"Do not trouble yourself, father, dear," interposed Vilma. "We did not

send them any thing; we have brought them to this house."

"To my house!" exclaimed Tengelyi. "Did you consider the consequences?"

"I did. I considered that they were sure to perish if they remained

where they were; and I entreated the corporal, and implored him, and

vowed that I would bear the blame, until he gave me his permission to

remove the woman to this house. Nay, more, he helped me to carry her."

"You were right in taking them away," said Tengelyi, walking to and fro,

evidently distressed; "I only wish you had taken them to some other

place. I would willingly pay for any thing they want. But here! the

robber's family in the house of the notary of Tissaret! What will my

enemies say to that?"

"But, father, you often told me that we need not care for the judgment

of mankind, if we know and feel that we do that which is good and

right."

"Of course, if we are quite convinced of that. But they tell me Viola

is passionately fond of his wife. She is ill, and he will brave all

dangers to come and see her. What am I to do? My duty, as a public

functionary, forces me to arrest him, while my feelings revolt at the

idea."

"I know you will not arrest him, dearest father," said Vilma, softly.

"You cannot do it."

"And suppose I allow him to escape, what then? I shall lose my place. I

bear the stigma of being the accomplice of a robber, and nothing is left

to us but to beg our bread in the streets."

"No, father, that will never be!" said Vilma, confidingly, though her

eyes filled with tears. "God cannot punish you for a good action."

"God may not, but men will sometimes. But do not weep," added Tengelyi,

seeing his daughter's tears, "we cannot now undo what you have done, and

perhaps my fears are worse than the reality."

"Oh do not be angry with me," sobbed Vilma. "I never thought of the

consequences. I never thought that I _could_ be the cause of so great a

misfortune."

"Angry?" cried the old man, pressing her to his heart--"I be angry with

_you_? Art thou not my own daughter, my joy, and my pride? my fairest

remembrance of the past, my brightest hope of the future?"

"But if Viola were to come," said Vilma, still weeping, "and if things

were to happen as you said just now?"

"I know he will not come," replied the anxious father, who would have

given anything to have concealed his apprehensions. "And if he were to

come, it is ten to one that nobody will know of it. You know I am always

full of fears. At all events it is not _your_ fault, for if I had been

at home, and if I had known of this woman's distress, I too would have

taken her to my house--ay! so I would, though all the world were to turn

against me. Dry your tears," he continued, kissing Vilma's forehead,

"you did but your duty. Now go and look after the woman, while I go to

Vandory: he is half a doctor."

Saying this, the notary hastened away to hide his tears, and as he went

he passed some severe strictures on his own weakness, which caused him

to indulge in tears, a thing which is only pardonable in a woman.

CHAP. IV.

The stranger of the ditch, whom we left in the act of approaching the

fire, had meanwhile accomplished that object, and proceeded to the place

where a man sat squatting by the flame, poking the burning straws with

his staff, and singing a low and mournful melody.

"Are you at it again? again singing the Nagyidai Nota?"[6] said the

stranger, touching the singer's shoulder.

[Footnote 6: See Note IV.]

Peti the gipsy (for it was he who kept his lonely watch by the fire)

started up, and, seizing hold of the stranger's hand, dragged him away

from the light, whispering, "For God's sake, take care! Some one might

see you!"

"Are you mad?" retorted the stranger, disengaging his hands, and

returning to the fire. "I've lain in the ditch, and am all a-muck. I

must have a warm."

"No, Viola, no!" urged Peti, "the village is filled with your enemies.

Who knows but some of them are by? and if you are seen you are done

for!"

"Now be reasonable, old man," replied Viola, taking his seat by the

fire. "Not a human being is there on this heath that I wot of. What is

it you fear?"

"Oh! you know this very afternoon you and I, we were near the wood of

St. Vilmosh, and the Pandurs were here close to the park palings, and

yet they knew you even at that distance."

"Yes, very much as we knew them. They presumed it was I. But if they

have a mind to make my acquaintance, I'd better look after the priming

of my pistols. So! Now let them come. After sunset I fear no man."

"Oh! Viola, Viola!" cried Peti. "I know your boldness will be your bane.

You laugh at danger, but danger will overtake you."

"But, after all, were it not better to die than to live as I do?" said

the robber, feeling the edge of his axe. "I curse the day at dawn

because the light of the sun marks my track to the pursuer. The wild

bird in the brake causes me to tremble. The trunk of a fallen tree fills

me with dread; for who knows but it may hide the form of an enemy? I fly

from those I love. I pass my days among the beasts of the forests, and

my dreams are of the gallows and the hangman. Such is my life! Believe

me, Peti, I have little cause to be in love with life!"

"But your wife and your children!"

"Ah! you are right! my wife and my children!" sighed the robber, and

stared fixedly at the fire, whose faint glow sufficed to display to Peti

the cloud of deep melancholy which passed over the manly features of his

companion.

Viola was a handsome man. His high forehead, partly covered by a forest

of the blackest locks, the bold look of his dark eyes, the frank and

manly expression of his sunburnt face, the ease and the beauty of each

movement of his lofty form, impressed you with the idea that in him you

beheld one of those men who, though Nature meant them to be great and

glorious, pass by humble and unheeded; happy if their innate power for

good and for ill remains a secret; yes, happy are they if they are

allowed to live and die as the many, with but few to love them and few

to hate.

"Don't be sad, comrade," said Peti. "It's a long lane that has no

turning. But go you must, for here you are in danger of your life. The

election is at hand, and Mr. Skinner has every chance of losing his part

in it. He will move heaven and earth to catch you. After I met you this

afternoon, the Pandurs arrested me, and took me to him. May the devil

burn his bones! but he treated me cruelly: he was so savage that my hair

stood on end. Had it not been for the younger Akosh (God bless him!),

I'd be now taking my turn at the whipping-post. He has his spies among

us; he did not mention their names, but certain it is that he knows of

every step you take; I protest nothing short of a miracle can have saved

you! But certainly if we had not agreed to meet by this fire, you could

scarcely have escaped him. The landlord and his servants are bound and

locked up in the cellar, and Pandurs, dressed up as peasants, watch in

the inn. There are also Pandurs in your house; and the peasants have

been ordered to arm themselves with pitchforks, and to sally out when

the church-bells give the signal. When I was Mr. Skinner's prisoner he

cursed me, and mentioned his preparations; I have found out that he said

rather too little than too much."

Viola rose. "There are Pandurs in my house, and you tell me that my wife

is ill?"

"Oh! do not mind _her_. Susi has left the house; she is as comfortable

as a creature can be with the fever. They have taken her to the notary's

house."

"To Tengelyi's? Is she a prisoner?"

"Oh, by no means; it's all Christian love and charity. Oh! friend, that

same Christian love is a rare thing in these times. May God bless them

for what they do for her!"

"Christian love and charity! Fine words! fine words!" muttered Viola.

"But who tells you that this is not a snare? My wife is in the notary's

hands, and with her my life."

"For once you are mistaken!" cried the gipsy. "I, too, had my suspicions

at first; why should I not? since I am no peer, but merely a gipsy. It's

not my fault, surely, that I mistrust those officials; and when they

told me that Susi was at the notary's, I did not half like it. But I

understood that old Tengelyi knew nothing at all about it, and that his

daughter, Vilma, did it all. Now Vilma is a born angel, take my word for

it. But do not stop here. I ought to be at St. Vilmosh before the sun

rises, and every minute you stay is as much as your life is worth."

"I'll not stir a single step unless you tell me all about Susi. I cannot

understand it."

Peti knew Viola too well not to yield to this peremptory demand; and he

tried, therefore, to inform his friend, in as few words as possible, of

all the particulars of Susi's illness. Viola, leaning on his fokosh,

listened with eagerness. He stood so still, so motionless, that, but for

the deep sighs which at times broke forth, he might have been mistaken

for a statue.

"Poor, poor woman!" cried the robber at length, "has it indeed come to

this? A beggar, eating the bread of charity! a vagabond, abiding under

the roof of the stranger! God, God! what has _she_ done that thy hand

should strike _her_?"

"Let us be off!" urged Peti. "Your wife is all snug and comfortable, and

we ought not to stand here like fools, railing at the injustice of the

world. Besides, the day of settling our accounts is perhaps nearer than

you think. I owe Mr. Skinner more than one turn. Cheer up, comrade! many

a man has been in a worse scrape than you are, who got out of it after

all."

"What do I care for myself? I am used to it. There is blood on my hands,

and, perhaps, it is but just that Heaven's curse pursues me. But she,

whom I love,--she, who never since her birth did harm to any one,--she,

who stands by my side like an angel of light, withholding my arm from

deeds of blood and vengeance! Oh! she kneels at church, and prays by the

hour. That she loves me is her only crime,--why, then, should _she_ be

punished? Let them hunt me down--torment me; ay! let them hang me! what

care I, if she is but safe and free from harm?"

"So she is!" cried Peti, impatiently. "She was never better off in her

life, man! Come along, or else we are done for, and by your fault too!"

"Do you mean to tell me that none of the villagers helped her?--that

none of them would shelter her?"

"No! I told you, no! the judge forbade it; and none of them dared to

look at her."

"Very well; I mean to be quits with them. I never harmed any of them.

None of them ever lost a single head of cattle; and now that my family

are in distress, there is not one of them but thinks that this is as it

ought to be. But Viola is the man to make bonfires of their houses!"

"You are right!" cried Peti, seizing the robber's hand. "A little

revenge now and then serves your turn. It puts them on their guard! It

reminds them that there is still some justice in this world. But come to

St. Vilmosh. You are safe there, at least for a few days, for the

kanaz[7] there is one of our people. We will go down to him, and see

what can be done."

[Footnote 7: See Note V.]

"You had better go first; I have some business here."

"Where?" cried Peti, stopping his friend as the latter turned to leave

the place.

"I tell you to go first to St. Vilmosh, and to wait for me at the

kanaz's. I want to speak to the notary. By the time the sun rises I mean

to be with you. Get something to eat, for I am hungry."

"Maybe the ravens are hungry, and have told you to go and be hanged, to

make a dinner for them!"

"What a coward you are! I tell thee, man, it is not so easy to catch

Viola as you may think. Go and tell them to cook me some gulyash[8]; and

if you think it will ease your mind, I will bring you the chief haiduk

gagged and bound."

[Footnote 8: See Note VI.]

"All this were well and good if the people of Tissaret were still on

your side, for in that case you might do as you please. But since the

parson's house has been broken into, they are all against you, they will

have it that you committed that robbery."

"I did no such thing; and it is just on that account I want to speak to

Tengelyi. I have never been obliged to any man, who had the dress and

appearance of a gentleman. The notary is the first of the kind to whom

I owe any thing, and, by G--d, he shall not call me ungrateful."

"But of what use can your capture be to the notary?" said Peti, who now

yielded to Viola's obstinacy, and accompanied him to the village.

"Some villany is abroad, and Tengelyi is to suffer. It's the same affair

as it was with the parson. I'll inform him of it."

"Not to-night?"

"Ay, this very night! Who knows but to-morrow it might be too late? The

birds are greedy for their prey. It will scarcely take me an hour. You

ought to go to St. Vilmosh."

"Not I!" said the gipsy. "If you are mad, and won't be advised, you

cannot, at least, force me to leave you alone in this scrape. If they

hang you, they must hang me too."

Viola said nothing; but he pressed the hand of his faithful comrade. The

two adventurers approached the village, where every thing was prepared

for the capture of the robber. Not only was Viola's house occupied by

the Pandurs, not only was the inn garrisoned, and its inmates gagged and

bound, but the streets of Tissaret, and the cottages of those peasants

who were suspected to be in communication with the robber, were occupied

by soldiers, or, at least, closely watched. Rety's servants, armed with

pitchforks and cudgels, were assembled in a barn, and every peasant was

prepared, at the first signal from the steeple, to rush out and attack

the outlaw. Some generous men, devoted to the public safety, and fearing

for their cattle, and some not less generous women, had contributed a

few hundred florins as a reward for that lucky peasant, or Pandur, who

should succeed either in capturing or killing the robber. There could be

but one opinion about Viola's fate, in case he should happen to come to

Tissaret; but whether he would come or not was an open question, to say

the least of it; for while the justice and his clerk were out

hare-hunting, the inspector Kanya had thought proper to publish Mr.

Skinner's instructions by means of the public crier, who, on this

important occasion, was preceded by a couple of drums, and whose

commands to the peasantry were backed by the threat of five-and-twenty

lashes, as a punishment of the refractory or negligent; and though the

justice on his return had poured out a most energetic volley of

imprecations on Mr. Kanya and his zeal, and though he had immediately

given orders that no one should be permitted to leave the village, yet

there was good reason to fear that Viola would smell more than one rat.

Indeed, so much probability was there for this supposition, that by the

time Viola and Peti drew near to the village the inhabitants of Tissaret

to a man had thought proper to retire for the night, leaving the

soldiers and Pandurs to follow their example, which, to do them justice,

they did.

"Wait a few moments," said Peti to his companion, when they came to the

threshing-floors, "I'll look out for you. It is just here where they

have placed a guard of those rascals in frogged jackets. I'll try to

find out what they are after." Saying which, the old man crept through

the ditch and disappeared. He returned almost immediately. "They are

fast asleep. If the others are equally vigilant, we are safe enough."

Viola advanced with Peti. They entered the village, and walked quickly,

but noiselessly, along the hedges and under the shadow of the houses.

Tengelyi's house, the neatest building in the village, was on one side

bordered by a narrow court-yard, and on the other by a garden of

somewhat larger dimensions. The buildings in his immediate neighbourhood

were on the one side the Town-hall, and on the other the workshop of the

village smith; while over the way there was the only shop in Tissaret,

the property of Itzig, the Jew, and remarkable, not only for its amazing

stores of European and Indian produce, but also for its bright yellow

paint, and its pillars of glaring sky-blue which ornamented the hall

outside.

There were but two roads to Tengelyi's house--one leading by the

Town-hall, and the other touching the smithie; and though the sound of a

hammer ringing on the iron of the anvil was still to be heard from the

last named place, still Peti thought it advisable to take the latter

road, and this the more, since he perceived that there was no light in

Itzig's house,--a circumstance which led him to suppose that that "toad

of a Jew" had retired into the interior of his den, there to sleep on

his dollars. Quitting, therefore, the dark corner between the smith's

shop and the main road, the two men hastened up to the house of

Tengelyi. The fire from the smithie threw a ruddy glare on the road and

on the Jew's shop, the closed shutters of which seemed to denote that

all the inmates had retired to rest. But while they were in the act of

crossing the road, Peti suddenly seized Viola's hand, and pointing to

the Jew's house, he whispered, "They have seen us!" A human form was

indeed visible behind the pillars. It moved quickly to the door, and

disappeared.

"Go to the notary's! Just by the wall there's a hole in the hedge. Creep

through it, and hide yourself as best you may; but for God's sake don't

enter the house! I'll come to fetch you as soon as the alarm is over."

So saying, Peti crossed the road and disappeared among the buildings.

Viola hastening onward, found the opening in the hedge. He had scarcely

crept through it and hidden himself among the shrubs, when he saw that

the gipsy was fully justified in his apprehensions. Voices were heard in

the streets, lanthorns were carried by, and the quick tramp of steps,

and the sound of the village bell, proved to him that the alarm was

indeed given, and that the people of Tissaret were up and in arms to

arrest him. Mr. Skinner's and Mr. Kenihazy's answering imprecations

might have proved, to any one who doubted the fact, that the public

justice of this country is not always asleep, but that its eyes are

sometimes open as late as 10h. 30m. P.M.

Viola was in a dangerous position. The notary's garden was but an

indifferent hiding-place. It was small, and but thinly planted with

trees. A strong light from the windows of the house illumined part of

it, and nothing could save Viola, if the hole in the hedge was

discovered, and a lanthorn passed through it. But the robber was

accustomed to danger. He kept his weapons in readiness and waited.

After some time the noise of the robber hunters grew gradually less. The

crowd rushed to another part of the village. The sound of distant voices

and the continued ringing of the bell showed that the danger was at

least in part over.

On these occasions it is only the first quarter of an hour which is

dangerous in our country; after that '_mauvais quart d'heure_' has once

passed, there is none but seeks for an excuse for discontinuing the

search. For we are an Eastern people, nor did we come to the West to

toil and slave. Indeed, that man was a profound historian who protested

that our ancestors left their homes in search of a country where the sun

rose late, and allowed them to sleep longer than they could in their

former abodes. Viola, who had often been hunted, and who was perfectly

familiar with the leading features of our national character, rose from

the ground and walked boldly up to the house.

That house harboured his wife, the only being on the face of the earth

who loved him; the only being he could call his own, and whose mild

words made him feel that, though exiled, pursued, and condemned, there

was still something which he could call his own, which the world could

not take from him, and which bound him to life and to his Creator. And

Viola's heart, however unmoved by danger, beat loud and fast when,

creeping by the windows of the house, he stopped at length in front of

the one window for which he sought. Everything was tranquil in that

room. His wife lay sleeping, and Vilma sat by her side, watching her,

while the old Liptaka was seated at some distance, reading her Bible,

and rocking a cradle. His little boy lay in an arm-chair. He was fast

asleep. The robber looked long and earnestly at the group before him. He

wept.

The child in the cradle awoke. Old Mother Liptaka took it up and carried

it to and fro. Little Pishta too awoke; he rubbed his eyes and stared

around, as if uncertain where he was, or how he came to be there. But

looking up to the window he beheld Viola, and jumping from the chair he

clasped his hands and shouted--"Father! father!"

"God forbid that he should be here!" said Mother Liptaka, walking up to

the window. "You are half asleep, child, and talk in a dream: you see

there is no one here."

"He is not there now,--but he was there. He is gone now, but I am sure

he is in the garden. I will go and call him in."

"Don't think of it!" said the Liptaka, seizing the boy's hand. "You know

your father is----" Here the good woman stopped, for she was at a loss

to find gentle words for a harsh fact.

"I know!" said the boy, "my father must hide himself; but I am sure it

is not true, what they say about his being a robber."

"Of course not, child: be quiet, and don't say a word about it, not even

to Miss Vilma. I will go, and if your father is in the garden, I'll

speak to him." And the old woman left the room.

Viola's situation had meanwhile become more dangerous. When he retired

from the window where his boy recognised him, he found that his

movements were watched by a man, who stood in the opening through which

he had entered the garden, and who withdrew when the robber's face

turned in the direction of the hedge. Viola was at a loss what to do. He

could not stay in the garden, for it was too small; the streets were

filled with peasants and Pandurs, and the inmates of the house were

strangers to him. He could not trust his life to their keeping. The

tocsin was again sounded, and the approach of lights and steps showed

him that his pursuers were aware of his hiding-place, and that they came

to take him.

At this critical moment the Liptaka entered the garden, and called the

robber by his name. Seeing no other means of escape, he walked up to

her and informed her of the danger of his situation.

"Ay, brother, why _did_ you come this blessed night?" said the old

woman. "Two days later you might have been safe."

"But what is to be done? Can you hide me in the house?"

"I can, for the notary is not in, and Vilma will not betray you. Stand

here until I call you." She returned into the house, and Viola stood up

against the wall to hide himself. The noise increased meanwhile, and the

sonorous voice of the justice was heard, denouncing the eyes, souls, and

limbs of his trusty Pandurs, when the door opened, and the Liptaka

appeared, motioning Viola to advance cautiously, lest the light from the

windows might mark his figure: the robber crept along the wall and

entered the house.

"Where is he? where?" screamed Mr. Skinner, from the other side of the

hedge.

"Steady, boys!" shouted his clerk, from the furthest rear. "At him! Why

should you fear the scoundrel? The man that catches and binds him shall

have a hundred florins."

"Are any of you at the other side of the garden?" bawled the

commissioner, with a stentorian voice.

Nobody answered.

"Smash your souls, you cursed hellhounds!" roared Mr. Skinner. "Why are

you all here? Why are you not at the other side of the garden?"

"Your lordship's lordship told us to come to this place," said a Pandur;

but a blow from Paul Skinner's stalwart arm sent him sprawling to the

ground. "Be off!" shouted the intrepid justice; "be off a few of

you--but not too many. Seize him and bind him!"

"Shoot him on the spot, if he shows fight," urged the clerk.

"Shoot him--indeed!" roared the justice. "I'll brain the man that dares

to shoot him, for I must have the satisfaction of hanging the fellow."

Amidst these preparations for the capture of the robber, the person

"wanted" had quietly entered the house, where old Liptaka stowed him

away behind some casks, which lay in the room. Vilma trembled.

"Fear not, Missie," said the Liptaka; "they dare not enter this house.

Of course, if it were a poor man's case, they'd ransack every corner,

and turn the whole house out of the window. But it's a different thing

with a nobleman's curia."

The Liptaka was mistaken, and she had soon ample opportunity of

convincing herself of the fact that the keeping of the law is one thing,

and the law itself another. For Mr. Paul Skinner, after surrounding the

garden on all sides, and after summoning Viola to come forward and be

hanged, found it necessary to proceed to a close investigation of the

premises. He opened the garden door and entered with his _posse_ of

Pandurs and peasants. Vilma's flowers and Mrs. Ershebet's broccolis were

alike trodden down by the intruders, and great exertions were made to

start the game. But their search was fruitless. So were their curses.

Mr. Skinner protested that the robber must be hid in the house, and

Kenihazy instantly suggested the propriety of searching the suspected

habitation. The justice consented, and walked up to the door which

communicated between the house and the garden, when the door was opened

from the inside, and Mrs. Ershebet appeared on the threshold.

"What is the meaning of this?" cried the notary's wife, with a voice

which, on the present occasion, was more remarkable for its energy than

for its sweetness. "Who is it that dares, at this hour of the night, to

break into an honest man's house? Are you robbers, thieves, or

murderers? Be off, instantly, every one of you! This is a nobleman's

curia, and no one has a right to be here, unless it be with my consent!"

Mr. Skinner, not a little abashed, tried to stammer some excuses; but

Mrs. Ershebet, knowing that she had the law on her side, refused to

listen to his explanations. Her abuse of the justice kept pace with the

hate she bore him, and she eagerly seized the opportunity to give him

what we poetically call "a bit of her mind." She did this so effectually

that the justice was at length compelled to muster all his courage to

make a reply.

"Mrs. Tengelyi," said the worthy functionary, his voice trembling with

suppressed rage, "Mrs. Tengelyi, moderate yourself; consider that you

stand in the presence of a superior officer."

"Superior officer, indeed!" screamed Mrs. Ershebet. "You are the master

of robbers and thieves, but not mine. What care I for the county! What

care I for the justice? I am a nobleman's wife, and I'd like to see the

man who dares to enter my house without my permission!"

"You shall have that pleasure!" roared the justice. "Forward, my men!

enter the house! search it, and capture the robber. Knock them down and

bind them, if they offer you resistance! I'll teach you to know who is

master here!"

"A stick! a stick! give me a stick!" cried Mrs. Ershebet. Her maid

handed her Tengelyi's cane. She raised it, and exclaimed triumphantly,

"I protest!"

Mr. Skinner stepped back; but, after a few moments, he rallied his

forces, resolved, in open contempt of the Hungarian law and its formal

protest[9], to force an entry into the notary's house. There can be no

doubt that he would have accomplished his purpose, but for the opportune

arrival of Akosh and Mr. Catspaw, who restrained his violence; for the

attorney, to whom the justice stated the case, and who had his reasons

for supposing that Viola was not in the house, did his utmost to prevent

the premises from being searched. He did this not from any love he bore

Tengelyi, but because he knew that the affair might at a later time

serve to cast a suspicion on the notary's character. His dispute with

Mr. Skinner was suddenly interrupted by a new and unforeseen event.

[Footnote 9: See Note VII.]

"Fire!" cried a voice in the street; and the crowd in the garden roared

"Fire! fire, at the Castle!" The tocsin sounded, and the peasants

hastened in the direction of the fire. The Pandurs alone were kept back

by Mr. Skinner's express commands, for he still hoped to find Viola.

But when one of the servants from the House came down to tell them that

the conflagration was in the sheriff's barns, and that his whole store

of hay was in flames, it was thought necessary to dispatch the power of

the law to the threshing-floors to save the sheriff's hay. Not one of

the intruders remained on the spot.

"For God's sake, save him!" whispered Vilma, addressing the Liptaka. "Be

quick, and save him before they come back."

"Never fear, Missie. Give him but a fair start, and he is not the man to

be caught. But keep your counsel; your father would never pardon you!"

The Liptaka turned to Viola's hiding-place behind the casks. "Now get

thee gone," said she. "There is a fire at the sheriff's. Get out at the

other side of the village, where nobody will stop your way. I can't help

thinking the fire is on your account."

"Listen to me!" said Viola. "You know I owe the notary a debt of

gratitude. His family have taken my wife to his house: may God bless

them for it! They have saved my life, too; and I mean to show my sense

of it. Tell them I know that the notary keeps some papers in an iron

safe. Those papers are of great value to him and to the parson. Tell him

to find another place for them, and to keep a good look out. He has

powerful enemies; I know of some people who would do any thing to get

those papers. Tell this the notary, and may God be with you!"

The robber was in the act of leaving the garden, when a hand held him by

his bunda. "Who is it?" said he, raising his axe.

"It is I, Peti! What do you think of my illumination?"

"That it saved me for once. I knew it was your doing. Thanks! may God

bless you!"

"Now let us be off to St. Vilmosh," said Peti, crawling through the

opening of the hedge. "Look there," he added, pointing to the next

house; "I'll lose my head if that fellow Catspaw does not stand there!"

"And if he were an incarnate devil I _will_ go on!" muttered Viola, as

they turned the corner of the street. Mr. Catspaw, for it was he, had

recognised the robber. He shook his head and walked leisurely up to the

Manor-house.

CHAP. V.

The day which followed this eventful night was a Sunday. Already had the

church-bells of Tissaret called the parishioners to prayers; and the

lower classes, obedient to the summons, crowded the little church, there

to forget the disturbance of the night and the whole of their worldly

cares. At the House, or Castle, as the family seat of the Retys was

sometimes styled, preparations on a large scale were on foot for the

reception of the guests who were expected to arrive that day. Akosh and

his sister Etelka walked in the garden. Neither of them spoke, as they

trod the paths which were already covered with the leaves of autumn;

while Tünder, their favorite greyhound, bounded to and fro, now starting

a bird, now hunting a falling leaf. The dog had its own way of enjoying

the beauty of that bright day.

"What is the matter with you, Etelka?" said Akosh, at length. "You are

out of spirits to-day."

"Am I?" replied Etelka, smiling, and with a slight stare. "I dare say

you are like Mr. Catspaw, who in his annual fits of jaundice flatters

himself that the whole world is yellow."

"Very true," rejoined Akosh; "I am a dreadful bore to-day."

"Of course you are. To be a bore is one of the privileges of a Hungarian

nobleman. But do not put yourself under any restraint on _my_

account!"--saying which the young lady turned away, and busied herself

in smoothing the shrivelled leaves of a half-faded flower. Thus pursuing

their walk, they reached a hill in the plantation, from the summit of

which they looked down on the village, the river, and the boundless

plain.

"They are coming!" said Etelka, turning her eyes in the direction of St.

Vilmosh.

"I wish to God I were a hundred miles off!" sighed Akosh.

"Would not a lesser distance do? Shall we say the village, or the

notary's house?"

"Don't mention it. It makes me weep to think of it. You know what has

happened?"

"I should think so."

"Well, I have no hope."

"Do not say so! Vilma loves you. You are not likely to change your mind,

and our father----"

"Our father,--oh, if there were no obstacle but his denial!" exclaimed

Akosh. "I venerate our father; but there are limits to my

veneration,--and if he compels me to choose between Vilma's love and

his, I am prepared to sacrifice the man who prefers his prejudices to

his son's happiness. But is Vilma prepared to follow my example? And,

believe me, old Tengelyi is far more inexorable than my father!"

"But he idolises his daughter----"

"You do not know him as I know him. Yes, he idolises his daughter! He

would sacrifice any thing to her, except his honour. On that point he is

inexorable. After that cursed conversation with my step-mother, in which

she hinted that she would be well pleased to see his daughter less

frequently at our house, Tengelyi came to me. He told me all that had

happened, and asked me to discontinue my visits to his family, for--such

was his bitter expression--it was not well for young gentlemen of rank

to hold intercourse with poor girls. Ever since that day, when I meet

him in the street and accompany him to his house, he bows me off at the

door, and sends me about my business. I have spoken to his wife, but she

tells me that she cannot do any thing to soften him. I have spoken to

Vandory, but he, too, has no comfort for me. Now consider that Tengelyi

is sure to lay the blame of that disgraceful scene of last night at our

door, and that our party at the next election will do all to oppose his.

No! I tell you there is no hope left for me!"

"And yet I hope!" said Etelka, taking her brother's hand: "I know but

too well on which side the victory is likely to be, in a contest between

a woman's head and her heart."

"Do you really think so?" exclaimed Akosh, kissing her hand. "Oh if I

could but know,--if I could but feel sure that my enemies will not

succeed in estranging her heart from me!"

"You are mad, my respected brother," interposed Etelka; "pray who are

your enemies? Old Tengelyi loves you as a son, though he does not say

so; but suppose he _did_ hate you, believe me, though father, and

mother, and the whole country were to sit down for a twelvemonth abusing

you, Vilma's feelings would remain as they are."

"Oh if I could but see her! if I could but see her, though it were only

for a moment!"

"Be patient. Who knows what may happen when Tengelyi goes to the

election? But we must turn back now; the Cortes[10] are about to make

their appearance. I would not for the world lose the spectacle of their

arrival."

[Footnote 10: Constituents.]

They turned and walked to the house, whence arose the sound of many

voices, like the roll of a distant thunder-storm. The Hungarians are

wont to commence their affairs, no matter whether they be great or

small, not with light--but with noise. I leave my readers to imagine the

fearful din with which the halls of the Retys resounded. Servants and

haiduks ran in all directions, fetching and carrying all sorts of

things. The cook and his boys,--the bailiff and the butler, the

housekeeper and the maids, were shouting at, ordering about, and abusing

one another; and Lady Rety, who every moment expected the arrival of her

guests, had just sent her third maid with most peremptory instructions

to cause the people to be silent,--without, however, obtaining any other

result from the mission than a still greater confusion of tongues and

voices. Great was her rage, and violently did she struggle to preserve

that gracious smile which the Cortes were wont to admire in her at fixed

periods every three years, viz., at the time of the general election.

The Sheriff Rety, Valentin Kishlaki, Mr. Paul Skinner, the justice, and

sundry "_spectabiles_" of his party, were smoking their pipes in the

hall, and a couple of poor relations, who were always invited on such

occasions, filled and lighted their pipes for them, and made themselves

generally useful, to show their deep sense of the honour which was done

to them. Mr. Catspaw stood leaning against the wall. He looked the very

picture of watchful humility.

This company, the like of which may be found in Hungary every where,

especially at the time of the election, but which it were next to

impossible to discover anywhere else, consisted but of a limited number

of individuals. They were the grandees of the county of Takshony.

The man who first attracts our attention is Valentin Kishlaki, the

father of Kalman Kishlaki, whom my readers had already the pleasure of

meeting on the Turk's Hill. The good old man offers much to love, but

little to describe. He is a short man, and withal a stout one; his hair

is white, his cheeks red. He has a good-natured smile, and a pair of

honest blue eyes. He is fond of telling a story without an end, but this

weakness is his greatest crime.

Among the other persons in the sheriff's hall, the most remarkable are,

doubtless, Augustin Karvay, the bold keeper of the county house, and

Thomas Shaskay, the receiver of the taxes. The former was a Hungarian

nobleman of the true stamp: bred on the heath, fagged at school, and

plucked at college. The insurrection of 1809 afforded the noble youth a

brilliant opportunity of displaying his talents for homicide, which were

supposed to be astounding. But the speedy termination of the war nipped

Mr. Karvay's martial honours in the bud; nor does history record any of

his deeds of bravery and devotion, except the fact that he left his

regiment at the commencement of the first and only battle in which that

gallant body took part, and in which it was routed; and that, regardless

of the fatigue and toils of the way, he hastened home to defend his

household gods and the female members of his family. But so modest was

Mr. Karvay, that the slightest allusion to this act of unparalleled

devotion was observed to cause him pain, and even to spoil his temper.

This modesty we take to be a proof of true merit.

Mr. Karvay's gallantry, or, perhaps, his touching modesty, did

afterwards so much execution upon the heart of Lady Katshflatty, a young

widow of fifty, that she consented to bless the youthful hero with all

the charms and gifts of fortune which her years and her late husband's

prodigality had left her. The blessing, in either respect, was by no

means very great, and Mr. Karvay was reduced to the extremity of living

upon his wits, which in his case would have been tantamount to the

lowest degree of destitution, but for the good fortune he had of making

some enemies by his marriage with Lady Katshflatty. His enemies belonged

to the opposition in the county; that is to say, they were members of

the minority;--reason enough for the party in power to take him up; and

under the sheriff's protection Mr. Karvay was successively appointed to

the posts of Keeper of the County House, Captain of the Haiduks, and

Honorary Juror, and promoted to all the honours, bustle, and emoluments

of these respective dignities.

Such was the person to whom Mr. Thomas Shaskay was bound by the ties of

a cordial and mutual dislike. The two men seemed to be created for the

express purpose of hating one another. Shaskay was a small and spare

man; his face reminded one of an old crumpled-up letter, his hair was

scant, his nose sharp and long, and his narrow forehead covered with a

thousand wrinkles. Karvay's huge bulk, mottled face, and curly black

hair, were in bodily opposition to this frail piece of humanity. Candour

was Mr. Karvay's characteristic feature; indeed, there were people in

the county of Takshony who protested that the gallant captain would be

more amiable if he were less candid. Now Shaskay was the closest man

breathing. He answered reluctantly even to the simplest questions. Some

of his friends protested that his closeness and secrecy were quite out

of place, for that Nature, when she framed him, had treated him as

druggists do their goods, and that "Poison" was as distinctly written on

his face as it ever was on an arsenic bottle.

Shaskay had met with many misfortunes in the course of his life; but so

great was his strength of mind that he was never known to allude to

them, and least of all to his greatest misfortune, which, however, was

mentioned in the records of the county. While he held the office of

receiver-general of the district, sundry monies which were entrusted to

his care disappeared; and though Mr. Shaskay protested that the money

was stolen, and though the whole county believed him; nay, though no one

had the least doubt that Shaskay (who said it) had _seen_ the thief as

he left the room, still the government, grossly violating the laws both

of nature and of the country, dismissed the unfortunate receiver-general

from his office. The county of Takshony made no less than thirteen

petitions in his favour, but the worthy man could never succeed in

regaining the office, of which he had discharged the duties to the

unqualified satisfaction of the nobility, and from which he had not only

derived no gains, but also sacrificed his own private property at cards.

But so great is the virtue of a truly good man, that Mr. Shaskay,

instead of joining (as might have been supposed) the opposition,

remained faithful to his politics and his party, exerting the whole of

his influence in behalf of the government, which had treated him so

unjustly.

Mr. Rety, the sheriff, stands in the centre of his own hall. He is

dressed in a blue attila with silver buttons, his boots are armed with

silver spurs, and his Meerschaum pipe is embossed with silver. His

thoughts were of the approaching election, and of the speech which he

intended to address to the Cortes; but the brilliant phrase upon which

he had just stumbled, was interrupted by a distant howling and

bellowing, which became gradually more distinct.

"Eljen Rety! Eljen Skinner! Eljen the liberty of Hungary! Hujh rá!" and

similar exclamations, with now and then a curse, and the report of a

pistol, resounded through the village. And besides there was the

wonderful burden of the song:--

"May the tulip flowers bloom for aye,

And Rety be our sheriff this day!"

which will do for any election, and which is remarkable for the ease

with which it may be adapted to the case or the name of any candidate.

And there was a van with a gipsy band performing the Rakotzi, and all

the dogs of the village stood by and barked their welcome.

"This is indeed enthusiasm! this is indeed popularity!" said Karvay,

stroking his moustache, and looking pleased; "by my soul it is a fine

thing to be so much beloved! I am not rich, but I would give fifty

florins any day to hear myself extolled in this manner."

"Ah! but I trust to goodness they won't burn any thing!" said one of the

poor relations, whose reminiscences of the last election were not of an

agreeable kind.

"Burn any thing! Terrem tette! of whom dost dare to speak?" roared

Karvay. "Dost not know that thou speakest of noblemen? that St. Vilmosh

has three hundred votes? The sheriff's house is insured, and if the

worst were to come to the worst, and if all the village were burnt down,

we ought to bless our stars that they have come to us instead of siding

with the other party!"

"Karvay is right," said Rety to his trembling cousin; "How dare you

speak disrespectfully of my guests? I know the gentlemen of St.

Vilmosh."

"So do I!" roared Karvay, "every tenth man of my prisoners is from St.

Vilmosh. Capital fellows they are! Your thief and murderer is a capital

fellow in war, _or_ at an election."

"There are some exceptions to that rule," interposed Shaskay. "In the

insurrection of 1809, I understand the men of St. Vilmosh----"

It was lucky for Shaskay that the Cortes had by this time come to the

gate, for Mr. Karvay was preparing to pay the ex-receiver-general in

kind, by an allusion to sundry monies. His biting jokes on that tender

topic were, however, cut short by the arrival of the whole noble mob in

not less than thirty large vans. The vans in front and in the rear were

ornamented with large yellow flags with suitable mottoes, such as

"Rety for ever!"

"No nobleman will condescend to build streets and dykes!"

and mongrel rhymes in the following fashion:--

"To pay no taxes, to pay no toll;

To be exempt from the muster-roll;

To make the laws, and to live at we can,

Abusing the salt-prices:

This befits a nobleman."

Every nobleman had a green and yellow feather stuck in his hat or

kalpac; these colours being emblematical of the hopes of their own

party, and the envy of their adversaries, while they served the

practical purpose of a badge of recognition.

The sheriff advanced, amidst violent cheering, to the front steps of the

hall; the mob of noblemen shouting Halljuk[11]! formed a circle, and the

notary of St. Vilmosh, stepping forward, addressed the patron in a

speech of extraordinary pathos; in the course of which the words--Most

revered,--Greece,--Rome,--Cicero,--patriotism,--singleness of

purpose,--load star,--fragrant flowers,--forked tongues, pyramids, and

steeple--were neither few nor far between, and which concluded with an

assurance of the unbounded attachment of the constituency to the

illustrious patriot he (the orator) had the supreme honour of

addressing, and the quotation of "Si fractus illabetur orbis, impavidum

ferient ruinæ," or to adopt the translation of the whipper-in of the

Cortes:--

[Footnote 11: Hear! hear!]

"May the tulip-flowers bloom for aye,

And Rety be our sheriff this day!"

This speech, but especially its conclusion, called forth a torrent of

applause; and the enthusiasm reached its culminating point, when Mr.

Rety, as usual, assured them that he was overwhelmed with

confusion--that he was unprepared--that this was the happiest day of his

life--that he had no ambition, but that it appeared his friends of St.

Vilmosh commanded his services, and that he was always the man who----

The assurance that Mr. Rety was "always the man who" excited cheers of

the most deafening magnitude from his audience; and after the whipper-in

had informed the sheriff that but one thing was wanting to the happiness

of the noble mob, and that this one thing was the permission to kiss

Lady Rety's hand, the crowd uttered another frantic shout of Eljen! and

rushed into the house.

A sumptuous repast awaited them in the sheriff's dining-room and in the

barn. The former apartment was occupied by the _élite_ of the company,

while the lower precincts of the barn sheltered a less select, though by

no means a less noble party. The _élite_ feasted on four-and-twenty

different kinds of sweetmeats, with Hungarian Champagne, Tokay, and

ices; and the great mass of the Cortes filled their noble stomachs with

Gulyash and Pörkölt, Tarhonya, cream-cakes, dumplings, roast meats, wine

and brandy.

Etelka left the company immediately after dinner, while the Lady Rety

conversed with some of the rising assessors and clergymen of the

district. The gentlemen smoked their pipes in the hall, and in front of

the house; and if the notary of St. Vilmosh was not among their number,

his absence may perhaps be accounted for by the fact that Etelka's maid,

Rosi, lived in another part of the house.

Akosh and Kalman were walking in the garden. They were equals in age and

station, and of course they were sworn friends. Nevertheless, the two

young men were utterly different in their characters and tempers. Kalman

was, by his education and constitution, a Betyar, that is to say, a

root-and-branch Magyar of the old school; but it was his great ambition

to be mistaken for a man of high European breeding and refinement.

Akosh, on the other hand, who had the advantage of the best education

which Paris and London can afford, had taken it into his head to act the

Magyar, _par excellence_. Neither of them succeeded in maintaining his

artificial character; and especially on that day they had both signally

failed in their endeavours to falsify the old proverb: "Naturam expellas

furcâ; tamen usque recurret."

Akosh was indeed a Betyar when the dinner commenced; but he grew less

talkative and noisy as the talking and the noise around him increased,

until at length he found himself fairly silenced. Kalman, who sat by

Etelka, and who was greatly cheered by the kind manner in which she

treated him (for poor Kalman was desperately in love with Miss Rety),

took but little wine, and for a time his conduct and conversation were

all that he or Etelka could wish. But by degrees he fell back into his

Betyarism, until the displeased looks and curt replies of the lady made

him aware of his error. At the end of the dinner he was as silent as his

friend. He scarcely ventured to look at Miss Rety; and when dinner was

over he hurried Akosh to the garden, there to bewail his sad and cruel

fate.

"I am the most wretched of mortals!" cried he. "Did you observe the

manner in which your sister treated me? She does not love me--nay, she

detests and despises me!"

"Are you mad?" replied Akosh.

"No! I am not mad. Etelka does not love me; nor will she ever love me,

and she is right. She is too good for the like of me."

"You ought never to take any wine, Kalman; it makes you sad."

"So you _did_ see it? And she, too, is disgusted with me! I will leave

the country! I will go to a place where nobody knows me! where your

sister will not be annoyed by my presence!"

Kalman's lamentations were here cut short by Akosh, who, on being

informed of the reason of this extraordinary distress, pledged his word

that he would reconcile his sister to his friend; and Kalman's grief

having given way to the hope of fresh favour, the two young men turned

back to the house to find Etelka, and to solicit and obtain her pardon

for any offence which her lover might have committed. But fate had

willed it otherwise.

Old Kishlaki, misled by the excitement of the day, had taken rather more

wine than he ought to have done; his ideas were consequently less steady

than they might have been. A match between Miss Rety and his son had

always been among his pet projects. Urged on by the conviviality of the

day, he had undertaken to address the Retys, and to solicit their

daughter's hand for Mr. Kalman Kishlaki, his son and heir. Rety's answer

to this unexpected offer was that he could not presume to judge of his

daughter's inclinations; and the Lady Rety, in her turn, gave Mr.

Kishlaki to understand that it would be more wise to reserve matters of

such moment for the period after the election. The good man was too much

excited to understand the real meaning of these answers. He fancied

that everything was arranged; and, walking from group to group, he told

the great secret to every one whom he met.

The Cortes were meanwhile actively employed in rehearsing their votes

for the election. They had already disposed of some of the lower places,

and they now proceeded to elect Kalman Kishlaki a justice of the

district. They strained every nerve of their lungs in shouting "Eljen

Kalman Kishlaki!" Old Kishlaki was transported with joy, but he was

grieved that his son's glorification should be lost within the walls of

the barn. He called his servant, and informing him of the great secret,

he hinted at the pleasure Miss Rety was sure to feel if the Cortes were

to seize Kalman and to carry him in triumph to her room. The servant

was, of course, quite of his master's opinion. He made his way to the

barn, shouted "Halljuk!" and spoke so much to the purpose that the whole

crowd of electors consented to accompany him to the garden. We ought to

observe that Kishlaki's messenger gained his point chiefly by informing

the Cortes of the proposed alliance between Etelka and Kalman.

The three hundred noblemen of St. Vilmosh set up a deafening shout of

"Eljen!" and directed their steps to the garden, while old Kishlaki wept

with joy, and muttered: "Hej! it is a fine thing to be so popular!"

Akosh and Kalman were close to the house when they met Kishlaki with all

the Cortes at his heels. The old man had just time to embrace his son,

and to cry out, "Do you hear it, Kalman? This is meant for you, my boy!"

The very next moment they were surrounded by the men of St. Vilmosh.

Their shout of "Eljen Kalman Kishlaki! Etelka Rety!" put a stop to all

further conversation. The two young men were astonished. They did not

know what to do or to say. But when old Kishlaki's servant proposed that

the young man should be taken to "Miss Etelka, his betrothed bride;" and

when a score of arms were stretched out to seize the fortunate lover,

then it was that Kalman began to see how matters stood. He resisted, he

prayed, he imprecated; and his father, too, who had no idea of

proclaiming the affair in _this_ way, did his utmost to prevail upon

them to leave Miss Rety's name unmentioned. His endeavours were in vain.

Kalman's resistance was of no avail. There was a sudden rush--a

scuffle--and he found himself hoisted on the shoulders of a couple of

stout fellows. His hair was dishevelled and his coat torn. He had lost

his cravat and his hat. But the crowd, unmindful of these drawbacks to

the personal graces of their favourite, bore him onward to the

apartments of his mistress. Great was the uproar, and violent were their

cheers of "Eljen Kalman and Etelka!"

The guests in the house rushed to the door, and, hearing the names of

Kalman and Etelka, they turned to the sheriff and wished him joy. Mr.

Rety received their congratulations with a sickly smile. Lady Rety,

though mindful of Kishlaki's influence, protested with some warmth that

there must be some mistake. But Karvay raised his powerful voice in

honour of the young couple, whose St. Vilmosh friends had by this time

arrived at the threshold of Etelka's room.

Kalman was more dead than alive. He was about to appear before the lady

of his love with his coat torn and his hair out of curl, and borne on

the arms of three hundred Cortes! Entreaties, tears, imprecations--all

were in vain; and they certainly would have introduced him to Miss Rety

in the most disgraceful plight that ever lover faced his mistress in, if

that lady had been in the room. But, when the door opened, they

discovered in her stead Rosi, Miss Rety's maid, and at her side no less

a personage than the hopeful notary of St. Vilmosh. This event brought

matters to a favourable crisis. Akosh interfered, and pointing out to

the assembly that a justice must needs have a juror, and that nobody was

better qualified to fill that office than his friend, the notary of St.

Vilmosh, he caused that gifted individual to be raised on the arms of

the Cortes, who carried him after the justice that was to be, and at

length presented both justice and juror to the sheriff.

It need scarcely be said that Rosi was greatly shocked, but she became

comforted on beholding her beloved notary on the shoulders of the

Cortes, and when she understood that the public voice designated her

chosen husband to fill the office of juror. She busied herself with

arranging the things in the room, which had been put in disorder by the

tumultuous entry of the Cortes. While she was thus occupied she heard

Mr. Catspaw's voice in the next room (which was his own). He was, it

appears, in the act of dismissing some individual, for he said:--

"Well, then, at seven o'clock precisely, near the notary's garden."

"Yes, your lordship! I mean to be punctual, your lordship," said another

voice, which, though Oriental, did not seem to belong to a Hungarian.

"You know your reward," rejoined Mr. Catspaw, as his interlocutor left

the room.

"Confusion!" exclaimed the frightened maid. "Mr. Catspaw was in his

room! He knows all now, for he is wondrous sharp of hearing. What if he

were to peach to my lady?" And uttering maledictions on the head of the

attorney and his Jew, Rosi locked the door of her mistress's room and

made the best of her way to the kitchen.

The sheriff had meanwhile informed the most influential of his guests

that he wished them to meet him for the purpose of a consultation. The

Dons of the county assembled in the dining-room, which had been arranged

for the sittings of a committee. In a corner of this room, which was

ornamented with Rety's family portraits, and which still retained a

faint smell of the dinner, there were three men of note standing

together. They were Mr. Slatzanek, the agent and plenipotentiary of the

Count Kovary; Baron Shoskuty; and Mr. Kriver, the recorder. Their

conversation ran in the most natural course, that is to say, it turned

on the chances of the election.

"Are you sure," said Mr. Slatzanek, addressing the recorder, "of that

wretched Vetshösy having joined Bantornyi's party?"

"I grieve to say that there can be no doubt about it."

"Did I not always tell you," cried the Baron--"did I not tell you a

thousand times that I suspected Vetshösy? Three years ago, just a

fortnight before the election, on a Friday afternoon, unless I am

mistaken, I met you, Mr. Kriver, at the coffee-house. There were some of

us, and some officers likewise, and I lighted my pipe and sat by you,

and I said: 'That fellow Vetshösy----'"

"You were quite right, sir; but----"

"That fellow Vetshösy, said I, is a liberal, and, what is worse, he

talks of his principles; he has some property, and----"

"Just so!" interposed Slatzanek. "Vetshösy is an influential man; the

more fools we for making him justice of a district in which there are so

many votes; but----"

"I know what you are about to say!" cried the Baron. "He might be gained

over. Now, I'll tell you, I live in his district. Very well then, what

do you say to a hunt--a legal hunt--a wolf hunt? We will have the

peasants to drive the game. You will all come, and he, as justice of the

district, must be one of us. Of course our wolf hunt is but a legal

fiction, but he, as district judge, must be one of us, and we'll snare

him, that we will."

"Alas!" sighed the recorder, "this is well and good; but the great

obstacle is your son, the young Baron. He has more influence in the

county than you have, and he is against us."

"Devil of a boy! devil of a boy!" cried the Baron, "and yet how often

did I not say: My son Valentine----"

"Suppose you were to exert your paternal authority?"

"Just so! You are right. My paternal authority authorises me to force my

boy to any thing I like. And we are always of the same opinion, that boy

and I; and he obeys me in all things, that boy does; and I think he had

better, so he had! but on that one subject he is most unreasonable, I

tell you."

"But it is on that very subject that he ought to yield to your superior

wisdom."

"You are right! indeed you are. I'll disinherit that boy, confound me if

I do not!"

Slatzanek, who was aware that the old Baron had very little to leave,

and whose sagacity taught him to expect little or no effect from so

vague a threat of a remote contingency, inquired whether there was no

other means of compelling the young man; to which the Baron replied that

there was no lack of means, especially if the lad could but be induced

to marry.

"You have no idea, sir, how strongly marriage tells upon a man," said

he, "especially in our family. When I was a bachelor, I was the most

liberal man you could meet with in three counties any summer's day; and

at present----. But the boy won't marry!"

"How do we stand in this district?" said Slatzanek, addressing Mr.

Kriver.

"As bad as can be. Tengelyi is against us."

"Tengelyi!" cried the Baron. "Tengelyi indeed! A mere village notary!

Bless my soul! Tengelyi! How many Tengelyis does it take, do you think,

to face _me_ at the election?"

"Alas!" said Slatzanek, "votes are counted in this country, and not

weighed; I know few men that are more powerful than this notary."

"And Akosh Rety," suggested Mr. Kriver, "does not indeed oppose us, but

that is all."

"Ah!" cried the Baron; "just like my own son! I said just now----"

"However, if the Kishlakis stand but by us, we are pretty certain of

this district."

"But we cannot rely on the Kishlakis," said Kriver. "Kalman is out of

temper; he is jealous of the Count Harashy."

"You don't say so! Miss Rety was proclaimed as his future wife."

"Ay, but the Cortes did it," whispered the recorder, "and it struck me

that Lady Rety was not at all pleased."

"You are right," said the Baron. "It struck me too. I sat by Lady Rety,

talking of the weather, when the Cortes bore Kalman about, and when I

heard them shouting,--'Dear lady,' said I----"

"We must be careful," said Slatzanek; "I fear ours is a bad position."

"As for me," said Mr. Kriver, "you are aware of my zeal; and I assure

you that I will keep our party _au courant_ of all the enemy's

manoeuvres."

"And to know your adversary's plans is half the battle!" cried the

Baron, clapping his hands.

"Oh! if the noblemen in the county were all like my own tenants!" cried

Slatzanek. "They vote with me; if they do not, they lose their farms.

They are the men for an election!"

Here the conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the sheriff, and

the labours of the committee commenced in due form with a provisional

election of functionaries: Rety came in for the shrievalty; Mr. Kriver,

the recorder, was appointed his Vice; and almost every one of the

persons present obtained the promise of a place, either for himself or

a friend. This done, the committee directed their attention to the means

of fighting the battle of the real election; and, after a lengthened

conversation on the usual electioneering tactics,--the favouring of a

class, the kidnapping of electors, and the devising of plans for the

especial annoyance of the hostile party, it was finally resolved to

arrange the reception of the Lord-Lieutenant, who was to conduct the

election, in such a manner as to impress that great functionary with a

favourable opinion of the Rety party. But the most arduous duty of the

committee was the "finding the ways and means" for the confirmation of

their political friends, and the conciliation of such among the enemy's

troops as had some scruples about the justice of the cause which they

had espoused. But Slatzanek's talents of persuasion, and the Lady Rety's

sarcastic remarks, prevailed against the prudential considerations of

certain timid assessors and justices; and the subscription having

terminated to the general satisfaction of Rety and his friends, the

meeting dispersed.

CHAP. VI.

While the committee were carrying on their deliberations in the castle

of Tissaret, the house of the notary stood in peaceful tranquillity, and

only the lights, which shone through the windows, gave evidence of the

presence of its inhabitants. The house had two rooms fronting the

street; one of these apartments, which had a back door communicating

with the court-yard, was devoted to the use of Tengelyi, who kept his

papers in it. The other room, which opened into the former apartment and

the kitchen, was occupied by Mrs. Ershebet and her daughter. The kitchen

had two doors, one leading to the garden, and the other to the yard.

Next the kitchen was the store-room in which Viola had been hidden. At

the further end of the house was the servants' room, and a small chamber

in which lay Viola's wife. Tengelyi had spent the day at Tsherepesh, at

Mr. Bantornyi's house; for the Bantornyi party, too, had their meetings

and committees. Mrs. Ershebet, and Vandory who had dined at the

notary's, were in the sick chamber, and Etelka and Vilma sat chatting in

the second front room.

"Then you did not see him after all!" said Etelka. "'Tis a pity. I would

give any thing to meet Viola, for I take a great interest in him."

"How _can_ you talk in that way! God knows I pity the poor man; but I

certainly do not wish to make his acquaintance. You are bold and

courageous! but as for me, I am sure it would kill me to see him. They

say he is a murderer."

"Nonsense! a man who is so fond of his wife as Viola cannot be so wicked

as they say he is. I do not know of any man--except your father--who

would brave so great a danger to see his wife under such circumstances:

I can admire that love, even in a robber; and thus I too wish to be

beloved, no matter by whom!"

"If that can satisfy you," said Vilma, "I am sure there is nothing but

what Kalman will do for you."

"Always excepting the being sober, and eschewing swearing, and all the

clumsy affectation of a cavalier. Kalman would do any thing for me, but

the one thing I ask him to do."

"Now you are unjust. I am sure he would leap into the fire for your

sake."

"Of course he would, especially if some of his friends were present to

extol his bravery. Kalman is very brave; it is his nature to be so; he

cannot help it. He has many good qualities, I grant, but pray do not

tell me that he loves me."

"I see you are again at odds with him. What is his crime?"

"He--but never mind! I will not talk about it. I cannot respect him, nor

can I believe that he loves me."

"Akosh has a far different opinion of him."

"So he has!" rejoined Etelka; "but may I not question the justness of

his views? Men are wont to prize their friends for those qualities which

are of the greatest use to them. A good sportsman, a man that sticks to

his word, and who will fight a duel for his friend at a moment's

warning--such a man is their idol; they are half astonished, and more

than half disgusted that we should ask for more. But I do!"

Vilma was silent. She saw that Etelka was hurt, and Etelka too wished to

change the topic of their conversation. Addressing Vilma again, she

said:--

"I can fancy your father's disgust last night, when he came home and

learned what had happened."

"I never saw him in such a state. But Vandory came with him; he

succeeded in quieting my father. I tremble when I think of it. He says

he will have his right in this business."

"Never fear," said Etelka.

"But do you know whom he suspects of being the cause? He lays it all at

the door of your father and mother?"

"Of my _step_mother; and I am afraid he is right in his suspicions."

"Yes; but my father is again angry with all your family, except

yourself. He is most violent against Akosh, who saved us from ruin. Only

think if they had searched the house and found Viola! My father----"

"He will never know it."

"But if my father were to bring an action against Mr. Skinner? He

protests he will do it."

"He will never do it. He was angry at the time, and I am sure he will

reconsider the subject. But do not speak to him about it. If he knew it,

he would not keep quiet, and there are many people who would be glad of

any opportunity of showing their enmity against him."

"That's what old Mother Liptaka said. But you cannot think how

distressing my situation is. I, who never kept any thing secret from my

father, must now face him with an untruth. Every noise alarms me; for

with my secret I lose my father's love. Oh! I cannot bear it!"

"And yet you must bear it," replied Etelka, embracing the weeping girl.

"The peace of mind and the welfare of your father demand this

sacrifice."

"I think so too," said Vilma; "but then you have no idea how kind my

father is, and how I long to kneel down and confess my fault to him!"

"My poor Vilma," sighed Miss Rety, "I am at a loss whether I am to pity

you, or to envy you. I am not in a position to confide in my parent. But

be comforted: trust me, things will be altered. I understand my father

is to resign after the election, and Mr. Tengelyi's anger will subside.

Vandory will perhaps provide for Viola's wife. In a few weeks you will

be able to tell your father all your sorrows."

"But what am I to do in the meantime? Viola came, though he knew that

the whole village was in arms against him. The Liptaka tells me that he

loves his wife more than I can think or understand. May he not come

to-morrow, or to-night, or any time?--Jesus Maria!" shrieked Vilma,

turning her pale face to the garden--"there he is!"

"Who?" asked Etelka, looking in the same direction.

"He! he is gone now,--but trust me, there he stood! I saw his face quite

plainly!"

"Do you speak of Viola? Believe me you will not see him here, so long as

Mr. Skinner, with half the county at his back, keeps infesting the

place. How foolish and how pale you are! Come. I will fetch you a glass

of water; it will do you good."

Just as Etelka got up to leave the room, some one outside knocked softly

at the door.

"Oh, pray do not go!" cried Vilma. "Who can it be that knocks. It is so

late! I fear----"

"Some one for your father; but we'll see. Come in!" said Etelka.

The door opened, and a Jew entered with many low bows and entreaties to

excuse the liberty he was taking in saying good evening to the high and

gracious ladies.

Vilma's fear, and the Jew's humility, formed so strange a contrast, that

Etelka could not repress a smile, especially when she saw that Vilma

remained still in bodily fear of the stranger, who stood quietly by the

door, turning his brimless hat in his hands. His appearance was not

that of a robber; on the contrary, he was a sickly and unarmed man;

still his aspect was of a kind to make even a bold man feel

uncomfortable in his presence. Jantshi, or John, the glazier (such at

least was his name in _this_ county) was the ugliest man in the whole

kingdom of Hungary. His diminutive body seemed as if bowed down by the

weight of his gigantic head; his face was marked with the small-pox, and

more than one-half of it was covered with a forest of red hair, and a

wiry, dirty beard of the same colour. He had lost one of his eyes--its

place was covered with a black patch; the searching and roving look of

his other eye, his shuffling gait, and his cringing politeness, made him

an object of suspicion and dislike to every one that chanced to meet

him. Even Etelka felt disagreeably touched by the man's looks, and she

became positively alarmed when Vilma whispered to her, that that was the

face which she had seen at the window.

"Mr. Tengelyi is out, I tell you," said Etelka. "You may come to-morrow

morning."

"Most gracious lady," said the Jew, still turning his hat and looking

round, "this is indeed a misfortune! I have some pressing business with

the high-born Mr. Tengelyi."

"Well then, come back in half-an-hour; perhaps he'll be home to supper."

"If so, may I wait outside?" asked the Jew, without, however, moving

from the place where he stood. "Has his worship any dogs?"

"Dogs?" said Vilma.

"Yes, if there are no dogs in the yard I can wait; but if there are any

I cannot wait. I am afraid of them."

"You may wait!" said Etelka, angrily; "there are no dogs in the house."

"Yes: but there may be some in the next house. I am a stranger, and it

was but last year, in the third village from here, that the dogs nearly

tore me to pieces. Since that time I fear them." And the stranger told

them a long story, how he was walking through the village, how the dogs

attacked him, and how he was saved by a shepherd who happened to hear

his cries. "Bless me!" added the Jew, "if that man had not come they

would have torn my cloak, and it was a very good cloak; it was not new,

but it was a good cloak, for I bought it at Pesth for five florins and

thirty kreutzers."

The Jew was so cunning, and withal so awkward, that Etelka could not

help laughing at him; but Vilma felt uncomfortable, and asked him to go

and come back in half an hour. Whereupon the Jew said that he would

wait in the servants' room.

"No!" said Vilma; "there is a sick woman lying close by the servants'

room; besides, we have told you over and over again that you must come

back in half an hour, and that you shall not stay."

The Jew bowed very humbly, and walking to the door which led into the

kitchen, he opened it.

"Stop!" said Vilma; "where are you going to?"

"I throw myself at your feet! I ask a thousand pardons! I am so

confused. May I go through that door into the yard?"

"That door is locked. Get out by the door through which you came in."

The Jew made another low bow, and walked across Tengelyi's room to the

door by which he had entered; not, however, without looking to the

adjoining room, dropping his hat on the floor, and turning the handle of

the door in every direction but the right one, while his eye seemed to

peer into and examine every corner of the apartment.

"What do you say to that?" asked Vilma, when he was gone; "I will bet

you any thing that fellow is a spy."

"Nothing is more likely; for he seems to be capable of any thing, and in

war he would certainly act as a spy. But why should he exercise that

noble trade in your house?"

"He was looking after Viola and his wife. You know how eager Mr. Skinner

is to arrest the robber."

"I know that yesterday he was in pursuit of the poor man; but to-day he

has other matters to think of. No, I am sure the Jew has some request or

some complaint to make to your father."

"But he asked so many questions; he looked into every corner of the

room."

"He was afraid of the dogs, and perhaps he hoped to discover a broken

pane of glass. It would have been a job for him, you know."

But Vilma was by no means easy in her mind. She was about to give vent

to a great many more fears, when Tengelyi's arrival put a stop to the

conversation.

While his daughter took charge of his hat and cane, the notary turned to

Etelka.

"I was hardly prepared to find Miss Rety here," said he, "there are so

many guests at the Castle."

"Are you not aware that their presence at the Castle adds to my reasons

for coming here?"

"Indeed! I fancied that these gentlemen could not be sufficiently

honoured just before the election."

Etelka's feelings were hurt, and she was at a loss what to say; but

Vilma, who wished to turn the conversation into another channel, asked

her father whether he had not met a Jew, who had just left the house.

"I did meet him," said the notary. "I found him near my door, talking to

Mr. Catspaw. By the by, now I think of it, Mr. Catspaw asked me to give

his compliments to Miss Rety, and to inform her that he is going to send

a servant with a lanthorn. They are going to supper; the sheriff has

several times asked for Miss Rety."

"But what did the Jew want with you? He was very pressing; he wanted to

see you on business of great importance."

"Business? ay, yes, it's a sorry business to him, though good sport to

others. The poor fellow did a job at the Castle, and the very

praiseworthy Cortes of the county took his glass chest and broke it for

him; and because he was not at all amused, or because he is a Jew, or

one-eyed, or Heaven knows why they thrashed him. It's a trifling matter,

you see," said the notary, addressing Miss Rety, "for some people must

be beaten at an election, especially Jews, merely to give the new

officers something to do, and to convince the sufferers that, as far as

they are concerned, things have remained much the same as they were

before."

"But, father dear, this is indeed horrible," said Vilma.

"Nothing more simple, dearest child. What were an Hungarian's liberties

worth, if he were not allowed to thrash a Jew? But the affair has been

settled. Mr. Catspaw has promised to pay for the glass, and I am very

much mistaken if the Jew does not make the attorney pay for the beating

too."

Mrs. Ershebet and the clergyman entered the room. Etelka kissed her

friend and returned to the Castle.

CHAP. VII.

It was but natural that while the Conservative party at Tissaret made so

many preparations for the election, Mr. Bantornyi's cooks and butlers

should be equally busy. Tserepesh was the seat of Bantornyi's party,

whose numbers surpassed those of Rety's adherents. Almost all the great

landowners of the county, with the exception of Kishlaki, Shoskuty, and

Slatzanek, resorted to Tserepesh. Their enthusiasm (to judge from the

noise they made) was unbounded, and their chief strength consisted in

the support of the younger and consequently more liberal members of the

community. But Mr. Kriver, who sided with either party, had his reasons

for doubting the ultimate success of the Bantornyis. He was aware that

excepting himself, the prothonotary, and a few vice-justices, all the

placemen of the county belonged to the Conservative party, which did the

more credit to their disinterestedness and foresight, as it was well

known that Bantornyi was leagued with men, who, like himself, aspired

for the first time to the honours and cares of office, a policy whose

edge will sometimes turn against him who uses it. Besides, (and this is

indeed Mr. Kriver's chief ground of doubt,) Bantornyi's party had

resolved to act upon the mind of the Cortes by persuasion, and to eschew

bribery. This sublime, but rather impractical idea emanated from

Tengelyi, whose motion to that effect was so zealously supported by

Bantornyi's friends (excepting always the candidates for office), that

the recorder's eloquence and Bantornyi's entreaties were of no avail

against this virtuous resolution of theirs. In justice to Bantornyi we

ought to say, that he and his family strove to make up for this fault,

and his noble friends were never in want of either wine or brandy; but

this rash resolution which the Retys published with their own

commentaries was nevertheless a serious drawback to the success of the

party. Well might the Bantornyis agitate for the emancipation of the

Jews (so the Rety party said) since they were stingier than a thousand

Jews; they despised the nobility because they refused to treat its

members. Bantornyi's secret donations were fairly smothered by these

public calumnies. Kriver was perfectly justified in protesting that what

the party wanted was the _power of publicity_. Rety's men, on the other

hand, perambulated the villages; they bore gaudy flags; they had their

houses of resort; they distributed feathers among the men and ribbons

among the women; the very children in the streets were gained over to

them. Every noble fellow knew that it would be three zwanzigers in his

pocket if Rety was returned. And the Bantornyis walked about

empty-handed, appealing to moral force! They had not even the ghost of a

chance; the candidates for office became dissatisfied and talked of

effecting a compromise with the enemy, and there is no saying what they

might have done but for a most unexpected event, which caused them to

rally round their leader.

The lord-lieutenant wrote to inform Mr. Bantornyi of his intention to

visit the county, and of staying a night at Tserepesh. The letter which

contained this welcome intelligence was in his Excellency's own

handwriting, and the sensation produced in the county was of course

immense. The lord-lieutenant had always taken up his quarters in Rety's

house. Now Rety was a renegade. An old liberal, he had joined the

Conservative party. And the lord-lieutenant, scorning Rety's proffered

hospitality, turns to the house of his antagonist. His Excellency was a

liberal at heart, and that was the secret--at least in the opinion of

the Tserepesh people. The Rety party were a little shocked. They said,

of course, that his Excellency consulted but his own convenience; that

Bantornyi's house was the most convenient place on _that_ road, and that

the inns in that part of the county were villanous; but in their inmost

souls they denounced this step as the greatest political fault which his

Excellency could have committed, and which, they were sure, _must_ lead

to his downfall. The anti-bribery party were positive that the high

functionary was aware of the despicable means which the Retys employed

to get their chief returned, and that he claimed Bantornyi's hospitality

only to express his disgust at the unlawful practices of bribery and

corruption. It need scarcely be said that Tengelyi was a zealous

supporter of the latter opinion. But whatever reasons the Count

Maroshvölgyi had for going to Tserepesh, certain it is that the news of

his coming gave the Bantornyis hopes, and more than hopes of success. It

steadied the wavering ranks of their partizans and recruited their

number by a crowd of would-be candidates. The day appointed for the

Count's arrival saw the house of the Bantornyis thronged with

anti-bribery men; and though his Excellency was not expected before

nightfall, it was all but impossible to cross the hall at nine o'clock

in the morning.

Bantornyi's house was one of those buildings with which every traveller

in Hungary must be acquainted. It was a castellated mansion with nine

windows; a large gate in the middle, and a tower at each of its four

corners. The interior of these buildings is always the same. An ascent

of three stone steps leads you to the gate, and walking through a large

stone-paved hall you enter the dining-room, to the right of which are

the apartments of the lady of the house, and to the left the rooms

destined for the use of the landlord and his guests. Bantornyi's castle

was built on this plan; but, ever since the return from England of Mr.

Jacob--or _James_ Bantornyi--(for he delighted most in the English

reading of his name) Mr. Lajosh Bantornyi had come to be a stranger in

his own house.

There is in England a very peculiar thing which is commonly known by the

name of _comfort_. Mr. James had made deep investigations into the

nature and qualities of this peculiar British "thing" (as he called it).

Indeed he had come to understand and master it. The "thing," viz.

comfort, is chiefly composed of three things: first, that a man's home

be built as irregularly as possible; secondly, that there be an

abundance of small galleries and narrow passages, and no lack of steps

near the doors of the rooms; and, thirdly, that the street-door be

fastened with a Bramah lock and key. Curtains and low arm-chairs are

capital things in their way; but most indispensable are some truly

English fire-places fit for burning coal, for it is the smoke of coal

which gives a zest to English comfort. When Mr. James Bantornyi returned

from England, he rebuilt the family mansion on a plan which was

suggested by "Loudon's Encyclopedia of Cottage Architecture." The new

building which did so much honour to his taste, was not above one story

high; but one of the old towers, which communicated with the new house,

was built higher, and (in spite of Mr. Lajosh's protests) provided with

a wooden staircase. A verandah was constructed on that side of the house

which fronted the garden, and an antechamber and a billiard-room were

built in the yard. The giant oaks of an English park were indeed but

indifferently imitated by a few Mashanza apple trees; but the garden

walls, which Mr. James caused to be painted red and yellow, gave a

tolerable idea of the unpainted walls of an English landscape. The

stables were, of course, condemned to similar improvements; and the

grooms were threatened with instant dismissal if they presumed to do

their work without that peculiar hissing noise which English grooms are

wont to make in the exercise of their professional avocations. Stairs,

steps, passages, verandahs, curtains, fireplaces, and arm-chairs--in

short, every thing was there; and the Bramah lock was famous throughout

the county; for once upon a time, when Mr. James had gone to Pesth, the

street-door was found to be locked, and the key (by some inexplicable

mischance) lost; nor could the family enter the house or leave it in any

other way than by climbing through the windows of the verandah, until

Mr. James, who had the other key fastened to his watch chain, returned

from his journey and opened the door. The old castle, which was

inhabited by Mr. Lajosh, had escaped most of these improvements; but Mr.

James caused his elder brother to consent to some alterations being made

in the dining-room. It was moreover pronounced to be a high crime and

misdemeanour to smoke in any part of the house.

While Mr. Lajosh Bantornyi was busy in receiving and complimenting his

guests, his brother James and Mr. Kriver were walking in the garden.

James was evidently out of spirits. He shook his head, stood still,

walked and shook his head again, beat his boots with a hunting-whip, and

replied to the recorder's remarks with "_most true_," "_yes_,"

"_indeed_," and other expressions of English parliamentary language.

"I am sure," said Mr. Kriver, in a whisper, "I am sure we are losing our

labour, unless we have a committee-room and some flags. Your spending

money is of no use. Your brother's popularity will not do him any good.

They take your money, but they don't come to the election, and _if_ they

come, they are kidnapped by Rety's party."

"_You are right, my friend_, which means, I agree with you; but what the

devil shall we do?"

"Induce your brother to get up some English affair, some _moting_, or

_meeting_, or some such thing."

"_Meeting_, from _to meet_, which means that people meet. I hope you

understand the derivation of the word!"

"That's it! We ought to get up something like a meeting where people

meet and drink."

"You are mistaken. That drinking business is altogether a different

affair: they call it a '_political dinner_.' But you _meet_ to discuss a

question; and people sign their names to petitions by hundreds of

thousands and more, and such a petition tells upon the government. I

attended such a meeting at Glasgow, but----"

Nothing can equal the horror which Mr. Kriver felt when he saw Mr.

James prepared to favour him with a sketch of his travels. "Ah! I know,"

said the recorder quickly, "you, too, signed the petition; it was when

you made that agitation about the Poor Law. But to return to what I was

saying, we ought to give a political dinner, and you ought to make a

speech, and state the principles of the party."

"No; they drink the king's health first, and the health of the members

of the royal family, for the dynasty ought to be honoured. A man is at

liberty to say of the government whatever he pleases; but the king, you

know, the king must be honoured. That's the liberty of an Englishman.

Next----"

"The lord-lieutenant."

"Shocking! You are quite in the dark about it. After the royal family we

must have some class toasts; for example, the Church, army, and navy."

"I'm afraid those toasts would do little good. There is a strong feeling

against the Papists; that toast of the Church is enough to send all our

Protestants to--Rety."

"You are quite right. Our Dissenters hate our High Church as much as the

English Dissenters hate theirs. But I don't see why we should not toast

'the Church.' Every man drinks to his own Church; but if they were to

accuse us of sympathy for the Roman Catholics, where's the harm? Only

think how closely the Whigs were leagued with O'Connell!"

"My friend," said Mr. Kriver, "you know England; but I know this county.

Our countrymen cannot understand and appreciate your ideas."

"Yes!" said Mr. James, highly flattered, "I am sure they cannot. But the

army we must have."

"Of course, if you wish it. But the great thing is to make it a regular,

downright, out-and-out, drinking bout."

"But what in the world are we to do? My brother and I have gone all

lengths. We have spent a year's income on this confounded election."

"Nor is money the thing we want, if we can but make some grand

demonstration. But unless our people get their feathers and colours, we

are winged. Do but induce your brother to act like a man; we are sure to

gain the day."

"We have promised to employ none but honourable means----"

"To get the majority. But the means which I propose are, in _my_

opinion, most honourable. Is there any thing dishonourable in

hospitality?"

"Certainly not; and I grant you the resolution admits of various

interpretations. But some people there are who do not think so."

"Nonsense! When we passed that silly resolution, there were indeed lots

of fools that voted with Tengelyi; but why did they do it? Because they

were not booked for a place, and because they were afraid for their

money. But with your own money you are quite at liberty to buy as many

Cortes as you please."

"But Tengelyi!"

"Tengelyi! What of him? And suppose he were to leave us, what then? He

is an honest man, I grant you; but after all, he is only a village

notary."

"His influence is great, especially with the clergy; and if _he_ were to

oppose us----"

"Oppose us? Impossible! Tengelyi is more impracticable than any man ever

was. No matter whether you insult him or flatter him, you lose your

pains. The good man fancies that a village notary's conviction goes

beyond every thing. Besides, he will never vote for Rety's party; and if

he votes for them, I know of something that will play the devil with his

influence."

"Well?"

"Tengelyi," whispered Kriver, "is not a nobleman."

"Not a----! can it be possible?"

"I am sure of it. You know that fellow Catspaw is a crony of mine. Old

Rety was Tengelyi's friend, though they hate one another now; and old

Rety knows all Tengelyi's secrets. Catspaw told me that the notary has

not a rag of paper to prove his noble descent by. The prothonotary, too,

is aware of it, though he keeps his counsel; and so do we, if he votes

for us. But if he turns against us, we have him close enough in a

corner."

The prothonotary, who at this moment came up, confirmed Mr. Kriver's

statement; and Mr. James pledged his word as a gentleman to hoist the

colours of the party, and to invite the whole county to a political

dinner.

The day passed amidst Mr. James's varied, and indeed interesting,

accounts of the Doncaster races, and the debates of the English

parliament--accounts which were given seriatim to small knots of guests

in every corner of every room in the house; while Mrs. James Bantornyi

was busy superintending the arrangement of the apartments destined for

the lord-lieutenant's use. In the evening Mr. Lajosh Bantornyi was in a

state of great excitement. He walked restlessly to and fro, pulled out

his watch, and looked at it. He walked out into the park and came back

again, addressing every one he met with: "Really his Excellency ought

to be here by this time!" Whereupon some of the guests said: "Yes, so he

ought!" and others protested that his Excellency must have been detained

on the road. The words of "_contra_" and "_pagat ultimo_" rung from the

card table; and the noise of a political discussion, in which no less

than thirty persons joined, intent on reconciling twelve opinions on

four different subjects, drowned the complaints of Mr. Lajosh Bantornyi.

But Mr. James, who saw and pitied his brother's distress, mounted his

horse, and, accompanied by two torch-bearers, set out to meet the

lord-lieutenant on the road. He was scarcely gone when the din of an

angry discussion broke through the dense cloud of smoke which enveloped

the card-tables.

"Mr. Sheriff, this is unsupportable; this is!" cried a man with a sallow

and somewhat dirty face. It was Mr. Janoshy, an assessor, and a man of

influence. "Mr. Sheriff, I won't stand it. Penzeshy has saved his

pagat!"

"Has he indeed? Well then, there is no help for it, if he has saved it."

"But I covered it."

"But why did you cover it?"

"Because I have eight taroks."

"Eight taroks! Why then, in the name of h--ll, did you not take it?"

"Why, what did _you_ lead spades for?"

"What the deuce do you mean, sir?"

"Clubs, sir! It was your bounden duty, sir, to lead clubs, sir," said

Janoshy, very fiercely.

"Clubs be ----! Do you mean to tell me, sir, that I ought to have played

my king? I'd see you----"

"I appeal to you!" cried Janoshy, addressing Penzeshy, who was shuffling

the cards, while the company thronged round the table.

"Go on!" said Mr. Kriver.

"This is not fair play!" cried Janoshy.

"I play to please myself and not you," retorted the sheriff.

"Then you ought to play by yourself, but not for _my_ money!"

"Here's your stake! take it and welcome!"

"I won't stand it. By G--d I won't!" cried Mr. Janoshy, jumping up.

"You, sir! you take the money back, or give it to your servant, (poor

fellow! it's little enough he gets); but don't talk to me in that way,

sir! I won't stand it, sir!"

Here the altercation was interrupted by the general interference of

every man in the room, and in the confusion of tongues which ensued,

nothing was heard but the words, "pagat,--sheriff--good manners--_tous

les trois_"--until Shoskuty, in a blue dress embroidered with gold (for

every body was in full dress), entered the room. He silenced the most

noisy by being noisier still. "_Domini spectabiles!_" cried Shoskuty,

"for God's sake be quiet, Mr. Janoshy is quite hoarse, and I am sure his

Excellency is coming. That confounded pagat!--only think of his

Excellency!--though it was saved--for after all we are but mortal

men!--I am sure he is hoarse;" and thus he went on, when of a sudden the

doors of the apartment were flung open and a servant rushed in shouting,

"His Excellency is at the door!"

"Is he? Goodness be--where's my sabre?" cried Shoskuty, running to the

antechamber which served as a temporary arsenal, while the rest of the

company ran into the next room, where they fought for their pelisses.

"I do pray, _domine spectabilis_! but this is mine. It's green with

ermine!" cried the recorder, stopping one of the assessors who had just

donned his pelisse, and who turned to look for his sword. The assessor

protested with great indignation, and the recorder was at length

compelled to admit his mistake. Disgusted as he was, he dropped his

kalpac, which was immediately trodden down by the crowd.

"'Sblood! where is my sword? Terrem tette!" shouted Janoshy, making vain

endeavours to push forward into the sword room, while Shoskuty, who had

secured his weapon, was equally unsuccessful in his struggles to obtain

his pelisse.

"But I pray! I _do_ pray! I am the speaker of the deputation--blue and

gold--I must have it--do but consider!" groaned the worthy baron. His

endeavours were at length crowned with success, and he possessed himself

of a pelisse which certainly bore some similarity to his own. Throwing

it over his shoulders Baron Shoskuty did his best to add to the general

confusion by entreating the gentlemen to be quick, "for," added he, "his

Excellency has just arrived!"

The lord-lieutenant's carriage had by this time advanced to the park

palings, where the schoolboys and the peasantry greeted its arrival with

maddening "Eljens!" The coachman was in the act of turning the corner of

the gate, when the quick flash and the awful roar of artillery burst

forth from the ditch at the road-side. His Excellency was surprised; so

were the horses. They shied and overturned the carriage. The

torch-bearing horsemen galloped about, frightening the village out of

its propriety, as the foxes did, when Samson made them torch-bearers to

the Philistines. Mr. James, following the impulse of the moment, came

down over his horse's head; the deputation, who were waiting in

Bantornyi's hall, wrung their hands with horror. At length the horses

ceased rearing and plunging; and as the danger of being kicked by them

was now fairly over, the company to a man rushed to welcome their

beloved lord-lieutenant.

The deputation was splendid, at least in the Hungarian acceptation of

the word, for all the dresses of all its members were richly

embroidered. Shoskuty in a short blue jacket frogged and corded and

fringed with gold, and with his red face glowing under the weight of a

white and metal-covered kalpac, felt that the dignity of a whole county

was represented by his resplendent person. Thrice did he bow to his

Excellency, and thrice did the deputation rattle their spurs and imitate

the movement of their leader, who, taking his speech from the pocket of

his cloak, addressed the high functionary with a voice tremulous with

emotion.

"At length, glorious man, hast thou entered the circle of thy admirers,

and the hearts which hitherto sighed for thee, beat joyfully in thy

presence!"

His Excellency unfolded a handkerchief ready for use; the members of the

deputation cried "Helyesh!" and the curate of a neighbouring village,

who had joined the deputation, became excited and nervous. The speaker

went on.

"Respect and gratitude follow thy shadow; and within the borders of thy

county there is no man but glories in the consciousness that _thou_ art

his superior."

"He talks in print! he does indeed," whispered an assessor.

"I beg your pardon," said the curate, very nervously, "it was _I_ who

made that speech."

"_Tantæne animis coelestibus iræ!_ These parsons are dreadfully jealous,"

said the assessor. Shoskuty, turning a leaf of his manuscript,

proceeded:

"The flock which now stands before thee"--(here the members of the

deputation looked surprised, and shook their heads)--"is but a small

part of that numerous herd which feeds on thy pastures; and he who

introduces them to thy notice"--(Shoskuty himself was vastly

astonished)--"is not better than the rest: though he wears thy coat, he

were lost but for thy guidance and correction."

The audience whispered among themselves, and the lord-lieutenant could

not help smiling.

"For God's sake, what _are_ you about?" whispered Mr. Kriver. "Turn a

leaf!" Baron Shoskuty, turning a leaf, and looking the picture of blank

despair, continued:

"Here thou seekest vainly for science--vainly for patriotic

merits--vainly dost thou seek for all that mankind have a right to be

proud of----"

The members of the deputation became unruly.

"They are peasants, thou beholdest,----"

Here a storm of indignation burst forth.

"In their Sunday dresses----"

"Are you mad, Baron Shoskuty?"

"But good Christians, all of them," sighed the wretched baron, with

angelic meekness: "there is not a single heretic among my flock."

"He is mad! let us cheer!--Eljen! Eljen!"

"Somebody has given me the wrong pelisse!" said Shoskuty, making his

retreat; while the lord-lieutenant replied to the address to the best of

his abilities, that is to say, very badly, for he was half choked with

suppressed laughter.

But the curate, who had displayed so unusual a degree of nervousness at

the commencement of the address, followed Shoskuty to the next room,

whither that worthy man fled to bemoan his defeat.

"Sir, how dare you steal my speech?" cried the curate.

"Leave me alone! I am a ruined man, and all through you!"

"Well, sir; this is well. You steal my speech, and read it. Now what am

I to do? I made that speech, and a deal of trouble it gave me. Now what

am I to tell the bishop at his visitation on Monday next?"

"But, in the name of Heaven, why did you take my cloak?"

"_Your_ cloak?"

"Yes; _my_ cloak. I am sure my speech is in your pocket."

The curate searched the pockets of the pelisse, and produced a

manuscript. "Dear me!" said he, wringing his hands; "it _is_ your

cloak." And the discomfited orators were very sad, and would not be

comforted.

CHAP. VIII.

Dustbury is the chief market town of the county of Takshony. While the

Greeks of old built their cities in the clefts and hollows of rocks, as

the learned tell us, we are informed that the vagrant nation from which

we are descended were wont to settle on fertile soil; wherever our

ancestors found luxurious crops of grass and a fountain of sweet water,

there did they stop and feed their flocks. In this spirit they made

their earliest camp at Dustbury. But when the tents gave way to houses,

the luxuriant green of the pasturage disappeared, and the fountains of

sweet waters, which invited our fathers to stay and rest on their banks,

stagnated, and became a vast substantial bog. Still, if you look at the

streets of Dustbury in autumn, and if you take notice (for who can help

it?) of the deep cart-ruts in the street, you must confess that Dustbury

does indeed lie in Canaan; and throughout many weeks in every year even

the least patriotic of the natives of Dustbury find it difficult, and

even impossible, to leave the city. The houses of Dustbury are

intersected and divided by a variety of narrow lanes and alleys, which,

by their intricacy, are apt to perplex the stranger within her gates.

They have a striking family likeness. Except only the council-house and

a few mansions, they are all, to a house, covered with wood or straw;

and so great is their uniformity, that the very natives of Dustbury have

been known to make awkward mistakes. A great deal might be said of the

modern improvements of the town,--such as the public promenade, the

expense of which was defrayed by a subscription; and the plantations,

containing trees (the only ones in the neighbourhood), which are

protected by the police, and which left off growing ever since they were

planted. There was a plantation of mulberry-trees, too; but it dated

from the days of the Emperor Joseph; and no more than three

mulberry-trees were left in it to tell the tale of departed glory. Next,

there is the pavement, which a French tourist most unwarrantably mistook

for a barricade; though, for the comfort of all timid minds, be it said,

that the pavement has since been covered with a thick layer of mud, so

as to be perceptible to those only who enter the town in a carriage. I

could adduce a variety of other matters to the praise and glory of

Dustbury, but I abstain; and, leaving them to the next compiler of one

of Mr. Murray's Handbooks, I introduce my readers into the council-house

of Dustbury, and the lord-lieutenant's apartments.

The great man's antechamber was thronged with men of all parties, who,

"armed as befits a man," waited for the moment--that bright spot in

their existence!--which allowed them to pay their humble respects to his

Excellency. Rety, Bantornyi, Baron Shoskuty, Slatzanek, and all the

county magistrates and assessors, were there, either to report

themselves for to-morrow's election, or to offer their humble advice to

the royal commissioner. And truly their advice was valuable. One man

said that X., the juror, was a man of subversive principles, and that

the crown was in danger unless X. was to lose his place and Z. to have

it. Another man protested that Mr. D. must be sworn as a notary: in

short, every one had the most cogent reasons for wishing a certain place

out of the hands of the very man who held it. The crowd dispersed at the

approach of the evening. Some went to their club-rooms to harangue the

Cortes, while others were busy preparing a serenade for the

lord-lieutenant. That great man, meanwhile, tired out with his own

kindness and condescension, promenaded the room, and talked to his

secretary.

"So you think," said his Excellency, "that things will go on smoothly

to-morrow?"

"Smoothly enough, except for those who may happen to get a drubbing.

Rety is sure to be returned. Bantornyi does not care. He put himself in

nomination merely to please his brother. His party will be satisfied

with a few of the smaller places. Rety, who is a good, honest man,

resigns the office, and Kriver, who is agreeable to either party, takes

his place."

"I trust there will be no outrages."

"Nothing of the kind. We have two companies of foot on the spot, and the

cuirassiers are coming to-morrow."

"But you know very well that I detest the interference of the military.

People _will_ misconstrue that kind of thing. They talk of the freedom

of election."

"No!" said the secretary, smiling; "your Excellency can have no idea how

fond the people here are of bayonets. Bantornyi and Rety asked me at

least ten times whether due preparation had been made for the

maintenance of order and tranquillity, and when I told them of the

horse, they were ready to hug me from sheer delight. Your Excellency's

predecessor was fond of soldiers, and there are people who cannot fancy

a free election without bayonets. If they were called upon to paint the

picture of Liberty, they'd put her between a grenadier and a

cuirassier."

"Pray be serious!"

"So I am. Still it makes me laugh to think that the very men who now

divide the county trace their origin as political parties to an idle

controversy on the uniforms of the county-hussars. Hence the yellows and

the blacks. I am sure your Excellency would laugh if you had seen their

committee-rooms. Rety's head-quarters ring with high praises of his

patriotism, for his having at the last election fixed the price of meat

at threepence a pound; while in the next house you find all the butchers

of the county for Bantornyi, the intrepid champion of protection and

threepence-halfpenny. Just now, at the café, I overheard an argument on

Vetshöshy's abilities, which were rated very low, because he is known to

be a bad hand at cards. In short, your Excellency can have no idea of

the farce which is acting around us. Slatzanek called half an hour ago,

lamenting the lose of two of his best Cortes. They were stolen."

"They were--what?"

"Stolen, your Excellency. One of the men is forest-keeper to the bishop.

He is a powerful fellow, with a stentorian voice, strongly attached to

his party, and very influential in his way. He is a black. The yellow

party surrounded him with false friends; they made him dead drunk, and

in that state, in which they keep him, they take him from village to

village, with the yellow flag waving over his head, thus showing him

off, and making believe that he had joined their party. The thing

happened a week ago, and the fellow, fancying that he is with the

blacks, shouts 'Eljen!' with all the fury of drunken enthusiasm. The

blacks have made several unsuccessful attempts to rescue their leader,

and three noble communities, who were wont to vote with the bishop's

keeper, have joined Bantornyi's party. The other man is a notary at

Palinkash. They have put him down to a card-table, and whenever the

wretched man thinks of the election, they cause him to win or to lose,

just an it serves their turn to keep him there."

The lord-lieutenant laughed.

"Have you spoken to Tengelyi, the notary of Tissaret?"

"He is coming. To see that poor man lose his time and labour is really

distressing. I never saw more sincerity of enthusiasm and more

manliness of feeling. The good man is almost sixty, and still he has not

learnt that a village notary cannot possibly be a reformer."

"I am afraid he's tedious," said his Excellency; "but we must bear with

him, since you tell me he is a man of influence."

"So he is, and more so than any notary in any county I know of. Vandory,

by whom the clergy of this district are wont to swear, votes with the

notary."

"He is a demagogue, I am told."

"No; I do not think that name applies to him. The principles, which

demagogues make tools of, are the grand aim and end of his life. In

short, he is half a century in advance of his age."

"The worse for him, he'll scarcely live to see the day of general

enlightenment. Men of his stamp are most dangerous."

"Hardly so. Men of strong convictions are for the most part isolated.

They want the power to do harm, for they have no party. Who will side

with them?"

"_Nous verrons!_" said the Count Maroshvölgyi. "The notary is a family

man; besides, he is poor. Kriver told me all about him, and I dare say

there are means of settling him."

"If your Excellency is right, I am mistaken."

"Nor will this mistake be the last of your life," said his Excellency,

rising. "The glaring red on a woman's cheek ought to tell you that that

woman is painted, and the _belle des belles_ of the ball is palest in

the morning. But I hear somebody in the next room. Pray see who it is;

and if it be Tengelyi, leave me alone to talk to him."

The secretary left the room, which Tengelyi entered soon afterwards. His

Excellency received him with great cordiality.

"Have I your pardon," said the great man, "for asking you to come to me?

I wanted to see you, and I was disappointed in my hopes of finding you

among my other visitors."

Tengelyi replied, that he was always ready to obey his Excellency's

orders, but that he knew his position too well to trouble the Count with

his presence on such a busy day as this.

"My dear sir, you are wrong to believe that I know not to distinguish

between a man and his position, and that I mistake you for one of the

common notaries."

"And your Excellency is wrong to believe that this would hurt my

feelings. The extent of our usefulness determines the value which we

have for others. People do not value our will, but our power; and though

a village notary such as I, may possibly in his own thoughts rate

himself higher than he does his colleagues, it would be wrong in him to

ask others to do the same. But may I inquire what are your Excellency's

commands?"

"Some years ago, when you were intimate with the Retys, I used to see

more of you."

Tengelyi looked displeased.

"Pardon me," added the count, "if I have pained you by reminding you of

that time."

"On the contrary, I feel truly honoured that your Excellency should have

remembered my humble self, painfully though I feel that my influence

does not stretch to the length of my gratitude."

There was a hidden sting of bitterness in Tengelyi's words, and

especially in the tone in which they were delivered. The count

continued:--