: what must Timea be suffering, who is so

nervous?

Timar had to listen to these lamentations all the way, but Timea never

uttered a complaint.

When they arrived at Komorn, Frau Sophie informed them that she had

turned gray with loneliness. Gray indeed! She had been very happy--being

able to go about all day from house to house to gossip to her heart's

content. Timar felt a painful anxiety. Home is either a heaven or a

hell. Now at last he would know what lay behind the marble coldness of

this silent face.

As he entered the room with his wife, she handed him the key of his

desk. Michael knew she had opened it to get out the contract.

This writing-desk was an old and elaborate piece of furniture, whose

upper part was closed by a rolled falling cover, under which were

drawers of various sizes. In the large drawer lay the contracts, in the

small ones notes and valuables; the lock was a puzzle one, which you

might vainly turn if you did not know its secret.

Timea was in the secret, and could have access to all the drawers. With

an uneasily beating heart Timar drew out the drawer where those jewels

were kept which it had been unadvisable to place on the market. These

gems have their own experts, who recognize by certain marks where this

stone or that gem came from; and then follows the question, how did he

get it? Only the third generation from the finder can venture to show

it, as to him it is all one in what way his grandfather came into its

possession.

If Timea had been inquisitive enough to open that drawer she must have

seen these gems. And if so, one among them, the diamond locket with the

portrait which is so like her, must have been recognized by her. It is

her mother's picture, and then she must know all. She knows that Timar

has received her father's treasures; it is hard to believe he came by

them honestly. And by that dark, perhaps criminal road, they would lead

to the fabulous riches which gained her hand for Timar, while he played

the generous friend to her whom he had robbed. She may even think worse

things of him than are true. Her father's mysterious death, his secret

burial, might awake in her the suspicion that Timar had a hand in it.

These doubts were unbearable. Timar must set them at rest, and call yet

one more falsehood to his aid. He took out the medallion and went with

it to Timea. "Dear Timea," he said, sitting down beside his wife, "I

have been living a long time in Turkey. What I did there you will learn

later on. When I was in Scutari an Armenian jeweler offered me a

diamond-framed picture, which is very like you. I bought it, and have

brought you the ornament."

When Timea saw the portrait her face changed in an instant. An emotion

which could neither be assumed nor concealed was visible in her

sculptured features; she seized the picture with both hands and pressed

it eagerly to her lips; her eyes filled with tears. This was true

feeling; Timea's face began to live.

Michael was saved. The girl, overpowered by her long-suppressed

feelings, began to sob violently. Athalie heard and came in; she was

surprised--she had never known Timea to sob. But when she saw Athalie

she ran toward her like a child, and cried, in a tone of mingled

laughter and tears, "See, see! my mother! It is my mother's picture.

. . . He has brought it to me!"

And then she hastened back to Michael, put both her arms round his neck,

and whispered in a broken voice, "Thanks, oh, a thousand thanks!"

It seemed to Timar as if the time had come to kiss these grateful lips,

and to kiss them on and on.

But alas! his heart said, "Thou shalt not steal." Now a kiss on these

lips would be a theft, after all that had passed on the ownerless

island.

Another thought struck him. He went back to his room, and fetched all

the hidden jewels which remained in the drawer.

A wonderful woman this, who, though she had the key in her hands, left

the secret drawers untouched and only took out the one paper she

required! Then he packed all the ornaments into the bag he had over his

shoulder when he came home, and went back to his wife. "I have not told

you all," he said to Timea. "Where I found the picture I discovered also

these jewels, and bought them for you. Take them as a present from me."

And then he laid the dazzling gems one after another in Timea's lap,

until the sparkling heap quite covered her embroidered apron. It was

like some magical gift from the thousand and one nights.

Athalie stood there pale with envy, with angrily clinched teeth. Perhaps

these might all have been hers! But Timea's face darkened and grew

marble-like again. She looked with indifference at the heap of jewels in

her lap. The fire of diamonds and rubies could not warm her.

_BOOK FOURTH.--NOEMI._

CHAPTER I.

A NEW GUEST.

What rich bankers call business filled up the winter season, and

Levetinczy began to enjoy his position. Riches bring pleasant dreams. He

went often to Vienna and took part in the amusements of the commercial

world, where many good examples were presented to him. A man who owns a

million can allow himself the luxury, when he goes to the jeweler to buy

New Year's gifts, of buying two of everything to please two hearts at

once.

One for his wife, who sits at home and receives guests or looks after

the household--the other for another lady, who either dances or sings,

but in any case requires an elegant hotel, jewels, and laces. Timar was

so fortunate as to be invited to the parties given at home by his

friends, where the lady of the house makes tea--as well as to those

differently organized _soirees_, where a very unceremonious set of

ladies preferred champagne, and where Timar was constantly attacked by

the question whether he had no little friend at the opera yet.

"The pattern of a faithful husband," declared his admirers.

"An unbearable prig," was the verdict of his critics.

But he says nothing, and thinks of--Noemi. What an eternity to have been

separated from her--six months; to think of her every day, and not dare

to confide his thoughts to a single soul!

He often caught himself on the point of betraying his thoughts; once as

he sat at table the words all but escaped him, "Look! those are the same

apples which grow on Noemi's island." "When Noemi had a headache, it

went away if I laid my hand on her forehead." And if he looked at

Timea's pet white cat, the exclamation hovered on his lips, "Narcissa,

where did you leave your mistress, eh?"

He had every reason to be on his guard, for there was a being in the

house who watched him as well as Timea with Argus eyes.

Athalie could not but remark that since his return he was no longer so

melancholy as before; every one noticed how well he looked; there must

be some mystery in it. And Athalie could not bear any one in this house

to be happy. Where did he steal his contentment? Why does he not suffer

as he ought to do?

Business prospered. In the first month of the new year news came from

the other side of the sea. The flour exported had arrived safely, and

its success was complete. Hungarian flour had won such renown in South

America, that now people tried to sell the native product under that

name. The Austrian consul in Brazil hastened to inform his government of

this important result, by which the export trade was increased in a

marked degree. The consequence was that Timar was made a privy

councilor, and received the minor order of St. Stephen, as an

acknowledgment of the services rendered by him to his native land in the

fields of commerce and philanthropy.

How the mocking demon in his breast laughed when they fastened the order

on to his coat and called him "the right honorable!" "You have to thank

two women for this--Noemi and Timea." Be it so. The discovery of the

purple dye had its origin in the eating of a purple snail by the little

dog of a shepherd's mistress; but yet purple has become a royal color.

Herr von Levetinczy now first began to rise in the estimation of the

people of Komorn. When a man is a privy councilor, one can not deny him

a proper portion of respect. Every one hastened to congratulate him, and

he received them all with a gracious condescension. Our Johann Fabula

came too to wish him joy in the name of the fisher-folk. He was in the

gala clothes of his class. On his short dolman of dark-blue cloth shone

three rows of shell-shaped silver buttons, as large as nuts, and from

one shoulder to the other hung a broad silver chain with a large

medallion for a clasp, on which the Komorn silversmith had stamped the

head of Julius Caesar. The other members of the deputation were equally

splendid. Silver buttons and chains were at that time still worn by the

mariners of Komorn. It was the custom to keep the visitors to dinner,

and this honor fell to Fabula. He was a very frank person, who spoke

with complete unreserve. When wine had loosened his tongue, he could not

forbear to tell the gracious lady that when he first saw her as a girl

he would never have thought that she would have become such a good

housewife and be the wife of Herr von Levetinczy. Yes, indeed; he was

afraid of her then, and now see how wonderful are the ways of God's

providence, and how short-sighted are men; how everything has been

ordered for the best: what happiness reigns in this house! If only a

kind Providence would hear the prayers of those who entreat that a new

blessing may be sent down from heaven to the good lord of Levetinczy, in

the shape of a little angel.

Timar covered his glass with his hand; a thought started through his

mind--"Such a wish might have an unlooked-for result."

But Herr Fabula was not content with good wishes, he thought he must add

some good advice. "But his honor rushes about too much. In good truth I

would not leave such a sweet, pretty lady alone. But it can't be helped

if the master must see to everything himself, for that's why it

succeeds. Who would have thought of sending our flour across the sea? To

tell the truth, when I heard it--excuse me for making so free--I thought

to myself the master must have gone silly; before that flour gets there

it will all be musty, while loaves grow out there on the trees and roll

on the bushes. And now just see what credit we have all got by it. But

it is the master's eye that feeds the horse--"

This was to Michael an unwelcome irony, which he could not leave without

contradiction. "My good Johann, if that was the secret of our success,

you must bestow all your praises on my wife, for it was she who looked

after everything."

"Yes, indeed; all honor to the merits of our noble lady!" said Fabula;

"but, with his honor's permission, I know what I know. I know where his

honor spent the whole summer."

Michael felt as if his hair stood on end with horror. Could this man

know where he had been? It would be awful if he did.

Michael winked with one eye over his glass at his guest, but in vain.

"Well, shall I tell our gracious lady where the master spent the summer?

Shall I let it out?"

Michael felt every limb paralyzed by terror. Athalie kept her eyes fixed

on his face; he durst not betray by a gesture that the gossip of the

tipsy chatterer confused him. "Well, tell us then, Johann, where I was,"

he said, with enforced calmness.