AUNT ORSOLYA'S CAVERN.
Three fires were burning in different parts of the cavern, and round
each was encamped quite a little army of women and children.
Of the men, some were lying outstretched on wild-beast skins, others
were pacing up and down the great vaulted hall, and yet others were busy
skinning the game shot during the day. Quite respectable butchers they
were, these grandees, who had been used no long time ago to appear
before the world with the most splendid of panther-skins slung elegantly
over their shoulders.
Some of the women were filling their wooden vessels at the springs which
trickled out from under the wall of rock; and as they watched the water
sparkling in the fire-light they chattered to one another in the most
animated way, or told fairy tales and repeated poetry for the general
entertainment.
In her own quarters, in the centre of the cavern, close under the wall,
Orsolya was seated in a chair of rough pine branches, beneath a canopy
of mats, which protected her from the continual droppings of the rock.
Her face was covered with a perfect network of lines and wrinkles, but
her dark eyes shone like live coals. Her beautiful silver hair was
nearly hidden beneath a kerchief which had seen better days, and her
dress, a plain, old-fashioned national costume, was neat and clean in
spite of its age. She had a large spinning-wheel before her, and on a
low stool by her side, sat a young girl, also employed with a spindle.
It was evident that this latter, a pale, slim creature with black eyes,
was no Magyar. Her features were of a foreign cast, her hands were small
and delicate, and the charm and grace of her every movement were
suggestive rather of nature than of courts.
But the beautiful face looked troubled, as if its owner were haunted by
the memory of some overwhelming calamity.
Evidently this young relation of hers was the light of the old lady's
eyes, for her features lost their stern, rather masculine expression,
and her whole face softened whenever she looked at her.
Some of the men interrupted their walk from time to time to loiter near
the fires, or talk to the sportsmen as they came in, or drew near to
Orsolya, as subjects approach a sovereign; and Orsolya talked composedly
with each one, too well accustomed to deference and homage even to
notice them.
"Dear child," said the old lady, as soon as they were left to
themselves again, "how many spindles does this make? I'll tell you what,
if you spin enough we will put the yarn on a loom and weave it into
shirting."
The girl raised her beautiful eyes to the old lady's face, saying in
good Magyar, though with a somewhat peculiar accent, "I think Mr. Bokor
might set up the loom now, dear mother; I have such a number ready."
"I only hope we shall be able to make it do, my child," said Orsolya,
leaning towards the girl, and stroking the raven hair which floated over
her shoulders. "Good man!" she went on, smiling, "not but that he can be
as obstinate as anyone now and then! and he has made the shuttle the
size of a boat!"
The girl laughed a little as she answered, "We will help him, good
mother," and she drew the old lady's hand to her lips, and kissed it as
if she could not let it go.
"Yes," she went on slowly, "necessity is a great teacher; it teaches one
all things, except how to forget!"
"Oh, my dear, and who would wish it to teach one that! There are some
things which we cannot, and ought not to forget, and it is best so, yes,
best, even when the past has been a sad one."
She stroked and caressed the girl in silence for a few moments, and then
went on, "But you know, dear child, that life on this sad earth is not
everything. God is good, oh, so good! Why did He create all that we
see? Only because He is good. He, the Almighty, what need had He of any
created thing? It is true that life brings us much pain and anguish at
times, but then this is but the beginning of our real life. There is
another, beyond the blue sky, beyond the stars, which you can no more
realise now than a blind man can realise a view, or a deaf man beautiful
music. We shall find there all that we have loved and lost here. God
does not bring people together and make them love and care for one
another only that death may separate them at last."
"No, don't forget anything, dearest child," Orsolya went on, with
infinite love in her tone, as the girl laid her head in her old friend's
lap. "Keep all whom you have loved, and honoured, and lost, warm in your
heart."
"They are always there, dear mother, always before me! I see their dear,
dear faces every moment!--oh! why must I outlive them?"
"That you may make others happy, dear child; perhaps, even that you may
be a comfort and joy to me in my old age."
Mária threw her arms round the old lady and embraced her warmly.
"Dear, dear mother! how good you are to me! Don't think me ungrateful
for what the good God has given me in place of those whom I have lost.
Yes, I wish to live, and I will live, if God wills, to thank you for
your love, and to love you for a long time. But if you see me sad
sometimes, don't forget, good mother, how much I have lost! and--I am
afraid, I am afraid! I have only one left to lose besides you, dear
mother, and if--if--I don't know how I could go on living then----"
Just then two or three men appeared in the passage leading up from the
mouth of the cave, and Mária went back to her stool.
Night had fallen, the men had been engaged in making all safe as usual
by barricading the entrance with large pieces of rock, but they had
suddenly left their work and were hurrying up to the cavern.
"Someone is coming, Mária! or--but no, we won't think any evil, God is
here with us!"
"Mistress Aunt!" said the first of the men, bowing low, "we have brought
you a visitor, a great man, Canon Roger, who has but lately escaped from
the Mongols, and there are three others, strangers, with him. Leonard
here found them all nearly exhausted and not knowing which way to turn."
"Well done, nephew! I'm glad you found them," said Orsolya, "theeing and
thouing" him, as she did everyone belonging to her little community.
"Roger--Roger," she went on, "I seem to remember the name--why, of
course, Italian, isn't he? and lived with my nephew Stephen at one
time?"
"Bring them in! bring them in!" she cried eagerly; and in a few moments
Father Roger and his companions appeared before the "lady of the
castle."
"Glory be to Jesus!" said, or rather stammered, the Canon; and "For ever
and ever!" responded Orsolya, who had risen to receive him; and for a
moment her voice failed her, so shocked was she at the change in the
fine, vigorous-looking man whom she remembered.
Attenuated to the last degree, bent almost double, he looked as if he
were in the last stage of exhaustion. His clothes were one mass of rags
and tatters, which hung about him in ribbons; his face, sunken and the
colour of parchment, had lost its expression of energy and manliness,
and wore for the moment a look of bewilderment, which was almost
vacancy. He was the wreck of what he had once been.
His servant, the one whom he mentions in his "Lamentable Song," Orsolya
took to be quite an old man. Withered and worn like his master, he was,
if possible, even more dilapidated, thanks to his encounter with the
wolves.
"You have come a long way and suffered much, Father," said Orsolya
gently, when she had welcomed Dora and Talabor, and regained her
composure.
"Much lady, much--I--I----"
"Ah, well, never mind! so long as you are here at last, Father Roger,
never mind! It is a long, long time since we met last! Do you remember?
My husband was alive then, and we were staying in Pressburg with my
nephew, Stephen Szirmay, and with the Hédervárys."
"I remember well, dear lady; ah! how little we any of us dreamt of the
days that were coming!"
He spoke falteringly, in a faint voice; and as he sat bowed together on
the low seat, Orsolya noticed that he trembled in every limb.
The rumour of his arrival had quickly spread, and the inhabitants of the
cavern all came flocking round, eager to see and hear. In their
bright-coloured, though more or less worn garments, with the fire-light
playing upon them, and a whole troop of eager children among them, they
were a most picturesque company. But Orsolya allowed no time for
questions.
"Come," said she, rising from her chair, "that will do for the present!
Father Roger is worn out! Will you ladies go and get St. Anna's house
ready, and make up good beds; and you, kinsmen," she went on, turning to
the men, "will you see about clothes and clean linen? I am afraid we
have nothing but old rags, but at least they are not quite so worn as
those our friends are wearing, and they are a trifle cleaner! I shall
put the good Canon especially in your charge, Márton; you will look
after him and see that he wants for nothing."
"Thank you, lady," stammered Roger, almost overwhelmed by the warmth of
his reception. "Blessings be upon your honoured head, and upon all who
dwell beneath this roof."
All present bowed their heads almost involuntarily, whereupon Roger
summoned all his remaining strength, and reaching forth his withered
hands, pronounced the benediction over them; after which the children
made a rush forward to seize and kiss his hands.
"No, I won't hear anything now, Father Roger," said the old lady after a
pause, for her new guests belonged to the family now, she considered,
and were to be "thee'd and thou'd" and managed like the rest. "You must
not say another word; you must eat and drink and get thoroughly rested,
and then, to-morrow perhaps, or in a day or two, when you have said
prayers in the chapel (we have one!) and the day's work is done, we will
all sit round the fire, and you shall tell us all you know and all you
have seen."
Aunt Orsolya's subjects were well drilled, and though they were burning
with eagerness and anxiety, those who had begun to besiege the other
wanderers with inquiries at once refrained.
Preceded by a couple of torch-bearers, Father Roger was led carefully
away to one of the side caves, all of which had their names; Dora was
taken in charge by some of the ladies; Talabor and the Canon's servant
were equally well looked after, and that night they all once more ate
the "home-made bread," which they had so long been without. That it was
made with a considerable admixture of tree-bark mattered little, perhaps
they hardly noticed the fact. It was simply delicious!
And the beds! As Dora sank down on hers, it seemed to her that she had
never known real comfort before.
At last the excitement of the evening had subsided; the Queen's subjects
had all reassembled about the fires, speculating much as to what the
new-comers would have to tell them; and presently Aunt Orsolya began her
nightly rounds, visiting all in turn, and stopping to have a little
kindly chat with each group.