"I will complain of you to the gracious lady; I will tell her," cried

Fabula, putting down his glass. "His honor ran away without saying a

word to any one. He went quietly on board a ship and sailed away to

Brazil; he was over there in America and settled everything himself, and

that's why it all went so smoothly."

Timar looked at the two women. On Timea's face was reflected pure

surprise, Athalie was vexed. She believed as fully in the truth of

Fabula's tale as he did himself, and he would have staked his head on

it.

Timar also smiled mysteriously at the story; now he was the one who

lied, not Johann Fabula. The man of gold must go on lying.

* * * * *

The story was very useful to Timar. He had now a sufficient excuse for

his mysterious disappearances, and it was possible for him to give such

an air of probability to the story of his Brazilian voyage that even

Athalie believed it. Indeed, she was the easiest to deceive. She knew

what Timea was feeling, and that she was glad to distract herself by

absence and work from the thought of him on whose account her heart

ached. If a wife can do so, why not the husband? It was even simpler for

him to fly from his sorrows to another hemisphere, and in the pursuit of

wealth to forget what his heart coveted. How should Athalie have guessed

that it was the husband who had already found a cure for his mortal

sickness, and who was happy away from home? What would she have given to

him who should have revealed the truth? But the rushes round the

ownerless island did not chatter like the reeds to which King Midas's

barber trusted his secret. Athalie was consumed with envy, while she

vainly sought for a key to the riddle. At home and in public, Timar and

Timea presented the exemplary picture of a happy marriage. He heaped on

his wife expensive jewels, and Timea loaded herself with them when they

went into society; she wished to shine by this means.

What could better prove the affection of the husband than the diamonds

of the wife? Could Timar and Timea really be a couple whose love

consisted in giving and receiving diamonds, or are there people in this

world who can be happy without love?

Athalie still suspected Timea and not Timar. But Timar could hardly wait

till the winter was over and spring had come: of course, because then

the mills can begin to grind again--what else could a man of business

have in his mind?

This year Michael persuaded Timea not to try her health by the

management of business; he would give it over to his agents, and she

should go during the summer to some sea-bathing place, to get rid of her

neuralgia.

No one asked him where he was going. It was taken for granted that he

would again travel to South America, and pretend he had been in Egypt or

Italy.

But he hurried away to the Lower Danube. When the poplars grew green, he

could not stay at home: the alluring picture filled his dreams and took

captive all his thoughts. He never stopped at Levetinczy, but only gave

general instructions to his agent and his steward to do their best; then

he went on to Golovacz, where he stayed a night with the dean; thence he

had only a half-day's journey to get to Noemi. He had not seen her for

six long months; his mind was filled with the picture of the meeting.

Awake and asleep he was full of longing, and could hardly wait for dawn.

Before sunrise he was up, put on his knapsack, threw his gun over his

shoulder, and without waiting for the appearance of his host, he left

the presbytery and hastened to the wooded river-bank.

The Danube does a good work in widening the limits of the wood every

year by retreating from its banks, for in this way the watch-houses

built twenty-five years ago on the shore have now taken up a position

much further inland. And he who wishes to cross the river without a

passport finds in the young brushwood an entirely neutral territory.

Timar had sent a new boat to the hut, where he went on foot; he found it

ready, and started as usual alone on the way to the reed-beds. The

skiff floated like a fish on the water, and that it traveled so swiftly

was not owing to itself alone. The year had grown to April, it was

spring, and the trees at Ostrova were already in blossom. So much the

more astonished was he at the sight which met his eyes on the other

side. The ownerless island did not look green; it seemed to have been

burned. As he approached he saw the reason; all the trees on the

northern side were quite brown. The boat traversed the rushes quickly;

when it touched the bank, Michael saw plainly that a whole long row of

trees, Frau Therese's favorite walnuts, were dead--every one of them.

Michael felt quite downcast at the sight. At this season he was

generally greeted by green branches and rosebuds. Now a dead forest

welcomed him--a bad omen.

He pressed forward and listened for the bark of greeting: not a sound to

be heard. He walked on anxiously; the paths were neglected, covered by

dry autumn leaves, and it seemed to him as if even the birds were

silent. When he drew near the hut, a dreadful feeling overcame

him--where were the inhabitants? They might be dead and not buried; he

had been busied about other things for half a year--with affairs of

state, with showing off his young wife, and making money. And meanwhile

Heaven had watched over the islanders--if it chose.

As he entered the veranda, a door opened and Therese came out. She

looked serious, as if something had frightened her; and then a bitter

smile appeared on her face. "Ah! you have come!" said she, and came to

press his hand. And then it was she who asked him why he came looking so

grave. "No misfortune has happened?" Timar asked, hastily.

"Misfortune? No," said Therese, with a melancholy smile.

"My heart was sore when I saw the dead trees," said Michael, to excuse

his serious looks.

"The flood last summer did that," answered Therese; "walnut-trees can

not stand wet."

"And how are you both?" asked Timar, uneasily.

Therese answered gently, "We are pretty well, I and the other two."

"What do you mean? the other two?"

She smiled and sighed, and smiled again; then she laid her hand on

Michael's shoulder and said, "The wife of a poor smuggler fell ill here:

the woman died, the child remained here. Now you know who the other two

are."

Timar rushed into the house: at the far end of the room stood a cradle

woven of osiers, and near it, on one side, was Almira, on the other

Noemi. Noemi rocked the cradle and waited till Timar came to her. In it

lay a little baby, with chubby cheeks, which pressed the cherry lips

into a soft pout; its eyes were only half shut, and the tiny fists lay

over its face. Michael stood spell-bound before the cradle. He looked at

Noemi as if to seek the answer to the riddle in her face, on which a

sweet ray of heavenly light seemed to shine, in which modesty and love

were combined. She smiled and cast her eyes down. Michael thought he

would lose his senses.

Therese laid her hand on his arm, "Then are you angry that we have

adopted the orphan child of the poor smuggler's wife? God sent it to

us."

Angry? He had fallen on his knees, and held the cradle in his embrace,

pressing it and its inhabitant to his breast; then he began to sob

violently, like one who has kept a whole ocean of sorrow in his heart,

which suddenly overflows its bounds.

Timar kissed the little messenger from God wherever he could--its little

hands and feet, the hem of its robe, its rosy cheeks. The baby made

grimaces under the kisses, but did not wake. At last it opened its eyes,

its great blue eyes, and looked at the strange man with astonishment, as

if to say, "Does this man want anything of me?" and then it laughed, as

if it thought, "I don't care what he wants," and after that it shut its

eyes and slumbered on, still smiling and undisturbed by the flood of

kisses.

Therese said, smiling, "You poor orphan! you never dreamed of this, did

you?" and turned away to hide her tears.

"And am I to have no greeting?" said Noemi, with charming anger. Michael

turned to her, still on his knees. He spoke not a word, only pressed her

hand to his lips and hid his face silently in her lap. He was dumb as

long as the child slept. When the little creature awoke, it began to

talk in its own language--which we call crying. It is lucky there are

those who understand it. The baby was hungry.

Noemi said to Michael that he must now leave the room, for he was not to

know what the poor little orphan was fed upon.

Michael went outside; he was in a transport. It seemed as if he was on a

new star, from which one could look down on the earth as on a foreign

body. All he had called his own on the terrestrial ball was left behind,

and he no longer felt its attraction drawing him thither. The circle in

which he had spent his former life was trodden under foot, and he had

attained a new center of gravity. A new object, a new life, stood before

him; only one uncertainty remained---how could he contrive to vanish

from the world? To pass into another sphere without leaving this mortal

life behind; to live on two different planets at once, to mount from

earth to heaven, to pass again from heaven to earth, there to entertain

angels, and here to live for money--alas! this was no task for human

nerves. He would lose his reason in the attempt.

Not without reason are little children called angels, or "messengers:"

children are indeed messengers from the other world, whose mysterious

influence is visible in their eyes, to those who receive them as gifts

of God. A wonderful look often meets us in the eye of an infant, which

is lost when the lips learn speech. How often Michael gazed for hours at

this blue ray from heaven in the baby's eyes, when it lay on a lambskin

out on the grass, and he stretched himself beside it, and plucked the

flowers it wanted--"There, then, here it is." He had his work cut out to

get it away, for the little thing put everything in its mouth. He

studied its first attempts at language, he let it drag at his beard, and

sung lullabies to put it to sleep.

His feeling for Noemi was quite different now; it was not desire, but

bliss--the glow of passion had given place to a sweet contented calm,

and he felt like one convalescent from a fever. Noemi, too, had altered

since they last met; on her face lay an expression of submissive

tenderness, and in all her conduct was a consistent gentleness, which

could not have been assumed--a quiet dignity combined with chaste

reserve, which surrounds a woman with a halo, compelling respect. Timar

could not get used to his happiness: he required many days to be

convinced that it was not a dream--that this little hut, half wood, half

clay, and the smiling woman with the babbling babe at her breast, were

reality and not a vision.

And then he thought, what will become of them?

He strode about the island and brooded on the future.

"What can I give this child? Much money? They know nought of money here.

Great estates? This island suffices. Shall I take him with me and make

him into a great and wealthy man? But the women could not part with him.

Shall I take them too? But even if they consented, I could not do it;

they would learn what I am, and would despise me. They can only be happy

here: only here can this child hold up its head, where none can ask its

name."

The women had called it Adeodatus (Gift of God). It had no other name.

What other could it have?

One day when he was wandering aimlessly, deep in thought, about the

island, striding through the bushes and weeds, Timar came suddenly to a

part where the dry twigs crackled under his feet. He looked round; he

was in the melancholy little plantation of dead walnut-trees. The

beautiful trees were all dried up: spring had not clothed them with

fresh green foliage, and the dead leaves covered the ground.

An idea struck Michael in this vegetable cemetery. He hastened back to

the hut. "Therese, have you still the tools you used in building your

house?"

"There they are on the shelf."

"Give them here. I have an idea; I will fell the dead walnuts and build

of them a little house for Dodi."

Therese clasped her hands in astonishment. But Noemi's answer was to

kiss her little Dodi and say to him, "Dost thou hear?"

Michael interpreted the wonder on Therese's face as incredulity. "Yes,

yes," he persisted, "I will build the house myself without any help--a

little house like a jewel-case, like those the Wallachians build, lined

with beautiful oak; mine shall be of walnut, and fit for a prince. I

will drive every nail myself, and it shall be Dodi's house when he gets

bigger."

Therese only smiled. "That will be fine, Michael. I too built my nest as

the swallows do; I formed the walls of clay, and thatched my roof with

rushes. But carpentry is not one man's work; the old saw has two

handles, and one can not manage it alone."

"But are we not two?" cried Noemi, eagerly. "Can't I help him? Do you

fancy my arm is not strong enough?" and she turned her sleeve up to her

shoulder to show off her arm. It was beautifully formed, yet muscular,

fit for Diana. Michael covered it with kisses from the shoulder down to

the finger-tips, and then said, "Be it so."

"Oh, we will work together," cried Noemi, whose lively fancy had seized

on Michael's suggestion with lightning speed. "We will both go out into

the wood; we will make a hammock for Dodi and sling it from the

branches. Mother shall bring us out our meals, and we will sit on the

planks we have sawn, and take our dinner out of the same plate: how good

it will taste!"

And so it did. Michael took the ax and went out to the walnut-grove,

where he set to work. Before he had felled and topped one tree his hands

were blistered. Noemi told him women's hands never got sore. When three

trees were cut down, so that one trunk could be laid across the other

two, Michael wanted Noemi's help. She was quite in earnest, and attacked

the task bravely. In her slender form lay stores of strength and

endurance. She handled the great saw as cleverly as if she had been

taught to do it.

Michael gradually got used to the dressing of the walnut planks; the ax,

too, did good service, and Noemi admired him greatly. "Tell me,

Michael," she asked him one day, "have you never been a carpenter?"

"Oh, yes," he answered, "a ship's carpenter."

"And tell me, how did you become such a rich man that you can stay away

a whole summer from your work, and spend your time elsewhere? You are

your own master, I suppose? You take orders from no one?"

"I must tell you all about it some day," said Michael; and yet he never

told her how he became rich, so as to be able to spend weeks on the

island sawing wood. He often related to Noemi stories of his adventurous

journeys through all lands, but in his romantic tales he never said

anything about himself. He escaped inquisitive pressure by working hard

all day; and when he lay down at night, it was not the time to tease him

with questions, though many wives take advantage of the opportunity.

During the long time Timar spent in the ownerless island, he had

gradually become convinced that it was by no means so concealed as to be

unknown: its existence was known to a large class of visitors. But they

never revealed it to the outer world. Smuggling, on the banks of this

wooded river, was a regular profession, with its own constitution, its

own schools, its secret laws, forming a state within a state. It often

surprised Timar to find among the willow-copses of the island a canoe or

a boat, watched by no one. If he came back a few hours later, it was no

longer there. Another time he stumbled on great bales of goods, which

also had disappeared when he returned. All the mysterious people who

used the island as a resting-place seemed purposely to avoid the

neighborhood of the hut; they went and came without leaving a footmark

on the turf. There were cases, however, in which they visited the hut;

and then it was always Therese who received their visit. When Almira

gave the signal that strangers were coming, Timar left his work and

retired into the inner room; he must not be seen by any stranger. It is

true the beard he had grown had altered him considerably, but yet some

one might come who had seen him elsewhere. The wild people always came

to Therese if they had been hurt; they often frequented places where

they were likely to be wounded. Sometimes they had deep, dangerous

gunshot wounds, which they could not show to the regimental surgeon,

for the result would be a court-martial; but the island lady knew of

healing salves, could reduce fractures, bind up wounds, and prescribe

medicines for fevers. She was sought by sick people who kept secret

their abode, for they knew the physicians would never endure this

quack-doctoring. She reconciled enemies who dared not go to law, and

consoled criminals who repented of their sins, with the hope of God's

mercy. Often some fugitive, tired and exhausted with hunger and thirst,

came to her threshold. She asked not, "Whence do you come or whither do

you go?" She took him in, and let him go when restored and refreshed,

after filling his pouch with food.

Many know her whose religion is silence, and there is no bond which

binds master and disciple so closely as this. Every one knows that no

money is to be found here; even avarice has no reason to wish her ill.

Timar could be certain of having found a place over which centuries

might pass before the history of its inhabitants should be drawn into

that chaos we call the world. He could go on with his carpentry without

fearing that the news would leak out that Michael Timar Levetinczy,

privy councilor, landowner, banker, had turned into a woodcutter in an

unknown island; and that, when he rested from his hard labor, he cut

willow branches to shelter a poor orphan child which had neither parents

nor a name of its own. What joys he knew here! how he listened for the

first word the child could speak! The little man had such trouble to

shape his unskillful lips to the words. "Papa," of course, was the

first; what else could it be? The child learns also to understand the

sorrowful side of life; when a new tooth comes, what pain and sleepless

nights must be endured! Noemi remains at home with it, and Michael runs

back from his work to see how little Dodi is. He takes the child from

Noemi and carries him about, singing lullabies to him. If he succeeds in

putting Dodi to sleep and soothing his pain, how triumphant he is! He

sings--

"For all the gold the world could hold,

I would not give my Dodi's curl."

One day Michael suddenly found that he had grubbed up and cut down all

the timber. So far the work had prospered; but now he found he could not

get on. House-carpentry is a trade like any other, and must be learned,

and he had not spoken the truth when he said he understood it.

Autumn drew near. Therese and Noemi were already used to think it quite

natural for Timar to leave them at this season; he must of course earn

his bread. His business is of a sort which gets on by itself in the

summer, but in winter he must give himself up to it. They knew that from

other tradespeople. But in another house the same idea reigned. Timea

believed Michael had business which obliged him to spend the summer away

from home: at that season the management of his estates, of his building

and export contracts, demanded all his attention.

From autumn to spring he deceived Timea, from spring to autumn he

deceived Noemi. He could not be called inconsistent.

This time he left the island earlier than in other years. He hastened

back to Komorn, where all his affairs had progressed in his absence

beyond his expectations. Even in the government lottery the first prize

must needs fall to him; the long-forgotten ticket lay buried somewhere

in a drawer under other papers, and not till three months after the

drawing did he bring it out, and claim the unhoped-for hundred thousand

gulden, like one who hardly cares for such a trifle. The world admired

him all the more. He had so much money, people said, that he wished for

no more.

What could he do with it?

He began by sending for celebrated cabinet-makers from Szekler and

Zarand, who understand the building of those splendid wooden houses

which last for centuries--real palaces of hard wood. The Roumanian

nobility live in such houses as these, which are full of beautiful

carving inside. The house and its furniture, tables, chairs, and

wardrobes, are all the work of one hand. Everything in it is of

wood--not a single bit of iron is used.

CHAPTER II.

THE WOOD-CARVER.

On his return home, Michael found Timea somewhat unwell. This induced

him to call in two celebrated doctors from Vienna in order to consult

them about his wife's health. They agreed that a change of climate was

necessary, and advised a winter sojourn in Meran; so Michael accompanied

thither his wife and Athalie. In the sheltered valley, he chose for

Timea a villa in whose garden stood a pavilion built like a Swiss

_chalet_. He knew that Timea would like it. In the course of the winter

he often visited her, generally in the company of an elderly man, and

found that, as he expected, the _chalet_ was her favorite resort.

When he returned to Komorn he set to work to build just such another

_chalet_ as the one at Meran. The cabinet-maker he had brought with him

was a master of his art. He copied the _chalet_ and its furniture in the

minutest detail; then he installed a large workshop in Timar's

one-storied house in the Servian Street, and there set to work. No one

was to know anything about it--it was to be a surprise. But the

architect required an apprentice to help him, and it was difficult to

find one who could hold his tongue. There was nothing for it but to turn

Timar himself into an apprentice, and he now vied with his master from

morning to night with chisel and gimlet, in carving, planing, polishing,

and turning. But as to the cabinet-maker himself, if you had closed his

mouth with Solomon's seal, you could not have made him discreet enough

to refrain from letting out the secret to his Sunday evening boon

companions, of the surprise Herr von Levetinczy was preparing for his

wife. First they made the different parts and fitted them together: then

the whole, as fast as it was ready, was set up in the beautiful park on

the Monostor. He himself, a regular Croesus, does not shrink from working

all day like a laborer, and is as good at the tools as if he were a

foreman. He does not trouble about his own affairs, he leaves them to

his agents, and saws and carves the whole day long in the workshop. But

they must not let it go further, for the gracious lady was to have a

surprise when she came home. Naturally the whole town heard of it, and

so did Frau Sophie, who wrote to Athalie, who told Timea, so that Timea

knew beforehand that Michael, when she came home in the spring, would

drive with her some fine day to the Monostor hill, where they had a

large orchard: there, on the side overlooking the Danube, she would find

her dear Meran pavilion exactly copied, her work-basket at the window,

her favorite books on the birchwood shelves, her cane chair on the

veranda. All this to surprise her; and she must smile as if much

pleased, and when she praised the maker, she would hear from him, "You

must not compliment me, gracious lady, but my apprentice." "Who executed

the best carvings, who made the footstool, these elegant balustrades,

these columns and capitals?" "My apprentice." "And who was he?" "The

noble lord of Levetinczy himself. All this is his work, gracious lady."

And then Timea would smile and try to find words to express her thanks.

Only words: for he may heap treasures on his wife, or give her black

bread that he had earned by his labor; he can not purchase her

affection.

And so it was. In the spring Timea came back. The Monostor surprise was

skillfully planned, with a splendid banquet and a troop of guests. On

Timea's face hovered a melancholy smile; on Timar's, reserved kindness;

and on those of the guests, envious congratulation. The ladies said no

woman was worthy of such a husband as Timar, he was an ideal husband;

but the men said it was not a good sign when a husband tried to win his

wife's favor by presents and attentions.

Only Athalie said nothing: she sought a clew to the mystery and found

none. What had come to Timar? His countenance betrayed something like

happiness; what was he concealing under his care for Timea? In company

he was bright and cheerful, unconstrained and at ease with Athalie,

sometimes even taking her for a turn in the cotillon. Was he really

happy, or was he indifferent? It was vain for him to try and win Timea's

heart; Athalie knew that by her own experience. She had found plenty of

wooers, but refused them all--all men were alike to her; she had only

loved one, whom now she hated. She alone understood Timea.

But Michael she could not fathom. He was a man of pure gold, without a

speck of rust upon him.

When spring came, Timar again called in the physicians to pronounce on

Timea's health. This time she was advised to try the sea-bathing at

Biarritz. Michael took her there, arranged her apartments, took care

that she should be able to compete in dress and equipages with English

peeresses and Russian princesses, and left a heavy purse with her,

begging her to bring it back empty. He was generous to Athalie, put her

down as Timea's cousin in the visitor's list, and she too was to change

her dress five times a day, like Timea. Could any one better fulfill the

duties of the head of a family?

Then he hurried away, not homeward, but to Vienna; there he bought the

whole furniture of a workshop, and had it sent in chests to Pancsova.

Here he had to invent some pretense to get the boxes over to the island.

Caution was most necessary. The fishermen, who often saw him go round

the Ostrova Island in a boat, and not return for months, had puzzled

their heads as to who he was and what brought him here. When the cases

arrived, he had them conveyed to the poplar-groves of the left bank of

the Danube, and there unloaded. Then he called in the fishermen, and

said they must get them over to the lonely island--they contained arms.

That one word was enough to sink the secret to the bottom of the sea.

Henceforward he could go backward and forward by day or night, no one

would ever mention his name. They all knew now that he was an agent of

the Servian and Montenegrin heroes of the insurrection, and the rack

would not have extorted information from them. He became a sacred

personage in their eyes. In this way, in order to hide himself in

darkness, he deceived every one with whom he exchanged a word. The

fishermen ferried over the cases at night, and Timar with them; they

looked out for a place on the shore where the thickest bushes grew, and

carried the boxes there, and when Michael would have paid them, they

would not accept a groschen from him, only grasping his hand.

He remained on the island, and the fishermen left him. It was a splendid

moonlight night; the nightingale sung on its nest. Michael went along

the bank till he came to the path, and passed the place where he had

left off his work last year; the trunks were carefully covered with

rushes to keep the wet off.

He approached the little dwelling on tiptoe. It was a good sign that he

heard no noise. Almira does not bark, because she is sleeping in the

kitchen so as not to wake the child. All is well in the house.

How should he announce himself, and surprise Noemi? He stood before the

little window, half covered by climbing roses, and began to sing--

"For all the gold the world could hold,

I would not give my Dodi's curl."

He was not disappointed; a moment later the window opened, and Noemi

looked out with a face radiant with joy. "My Michael," whispered the

poor child.

"Yes, thy Michael," he murmured, clasping the dear head in both arms.

"And Dodi?"

"He is asleep; hush, we must not wake him." And still the lips murmured

tenderly, "Come in."

"He might wake and cry."

"Oh, he is no longer a crying child. Just think, he is a year old."

"What! a year already! He is quite a big fellow."

"He can say your name already."

"Does he really talk?"

"And he is learning to walk."

"Just fancy!"

"He eats anything now."

"Impossible; that is too soon."

"What do you know about it? wait till you see him."

"Push the curtain aside that I may see him by the moonlight."

"No; that would not do. If the moon shines on a sleeping child it makes

it ill."

"Nonsense!"

"There are all sorts of wonderful things about children, and one must

have plenty of faith; that is why women have charge of children, because

they believe everything. Come in and look at him."

"I will not go in as long as he is asleep--I might wake him; you come

out."

"I can not do that; he would wake if I left him, and mother is asleep."

"Well, then, you go back to him, and I will remain outside."

"Won't you lie down?"

"It is almost day-break. Go back to him, and leave the window open."

And he remained standing by the window, looking into the little room, on

whose floor the moon painted silver patterns, and trying to distinguish

the tones which came from the quiet chamber--a little whimper of an

awakened child, then a low song like a dreamy lullaby, "For all the gold

. . ." Then the sound of a kiss, which a good baby gets as a reward for

going to sleep. With his elbows on the window-sill, and listening to the

breaths of the sleepers, Timar awaited the dawn, which filled the little

house with light. The red sunrise awoke the child, and there was no more

sleep for the others. The baby crowed and babbled; what it said only

those two understood--itself and Noemi.

When at last Michael got it into his arms he said, "I shall stay here,

Dodi, till I have finished your house."

The child said something which Noemi interpreted to mean, "That is just

what I wish."

These were the happiest days of Timar's dual life. Nothing troubled the

serenity of his happiness, except the thought of that other life to

which he must return. If he could find ways and means to sever himself

from that, he might live on here in peace. Nothing would be easier; he

simply had to stay here. He would be sought for during the first year,

for two or three more he would be remembered from time to time; then the

world would forget him and he it, and Noemi would remain to him. And

what a jewel she was! Whatever was lovable in woman was combined in her,

and every feminine defect was wanting. Her beauty was not of the kind

which satiates by its monotony: with every change of expression arose a

new charm. Tenderness, gentleness, and fire were united in her

disposition. The virgin, the fairy, the woman were harmoniously blended

in her. Her love was never selfish; her whole being went out to him whom

she loved: his sorrows and joys were hers, she knew no others. At home

she thought of every trivial detail which could conduce to his comfort;

she helped him in his work with an untiring hand. Ever bright and fresh,

if she felt unwell a kiss from him drove away the pain. She was

submissive to him, who worshiped her. And when she took the child on her

lap, it was a sight to drive the man mad who had made her his own--and

yet not really his.

But Timar had not yet made up his mind. He still played with Fate. The

price was too high even for such a treasure as a lovely woman with a

smiling child in her arms.

The cost was--a whole world! a property amounting to millions; his

position in society; his rank and noble friends; the enterprise of

world-wide influence, on whose result hung the future of a great

national branch of trade! and besides--Timea. He might have reconciled

himself to the idea of treading his riches under foot: they came from

the submarine depths, and might return thither.

But his vanity refused to contemplate the notion that that woman with

the white face, which no glow from her husband could animate, might be

happy in this life--with another man. Perhaps he hardly knew himself

what a fiend was hidden in his breast. The woman who could not love him

was fading away before his eyes, while he could live through happy days

where he was well beloved. And during this time the house-building made

rapid progress, and was already being put together by the workman's

skillful hand; the roof was on, and covered with wide planks formed like

fish-scales to overlap each other. The carpentry was done, and now came

the cabinet-work. Michael completed it without any assistance, and might

be seen from morn to eve in the workshop he had arranged in the new

house, where he sung all day as he planed and sawed. Like the steadiest

of day-laborers, he never left off his work before dark; then he

returned to the hut where an appetizing supper awaited him. After the

meal he sat down on the bench outside the house, and lighted his clay

pipe. Noemi sat by him and took Dodi on her knees, who was now expected

to exhibit what he had learned during the day. A new word! And is not

this one word a greater acquirement than all the wisdom of the world?

"What would you sell Dodi for?" Noemi asked him once in jest. "For the

whole earth full of diamonds?"

"Not for the whole heaven full of angels."

Little Dodi happened that day to be full of spirits. In a mischievous

mood he caught hold with his little hand of the pipe Michael had in his

mouth, and pulled till he got it out of his hold, when he at once threw

it on the ground; as it was made of clay, of course it was broken into

atoms. Timar was rather hasty in his exercise of justice, and bestowed a

little tap on the child's hand as a punishment for the damage done. The

boy looked at him, then hid his head in his mother's breast, and began

to cry.

"See now," said Noemi, sadly, "you would give him away for a pipe, and

this one was only of clay."

Michael was very sorry to have slapped Dodi's hand. He tried to make it

up by coaxing words, and kissed the little hand, but the child was shy

of him, and crept under Noemi's shawl. All night he was restless,

wakeful, and crying. Timar got angry, and said the child was of a

willful nature, his obstinacy must be overcome. Noemi cast a gently

reproachful glance on him.

The next day Timar left his bed earlier than usual, and went to his

work, but he was never heard to sing all day. He left off early in the

afternoon, and when he came home he could see by Noemi's face that she

was quite alarmed at his appearance. His complexion was quite altered.

"I am not well," he said to Noemi, "my head is so heavy, my feet will

hardly carry me, and I have pain in all my limbs. I must lie down."

Noemi hastened to make up a bed for him in the inner room, and helped

him to undress. With anxiety she noticed that Michael's hands were cold

and his breath burning. Frau Therese felt his forehead, and advised him

to cover himself well, for he was going to have ague. But Michael had

the sensation that something worse was at hand. In this district typhus

was raging, for the spring floods had swelled the Danube in an unusual

degree, and left malaria behind them. When he laid his head on the

pillow he was still sensible enough to think of what would happen if a

serious illness attacked him; no doctor was near to help. He might die

here, and no one would know what had become of him. What would become of

Timea, and above all, of Noemi? Who would care for the forsaken one, a

widow without being a wife? Who would bring up Dodi, and what fate

awaited him when he should be grown up, and Michael underground? Two

women's lives would be wrecked by his death!

And then he began to think of the revelations of his delirium before the

two women who would be with him day and night--of his stewards, his

palaces, and of his pale wife--of how he would see Timea before him,

call her by name, and speak of her as his wife--and Noemi knows that

name.

Besides his bodily pain, another thing tormented him--that he had struck

Dodi yesterday. This trifle lay heavy as a crime on his soul. After he

was in bed he wanted the child brought to him that he might kiss it, and

whispered "Noemi," with hot breath.

"What is it?" she answered.

But already he know not what he had asked. Directly he was in bed the

fever broke out with full force. He was a strong man, and such are the

first to succumb to this "aid-de-camp" of death, and suffer the most

from it. Thenceforward he wandered continually; and Noemi heard every

word he spoke. The sick man knew no one, not even himself. He who spoke

through his lips was a stranger--a man who had no secrets, and told all

he knew. The visions are akin to the delusions of madness; they turn on

one fixed idea, and however the detail may change, the central figure

returns ever and again to the surface.

In Timar's wandering there was one of these dominating figures--a woman.

Not Timea, but Noemi--of her he continually spoke. Timea's name never

passed his lips--she did not fill his soul.

For Noemi it was horror and rapture combined to listen to this

unconscious babble--horror, because it spoke of such strange things, and

took her with him to such unknown regions, that she trembled at a fever

which compelled him to look on at such marvels--and yet it was bliss to

hear him, for he always talked of her, and her only.

Once he was in a princely palace and talking with some great man. "To

whom should his excellency give this decoration? I know a girl on the

ownerless island--no one is more worthy of it than she. Give her the

order. She is called Noemi; her other name? Do queens have another name?

The first. Noemi the first, by the grace of God queen of the ownerless

island and the rose-forest."

He carried his idea further. "If I become king of the ownerless island,

I shall form a ministry. Almira will be inspector of meat, and Narcissa

will be appointed to the dairy department. I shall demand security from

them, and name them as confidential advisers." Then he talked of his

palaces. "How do you like these saloons, Noemi? Does the gilding of this

ceiling please you? Those children dancing on the golden background are

like Dodi--are they not like him? A pity they are so high up. Are you

cold in these great halls? So am I--come, let us go away. It is better

by the fire in our little hut. I do not love these high palaces; and

this town is often visited by earthquakes--I fear the vault may fall in

on us. There! behind that little door some one is spying on us--an

envious woman. Do not look, Noemi! Her malicious glance might do you

harm. This house once belonged to her, and now she wanders through it

like a ghost. See, she has a dagger in her hand, and wants to murder

you; let us run away!"

But there was a hinderance in the way of escape--the frightful mass of

gold. "I can not stand up, the gold drags me down. It is all on my

breast; take it away! Oh, I am drowning in gold! The roof has fallen in,

and gold is rolling down on me. I am suffocating. Noemi, give me your

hand; pull me from under this horrible mountain of gold."

His hand lay in Noemi's all the time, and she thought, trembling, what a

fearful power it was which tortured a poor sailor with such dreams of

money. Then he began again: "You don't care for diamonds, Noemi? You

little fool! Do you think their fire burns? Don't be afraid. Ha! you are

right, it does burn--I did not know that--it is hell-fire. Even the

names are alike--Diamond, Demon. We will throw them into the

water--throw them from you. I know where they came from, and I will

throw them back into the water. Don't be afraid, I will not remain long

under water. Hold your breath and pray. As long as you can stay without

taking breath I shall be down below; I am only going to dive into the

cabin of the sunken ship. Ah! who is lying on this bed?"

Such a shudder seized him that he sprung from his couch and would have

rushed away. Noemi was hardly able to get him back to bed. "Some one is

lying there, but I must not say the name. See how the red moon shines in

at the window. Shut the light out. I will not have it on my face. How

near it is coming! Draw the curtain across!"

But the curtains were drawn, and besides, it was pitch-dark outside.

When the fever-fit passed, he murmured, "Oh, how lovely you are without

diamonds, Noemi!"

Then a fantasy seized him. "That man stands at our antipodes on the

other side of the earth. If the earth were of glass he could look down

upon us. But he can see me just as well as I see him. What is he doing?

He is catching rattlesnakes, and when he comes back he will let them

loose on the island. Don't let him land; don't let him come back!

Almira! Almira! At him! tear him! Aha! now a giant snake has got him; it

is strangling him. How frightful his face is! If only I need not see the

snake swallow him! Will he look at me? Now there is only his head out,

and he keeps looking at me. Oh, Noemi, cover my face that I may not see

him!"

Again the dream-scene changes. "A whole fleet floats on the sea. What

are the ships laden with? With flour. Now comes a whirlwind, a tornado

seizes the ships, carries them into the clouds and tears them into

splinters. The flour is all spilled: the whole world is white with it,

white is the sea, white the heavens, and white the air. The moon peeps

from the clouds, and only look how the wind covers its face with flour!

It looks like some red-nosed old toper who has powdered his face. Laugh

then, Noemi!" But she wrung her hands and shuddered. The poor creature

was by his bed day and night. By day she sat on a chair at his side; by

night she pulled her bed close to his and slept beside him: careless of

the infection, she laid her head on Michael's pillow, pressed his

perspiring brow to her cheek, and kissed away the burning fever-breaths

from his parched lips.

Frau Therese tried by harmless remedies to reduce the fever, and took

out the glass casements that the fresh air--the best medicine in fever

cases--might freely penetrate the little room. She said to Noemi, that

by her calculation the crisis would set in on the thirteenth day, when

the illness would either take a turn for the better or terminate

fatally.

How long Noemi knelt during these days by the sick man's bed and prayed

to God, who had tried her so heavily, to have mercy on her poor heart!

If only He would give Michael back to life--and then if the grave must

have a sacrifice, there was she ready to die in his stead.

Providence delights in what one might call the irony of fate--Noemi

offered to cruel death the whole world and her own self, in exchange for

Michael's life. She fancied she had to do with a good fellow who might

be bargained with. The destroying angel accepted her challenge.

On the thirteenth day the fever and delirium ceased: the previous

nervous excitement gave place to intense exhaustion, which is a symptom

of improvement, and permits a hope that with the greatest care the

patient may be given back to life, if his mind is kept calm and he is

preserved from anxiety or emotion: sick people are so easily excited at

this stage of convalescence. His recovery hung on perfect tranquillity;

any violent excitement would kill him. Noemi stayed all night by Timar's

sick-bed: she never even went out once to see little Dodi; he slept in

the outer room with Frau Therese. On the morning of the fourteenth day,

while Michael lay sound asleep, Therese whispered in Noemi's car,

"Little Dodi is very ill." The child now! Poor Noemi! Her little Dodi

had the croup, the most dangerous of all childish maladies, against

which all the skill of the physician is often powerless.

Mortally terrified, Noemi rushed to her child. The face of the innocent

creature was quite changed. It was not crying--this disease has no

characteristic cry, but so much the more dreadful is the suffering. How

terrible, a child who can not complain, whom men can not help! Noemi

looked blankly at her mother as if to ask, "And have you no cure for

this?" Therese could hardly bear this look. "So many miserable sick and

dying people have been helped by you, and for this one you know of no

remedy!"

"None!" Noemi knelt down beside the child's little bed, pressed her lips

on his, and murmured softly, "What is it, my darling, my little one, my

angel? Look at me with thy pretty eyes."

But the little one would not lift up the pretty eyes, and when at last,

after many kisses and entreaties, it opened the heavy lids, its

expression was terrible--the look of a child which has already learned

to fear death. "Oh, don't look so! not so!" The child never cried, but

only gave utterance to a hoarse cough.

If only the other invalid in there does not hear it! Noemi held her

child trembling in her arms, and listened to hear if the sleeper close

by was yet awake. When she heard his voice she left the child and went

to Michael. He was suffering from great exhaustion, irritable and

peevish.

"Where had you gone?" he questioned Noemi. "The window is open; a rat

might get in while I was asleep. Don't you see a rat about?" It is a

constant delusion of typhus patients to see rats everywhere.

"They can't get in, my darling; there is a grating over the window."

"Ah! and where is the cold water?" Noemi gave him some to drink. But he

was very angry with it. "That is not fresh cold water, it is quite warm.

Do you want me to die of thirst?"

Noemi bore his crossness patiently. And when Michael fell asleep again,

she ran out to Dodi. The two women replaced each other, so that as long

as Michael slept, Therese sat by him, and when he awoke she gave Noemi a

sign to leave her sick child and take her place by Michael's bed. And

this went on through the long night. Noemi passed constantly from one

sick-bed to the other, and she had to keep excuses always ready for her

husband if he should ask where she had been.

The child grew worse. Therese could do nothing, and Noemi dared not weep

for fear of Michael seeing her tearful eyes and asking the reason. The

next morning Timar felt easier, and wished for some soup. Noemi hastened

out to fetch it, as it was kept ready. The invalid swallowed it, and

said he felt the better for it. Noemi seemed delighted at the good news.

"Well, and what is Dodi doing?" asked Michael.

Noemi trembled lest he should see the throbs of her heart at the

question.

"He is asleep," she replied, gently.

"Asleep? But why asleep now? He is not ill?"

"Oh, no; he is all right."

"And why do you not bring him to me when he is awake?"

"Because then you are asleep."

"That is true; but when we are both awake together, you must bring him

in and let me see him."

"I will do so, Michael."

The child sunk gradually. Noemi had to conceal from Timar that Dodi was

ill, and constantly to invent stories about him, for his father

constantly asked for him. "Does Dodi play with his little man?"

"Oh, yes, he is always playing with him" ( . . . with that fearful

skeleton!).

"Does he talk of me?"

"He loves to talk of you" ( . . . he will do so soon when he is with the

good God).

"Take him this kiss from me;" and Noemi bore to her child the parting

kiss of his father.

Another day dawned. The awakening invalid found himself alone in the

room. Noemi had watched all night by her child: she had looked on his

death-struggle, and pressed her tears back into her heart; why had it

not burst? When she went in to Michael she smiled again.

"Were you with Dodi?" asked the sick man.

"Yes, I have been with him."

"Is he asleep now?"

"Yes, he is asleep."

"Not really?"

"Truly, he sleeps well."

Noemi has just closed his eyes--for his last sleep. And she dared not

betray her agony. She must show a smiling face. In the afternoon Michael

was much excited again: as the day drew on, his nervous irritation

increased. He called to Noemi, who was in the next room; she hastened in

and looked lovingly at him. The invalid was peevish and suspicious. He

noticed that a needle was sticking in Noemi's dress, with a thread of

silk in it.

"Ah, you are beginning to work again! Have you time for that? What

finery are you making?"

Noemi looked at him silently, and thought, "I am making Dodi's shroud;"

and then aloud, "I am making myself a collar."

"Vanity, thy name is woman!" sighed Michael.

Noemi found a smile for him, and answered, "You are quite right."

Again the morning broke. Michael now suffered from sleeplessness; he

could not close his eyes. And the thought troubled him as to what Dodi

was doing. He sent Noemi out often to see if he wanted anything. And

whenever she did so she kissed the little dead child on the bier, and

spoke caressing words for Michael to hear: "My little Dodi! my darling

sweet, asleep again! Tell mother you love her;" and then she came back

to say that Dodi wanted for nothing.

"The boy sleeps too much," said Michael; "why don't you wake him?"

"I must wake him soon," said Noemi, gently.

Michael dozed a little, only a few minutes, and woke with a start. He

did not know he had been asleep. "Noemi," he cried, "Dodi was singing; I

heard him: how sweetly he sings!"

Noemi pressed both her hands to her heart, and drove back the outward

expression of her agony with superhuman courage. Yes, he is already

singing in heaven, amidst the angelic choir--among the innumerable

seraphim! that was the song he joined in.

Toward evening Michael sent Noemi out. "Go and put Dodi to bed, and give

him a kiss for me."

She did so. "What did Dodi say?" he asked her. Noemi could not speak;

she bent over Michael and pressed a kiss on his lips.

"That was his message, the treasure!" cried Michael, and the kiss sent

him to sleep. The child sent it to him from his own slumber.

The next morning he asked again about the boy. "Take Dodi out into the

air; it is bad for him to be in the house; carry him into the garden."

They were about to do so. Therese had dug a grave during the night at

the foot of a weeping-willow.

"You go too; and stay out there with him. I shall doze, I think, I feel

so much better," Michael told Noemi.

Noemi left the sick-room and turned the key: then they carried God's

recovered angel out, and committed him to the care of the universal

mother--earth. Noemi would not have a mound raised over him; Michael

would be so sad when he saw it, and it would retard his recovery. They

made a flower-bed there, and planted in its midst a rose-tree--one of

those Timar had grafted--with white flowers, whose purity was unstained.

Then she went back to the sick man.

His first words were, "Where have you left Dodi?"

"Out in the garden."

"What has he on?"

"His white frock and blue ribbons."

"That suits him so well. Is he well wrapped up?"

"Oh, yes, very well" (with three feet of earth).

"Bring him in when you go out again."

At this Noemi could not stop in the room; she went out and threw herself

on Therese's breast, but even then she could not shed a tear. She must

not. Then she tottered on into the garden, went to the willow, broke off

a bud from the rose-tree, and went back to Michael.

"Well, where's Dodi?" he said, impatiently.

But Noemi knelt down by his bed and held out to him--the white rose.

Michael took it and smelled it. "How curious!" he said; "this flower has

no scent--as if it had grown on a grave."

She rose and went out. "What is the matter?" asked Timar, turning to

Therese.

"Don't be angry," said she in a gentle, soothing tone. "You were so

dangerously ill. Thank Heaven, you are getting over it. But this illness

is infectious, and particularly during convalescence. I told Noemi that

until you were quite well she must not bring the child near you. Perhaps

I was wrong, but I meant it for the best."

Michael pressed her hand. "You did quite right. Stupid that I was, not

to have thought of it myself. Perhaps he is not even in the next room?"

"No. We have made him a little house out in the garden." Poor thing, she

told the truth.

"You are very good, Therese. Go to Dodi and send Noemi to me. I will not

ask her again to bring him to me. Poor Noemi! But as soon as I can get

up and go out, you will let me go to him, won't you?"

"Yes, Michael." By this pious fraud it was possible to satisfy him till

he was out of bed and on the road to recovery. He was still very weak,

and could hardly walk. Noemi helped him to dress. Leaning on her

shoulder, he left his room, and she led him to the little seat before

the house, sat beside him, put her arm in his, and supported his head on

her shoulder. It was a lovely warm summer afternoon. Michael felt as if

the murmuring trees were whispering in his ears, as if the humming bees

brought him a message, and the grass made music at his feet. His head

swam.

One thought grew on him. When he looked at Noemi, a painful suspicion

awoke in his breast. There was something in her expression which he

could not understand; he must know it. "Noemi."

"What is it, my Michael?"

"Darling Noemi, look at me." She raised her eyes to his. "Where is

little Dodi?"

The poor creature could no longer hide her grief. She raised her martyr

face to heaven, stretched up both hands, and faltered, "There! . . .

there!"

"He is dead!" Michael could hardly utter the words. Noemi sunk on his

breast. Her tears were no longer to be controlled; she sobbed violently.

He put his arm round her and let her weep on. It would have been

sacrilege not to let these tears have free course.

He had no tears--no. He was all wonder; he was amazed at the greatness

of soul which raised the poor despised creature so far above himself.

That she should have been able to conceal her sorrow so long out of

tender consideration for him whom she loved! How great that love must

be! When the paroxysm was over she looked smiling at Timar, like the sun

through the rainbow.

"And you could keep this from me?"

"I feared for your life."

"You dared not weep lest I should see traces of tears."

"I waited for the time when I might weep."

"When you were not with me, you nursed the sick child, and I was angry

with you."

"You were never unkind, Michael."

"When you took my kiss to him you knew it was a farewell; when I

reproached you with your vanity you were sewing his shroud; when you

showed me a cheerful face your heart was pierced with the seven wounds

of the Blessed Virgin! Oh, Noemi, I worship you!"

But the poor thing only asked him to love her. Michael drew her on to

his knee. The leaves, the grass, the bees, whispered now so clearly that

he began to understand the swimming in his head.

After a long and gloomy silence he spoke again. "Where have you laid

him? Take me to him, Noemi."

"Not to-day," said Noemi. "It is too far for you--to-morrow."

But neither to-morrow nor the next day would she take him there.

"You would sit by the grave and make yourself ill again: that is why I

have made no mound over him, nor raised a cross, that you may not go

there and grieve."

Timar, however, was sad at this. When he was strong enough to walk

alone, he went about seeking for what they would not show him.

One day he came back to the house with a cheerful face. In his hand he

held a half-blown rosebud, one of those white ones which have no scent.

"Is it this?" he asked Noemi.

She nodded: it could no longer be concealed. The white rose had put him

on the track, and he noticed that it had been newly transplanted. And

then he was tranquil, like one who has done with all that had given an

object to life. He sat all day on the little bench near the house, drew

on the gravel with his stick, and muttered to himself, "You would not

exchange him for the whole earth full of diamonds, nor the whole heaven

full of angels; . . . but for a miserable pipe you could strike his

hand."

The beautiful walnut-wood house stood half finished, and the great

convolvulus had crept over its four walls. Michael never set foot in it.

The only thing that kept up his half-recovered strength and his broken

spirit was Noemi's love.

CHAPTER III.

MELANCHOLY.

One bud after another opened on the rose-tree. Timar did nothing but

watch the development and blossoming of these rosebuds. When one of them

opened he broke it off, put it in his pocket-book, and dried it there on

his breast. This was a melancholy task. All the tenderness lavished on

him by Noemi could not cure his sadness. The woman's sweet caresses were

burdensome to him. And yet Noemi could have comforted him at the cost of

a single word; but modest reserve kept back that word, and it never

occurred to Michael to question her.

It is characteristic of those whose mind is diseased to occupy

themselves only with the past.

At last Noemi said to Timar, "Michael, it would be good for you to go

away from here--out into the world. Everything here arouses mournful

memories in you; you must go away to get well. I have done your packing,

and the fruit-dealers will fetch you away to-morrow."

Michael did not answer, but expressed his assent by a nod. The dangerous

illness he had passed through had affected his nerves; and the situation

he had brought upon himself, the blow which had struck him, had worked

on those nerves so painfully, that he was forced to acknowledge that a

longer stay would lead to madness or suicide.

Suicide? There is no easier road out of a difficult position: failure,

despair, mental conflict, blasted hopes, heart-pangs, fantastic

bugbears, the memory of losses, phantoms of the beloved dead--all these

are parts of a bad dream. One touch on the trigger of the pistol, and

one awakes. Those who remain behind can go on with the dream.

On the last evening, Michael, Noemi, and Therese sat all three after

supper on the little bench outside, and Michael remembered that they had

once been four together there.

"What can that moon really be?" asked Noemi.

Michael's hand, which Noemi held in hers, was clinched with sudden

violence.

"My evil star," he thought to himself. "Oh, if I had never seen it, that

red crescent!"

Therese answered her daughter's question: "It is a burned-out and

chilled world, on which neither trees, flowers, nor animals, no air or

water, no sounds or colors exist. When I was a girl at school, we used

often to look through a telescope at the moon; it is full of mountains,

and we were told they were the craters of extinct volcanoes. No

telescope is powerful enough to show people on it, but learned men know

with certainty that neither air nor water exists there. Without air and

water nothing can live that has a human body, so no mortal can possibly

be there."

"But what if something did really live in it?"

"What could do so?"

"I will tell you what I think. Often in the old times, when I was still

alone, I could not rid myself of one engrossing thought--especially when

I sat by myself on the beach, and looked into the water. I felt as if

something were drawing me into it, and calling to me that it was good to

be down below there, and that there all was peace. Then I said to

myself--Good! the body would rest at the bottom of the Danube; but where

would the soul go?--it must find a dwelling somewhere. Then the thought

arose that the soul which wrenched itself so forcibly and by its own

will from its mortal shell could only soar to the moon. I believe that

now even more firmly. If neither trees nor flowers, neither water nor

air, neither colors nor sounds, can there exist--well, it is all the

better fitted for those who did not wish to be encumbered with a body:

there they will find a world where there is nothing to trouble them, nor

anything to give them pleasure."

Therese and Michael both rose with a start from beside Noemi, who could

not understand what had moved them. She did not know that her own father

was a suicide, and that he whose hand she held was ready to become one.

Michael said the night was cool, they had better go in. One more

haunting thought was now linked with the sight of the moon. The first he

inherited from Timea, the other from Noemi. What a fearful penalty--that

the man should continually see before him in the heavens that shining

witness, eternally recalling him to his first sin, the first fateful

error of his ruined life!

The next day Michael left the island: he passed by the unfinished

walnut-wood house without even glancing at it.

"You will return with the spring flowers," whispered Noemi tenderly in

his ear. The poor thing thought it quite natural that for half of the

year Michael should not belong to her. "But to whom does he then

belong?" That question never occurred to her.

When Michael arrived at Komorn, the long journey had still more

exhausted him. Timea was frightened when she saw him, and could hardly

recognize him; even Athalie was alarmed, and with good reason.

"You have been ill?" said Timea, leaning on her husband's breast.

"Very ill, for many weeks."

"On your journey?"

"Yes," answered Timar, to whom this seemed like a cross-examination. He

must be on his guard at every question.

"Good God! and had you anyone to nurse you there among those strangers?"

The words had almost escaped him, "Oh, yes, an angel!" but he caught

himself up and answered, "You can get anything for money." Timea did not

know how to show her sympathy, and so Michael could detect no change in

the always apathetic face. She was always the same, and the frigid kiss

of welcome drew them no closer together.

Athalie whispered in his ear, "For God's sake, sir, take care of your

life!"

Timar felt the poisoned sting hidden beneath this tender consideration.

He must live that Timea might suffer; for if she became a widow, nothing

would stand in the way of her happiness. And that would be a hell to

Athalie.

It seemed to Timar as if the demon who hated both him and his wife was

now praying for the prolongation of his detested life, so that their

mutual suffering might last the longer. Every one remarked the great

change which had taken place in him. In the spring he was a strong man

in the prime of life; now he was like a feeble, voiceless shadow.

He withdrew to his office as soon as he arrived, and spent the whole day

there. His secretary found the ledger lying on the desk just as he had

opened it; he had not even looked at it. His agents were informed of his

return, and hastened to present yards of reports. He said to them all,

"Very good," and signed what they required, sometimes in the wrong

place, sometimes twice over. At last he shut himself up from every one

in his room, under pretense of requiring sleep. But his servants heard

him walking up and down for hours together.

When he went to the ladies to dine in their company, he looked so gloomy

and stern that no one had the courage to address him. He hardly touched

food, and never tasted wine. But an hour after dinner he rang for the

servant, and asked angrily whether they were ever going to get the meal

ready--he had forgotten that it was over. In the evening he could not

sit up, so tired was he; when he sat down he dozed off at once; as soon,

however, as he was undressed and in bed, slumber fled suddenly from his

eyes. "Oh, how cold this bed is--everything in the house is cold!" Every

piece of furniture, the pictures on the walls, even the old frescoes on

the ceiling, seemed to cry to him, "What have you come here for? This is

not your home! You are a stranger here!" How cold is this bed!

The man who came to call him to supper found him already in bed. On

hearing this, Timea came to him and asked whether he would have

something.

"Nothing--no, nothing at all," answered Timar. "I am only overtired by

the journey."

"Shall I send for the doctor?"

"Pray don't. I am not ill."

Timea wished him good-night, and went away after again feeling his

forehead with her hand. But Timar was not in a condition to sleep. He

heard every noise in the house; he heard them whispering and creeping on

tiptoe past his door, so as not to disturb him. He was thinking where a

man could best flee from himself. Into the realm of dreams? That would

be good, indeed, if only one could find the way there as easily as into

the kingdom of death. But one can not force one's self to dream. Opium?

That is one way--the suicide of sleep. Gradually he noticed that it was

growing darker in the room: the shades of night veiled closely every

object, the light grew dim. At last he was surrounded by a darkness like

that of a thick, motionless mist, like subterranean gloom, or the night

of the blind: such an obscurity one "sees" even in sleep. Michael knew

he was asleep, and the blindness lying over his eyes was that of

slumber. Yes, he now had full consciousness of his position. He was

lying in his own bed in his Komorn house--a table beside him with an

antique bronze lamp-stand, and a painted lamp-shade with Chinese figures

on it; over his head hung a large clock with a chime; the silken

curtains were let down. The curious old bed had a sort of drawer below

it, which could be drawn out and used as a second bed. It was

beautifully made--one of those beds only found in fine old houses, in

which a whole family might find room to sleep. Timar knew that he had

not bolted his door; any one could come in who chose. How if some one

came to murder him? And what difference would there be between sleep and

death? This puzzled him in his dreams.

Once he dreamed that the door opened softly and some one entered: a

woman's steps. The curtain rustled, and something leaned over him: a

woman's face. "Is it you, Noemi?" Michael thought in his dream, and

started. "How came you here? If some one saw you?" It was dark, he could

see nothing; but he heard the person sit down by his bed and listen to

his breathing. Thus had Noemi done many a night in the little hut. "Oh,

Noemi, will you watch again all through the night? When will you sleep?"

The female figure, as if in answer, knelt down and drew out the shelf

below the bed. Michael felt a mixture of fear and rapture in his breast.

"You will lie down beside me; oh, how I love you, but I tremble for

you!" and then the figure prepared a bed on the shelf and lay down. The

dreamer in the bed longed to bend over her, to embrace and kiss her, and

would have called again to her, "Go, hasten away from here, you will be

seen;" but he could move neither limbs nor tongue, they were heavy as

lead; and then the woman slept too. Michael sunk deeper into dreamland.

His fancy flew through past and future, soared into the region of the

impossible, and returned to the sleeping woman. He dreamed that he was

awake, and yet the phantom was beside him.

At last it began to dawn, and the sun shone through the window with more

wonderful radiance than ever before. "Awake, awake!" whispered Michael

in his dream. "Go home--the daylight must not find you here. Leave me

now!" He struggled with the dream. "But you are not really here--it is

only a delusion!"

He forced himself to sever the bonds in which sleep held him, and awoke

completely. It was really morning, the sunlight streamed through the

curtains, and on the shelf below the bed lay a sleeping woman with her

head on her arm.

"Noemi!" cried Michael. The slumbering form awoke at the call and looked

up. It was Timea--

"Do you want anything?" asked the woman, rising hastily from her couch.

She had heard the tone but not the name. Her husband was still under the

influence of his dream. "Timea!" he stammered sleepily, astonished at

the metamorphosis of Noemi into Timea.

"Here I am," said she, laying her hand on the bed.

"How is it possible?" cried he, drawing up the quilt to his chin as if

afraid of the face leaning over him.

"I was anxious about you, I was afraid you might have some attack in the

night, and I wanted to be near you." In the tone of her voice, in her

look, lay such sincere and natural tenderness as could not be assumed: a

woman's instinct is fidelity.

Michael collected himself. His first feeling was alarm, his second

self-reproach. This poor woman lying by his bed was the widow of a

living man. She had never known a joy in common with her husband; now

when he was in pain, she came to share it with him; and then followed

the eternal falsehood--he must not accept this tenderness, he must

repulse it.

Michael said with forced composure, "Timea, I beg you not to do this

again; do not come into my room. I have been suffering from an

infectious illness; I caught the plague on my journey, and I tremble for

your life if you approach me. Keep far from me, I adjure you; I wish to

be alone, both by day and night. There is nothing the matter with me

now, but I feel that I must, for prudence' sake, avoid all those

belonging to me; so I beg you earnestly not to do this again, never

again." Timea sighed deeply, cast down her eyes, and left the room. She

had not even undressed, but had only lain down in her clothes at her

husband's feet.

When she was gone, Michael got up and dressed; his mind was much

disturbed. The longer he continued this dual life, the more he felt the

conflict of the double duties he had taken on himself. He was

responsible for the fate of two noble, self-sacrificing souls. He had

made both miserable, and himself more unhappy than either.

What outlet could he find? If only one or other were an every-day

creature, so that he could hate and despise her or buy her off! But both

were equally nobly gifted: the fate of both was so heavy a charge

against the author of it, that no excuse existed. How could he tell

Timea who Noemi was, or Noemi about Timea? Suppose he were to divide all

his wealth between the two, or if he gave his money to one and his heart

to the other? But either was alike impossible, for neither was faithless

or gave him a right to reject them.

Living at home made Michael yet more ill.

He never left his room all day, spoke to no one, and sat till evening in

one place, without doing anything. At last Timea resorted to a

physician. The result of the consultation was that Michael was ordered

to the seaside, that the water might restore to him what the land had

taken from him. To this advice he replied, "I will not go where there is

company." Then they suggested that he should choose some place where the

season was over and the visitors gone; there he would find solitude. The

cold baths were the important point. He now remembered that in one of

the valleys near the Platten See he had a summer villa, which he had

bought years ago when he hired the fishing of the Balaton lake, and he

had only been there two or three times since. There, said he, would he

spend the end of the autumn.

The doctors approved his choice. The districts of Zala and Vessprimer on

the banks of the lake are like the Vale of Tempe. Fourteen miles of

unbroken garden-land form a charming chain of landscapes, with

country-seats strewn here and there. The splendid lake is a sea in

miniature, full of loveliness and romance; here is soft Italian air, the

people are kind and cordial, the mineral springs curative; nothing could

be better for a depressed invalid than to spend the autumn here. So the

doctors sent Michael to the Platten See. But they had forgotten that

toward the end of the summer hail-storms had laid waste the whole

district; and nothing is more depressing than a place ruined by hail.

The vineyards, which usually resound during the vintage with joyous

cries, now stand deserted: the leaves of the fruit-trees are

coppery-green or rusty brown; they take their leave until the coming

spring: all is silent and sad; even the roads are overgrown with moss,

for no one uses them. In the cornfields, instead of the sheaves of

grain, ineradicable weeds abound, and instead of the golden heads,

thistles, burdock, and nightshade are rampant, for no one comes to cut

them down.

At such a season Michael arrived at his villa on the Balaton. It was an

ancient pile. Some noble family had built it as a summer residence,

because the view had pleased them and they had money enough to afford

themselves this luxury. It had but one low story within massive walls, a

veranda looking over the lake, and trellises with large fig-trees. The

heirs of the first owners had got rid of the lonely chateau for a

nominal price, as it had no value except to a person bitten with the

misanthropic desire to live there in solitude.

No human dwelling is to be found within two miles of it, and even beyond

that distance most of the houses are uninhabited. The presses and

cellars are not open on account of the failure of the vintage. At Fured

all the blinds are down and the last invalid has left; even the steamers

no longer ply; the pump-room at the baths stands empty, and on the

promenade the fallen leaves rustle round the feet of the passer-by--no

one thinks it worth while to sweep them away. Not a man nor even a stork

is left in the place--only the majestic Balaton murmurs mysteriously as

it tosses its waves, and no one knows why it is angry. In its midst

rises a bare rock, on whose top stands a convent with two towers, in

which live seven monks--a crypt full of princely bones from top to

bottom.

And here Timar came to seek for health.

Michael only brought one servant with him, and after a few days sent him

back under pretense that the people of the house sufficed for his

service. But there was only one old man, and he quite deaf.

Round the villa no human voice was heard, not even the sound of a bell,

only the haunting murmur of the great lake.

Timar sat all day on the shore, and listened to the voices of the water.

Often, when there was not a breath of air stirring, the lake began to

roar, then the color of its surface changed to an emerald green as far

as the eye could see: over the dark mirror of the waves not one sail,

not a single ship, barge, or boat was visible; it might have been the

Dead Sea.

This lake possesses the double quality of strengthening the body and

depressing the mind. The chest expands, the appetite increases, but the

mind is inclined to a melancholy and sentimental state which carries one

back to fairyland.

Timar floated for hours on the gently rocking waves; he wandered whole

days on the shore, and could hardly tear himself away when night fell.

He sought no distraction from shooting or fishing. Once he took out his

gun, and forgot it somewhere by the trunk of a tree: another time he

caught a pike, but let it get away with his fly. He could fix his

attention on nothing.

He had taken a powerful retracting telescope with him, through which he

gazed at the starry heavens during the long nights; at the planets with

their moons and rings, on which in winter white spots are visible, while

in summer a red light surrounds them; and then at that great enigma of

the firmament, the moon, which when looked at through the glass appears

like a shining ball of lava, with its transparent ridges, its deep

craters, bright plains and dark shadows. It is a world of emptiness.

Nothing is there except the souls of those who violently separated

themselves from their body to get rid of its load. There they are at

peace; they feel nothing, do nothing, know neither sorrow nor joy, gain

nor loss; there is neither air nor water, winds nor storms, no flowers

or living creatures, no war, no kisses, no heart-throbs--neither birth

nor death; only "nothing," and perhaps memory.

That would be worse than hell, to live in the moon as a disembodied soul

in the realm of nothingness, and to remember the earth, where are green

grass and red blood, where the air echoes with the roll of the thunder

and the kisses of lovers, where life and death exist. And yet something

whispered to Michael that he must take refuge among the exiles to that

region of annihilation. There was no other way of escape from his

miserable existence.

The nights of autumn grew longer and the days shorter, and with the

waning daylight the water in the lake grew colder and colder. But Timar

enjoyed bathing in it even more. His frame had regained its former

elasticity, all traces of his illness had vanished, nerves and muscles

were as steel; but his mental agony increased.

The nights were always clear and the skies thickly sown with stars:

Timar sat by his open window and studied the shining points in boundless

space through his glass, but never until the moon had set. He detested

the moon, as we grow to hate a place we know too well, and with whose

inhabitants we have quarreled.

During his observations of the starry heavens he had the exceptional

good fortune to witness one of those celestial phenomena which are all

but unique in the annals of astronomy. A comet returning after

centuries of absence appeared in the sky. Timar said to himself, "This

is my star; it is as lost as my soul; its coming and going are as

aimless as mine, and its whole existence as empty and vain a show as is

my life." Jupiter and his four moons were moving in the same direction

as the comet; their orbits must cross. When the comet approached the

great planet, its tail seemed to divide; the attraction of Jupiter began

to take effect. The great star was trying to rob its lord, the sun, of

this vaporous body. The next night the comet's tail was split in two.

Then the largest and most distant of Jupiter's moons drew rapidly near.

"What has become of my star?" asked Timar.

The third night the nucleus of the comet had grown dull and began to

disperse, and Jupiter's moon was close to it. The fourth night the comet

had been divided into two parts; there were two heads and two tails, and

both the starry phantoms began in separate parabolic curves their

aimless flight through space. So "this" occurs in the heavens as well as

on earth?

Timar followed this marvelous phenomenon with his telescope till it was

lost in impenetrable space. This sight made the deepest impression on

his mind; now he had done with the world. There are hundreds of motives

for suicide, but the most urgent are to be found among those who give

themselves up to scientific research.

Keep a watchful eye on those who seek to fathom the secrets of nature

without a technical education. Hide away the knife and the pistol every

night, and search their pockets lest they carry poison about them.

Yes, Timar was determined to kill himself. This idea does not come to

strong characters all at once, but it ripens in them by degrees. They

grow used to it as the years go by, and carefully provide for its

execution. The thought had now ripened in Timar, and he went

systematically to work.

When the severe weather set in, he left the Platten See and returned to

Komorn. He made his will. His whole property he left to Timea and the

poor, and with such careful foresight that he provided a separate fund

out of which Timea, in case she married again, or her heirs if they

stood in need of it, would receive a pension of a hundred thousand

gulden.

The following was his plan. As soon as the season permitted he would go

away, ostensibly to Egypt, but really to the ownerless island. There he

would die.

If he could induce Noemi to die with him, then in death they would be

united. Oh, Noemi would consent! What would she do in this world without

Michael? What worth would the world have for such a one as she?

Both there by Dodi's side.

* * * * *

Timar spent the winter partly in Komorn, partly in Raab and Vienna;

everywhere his life was a burden to him. He thought he read in every

face, "This man is melancholy mad." He noticed people whispering and

making signs when he appeared--women were shy of him, and men tried to

look unconscious; and he fancied that in his distraction he did and said

things which gave evidence of his mental disease, and wondered people

did not laugh. Perhaps they were afraid of laughing.

But they had no reason to fear. He was not lively to throw pepper in the

eyes of the people near him, though odd fancies did now and then occur

to him; as, for instance, when Johann Fabula came to make him an oration

as curator of the church, and stood as stiff before him as if he had

swallowed the spit, an impulse seized Timar, almost irresistibly, to put

both hands on the curator's shoulders and turn a somersault over his

head.

Something lay in Michael's expression which made the blood run cold.

Athalie met this glance; often, as they sat at meals, Timar's eyes were

fixed on her. She was a wonderfully beautiful woman; Michael's eyes

rested on her lovely snowy neck, so that she felt uneasy at this silent

homage to her charms.

Michael was thinking--"If only I had you in my power for once, you

lovely white throat, so as to crush the life out of you with my iron

hand!" This was what he longed for when he admired the splendid

Bacchante form of Athalie.

Only Timea was not afraid of him--she had nothing to fear. At last it

seemed impossible to Timar to wait for the tardy spring. What does he

want with the springing flowers who will soon be at rest under the turf?

The day before his departure he gave a great banquet, and invited every

one, including even slight acquaintances. The house was crowded with

guests. Before sitting down he said to Fabula, "My brother, sit near me,

and if I get drunk toward morning and lose my senses, see that I am

carried into my traveling-chaise, and put me on the seat; then harness

the horses and send me off." He wished to leave his house and home while

unconscious.

But when the guests toward morning had sunk one here and another there

under the table, our Herr Johann Fabula was snoring comfortably in his

arm-chair, and only Timar had kept his head. Mad people are like King

Mithridates and the poison--wine does not affect them. So he had to get

his carriage himself and start on his journey. In his head reality and

dreams, imagination, memory, and hallucination were in a whirl. It

seemed to him as if he had stood by the couch of a sleeping saint with a

marble face, and as if he had kissed the lips of the white statue, and

it had not awoke under his kiss. Perhaps it was only a vision. Then he

thought he remembered that behind the door of a dark recess, as he

passed, a lovely Maenad's head looked out, framed in rich tresses. She

had sparkling eyes and red lips, between which shone two rows of pearls,

as she held the candle and asked the sleep-walker, "Where are you going,

sir?"

And he had whispered in the witch's ear, "I am going to make Timea

happy."

Then the ideal face had turned to a Medusa head, and the curls to

snakes. Perhaps this was hallucination too.

Timar awoke toward noon in his carriage, when the post-horses were

changed. He was already far from Komorn, and his intention was

unchanged. Late at night he arrived on the Danube shore, where the

little boat he had ordered awaited him; he went over in the night to the

island.

A thought came into his head. "How if Noemi were dead already?" Why

should not this be possible? What a burden it would free him from--that

of persuading her to the dreadful step. He who has one fixed idea

expects of fate that everything should happen as he has planned.

Near the white rose-bush no doubt a second already stands, which will

bloom red in spring--on Noemi's grave. Soon there will be a third with

yellow blossoms, the flower of the man of gold.

Occupied with these thoughts, he landed on the island shore. It was

still night and the moon shone. The unfinished house stood like a tomb

on the grass-grown field; the windows and door-ways were hung with

matting to keep out snow and rain. Michael hastened to the old dwelling.

Almira met him and licked his hand; she did not bark, but took a corner

of his cloak in her teeth and drew him to the window. The moon shone

through the lattice, and Michael looked into the little room, which was

quite light.

He could clearly perceive that only one bed was in the room, the other

was gone. On this bed slept Therese; it was as he had thought--Noemi was

already at rest under the rose-bush. It is well.

He knocked at the window. "It is I, Therese." At this the woman came out

on the veranda. "Are you sleeping alone, Therese?" said Timar.

"Yes."

"Has Noemi gone up to Dodi?"

"Not so. Dodi has come down to Noemi."

Timar looked inquiringly in her face. Then the woman grasped his hand,

and led him with a smile to the back of the house, where the window of

the other little room looked out. This room was light, for a night-lamp

was burning there. Timar looked in and saw Noemi on the white bed, with

her arm round a golden-haired cherub which lay on her breast. "What is

this?" Timar faltered out.

Therese smiled gently. "Do you not see? Little Dodi longed to come back

to us; it was better here, he thought, than up in heaven. He said to the

dear Lord, 'Thou hast angels enough; let me return to those who had only

me'--and the Lord allowed it."

"How can it be?"

"H'm! h'm! The old story. A poor woman again who died, and we have

adopted the poor orphan. You are not angry?" Timar trembled in every

limb as if with ague. "Pray do not wake the sleepers before morning,"

said Therese, "It is bad for babies to be waked: children's lives are so

precarious. You will be patient, won't you?"

It never occurred to Timar to protest. He threw off his cap and cloak,

drew off his coat, and turned up his shirt-sleeves. Therese thought he

was mad. And why not? He ran out to the walnut-house, tore the mattings

down, drew out his carpenter's bench, placed the unfinished door-panel

on it, took his chisel and began to work.

It was just growing light. Noemi dreamed that some one was at work in

the new house; the plane grated over the hard wood, and the busy workman

sung--

"For all the gold the world could hold,

I would not give my Dodi's curl."

And when she opened her eyes she still heard the plane and the song.

CHAPTER IV.

THERESE.

Timar had succeeded in robbing every one.

From Timea he stole first her father's million, then the manly ideal of

her heart, and kept for himself her wifely troth. From Noemi he stole

her loving heart, her womanly tenderness, her whole being. Therese he

robbed of her trust, the last belief of her misanthropic mind in the

possible goodness of a man; then he took the island, in order to restore

it to her, and so to obtain her gratitude. Theodor Krisstyan he

defrauded of half a world--for he exiled him to another hemisphere. From

Athalie he took father, mother, home, and bridegroom, her whole present

and future happiness. He robbed his friend Katschuka of the hope of a

blissful life. The respect shown to him by the world, the tears of the

poor, the thanks of the orphan, the decorations bestowed by his king,

were they not all thefts? By deceit he obtained from the smugglers, the

fidelity with which they guarded his secret--a thief who steals from

other thieves! He even robbed the good God of a little angel. His soul

was not his; he had pledged it to the moon, and had not kept his

promise: he had not paid what he owed. The poison was ready which was to

transport him to that distant star of night--the devils were already

rejoicing and stretching out their claws to receive the poor soul. He

took them in too; he did not kill himself, but defrauded even death. He

laid hands on a paradise in the midst of the world, and took the

forbidden fruit from the tree while the watching archangel turned his

back, and in that hidden Eden he defied all human law: the clergy, the

king, the judge, the general, the tax-collector, the police--all were

deceived and defrauded by him.

And everything succeeded with him. How long would he go unpunished?

He could deceive every one but himself. He was always sad, even when he

outwardly smiled. He knew what he ought to be called, and would gladly

have shown himself in his true character.

But that was impossible. The boundless, universal respect--the rapturous

love--if only one of these were really due to his true self! Honor,

humanity, self-sacrifice were the original principles of his character,

the atmosphere of his being. Unheard-of temptations had drawn him in the

opposite direction; and now he was a man whom every one loved, honored,

and respected, and who was only hated and despised by himself. Fate had

blessed him since his last illness with such iron strength that now

nothing hurt him, and instead of aging he seemed to renew his youth.

He was busy all through the summer with manual labor. The little house

he had erected the year before he now had to finish, and to add the

carver's and turner's work to it. He borrowed from the Muses their

creative genius: a great artist was lost in Timar. Every pillar in the

little house was of a different design: one was formed of two intwining

snakes, whose heads made the capital; another, of a palm-tree with

creepers climbing up it; the third showed a vine with squirrels and

woodpeckers half hidden in its branches; and the fourth a clump of

bulrushes rising from their leaves. The internal panels of the walls

were a fanciful mosaic of carving; every table and chair was a work of

art, and exquisitely inlaid with light-colored woods to make a pleasant

contrast with the dark walnut. Each door and window betrayed some

original invention; some disappeared in the wall, some slid up into the

roof, and all were opened and shut by curious wooden bolts--for as Timar

had declared that no nail should be put into the whole house which was

not made by himself, not a morsel of iron was used in it.

What delight when the house was ready and he conducted his dear ones

into it, and could say, "See, all this is my handiwork! A king could not

give his queen such a present."

But it had taken years to complete it, and four winters had Timar spent

in Komorn and four summers in the island, before Dodi the second had his

house ready for him.

Then Michael had another task before him; he must teach Dodi to read.

Dodi was a lively, healthy, good-tempered boy, and Timar said he would

teach him everything himself--reading, writing, swimming, also gardening

and mason's and carpenter's work. He who knows these trades can always

earn his bread. Timar fancied things would always go on thus, and he

could live this life to the end of his days. But suddenly fate cried

"Halt!"

Or rather not fate, but Therese. Eight years had passed since Timar had

found his way to the little island. Then Noemi and Timea were both

children: now Noemi was twenty-two, Timea twenty-one, Athalie would soon

be twenty-five; but Therese was over forty-five, Timar himself nearly

forty, and little Dodi was in his fifth year.

One of them must prepare to go hence, for her time was come, and her cup

of suffering was full enough for a long life: that one was Therese.

One summer afternoon when her daughter was out with the child, she said

to Timar, "Michael, I have something to tell you--this autumn will be my

last. I know that death is near. For twenty years I have suffered from

the disease which will kill me; it is heart complaint. Do not look on

this as a figure of speech; it is a fatal disease, but I have always

concealed it, and never complained. I have kept it under by patience,

and you have helped me by the love you showed and the joys you prepared

for me. If you had not done so, I should long have lain beneath the sod.

But I can bear it no longer. For a year past sleep has fled from my

eyes, and I hear my heart beat all day. It throbs quickly three or four

times, as if frightened, then comes a sort of half-beat; then it stops

entirely for a few moments, till it begins pulsating again rapidly after

one or two slow throbs, followed by short beats and long pauses. This

must soon come to an end. I often turn faint, and only keep up by an

effort of will; this will not last through the summer--and I am content

it should be so. Noemi has now another object for her affection. I will

not trouble you, Michael, with questions, nor require of you any

promise; spoken words are vain and empty--only what we feel is true. You

feel what you are to Noemi, and she to you. What is there to disquiet

me? I can die without even troubling the merciful God with my feeble

prayers. He has given me all I could have asked of Him. Is it not so,

Michael?"

Michael's head sunk. This had often of late destroyed his sleep. It had

not escaped him that Therese's health was failing rapidly, and he had

thought with trembling that she might be suddenly overtaken by death.

What would then become of Noemi? How could he leave the delicate

creature here alone the whole winter with her little child? Who would

help and protect her? He had often put the question aside, but now it

confronted him, and must be considered.

Therese was right. The same afternoon a friendly fruit-woman came to the

island, and while Therese was counting out her baskets of peaches, she

suddenly fell down in a swoon. She recovered quickly, and three days

later the woman came again, Therese was determined to serve her, and

fainted once more. The fruit-dealer sighed heavily; the next time she

came Noemi and Michael would not let her go in to Therese, but served

her themselves. The woman remarked that the good lady would do well to

see the priest, as she seemed so seriously ill.

Noemi did not yet know that her mother was dangerously ill; her frequent

fainting-fits were put down to the hot weather. Therese said that many

women suffered in the same way as they grew older. Timar was very

attentive to her; he would not let her be troubled with household work,

took care that she should rest, and made the child be quiet if he was

noisy, but Therese's sleeplessness could not be cured.

One day all four sat together at dinner in the outer room, when Almira's

barks announced the approach of strangers. Therese looked out, and said

in great alarm, "Go inside quickly, that no one may see you."

Timar looked out, and he too saw that it would not be advisable for him

to meet the new-comer, for it was none other than his Reverence Herr

Sandorovics, the dean who had received the order, who would not fail to

recognize Herr von Levetinczy, and would have some pleasant things to

say to him. "Push the table away and leave me alone," said Frau Therese,

making Noemi and Dodi rise too. And as if all her strength had returned,

she helped to carry the table into the next room, so that when his

reverence knocked at the door she was alone, and had drawn her bedstead

across the door-way so as to prevent access to the inner apartment.

The dean's beard was longer and grayer since we last saw him; but his

cheeks were rosy, and his figure that of a Samson. His deacon and

acolyte, who had come with him, had remained in the veranda, and were

trying to make friends with the great dog.

The reverend gentleman came in alone, with his hand out as if to give

any one a chance of kissing it. As Therese showed no inclination to

avail herself of the opportunity, the visitor was at once in a bad

temper. "Well, don't you know me again, you sinful woman?"

"Oh, I know you well enough, sir, and I know I am a sinner--what brings

you here?"

"What brings me, you old gossip? You ask me that, you God-forsaken

heathen! It is clear you don't know me."

"I told you before that I knew you. You are the priest who would not

bury my poor husband."

"No--because he left the world in an unauthorized way, without

confession or absolution. Therefore it befell him to be put under ground

like a dog. If you don't wish to be buried like a dog too, look to it:

repent and confess while there is yet time. Your last hour may come

to-day or to-morrow. Pious women brought me the news of your being near

death, and begged me to come here and give you absolution--you have to

thank them for my presence."

"Speak low, sir; my daughter is in the next room, and she would be

alarmed."

"Indeed! your daughter? and a man and a child too?"

"Certainly."

"And the man is your daughter's husband?"

"Yes."

"Who married them?"

"He who married Adam and Eve--God."

"Foolish woman! That was when there were no priests nor altars. But now

things are not managed so easily, and there is a law to govern them."

"I know it: the law drove me to this island; but that law has no

jurisdiction here."

"So you are an absolute heathen?"

"I wish to live and die in peace."

"And you have permitted your daughter to live in shame?"

"What is shame?"

"Shame? The contempt of all respectable people."

"Does that make me warm or cold?"

"Unfeeling clod! You only care for your bodily weal. You never think of

the salvation of your soul. I come to show you the way to heaven, and

you prefer the road to hell! Do you believe in the resurrection, or in

eternal life?"

"Hardly--at any rate, I am not longing for it. I do not want to awake to

another life; I want to sleep peacefully under the trees. I shall fall

into dust, and the roots will feed on it, and leaves will grow from it:

and I want no other life. I shall live in the sap of the green trees I

planted with my own hands. I do not believe in your cruel God who makes

His wretched creatures live on to suffer beyond the grave. Mine is a

merciful God, who gives rest to animals, trees, and men when they are

dead."

"Could there be a more obstinate sinner! You will go to hell-fire--to

the tortures of the damned!"

"Show me where the Bible says that God created hell, and I will believe

you."

"Oh, you pagan! You will be denying the existence of the devil next,"

cried the priest in a rage.

"I do deny that God ever created such a devil as you believe in: you

invented one for yourselves, and did that badly, for your devil has

horns and cloven feet, and such creatures as that eat grass and not

men."

"The earth will open and swallow you up like Dathan and Abiram. Do you

bring up the little child in this belief?"

"He is taught by the man who has adopted him."

"Who?"

"He whom the child calls father."

"And what is his name?"

"Michael."

"What is his surname?"

"I never asked him."

"What! you never asked his name? What do you know of him?"

"I know he is an honest man, and loves Noemi."

"But what is he? A gentleman, a peasant, a workman, a sailor, or a

smuggler?"

"He is a poor man, suited to us."

"And what else? I must know, for it is part of my duty. What faith does

he confess? Is he Papist, Calvinist, Lutheran, Socinian, or perhaps a

Jew?"

"I have not troubled myself about it."

"Do you keep the fasts of the Church?"

"Once for two years I never touched meat--because I had none."

"Who baptized the child?"

"God--with a shower of rain, while He sat on high on His rainbow

throne."

"Oh, you heathen!"

"Why heathen?" asked Therese, bitterly. "God's hand was heavy on me;

from the height of bliss I fell into the deepest misery. One day made me

a widow and a beggar. I did not deny God, nor cast His gift of life

away. I came to this desert, sought God and found Him here. My God

requires no sacrifice of song and bell, only a devout heart. I do my

penance, not by telling my beads, but by work. Men left me nothing in

the world, and I formed a blooming garden from a desert wilderness. All

deceived, robbed, and scorned me; the tribunal condemned me, my friends

defrauded me, the Church despised me, and yet I did not hate my kind. I

am the refuge of the stranger and the destitute; I feed and heal those

who come to me for aid, and sleep with open doors winter and summer; I

fear no one. Oh, sir, I am no heathen!"

"What sort of rubbish you talk, you chattering woman! I never asked you

all that, but I ask you about the man who lives in this hut, whether he

is a Christian or a heretic, and why the child is not baptized? It is

impossible that you should not know his name."

"Be it so; I will not tell a lie. I know his name, but nothing more. His

life may have secrets in it, as mine had: he may have good reasons for

hiding himself. But I know him only as a kind good man, and harbor no

suspicions of him. Those were 'friends' who took my all from me,

noblemen of high station, who left me nothing but my weeping child. I

brought up the little child, and when she was my only treasure, my life,

my all, I gave her to a man of whom I knew only that he loved her and

she loved him. Is not that to have faith in God?"

"Don't talk to me of faith. For such a belief as that, witches in the

good old time were brought to the stake and burned, all over the

Christian world."

"It is lucky that I possess this island by right of a Turkish firman."

"A Turkish firman!" cried the dean, in astonishment. "And who procured

it for you?"

"The man whose name you want to know."

"And I will know it on the spot, and in a summary way. I shall call the

sacristan and the acolyte in, make them push away the bed, and go in at

that door, which I see has no lock."

Timar heard every word in the next room. The blood rushed to his head at

the thought that the ecclesiastical dignitary would walk in and exclaim,

"Aha! it is you, Herr Privy Councilor Michael von Levetinczy!"

The dean opened the outer door, and called in his two sturdy companions.

Therese, in her extremity, drew the bright Turkish quilt over her up to

the chin. "Sir," she said in an imploring tone to the dean, "listen to

just one word which will convince you of the strength of my faith, and

show you that I am no heathen. Look, this woolen quilt I have over me

came from Broussa. A traveling peddler gave it to me. See now, so great

is my trust in God that I cover myself with it every night; and yet it

is well known that the oriental plague has been raging in Broussa this

month past. Which of you has faith enough to dare to touch this bed?"

When she looked round, no one was there to answer. At the discovery that

this quilt came from the plague-infected districts round Broussa, all

had rushed away, leaving the lonely island and its death-stricken

inhabitants as a prey to all the devils of hell. The accursed island was

now the richer by one more evil report, which would keep away people who

valued their lives.

Therese let out the refugees. Timar kissed her hand and called her

"Mother!"

"My son!" whispered Therese, and looked steadily into his eyes. With

that look she said to him, "Remember what you have heard. And now it is

time to get ready for the journey." Therese spoke of her approaching

death as of a journey.

Leaning on Timar and Noemi, she was led out to the green field, and

chose the place for her grave.

"Here in the middle," she said to Timar, taking his spade from his hand

and marking out the oblong square. "You made a house for Dodi; make mine

here. And build no mound over my grave, and plant no cross upon it;

plant there neither tree nor shrub; cover it all with fresh turf, so

that it may be like the rest. I wish it; so that no one, when in a

cheerful mood, may stumble over my grave and be saddened by it."

One evening she fell asleep, to awake no more. And they buried her as

she desired. They wrapped her in fine linen, and spread for her a bed of

aromatic walnut leaves. And then they made the grave look like the rest,

and covered it with turf, so that it was the same as before. When on the

next morning Timar and Noemi, leading little Dodi by the hand, went into

the field, no sign could be seen on the smooth surface. The autumn

spiders had covered it with a silvery pall, and on the glistening veil

the dewdrops sparkled in the sun like myriads of diamonds.

But yet they found the spot in this silver-broidered green plain. Almira

went in front; at one place she lay down and put her head on the ground:

that was the spot.

_BOOK FIFTH.--ATHALIE._

CHAPTER I.

THE BROKEN SWORD.

Timar remained on the island till frost covered the green grass--till

the leaves fell, and the nightingales and thrushes were silent. Then he

made up his mind to return to the world, the world of reality; and he

left Noemi behind, alone with her little child on the ownerless island.

"But I shall come back this winter"--and with those words he left her.

Noemi did not know what those words betokened at Michael's home. Round

the island the Danube was never entirely frozen in the severest winter;

the glass never fell much below freezing-point; ivy and laurels could

stand the cold with ease. But Michael had severe weather for his

journey. On the upper Danube snow had already fallen, and he took a

whole week to reach Komorn. He had to wait a whole day before he could

cross the river--there was so much ice that it was unsafe to launch a

boat. Once he had ventured alone in a small boat across the river in

flood; but then Noemi was waiting for him. Now he was going to Timea--to

get a divorce from her.

His decision was taken--they must have a divorce. Noemi could not live

alone on that desert island. The woman must have justice in return for

her fidelity and love: accursed would he be who could find it in his

heart to abandon her who had given herself to him body and soul. And

then, too, Timea would be happy.

That thought gnawed him--that Timea would be happy. If only he could

hate her, if he had a single accusation to bring against her, so as to

put her away as one he could despise and forget!

He had to leave his carriage at Uj-Szony, for wheels could not yet pass

the ice, so he arrived on foot at home. When he went in, it seemed to

him as if Timea were afraid of him; as if the hand she gave him

trembled, and her voice too, when she greeted him. This time she did not

offer him her white cheek to be kissed.

Timar hastened to his room, on pretense of laying aside his wraps. If

only there was some reason for this embarrassment! And another sign had

not escaped him--Athalie's expression. In her eyes shone the fire of a

diabolical triumph, the light of a malicious joy. How if Athalie knew

something?

At table he met the two women again. They all three sat silently

together, watching each other. Timea only said to Michael, "This time

you have stayed away very long."

Timar would not say, "I shall soon leave you altogether," but he thought

it. He had to consult his lawyer first as to a possible ground for a

separation. It was impossible to think of one. Only "unconquerable

mutual aversion" could be put forward.

But would the wife consent? All depended on her. Timar pondered this

question all the afternoon, and told the servants not to tell any one of

his return, as he could not see visitors.

Toward evening some one opened the door. Athalie stood before him, with

the same spiteful satisfaction shining from her eyes, the same

triumphant smile playing round her lips. Michael drew back before her

repellent glance.

"What brings you here, Athalie?" he asked, with confusion.

"Well, Herr von Levetinczy, what do you think? Do you not want to know

anything from me?"

"What?" he whispered eagerly, shutting the door, and staring at Athalie

with wide-opened eyes.

"What do you want to know?" said the beautiful woman, still smiling.

"Indeed that is hard to guess. I have been in your house these six

years; every year I have seen you return home, and every year with a

different expression on your face. At first tormenting jealousy, then

easy good-humor, afterward assumed tranquillity, and absorption in

business. I studied all these phases. Last year I thought the tragedy

was over--you looked like a man who is ready for the grave. But you may

be sure that on all this round world there is no one who prays for your

life as I do."

Michael frowned, and possibly Athalie understood him.

"No, sir," she repeated, passionately; "for if there is anyone in the

world who loves you, they can not possibly wish that you may live long

as heartily as I do. Now I see the same look on your face as last

year--that is the true one: you would like to hear about Timea?"

"Do you know anything?" asked Timar, eagerly, putting his back against

the door as if to keep Athalie a prisoner.

She laughed scornfully; not she but Michael was the prisoner.

"I know much--all," she replied; "enough to bring us all to perdition.

Myself and the other, and you too."

Michael's blood froze in his veins. "Tell me all."

"That is what I came for. But listen quietly to the end, that I may tell

you things which lead to madness, if not death."

"One word first, is Timea unfaithful?"

"She is, and you will be absolutely convinced of it."

In Timar's heart a nobler feeling arose to protest against this

suspicion. "Take care what you say!"

"Your saintly picture, then, came down out of its altar-frame to listen

to a report which said that the noble major had fought on her account

with some strange officer, and wounded him so badly that his own sword

broke in two over the head of his adversary. The picture heard this

rumor. Frau Sophie told her, and the eyes of the saintly image shed

tears. Perhaps you are a heretic, and do not believe in miraculous

tears. But it is true; and Frau Sophie told the noble major next day.

Frau Sophie loves to be a go-between; she loves flattery and intrigue.

The reported tears had the result that Frau Sophie brought back a box

and a letter from the major. In the box were the half-broken blade and

the handle of the sword with which the major had fought. It was a

souvenir."

"Well, there is nothing wrong in that," said Michael, with affected

calm.

"Ah, yes, but the letter!"

"Did you read it?"

"No; but I know what it contained."

"How can you know that?"

"Because the saint replied, and Frau Sophie was the messenger."

"Go on," said Timar.

"Yes, for the story is not nearly finished. The letter was not a scented

pink note; it was written on your own desk, sealed with your own seal,

and its contents might have been to repulse the major's advances forever

and ever. But that was not what it said."