"What I ask--or rather what I crave of you--has nothing to do with

influence. It rests solely with you to grant my suit, and to oblige me

for all time to come."

Tengelyi cast a glance of suspicion at the great man. "Your

Excellency," said he, drily, "may rely on me, if your command can be

reconciled to my principles."

"I know you too well, and respect you too much to express any other

wish. What I ask of you will convince you how deeply sensible I am of

your merits."

Tengelyi bowed.

"I know," continued the count, "that you are _au fait_ of the condition

of the county. Your office brings you in contact with the lower classes.

You see and hear many things which a lord-lieutenant can never know.

Speak freely to me, I pray, and be assured that to advise me is an act

of charity."

The notary was silent.

"Do not impute my demand to an idle and vain curiosity. The election

comes off to-morrow. It decides the fate of the county for the next

three years. You _must_ be sensible of the importance of this moment,

and you know that my influence can be of use to the public, if I exert

it with my eyes open."

Tengelyi was in the act of opening his lips and heart to the

lord-lieutenant; but he remembered that a man may take any line that

suits his plans, and that his Excellency was known to be not over nice

in such matters. He replied, therefore, that he was not mixed up with

any party, and that he could not, to his great sorrow, enlighten his

Excellency on that head.

Maroshvölgyi, who was a master in the noble art of flattery, had never

yet encountered such an antagonist in the county of Takshony. He waived

the attack.

"You mistake me. Do you indeed fancy me to be ignorant of the position

of parties? I know more of them, I assure you, than is either good or

wholesome for me. But is there nothing in the county beyond these

wretched parties? Ought I not to know the condition of the people? Ought

I not to know how the functionaries behave in their offices, and what

the poorer classes have to expect from the candidates?"

"Is it then the condition of the people which your Excellency wishes to

know?" said Tengelyi, with a deep sigh. "But who _can_ give you an idea

of their condition? Did you not, when you rode through the county, look

out from your carriage at the villages on the roadside? And what was it

you saw? Roofless huts, the fields neglected, and their population

walking dejectedly, without industry, without prosperity, without that

joyful merry air so characteristic of the lower classes of other

countries. Believe me, sir, the people in this country are not happy!"

"But, my dear Tengelyi, I think there is some exaggeration in your

words. The Hungarian people do not stand so low as you would place them:

I know none more proud and manly. The Hungarian peasant is happier than

any I ever saw."

"Do not be imposed upon by appearances. The peasant of Hungary is a

stiff-necked fellow; and I must say, I take a pride in this race, when I

see that the oppression of so many years has not bent its neck. A nation

which after so much oppression can still hold up its head, seems to be

made for liberty,--but for all that, the people are not happy. We do not

see them in rags,--but why? because they never had any clothes, except

linen shirts and trowsers! but do they therefore feel the cold of winter

less? They do not complain. No; for they know, from the experience of

centuries, that their complaints are unheeded. But do they not feel the

oppression which weighs down upon them? Do they not feel the separation

from their sons, when the latter are enrolled in the regiments, while

the children of their noble neighbours show their courage in hunting at

the expense of the subject's crops?"

"You live among the people," said the lord-lieutenant, quietly; "but

believe me, in this respect, you are mistaken. I know Hungarian peasants

who in wealth can vie with the agriculturists of any country."

"Of course; but are they the only peasants in Hungary? Are not there

others in our counties,--men who are equally our brethren,--and who

equally claim our attention? Consider the Russniak population of the

county. We see them in rags, starved and wretched. Has any thing been

done to bind these people to our nation? has any attempt been made to

raise them to the rank of Magyars? of citizens of the country?"

"You are right, and it is to be hoped that the nation will soon

understand its own interests. But what can the county magistrates do in

this respect? What can I do?"

"Very much indeed!" replied the notary, enthusiastically; "if your

Excellency would only extend your protection to the poor people!--if

you would use your influence for the election of officers who are alive

to the sacred duties of their office!"

"Alas!" said Maroshvölgyi, "I wish to God it were so, and that I _could_

be to the people what I wish to be."

"Your Excellency _can_!" cried Tengelyi. "There are honest men, even

among the present county magistrates: I need not tell you their names.

You know them as well as the Retys, Krivers, Skinners. Take the part of

the former, and oppose the latter. Believe me, your Excellency, the

county has no lack of noble and generous men, and it lies in your hands

to make the people of Takshony a happy people."

"But you forget my political position. Rety, Kriver, and the other men,

are men of my party whom I cannot possibly throw overboard: but, I

assure you, I respect the feelings which you have expressed to me. If

you were in my place, you would see that there are some great and fine

ideas which a man cannot call into life, whatever his seeming power and

influence may be. Whatever influence I may have in the county, I owe to

the popularity which I have obtained through my conduct; and if I were

to follow your advice, I should lose my popularity."

"Popularity! of course, all coteries have their popularity; whenever a

body of men are united for a certain purpose, they show their gratitude

for him who promotes that purpose, and applause, garlands, and triumphs

fall to the share of him who speaks loudest, and agitates most zealously

for the realisation of the common object. But do not others live in our

country besides the nobility which fills our council-halls? Are there

not nobler things to strive for than these paltry Eljens? And the

people, those millions who silently surround us, those vast multitudes,

who have at present no reward for their benefactors but sighs and tears,

but who, on the day of their glory, will raise the names of their

champions in a louder shout than all the Cortes in all Hungary;--are

they nothing to you?"

Here the speaker was interrupted by a distant cry of "Eljen."

"I go, your Excellency," continued the notary, "to make room for others.

You will be surrounded with adorers. You will have music and speeches;

but, believe me, the gratitude of the people is not the less strong for

being silent, and if our country has a future, it will certainly not

pick out its great men from among the cheered of this wretched time!"

Tengelyi bowed. The Count Maroshvölgyi shook his hand, and followed him

with a deep sigh as he left the room.

"What do you say now, your Excellency?" said the secretary. "Was I not

right in saying that this man's proper place is not in this county?"

"Let me tell you that his proper place is nowhere in this country," said

Maroshvölgyi, as he stepped to the window to receive the serenaders.

CHAP. IX.

As the evening wore on, the streets of Dustbury were restored to their

usual darkness. The lord-lieutenant had retired after supper, and

everything was quiet. From the committee-rooms, where the Cortes were

locked up to keep them safe from foreign influence, there proceeded a

low, dreamy, murmuring sound, mixed up at intervals with a hoarse voice,

shouting the name of Bantornyi, or Rety, as the case might be; but no

other signs of turbulence were there to warn the stranger of that

gigantic uproar which, in less than thirty hours, was to welcome the

birth of the new magistracy. One of the principal causes of this strange

tranquillity might have been found in the fact that the town was

occupied by Bantornyi's men only, and that consequently, any general

engagement of the hostile parties was quite out of the question. For the

Rety party had recurred to the well-known stratagem of marching their

troops, in small detachments, close up to the scene of the contest,

without entering the city. They were thus secured from having their men

kidnapped, and could expect that their appearance in one compact body

would produce a general and striking effect in their favour.

One of their extra-mural camps was at the distance of five miles from

Dustbury, at one of Rety's farms; and it is there we meet again with our

old friends the three hundred noblemen of St. Vilmosh. The village inn

is small. It is one of those agreeable hostelries in which the stranger,

though he may not find accommodation for himself, is at times lucky

enough to find a stable for his horse; nor is there any impediment to

his eating a good supper if he happens to be provided with victuals,

salt, plates, knives and forks. The stable and the large shed, which,

save on rainy days, offered a good shelter at all times, were on this

occasion filled with clean straw, and devoted to the exclusive use of

the nobility. Mr. Pennahazy, the notary and leader of the St. Vilmosh

volunteers, had carefully locked the gate of the yard, to prevent his

men from deserting; and, having taken this necessary precaution, he

retired to the bed of the Jewish landlord, while the Jew and his family

lay on the floor of the same room. The inn was as noiseless and tranquil

as if no stranger were tarrying within its gates. In the bar-room alone

there was a light shining from a deal table, at which two men were

engaged in discussing a small flask of brandy. One of these men is the

Jewish glazier to whom my readers were introduced in Tengelyi's house.

His comrade, who is just in the act of lighting his pipe, has not yet

figured in the pages of this story; but anybody that has visited the

gaols of the county of Takshony will at once be convinced that the

gentleman before him is Mr. Janosh of St. Vilmosh, alias Tzifra Jantshy;

for it is not probable that he should have seen the gaol at a time when

Tzifra was not in it; nor is it likely that any one who had once seen

the man should ever forget him. Tzifra's character was very legibly

marked on his face. His low and wrinkled forehead, his bushy eyebrows,

his grey restless eyes, protruding jaws and livid face, with the frouzy

grey hair and bluish, scorbutic lips, were calculated to make a strong,

and by no means agreeable, impression upon any one who saw him. His

sinewy limbs and powerful figure were, in the present instance, the more

conspicuous from their contrast to the spare and starved form of the

Jew.

"Well, well!" said the latter, shaking his head; "who could ever have

supposed that you would come to the council-house without being dragged

to it?"

"If a man's a nobleman, and is called to come--you see that is a fine

thing! I know the lower stories of the county-house extremely well, but

I must say I like the upper stories better."

"If I were in your place, I would not go, that's all. There are so many

people who know you,--the turnkeys, the haiduks----"

"What the devil do I care for them? Who dares to touch a nobleman of St.

Vilmosh?" cried Tzifra, striking the table with his fist. "They _shall_

know me! I want them to know me; and when they see me walking in the

hall, and when that confounded turnkey sees that I am a nobleman, while

he's but a scurvy cur of a peasant, he'll burst with envy. No, I want to

go there to make them savage; and if any of the fellows dares to look at

me, by G--d I'll kick his pipe out of his mouth."

"Well!" sighed the Jew; "it's a fine thing to be a nobleman."

"So it is; d--n me, so it is! If a man's once suspected, they nab him

and put him into quod, where he may wait until the gentlemen upstairs

have time to think of him. Now a nobleman is bailable; he goes about for

two or three years; and when sentence _is_ passed and they nab him, at

least they dare not beat him. Oh! I tell you the franchise is a fine

thing, especially as you get it dirt cheap."

"You're a devil, Tzifra!" said the Jew; "but don't let Viola know of

your call at the parson's. If he were to know of it, I wouldn't change

my skin with you for all your nobility, nor for your devilship either."

The robber seized his knife. "Don't laugh at me, thou dog!" cried he,

"for I will be----"

The Jew jumped from his seat. A few moments afterwards he sat down

again.

"Don't joke in this manner," said he; "I know you won't kill me, because

I tell you of your danger. I myself heard Viola say that he will do for

the man who did that job at the parson's."

"He'll never know it; or do you think that Viola suspects me?"

"No indeed, but----"

"Or do you mean to betray me?" cried the robber, again seizing his

knife. "You are the only man who knows that I was at the parsonage."

"Tzifra, you are a fool!" cried the Jew. "What have I to do with Viola

or with the parson; didn't I sell the roan horse for you, which you

_made_ beyond the Theiss? And didn't you get ten florins and a half for

that same hack?"

"Yes, but you did me then; but never mind, you're born to do it--it's

your nature. But don't you talk of that business--you know what I mean.

Don't even tell it to your God; for otherwise Viola cannot possibly know

it, and he'll be hanged before he is a month older."

"Will he, indeed!" said the Jew. "How will they do it?"

"Why, didn't they catch him the other day?" replied the robber. "He'd be

done for by this time, had it not been for one of his comrades who fired

the sheriff's haystacks."

"Does he owe that good turn to _you_?"

"To _me_! Can there be any one who hates him as I do? Viola was a child

playing in the streets; when I came to the village with my men he used

to hide behind the stove; and now, curse me! you ought to see him, how

he lords it over me. If right and justice were done in this villanous

world of ours, who do you think ought to lead the outlaws but I, Tzifra

Jantshy, who have been their leader for many years?--I, who know every

hole and corner on either side of the Theiss, and who am a greater man

with the Tshikosh and Gulyash[12] than even their masters! But the

rascals wanted another man, d--n them! I found Viola amongst

them!--that fellow who trembles like a woman when he sees a drop of

blood! that coward who pities a weeping child! they liked him better

than me, and if I had said a word they would have hanged me. He commands

and I obey--but, blast me! he'll have the worst of it!"

[Footnote 12: See Note VIII.]

"Bravo!" said the Jew, pushing the bottle over to his comrade; "it is

quite ridiculous to think that Viola should presume to give his orders

to a man like _you_."

"Of course, so it is!" cried the robber; "and what stupid orders his

are! The other day he finds me driving a peasant's oxen from the field,

and kicks up a row, and swears that I must take them back, for he

wouldn't allow any of the poor people to be hurt. Last year I shot a

Jew, whereupon the fool told me he'd shoot _me_ if that kind of thing

were to happen again. But never mind! D--n him, we'll see which of us is

to be food for the ravens first! He'll feel my revenge by and by!"

"Ah, I see!" cried the Jew. "It is you, then, who told his worship the

justice that Viola was coming to Tissaret."

"Confound you! hold your tongue! And suppose I _did_ tell him; what

next?"

"Nothing that I know of; but I know an opportunity of giving Viola a

kick, and making good sum of money too."

"Halljuk!" shouted the robber.

"Silence!" cried the Jew, "you'll wake every man in the house. What did

you get for that little job at the parsonage?"

"Are you at it again, you hound of a Jew?"

"Never mind. What do you say to five-and-twenty florins? I'll put you in

a way to get them."

"Five-and-twenty florins? But how?"

"If you've but pluck----"

"Pluck!" repeated Tzifra, staring at his comrade.

"Well, never mind! Mark me now. The papers which you could not get the

other day are at Mr. Tengelyi's."

"I am glad to hear it."

"Be quiet, will you? They are in the large iron safe, where you won't

put your fingers on them, if I do not open it for you. Now, look here!"

And the Jew produced an old rag from which he took two keys. "Here they

are," said he; "here are the keys, my man. I've got the key of the room

too, and----"

"D--n the fellow!" cried Tzifra, grinning; "how in the devil's name did

you get those keys?"

"I reconnoitred the place, saw the box, and knew it at once. Tengelyi

bought it from one of our people in the market at Dustbury. He gave me

the keys. The notary is at present at the election. We can do the job,

and there is little danger."

"Aye!" said the robber; "let me see?"

"I won't!"

But Tzifra took the keys and put them into his pocket.

"So, now I don't want you. I can do it alone."

"Don't be a fool!" said the Jew; "what can you do with the keys?"

"Do?" cried Tzifra. "Go in and win! I'll have a hundred florins instead

of five-and-twenty. I know that's the price which they offered."

"You're vastly clever, my friend. But do you happen to know the secret

of the lock?"

"What is the secret?"

"Not so fast! You may wait a long while before _I_ tell you."

"If you don't I----"

"Don't kick up a row. Give me the keys, and come along with me, and the

five-and-twenty florins are yours. All you have to do is, to watch the

house, and, in case of danger, to come to my assistance."

"But twenty-five florins! Rascal, you know you'll have a hundred, and

you offer me but twenty-five!"

"But who is it that enters the house? Who got the keys? Twenty-five

florins is a deal of money--it is the price of two young oxen."

"Will you give me fifty florins?"

"Impossible!" said the Jew. "The keys alone cost me no less than ten."

"Impossible? Very well. Oh! I am quite satisfied. I'll go to the

election, and you may go to----"

"Give me the keys!" cried the Jew. "I'll find another man."

"Nonsense! I'll keep them. If you want another comrade, I'll leave you

to find other keys."

"I'll give you forty."

"I'll be d--d if I take less than fifty."

After quarrelling for a time they struck the bargain; and the Jew,

putting his hand in his pocket, paid the robber ten florins in advance.

"Now let us be off," said the Jew, "for when the leaders get up they

won't let you go."

"You are right," rejoined Tzifra. "They take us to the election as they

do cattle to the market."

They had scarcely left the room when the dusky face of Peti was seen to

emerge from a heap of coats and cloaks. The gipsy had listened to their

conversation. He left his hiding-place, stole from the room, and

hastened away to St. Vilmosh.

It is now our pleasant duty to turn to a far different scene from that

which we were compelled to place before our readers, any of whom, if

they have ever loved, can easily guess the sensation with which Akosh

mounted his horse on the eve of the election, and, leaving the streets

of Dustbury, hastened to Tissaret. Night had set in, and his absence

escaped observation. A dense fog covered the plain between Dustbury and

Tissaret, and the horseman found it difficult to keep on the path which

led through the meadow-lands. But he did not feel the searching coldness

of the night air, nor was he inclined to stop by the watch-fires of the

shepherds, and to dry his clothes. He hurried on, for Etelka had

promised her brother that he should meet Vilma, to whose house he now

directed his course.

Strange though it may appear to the less initiated into the mysteries of

the human heart, Tengelyi's influence with his family, though paramount

in every other respect, was eclipsed by the superior power of their

feelings; Vilma and her mother knew of young Rety's visit, and expected

him with great eagerness and anxiety. Mrs. Ershebet's time and attention

were indeed taken up with the cares and anxieties which fill the heart

of a Hungarian housewife who is expecting and preparing for the

reception of a favoured guest; but when the evening wore on, when the

turkey[13] was on the point of over-roasting, and the pastry drying

up,--and when the good woman looked at the clock and saw its hands

approaching to eight, she shook her head, and, looking out at the

kitchen-door into the drear and misty night, she was fairly overpowered

with fear.

[Footnote 13: See Note IX.]

She went to Vilma's room, and, in order to lighten the load of anxiety

which pressed upon her own heart, she commenced consoling her daughter.

"I am sure he will soon be here," said she; "but the worst is, my supper

will be spoilt. But do not be afraid, child. There is indeed a dense

fog--you cannot see over the way--but then Akosh knows his road in the

dark as well as by daylight. There are no wolves about the country now;

no, indeed! and he does not care whether he rides by day or by night."

And Mrs. Ershebet laughed, and appeared rather amused than otherwise by

Akosh's staying away. But her words had a far different effect from what

she intended. Vilma had never once thought that any misfortune _could_

befall him she loved; and when her mother's words directed her attention

to the possibility of an accident which might happen to Akosh, she

became painfully alive to all sorts of dangers by which she fancied him

surrounded.

"Good God!" cried she, "if any thing happens to him, it is I who am the

cause!"

"Oh!" said Mrs. Ershebet, anxiously, "he is on good terms with the

robbers, his horses are safe, he knows his way, and it is quite

ridiculous to think that he should have strayed into the morasses of St.

Vilmosh."

Vilma opened the window; and when she saw the thick fog, she shuddered

to think that Akosh was alone on the heath. Half an hour passed amidst

the greatest uneasiness; at length the sound of a horse's hoofs was

heard in the distance. Mother and daughter listened anxiously, and their

surprise was any thing but agreeable, when the door opened, and, instead

of Akosh, the Liptaka entered the kitchen. Vilma, scarcely able to

repress her tears, cried out:--

"Oh, mother! now I am sure he is lost!"

"Perhaps he has not been able to get away," said Mrs. Ershebet; "at

least, not early enough. He'll come to-morrow."

"To-morrow!" cried the Liptaka: "do not tell the girl such a thing. Mr.

Akosh would not stay away--nay, that he would not!--even if there were

as many thunderbolts as there are drops of rain. Akosh too late! Is

there a finer fellow in the county? I do not speak of the gentlemen, for

it's easy to be a better man than any of them; but he beats us vulgar

people, and in our own line, too. He is as strong as any that ever wore

a _gatya_[14], and he is as bold as any _szegeny legeny_[15] in the

world; and should he be afraid of darkness and rain? No, no, missie

dear! any man will brave death for such a sweetheart as you are!"

[Footnote 14: See Note X.]

[Footnote 15: See Note XI.]

"Don't be foolish!" said Mrs. Ershebet, highly flattered; "Vilma is no

man's sweetheart."

"No matter," said the Liptaka, shaking her head; "it's what we poor

people call a sweetheart. But never mind; come he must and he will,

though the darkness of Egypt were on the heath."

"I am sure he will come," said Vilma, trembling. "Akosh is so bold! he

knows not what danger is; but it is that which frightens me. The night

is dark; and how easily can he have met with an accident!"

"The night is indeed dark," replied the Liptaka, with great earnestness;

"but are not God's eyes open in the darkness? Not a sparrow falls from

the roof without His will, and He protects the righteous on their paths.

Fear nothing, missie sweet!" added the old woman: "young Mr. Rety is in

no danger. Perhaps he will suffer from the cold; but the fire of your

eyes will warm him soon enough. A sorry thing it would be, indeed, if

such a fellow could not manage to ride from Dustbury to Tissaret. Ay,

indeed, if he were a fine gentleman, as the others are: but no! Akosh is

a jewel of a lad. _I eat his soul._[16] I suckled him when a child, and

I ought to know what stuff he is made of."

[Footnote 16: See Note XII.]

"Oh, Liptaka, I wish he were here!" whispered Vilma, while her mother

walked to the other room. "I am so afraid." And the Liptaka replied in

the same tone: "I, too, should be sorry to see your mother go to the

kitchen. There are others who have come from a longer journey, and who

dare not enter until Mr. Rety is here."

"For God's sake!" said Vilma, "is Viola here?"

The Liptaka's reply was prevented by the appearance of Akosh. To attempt

a description of Vilma's joy would be a vain endeavour. No word in any

language can convey to those who never felt the like, any idea of the

deep, heartfelt happiness which was expressed in her gestures and face,

and in the tone with which, calling out her mother's name and that of

her lover, she hurried the new comer into the next room.

The old nurse left the room by the opposite door. "Now for Viola,"

muttered she; "for he, too, loves his wife. Why, old fool that I am! my

eyes have got full of tears in looking at the children! I can't help it;

but I must think of my own Jantshy, and how I loved him, and how happy

we were; and now the poor fellow is buried in France. It is written, Man

shall not sever what God has brought together; but, for all that, the

magistrates took Jantshy from me, and made him a soldier."

She was roused from these cogitations by a low voice, calling her name.

"Who's there?" said the old woman.

"It is I! Don't you know me?"

"Peti!" cried the Liptaka. "I thought you were at Dustbury. Where do you

come from?"

"For God's sake, be quiet! Is _he_ here?"

"Who?--Viola?"

"Yes! Whom else could I mean?"

The Liptaka was silent, for she knew that there were false brethren in

Viola's gang.

"Do you suspect _me_?" said the gipsy, impatiently. "I have been on my

legs ever since yesterday; but, if _you_ do not know where he is, I must

run until I find him, tired though I am."

"Are you coming to see him on business?"

"I _must_ talk to Viola! I _must_, I tell you!"

"Very well; come with me," said the Liptaka, moved by the plaintive

voice of the gipsy: and, more than half ashamed of having suspected him,

she added: "One _does_ get cautious in this sad time, since there are so

many rascals even among the poor people."

The notary's house was indeed the home of happiness. They say, love

spoils a man's appetite; but a ride of twenty miles goes a great way to

counteract at least this symptom of the complaint. Mrs. Ershebet had

cause to be pleased with her guest, who, fatigued with his ride and

starved with the cold, was in that lucky temper in which a man enjoys a

warm room and a hot supper.

"Take another piece of this tart," said Mrs. Ershebet, when young Rety's

attention to the dishes began to flag; "it is not so good as the pastry

your worship is accustomed to, but it is of the best our poor house can

afford. It is, perhaps, a little too brown,--for your worship came later

than we expected; but it is very soft. Take some, I pray."

Akosh--who would have done any thing to escape the _peine forte et dure_

of the tart, protested against Mrs. Ershebet's ceremonious address. "Am

I a stranger to you, that you should call me 'your worship?' Have you

not a kinder name for me?"

Ershebet was confused; but the look which she cast at Akosh expressed so

much affection and joy, that the latter, kissing her hand, continued:

"Call me your Akosh! call me your son! for that is the title I covet

most."

"My dear Akosh!--my son!--if you will have it so," said Mrs. Ershebet,

with tears in her eyes. "You are good, you are generous, Akosh. No man

in this world is so deserving of Vilma's love: and yet you can have no

idea what a treasure the girl really is!"

Vilma embraced her mother, while Akosh kissed her hand; and his soul was

moved as he thought of his own mother.

"Is it not too childish?" said Mrs. Ershebet, at length. "I weep with

joy when I see you both, and feel the happiness which you might find in

your love; but I forget how many obstacles there are between the present

moment and that in which I may call you really and truly my son. Dearest

child," continued Mrs. Ershebet, "you had better tell them to take the

things away:" and, when Vilma had left the room, she pressed Rety's

hand, and said, with a trembling voice: "Akosh! I implore you, make my

child happy!"

Akosh was silent; but he pressed her hand, and his eyes filled with

tears.

"You cannot know--you cannot think--how devotedly the girl loves you!

and if she were deceived; if she----"

"Do you think me so mean, so utterly abandoned, as to make myself

unworthy of Vilma's love?"

"No, my dear Akosh! not by any means!" said Mrs. Ershebet, with great

composure. "If I did not respect you so much, surely there would be no

need of this conversation; nor would I, for the first time in my life,

disobey my husband's commands. I would not receive you in my house if I

were not convinced of your noble and generous nature. But, Akosh, you

are rich--you have a grand future before you; and it is this which makes

me anxious. Look at all the great families whom you know, and tell me

how many there are with whom real love and real happiness dwell? Your

life offers a thousand enjoyments--a thousand temptations: it is full of

purpose and splendour; glory and popularity surround you. Have you the

strength to keep your heart undivided amidst so many objects? For to be

happy, Vilma wants your whole heart. The fragments of a husband's love

cannot satisfy her. And besides," continued Mrs. Ershebet, when Akosh

had done his best to convince her of the immutability of his love, "have

you thought of all the objections which others may raise?"

"I shall be twenty-four in a few weeks, and consequently independent. My

mother's property, of which I am already possessed, is enough to keep my

wife and me; and if my father _were_ to quarrel with me, I do not care.

I prefer Vilma's love to all!"

"I believe you, dear Akosh," said Mrs. Ershebet; "but what will Tengelyi

say? He is good and loving; but when he takes it into his head that

something is opposed to his principles, no power on earth can make him

yield."

"Except the power of love," said Akosh.

"No, not even that: Jonas never loved any thing or anybody as he does

me; may God bless him for it! and still I cannot obtain any thing from

him that is opposed to his convictions."

"Yes; but can it be against his principles to see his daughter happy?

may we not hope for his blessing? As for _my_ father, why should we

despair of _his_ consent? Nobody knows him better than Vandory does, and

he told me over and over again that my father is sure to yield."

Mrs. Ershebet's fears were dispelled. Akosh told her that he intended to

take Vilma to his new residence, in a neighbouring county, where she

need not come into contact with his mother-in-law. Mrs. Ershebet, to

whom he explained the whole arrangement of the house, rose up as her

daughter entered, and pressed her to her heart.

"So, my children," said Mrs. Ershebet, taking Akosh and Vilma by the

hand, "be true and constant in your love, and God will not allow you to

be separated. You see Jonas and me; we had many difficulties to contend

with; but we overcame them. Come, my dears," continued the good woman,

kissing Vilma's forehead, "speak to each other now, and say all you have

to say, for God knows when you will meet again."

"Vilma," said Akosh, taking the blushing girl by the hand, "your eyes

were filled with tears when I came. Why did you weep?"

"Oh! you will laugh at me! I am a weak, frightened girl; we were all

anxious about you; and when I saw you safe----"

"My angel, how happy you make me with your love! When I look into your

eyes, and see their loving gaze fixed upon me; and when I hear your

sweet voice; when I press your hand to my lips, and think that this

hand is to be mine--that within a short time perhaps you are to be

truly, wholly mine, I feel as in a dream, or as if some misfortune

_must_ happen to us, for I cannot conceive it possible for human beings

to be so thoroughly happy!"

"For God's sake take care!" cried Vilma. "You are bold and careless of

danger. You shun nobody; but you ought to think of _us_. My mother, too,

was greatly frightened to-night."

"On account of my staying away?"

"Certainly! and on account of the fog. We thought you had met with some

accident in the swamps of St. Vilmosh."

"If there are no greater dangers than those of the Dustbury road, you

may be easy," replied Akosh, smiling. "There is not at present water

enough in the swamps of St. Vilmosh to drown a child; and my only danger

to-night was one which certainly does no credit to me--I lost my way.

The fog was so dense that I was hopelessly lost; and perhaps I should

still be erring in the wilderness but for the sound of hoofs, which I

heard at a distance. I turned my horse in the direction of the sound;

but when I approached the horseman, he went off in a gallop. I followed,

and we made a race of it, in which he beat me. At last I saw a light,

and found myself at the entrance of the village. I presume the man, who

belonged to the village, mistook me for a robber. Thank goodness I met

him, for without him I had no chance of finding my way."

"But how will you return?" said Vilma, anxiously. "My mother tells me

that you intend going back this very night."

"Of course I must, unless I wish my expedition to be known at Dustbury.

I have tied my horse to the garden gate. At midnight I must take to the

saddle, and the dawn of morning finds me in the council-house. But I

promise you I will not lose my way this time; and----but really things

cannot remain as they are! This state of uncertainty is unbearable. I

will speak to your father."

"Beware!" cried Vilma. "We cannot hope for my father's consent until

your father gives his."

"But I know my father will approve of my choice. I will open my heart to

him. I will tell him how dearly I love you, and that I cannot be happy

without you. I will tell him that to live with you is bliss; but that to

live away from you is worse than hell. And if I tell him all this,

asking for his blessing and nothing else, trust me he will not refuse

it. Oh, Vilma! we are sure to be happy!"

Vilma did not withdraw her hand, which Akosh seized; nor did she speak

to confirm her lover in his hopes; but there was a heaven of joy in the

look which she cast upon him.

"Yes, Vilma, we are sure to be happy. I have spoken to your mother, and

explained everything. I have a home not far from here--it was my

mother's property; and my father gave it into my hands. I have had the

garden put to rights. The rooms of the little house are comfortably

furnished--it is there we will live. Of course your father and mother go

with us."

"And Mother Liptaka," said the girl, smiling with gladness, "she is so

fond of us."

"Yes, she shall go; and Vandory is sure to come often to see us."

"Oh, he is sure to come. We will get him a large arm-chair to sit in

when he comes, and we will send for a glass of fresh water from the

well. Oh, it will be so beautiful. And did you not say there was a

garden?"

"There is a large garden, full of roses!"

"Oh, roses!" cried Vilma, clapping her hands, "and when you come back

from the hunt, or from Dustbury or Tissaret, and when I hear your

horse's hoofs I will come to meet you, with roses in my hair and in my

hands. I will fill your room with them. Oh, happiness!"

"Vilma!" cried Akosh, seizing her hands, and covering them with kisses,

"can you think--can you believe--can you dream how happy we shall be?"

Vilma withdrew her hands, and sighed. "Who knows whether all this is to

be?" muttered she.

"To be?" cried Akosh, again pressing her hands to his lips, "God

vouchsafes us the sight of such bliss; He gives us a deep conviction

that without this bliss our life is a curse; how, then, can you doubt?"

Vilma trembled. "Akosh!" said she, "your hands are feverish. I am sure

you are ill. Pray be calm."

"Oh, Vilma, do not withdraw your hand! do not treat me as you would a

stranger! Call me your love--say you are mine!"

Vilma blushed.

"Oh, tell me that you love me! tell me that you will never leave me,

whatsoever may happen! tell me that you are mine own!"

"Your _own_!" whispered Vilma; and Akosh caught the trembling girl in

his arms, and his first kiss burned on her lips.

At that moment the sound of a heavy fall, followed by a stifled groan,

came from the next room. There was a tramp of feet, and all was quiet

again. Vilma screamed, and sprang from her lover's embrace. Mrs.

Ershebet, who had been asleep in her arm-chair, rose; and Akosh, seizing

a candle, hastened to the door of the apartment.

Tzifra and the Jew, who had planned to rob the notary's house in the

course of the night, and whose conversation had been overheard by Peti,

had no idea of young Rety's presence. When all was quiet in the village

they made their way to the house. They found the door of the kitchen

locked, and the windows dark, for the shutters of that one room in which

there was a light were closed. The Jew placed Tzifra as a sentinel at

the gate, and commenced his operations by opening the outer door of

Tengelyi's room. Having effected an entry, he produced a small lamp,

lighted it, and prepared to unlock the iron safe. He did indeed hear the

conversation in the next room, but he continued his work with great

equanimity, because he fancied that the speakers were Mrs. Ershebet and

Vandory, and because he was resolved to use his knife if they should

happen to surprise him. The safe was opened. The papers and a bag of

money were in his hands, and he was on his way to the door, when he

felt himself seized by the throat.

"Hands off from the papers, you thief!" whispered the man who held him.

The Jew thought of Tzifra; but the dying glare of the lamp, which had

fallen to the floor, displayed to him the features of Viola.

When Peti informed him of the intended robbery, the outlaw hastened to

the notary's house to watch it. He had no means of preventing the

execution of the theft. His own life was forfeited to the law, and if he

had attacked the thief before the crime was committed, the latter might

have called for help, his own life would have been endangered, and the

Jew might at any other time have carried out his project. Viola waited

therefore until the Jew had entered the house, and sending Peti to the

gate to watch Tzifra, he crept into the room, where he seized him in the

act.

"Hands off the papers!" said Viola, "you're a dead man if you keep

them."

Vainly did the Jew strive to shake off the iron grasp of his assailant.

He tried to stab, but a blow from Viola's fist knocked him down. His

fall alarmed the family. Viola took the papers and fled. Peti followed

him. The Jew, still stunned from the effects of the blow which he had

received, crawled through the door; and when Akosh entered he saw

nothing but the open safe, a bag of money, and Viola's bunda lying on

the floor.

Akosh hastened to the door. In the yard he found the Jew lying on his

back and calling for help. He stooped to raise him. At that moment a

shot was fired, and Akosh fell bleeding to the ground.

Ershebet and Vilma, who had followed him, screamed out. The villagers

hastened to the spot, and the smith next door saw, as he left his house,

a man hastening by. He raised the shout of "Murder!" and pursued the

fugitive.

CHAP. X.

The late events at Tissaret had not yet transpired at Dustbury; and

though Mr. Rety was any thing but pleased with his son's absence (which

he ascribed to political reasons), still he looked with deep-felt

satisfaction on the large crowd of his champions, who bore him to the

scene of the grand national fête. Those who believe that great men are

unmindful of those to whom they owe their elevation, would change their

opinion if they could have seen the kind and even humble bearing of the

sheriff. Nay, the wish of that enthusiastic Cortes of St. Miklosh, who

held the sheriff's foot, and who repeatedly exclaimed, "What a pity that

we cannot carry that dear sheriff from one year's end to another!" was

not only very flattering for Mr. Rety, but, considering the position of

the Cortes, it might be called a _wise_ wish. Owing to the great number

of noblemen, the scene of the election was laid in the court of the

council-house. When the members of the holy crown remove their court

from the hall to the yard, the arrangements of what one might call the

hustings are very much the same any where, no matter whether the piece

is acted on the banks of the Danube or of the Theiss. A long table of

rude workmanship is usually placed before the lord-lieutenant's chair;

this table is as usually covered with any odd pieces of green baize that

happen to be found in the council-house. The other parts of the yard are

filled with the hostile factions, and from the windows of the

council-house and other high places we find the fair and tender sex

looking down on the scene of the great contest, where (without the

assistance of either steel or flint) the finest sparks of enthusiasm are

struck from the eyes of noblemen; where the magistrates of the county

are created, as the world was, out of Chaos; where the faces of so many

assessors not only burn, but actually sweat for their principles; and

where the patriot, in beholding the enthusiasm which causes such numbers

to offer their services to the country, obtains the proud conviction

that Hungary will never perish, at least not for want of functionaries.

The Dustbury election was as complete in its arrangements as the zealous

care of the rival parties could make it, and there was, moreover, a

company of soldiers for the express purpose of assisting the

magistrates. This circumstance caused a few of the older assessors to

shake their heads with an air of great wisdom. But the young men, who

were children of their time, were by no means astonished to see the

bayonets, because they knew that soldiers were present at all the

elections in the adjacent counties; and why should not Takshony have its

soldiers as well as its betters? To cry out against the army was

perfectly absurd!

The ceremonies of the election came off in due course. The

lord-lieutenant addressed the assembly less (he said) for the purpose of

enlightening them, than because he wished to give vent to his feelings

and to those of his audience, who drowned his voice in deafening cheers.

Rety too made a considerable display of oratorical talent in his

farewell speech for himself and his brother magistrates; and, lastly, a

provisional court was appointed for the suppression and punishment of

any excesses that might be committed. This done, two deputations were

sent off under the guidance of Baron Shoskuty and another magistrate in

red and blue, for the purpose of collecting the votes, while the parties

raised Bantornyi and Rety, and carried them--not without some mutual

violence--out of the gate; the yard was left to his Excellency's private

enjoyment, a benefit which he shared with three curates and an old

assessor. Even the ladies, eager to attend the birth of the new

magistrates, and panting for the glory of the fight, turned to the

opposite side of the council-house, whence they looked down upon the

battle of the vote-collecting deputations.

The council-house, which was built in the form of a square, had, besides

the front gate, two more gates at the sides of the building. They were

each occupied by a deputation. The front entrance was closed, and the

Cortes were invited to pass through either Bantornyi's or Rety's gate,

as the case might be.

The county of Takshony had lately become a convert to the ballot,

principally at Tengelyi's suggestion. The sight of the preparations for

carrying out one of his favorite principles would have gladdened that

good man's heart. A small table was placed close to the gate and round

it sat Shoskuty, Slatzanek, Kishlaki, and--for the other party too was

represented--the brother of the rival candidate. At some distance two

screens were placed, and between them the table with the urn. Augustin

Karvay and Mr. Skinner watched the gates, to prevent the approach of any

unqualified persons. Mr. Catspaw joined the last-named party as a

volunteer.

The assessors lighted their pipes; the gates were flung open, and the

electors entered for the purpose of secret voting. They, to a man, on

seeing the deputation, shouted "Eljen Rety! Eljen Bantornyi!" a shout to

which the Cortes outside replied with equal fervor; and the person

entering having then done his duty as a nobleman, retired behind the

screens to give his vote.

"Nothing in the world so beautiful as this plan of secret voting," said

Mr. James, taking his cigar and pushing off the ashes, while he shook

the hand of an elector who had come up to the table with a thundering

shout of "Eljen Bantornyi!" "If that contrivance could be introduced in

England, they would have the most perfect constitution. The ballot, the

ballot for ever! that's our cry; it makes a man feel so independent!"

"All this is very well," sighed Kishlaki; "but I wish to goodness they

would not go on bawling in that heathenish way. My friend," said he,

interrupting one of the Cortes in his shout of "Eljen Rety!" "don't roar

so loud. It's secret voting, you know!"

"Of course, so it is! Vivat the Sheriff Rety!" And he disappeared behind

the screens.

"I really _do_ beg your pardon," said Kishlaki, rising; "but this must

be stopped. It's a mere farce, you know."

"But who _can_ dictate to the feelings of our dear noble friends?" cried

Shaskay; "it's natural that they should vent them at such a moment, and

they do vent them, and----"

"Very well, let them give vent to their feelings; but what the deuce are

the screens for? Besides, they are continually being kicked over."

Shaskay remarked that the screens were placed there by the express order

of the magistrates.

"Then let the worshipful magistrates know that they have decreed the

thing which cannot be done!" cried Kishlaki. "These fellows roar all the

louder for being allowed to roar singly; they vie in showing the

strength of their lungs. We shan't come to the end of this kind of

thing; and here's a precious cold draught, let me tell you."

"But, begging your pardon," interposed Mr. James, "is there any harm in

these people shouting a name? They may still give their secret vote

behind the screen. _Quite independent, you know._"

"Ay, indeed; but----"

"I say," continued Mr. James, "how the deuce can they see for whom we

vote, no matter what name they may cry?"

"But the names of the two candidates are written on the urns: now if a

man can't read, how is _he_ to vote? I have seen ten of them at least

who I know never knew a letter. Hollo, Pishta!" cried Kishlaki, stopping

the man who was just walking to the screens; "do you know your letters?"

And Pishta replied, with great pride, "I do not read before the Lord our

God."

"But then you _can_ read!" suggested Shoskuty. "You do not read because

you don't choose; but you could if you would?"

"No, I never learnt it. I am none of your Slowak students; neither did

my grandfather learn it in his time."

"I told you so!" cried Kishlaki, triumphantly; and addressing the

Cortes, "What urn did you throw your ball in?"

"The right-hand one!" replied the Cortes, adjusting his bunda. "Any

thing to please my judge. Eljen Bantornyi!"

"This man came to vote for Bantornyi, and you see, gentlemen, he has

voted for Rety," said Kishlaki, with great satisfaction. "Now I ask

whether this sort of thing is to continue?"

"It is very extraordinary!" sighed Mr. James; while Slatzanek, stroking

his moustache, protested that accidents would happen.

"Accidents, indeed! let us have another look at these accidents. Can you

read?"

"No."

"And you?"

"God forbid!"

"And you?"

"I learnt it when a child, but----"

"And you?"

"A little!"

Mr. Shaskay, who seemed greatly amused by these questions, and the

answers which they elicited, said he hoped Mr. Kishlaki was now

satisfied that the illiterate were in the majority; and James hastened

to the gate, where he implored every new comer to vote for his brother.

But Shoskuty, desirous to carry out the resolution of the county

magistrates, placed two assessors behind the screens for the purpose of

explaining the names on the urns to the voters.

The ballot was being proceeded with on this improved and practical

principle, when Tengelyi, accompanied by Kalman Kishlaki and others,

approached the gate. A single look showed him the absurdity of the

proceedings. "How, in the name of Heaven," said he, addressing Shoskuty,

"can you, dare you, allow this gross violation of the county law?"

"Violation!" cried Shoskuty. "What violation? What do you mean, sir?"

"Did not the county magistrates give an order that the voting should be

secret?"

"And because they gave that order, sir, we obey that order, sir! Or do

you think, sir, that we sit here for the mere joke of the thing? What

are the screens for, I should like to know? Secret voting, indeed! What

do you call this, sir? Hasn't the draught given me a cold already? and

how dare you say, sir, that I violate my instructions?"

"You cannot go on in this manner!" said Tengelyi, with great warmth;

"I'll speak to the lord-lieutenant. This election is null and void."

"Hold you tongue, sir notary!" cried Slatzanek, angrily; "don't you

mistake this place for one of your alehouse clubs. You may give your

vote if you please, and for whom you please, but we won't be lectured,

and, least of all, by the like of _you_."

"Stop, sir!" cried Kalman. "Tengelyi is right. There can be no secret

voting in the presence of two people."

"I thought so too," said old Kishlaki, "but the majority----"

"Sir, I _do_ pray----"

"_Rogo humillime_----"

"I say----"

"_I_ am going to explain it!" cried Slatzanek, Shoskuty, and another

assessor; but Shoskuty's shrill voice overcrowed them, and the baron

said:--

"My dear young sir, I _do_ pray you will consider what your honoured

father was pleased to observe just now, namely, that the majority of

this deputation are agreed on all the arrangements of this ballot, and

that it is quite ridiculous to talk of errors or faults. And besides,

are you not aware that no act is valid in Hungary without the

_testimonium legale_ of two magistrates? Very well, then, the gentlemen

behind the screen will--if need be--prove that the Cortes gave secret

votes--_absque irâ et studio_--quite independent."

Kalman laughed. Tengelyi spoke, though no one listened, of the sanctity

of the laws, and the proceedings came to a stand-still. Mr. Skinner, to

whom Catspaw had whispered, advanced, and, seizing Tengelyi by the

collar, said, "Be off, sir; you have no business here, not being a

nobleman!"

The astonishment which these few words created was prodigious. Shoskuty

wrung his hands; Shaskay sighed and looked up to heaven; Slatzanek

looked fierce and scornful; and old Kishlaki, who felt most for

Tengelyi, exclaimed, "Did I ever!--no, I never!" Saying which he fell

back into his chair.

Tengelyi's face was purple with rage; but the justice, addressing the

deputation, said, "Strange though it may seem to you, gentlemen, this

man is not noble; I move that he shall not be allowed to vote."

Tengelyi had meanwhile regained his self-possession. "And who," said he,

"is there to prove that I am not noble?"

"_Onus probandi semper privato incumbit!_" said the recorder.

"Of course it does!" cried Shoskuty. "_Incumbit privato_, which means

you must give us proof of your noble descent, or you may go and be ----

for all I care. Noble descent is proved----"

The worthy baron's memory failed him, and the recorder resumed the

argument.

"Have you a royal donation, sir, the 'Armales,' or have you an authentic

Transsumtum, or the Statuaries with the clause 'Cum nos,' or, at least,

according to Verbötzi I. 6., the receipts for the quartalitium?"

"Why," said Tengelyi, pettishly, "there is not a man in all Hungary who

can give such satisfactory proofs of his noble descent as I can,

but----"

"Very good sir; give them!" cried the recorder. "Perhaps you claim a

prescriptive right; but that too must be proved with documents. You

prove it with extracts from baptismal registers, royal grants of

land--come sir, give us something of the kind!"

"My papers are in my house."

"Then bring them here. As soon as you bring those documents we will

admit you to the vote," said the recorder, with a sneer.

"Of course," cried Shoskuty. "Show us your papers!"

"But I always enjoyed the privileges of a nobleman; I always paid my

contributions to their rates."

"_Fraus et dolus nemini opitulatur!_" cried Shaskay. "Why did you not

register your patent in the county?"

"Because no one ever doubted of my nobility," said the notary, trembling

with passion. "Because I stood for a justice seat, and was actually

appointed to a notariat."

"It's a good thing for a man to have his patent properly registered,"

said the recorder: "if you had been more cautious, you would have

avoided this awkward inquiry. But your having pretended or been

appointed to a post of honor cannot decide any thing. It's not legal

evidence. Are there not plenty of instances of the recorders having

neglected their duties, by allowing the number of noblemen to increase

in the said illegal manner, to the no slight detriment and prejudice of

the tax-paying population?"

The notary found it impossible to repress the feelings of scorn which

the recorder's last words called forth. "Ay, ay, sir," said he, "you are

indeed a generous man. What a blessing to the tax-payers if they could

always have you for an advocate!"

"Don't stand losing your time!" cried Shoskuty; "tell them to go on with

the ballot, and let Mr. Tengelyi send for his documents."

"I insist on giving my vote," said Tengelyi. "A nobleman cannot lose his

rights on the ground of an information; and pending the proceedings I

have a right to my present position."

"Mr. Tengelyi is right," said a young solicitor; "the act of----"

"De 21 Julii 1785?" added the recorder, shaking his head. "The said bill

enacts that while the inquiry on the nobility cujuscunque is pending,

the defendant is to remain in his former position."

"Which means in the fourth estate, which is the notary's case until he

procures his documents," suggested Slatzanek.

"I have always passed for a nobleman--have I not?" said Tengelyi,

turning round upon Mr. Catspaw. "You ought to know, for you have known

me these thirty years."

"All I can say," said the little attorney, rubbing his hands, "is that

my worshipful master, the sheriff, has always treated Mr. Tengelyi as he

would a nobleman; but then all the world knows that my master is a most

_charitable_ gentleman, though indeed he gets no thanks for his

goodness. I never saw Mr. Tengelyi's documents. His patent is not

registered. To tell you the truth, he came from some distant place; and

there are cases in which----"

"Knock him down! kick him out!" roared the crowd; and Karvay, whose

voice was most conspicuous in the general confusion, advanced and seized

Tengelyi.

"Come on, any man who is tired of his life!" cried Kalman, taking his

stand in front of the old man. "Tengelyi is my friend; and whoever

touches him is a dead man, even if he had as many lives as a cat!"

The gallant Captain Karvay retreated almost as quickly as he had

advanced. Kishlaky hastened to his son's side, and reminded him of his

alliance with the Rety party. Baron Shoskuty spoke with great energy

about the sanctity of the place; and the recorder was heard to pronounce

the ominous word "Actio."

But Kalman was not the man to be either cajoled or intimidated; and old

Kishlaky himself would have been at a loss to say whether he wept tears

of joy or of sorrow when his generous son exclaimed:

"What alliances? what do I care for engagements? they are nothing to the

duty which I owe to every honest man and to myself! I cannot, and I will

not, allow anybody to be treated with injustice, if I can help it!"

"But, _domine spectabilis_, I must humbly implore you to consider that

this is the council-house!" groaned Shaskay.

"Thank you for reminding me of it I!" roared Kalman. "This house--yes!

it was built for the maintenance of public order and safety, and it is

here that honest men are in danger of being knocked down. Men come here

to seek justice, but, confound you all! they don't find it. We look for

judges and find cudgels. God knows, to look at you all, one would fancy

that this place is a robbers' den!"

"D--n him, he abuses us!" cried a leader of the Cortes. "He attacks the

nobility. Actio! Actio!" And the crowd roared, "Actio! Actio!"

"Actio? Very well, you worshipful gentlemen!" sneered Kalman; "make it

an action if you please, and put it on record that it is enough in the

county of Takshony for such a fellow"--here he pointed at Mr.

Skinner--"to calumniate an honest man, to rob the latter of all his

rights." And flinging his ring on the table, he took Tengelyi's arm.

"Come along, dear sir. I myself will drive you to Tissaret. I promise

you I will bring you back before the day is over."

The noble mob groaned, and Slatzanek said to Kishlaki, "If Mr. Kalman is

not elected, you will not accuse us, I am sure." Old Kishlaki sighed.

CHAP. XI.

The notary's house was now indeed the abode of care and sorrow. Young

Rety's wound was not dangerous, for only his arm was hurt; and at his

own entreaty, and with Vandory's consent, he had that very night been

removed to the Castle: but the theft, Vilma's state of excitement and

despondency, and the consciousness of having disobeyed her husband's

orders in receiving Akosh in her house,--all this plunged Mrs. Ershebet

into the lowest depth of misery and remorse. The whole place was in

confusion. Vilma had gone to bed; and the servants ran to and fro,

scared and gossiping. Mother Liptaka was scarcely able to reply to and

send away the crowd of curious inquirers who entered the house, thus

adding to its confused and cheerless aspect. Vandory was the only friend

the family had; and it was owing to his gentle persuasion that Vilma

became gradually calmer, and that even Mrs. Ershebet mustered up some

courage against her husband's return. Vandory had been sent for

immediately after the accident, and he had not left the house since. He

examined the safe, and ascertained the loss of his own papers and of

most of Tengelyi's. He knew, therefore, the extent of his loss; but his

pious confidence, and his firm conviction that God will not abandon the

righteous, imparted itself to those who surrounded him, and shielded

poor Ershebet from despair.

"She is asleep," said she, entering the room in which Vandory sat; "the

poor girl is asleep. Oh, God! what will Jonas say when he sees her

looking so pale! When he left us she was fresh and blooming; and

now----"

"Vilma will be all right before Tengelyi comes home. Akosh has given

orders that none of the people of the house are to go to Dustbury; you

need not expect your husband until the election is over."

"Oh, I am miserable! I am ruined!"

"Now pray be calm, my dear Mrs. Ershebet," said Vandory, taking her

hands. "Rety's wound is not dangerous; and the loss of the papers is not

so serious a matter as you seem to think. They will be restored."

"Perhaps; but my husband's confidence--will that, too, be restored? I

have lost his love, his respect--in short, I am ruined! How often did

he not intreat me, 'Pray do not allow Akosh to come to our house! Do

not allow him to speak to Vilma,--the girl's peace of mind and her

honour are at stake!' And I promised to--but I did not obey!"

"It is a sad case; but I know Tengelyi is kind; he will pardon you: I

know he will. And do not be concerned about your daughter's reputation.

Vilma and Akosh are betrothed. Who knows but that his wound will be of

use to him? for neither the Retys nor Jonas can oppose the marriage

after this."

"Oh, these Retys!" sobbed Mrs. Ershebet.

"These Retys! dearest Mrs. Ershebet. I am afraid you take them to be

worse than they really are. Rety is weak, but good and kind; and his

wife----can there be any _woman_ who would not, after such an event,

urge her son to act the part of an honest man?"

"And to consider," said Mrs. Ershebet, "that it is Viola who did all

this to us, and that we took pity on his wife and children when no one

else would pity them!"

"I have my doubts whether it was Viola."

"There can be no doubt. When the Jew recovered, he told us that, passing

our house on his way to his home, he saw our gate open; and, knowing

that my husband was at Dustbury, he thought that something must be

wrong; he entered for the purpose of inquiring whether my husband had

come back. At that very moment Viola left the room with his booty; and,

meeting the Jew, he knocked him down. The smith, who went in pursuit of

the robber, tells me the man whom he saw was Tzifra, one of Viola's men:

and the Liptaka, too, has confessed that Viola was in the village, and

even in her house.--There can be no doubt.--Besides, you may ask the

Jew, who is still suffering from Viola's violence."

"The Jew is a liar!" said a female voice in the room. Mrs. Ershebet and

Vandory turned round, and saw Viola's wife, Susi, who had entered during

the latter part of their conversation. "Ay," continued Susi, "it is I

who say it. Viola did not steal in this house; he'd never do it, though

he were to live for a hundred years!"

"Thank God that it is so!" said Vandory, who was loth to lose his faith

in his fellow-creatures. He was happy to see the effect which Susi's

words produced on Mrs. Ershebet.

"Trust me, so it is!" cried Susi. "Viola is a poor, ruined man, driven

from house and home, hunted from place to place like a wild beast; but

I know that he has not done this. Cut him to pieces!--tear his heart

out!--you will never find him ungrateful!"

"You are right, Susi," said Mrs. Ershebet; "you are right in taking your

husband's part, for you have vowed to be his own for better and for

worse; and I, too, wish I could believe you; but it is in vain.

Everything is against him; and--I do not mean to hurt you, my good

woman; but you know your husband is a robber."

The words were repented almost as soon as spoken. Vandory said something

to calm the poor woman's mind; but Susi advanced, and, leaning her arms

on the table, stood with a flushed and frowning face. "Yes," said she,

"Viola _is_ a robber; you are right: I _am_ a robber's wife. They know

it in the village; they know it in the county. A reward has been offered

for his capture. The very children in the streets know it. But when the

Day of Judgment comes, and when God appears visibly to our eyes, with

His Son at His right hand, and all the angels round him, and when He

judges our crimes, do you think He will call Viola to account for being

a robber? No, He will not. He will enter into judgment with those who

_forced_ him to be a robber--with those who punished him before he was

guilty. God is just. He cares not who is rich and who is poor. He looks

into our heart; and I know that Viola is pure before his God!"

The Liptaka, who entered in that moment, overheard Susi's last words.

"You are right, my child," said she: "trust in God, who will not abandon

you."

"Oh, you bid me trust in God!" said Susi, gloomily. "You've told me that

at least a hundred times, and, indeed, what would poor people come to,

if they did _not_ trust in God? But when I think of our misfortunes, and

when I see that we are suspected by everybody, and that the honestest

people--such as the curate and Mrs. Tengelyi--believe that my husband

would injure his greatest benefactors, why then, you see, my good angel

leaves me, and there is a voice that whispers in my ear that there is no

God for the poor!"

"Fye, Susi!" said the Liptaka. "It is written that 'it is easier for a

camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter

into the kingdom of heaven.' The poor, of all men, ought not to doubt

God's goodness, for His Son chose His disciples from among our number.

And suppose Mrs. Tengelyi said bitter things, you ought to consider that

she did all she could for you. The best of us are unjust when we

suffer; even my own husband--may God give him eternal rest!--suspected

Peti, the gipsy, when they stole our cow. Bear your cross humbly with

your Saviour."

"Aye, but He was the Son of God! and I am but a sinful child; and

besides, can you, can anybody know what I have suffered? I was a poor

orphan. My father and mother died when I was a child, and if you had not

taken me to your house, I'd have perished, as many children do who have

no mother to take care of them. But you, God bless you! brought me up,

and there wasn't a merrier girl in the village than I was. O, though my

sweet mother died when I was born, yet you loved me as much as she would

have done, I'm sure!"

Vandory and Ershebet were silent; the eyes of the Liptaka filled with

tears.

"Yes, I was a merry girl!" said Susi. "I didn't think I could be

happier, and I thanked God for my happiness. But this was not all. It is

since I knew Viola that I know what it is to have a heaven on earth. At

first I did not think that a man such as he could love me. Viola was

wealthy. He had inherited a fine farm from his father. Next to the

notary's, his house was the finest in the village; he had splendid

cattle,--how then could I, poor orphan, expect him to love me? When I

was reaping the harvest in the field, and he stopped by my side, with

his four beasts, and helped me to tie up the corn,--or at the Theiss,

when he filled my pails,--or at weddings, when he brought me bunches of

rosemary, I said to myself, 'Viola is good, ay, very good and kind;' but

I never thought that he would marry me, and I prayed that such proud

thoughts might be kept out of my mind. But when he called at Christmas,

and asked me whether I loved him, and when I did not reply to that, but

looked down, and he took me in his arms and said that he would marry me

in the spring, oh! it was then I felt giddy with happiness, and I

fancied the angels of heaven must envy my joy!"

"Poor, poor woman!" said Mrs. Ershebet, drying her tears.

"A proud woman I was then!" cried Susi, "ay! a proud woman indeed, and a

happy one! The whole world seemed to me one large marriage feast; my

happiness took away my breath, and I could have wept at any moment. But

that was nothing to my happiness in my husband's house, and when our

first child was born, and we had to take care of our little Pishta. Oh!

and God blessed our house and our fields; and our cattle were healthy,

and our wheat was the finest in the county. There's many a bride enters

her husband's house with a happy heart; but I, proud woman, thought each

day more blessed than the last, nor did I ever think of my wedding-day,

I was so happy!"

Her heart was oppressed with the reminiscences of the past. For some

moments she did not speak; and when she continued, it was with a hoarse

and low voice, as though that breast of hers had not breath enough to

tell the tale of her woe.

"And then, you see," said she, "it breaks my heart to think that all is

lost now. We were not overbearing in our happiness. We never offended

anybody. My husband paid his taxes and rates, and served his fifty-two

robot-days; he was kind to the poor--ay, very good and kind, for God had

blessed us. He was wealthy; but then he was but a peasant, and among the

gentry there were those that hated him. The attorney--may the Lord find

him!" said Susi, shaking her fist, "_he_ hated my husband, for he was

the speaker of the other peasants when they had a complaint to make. And

the justice too swore he'd have his revenge, for he wanted to go after

me; but I, as an honest woman, told him to leave my house, as it was my

duty to do. I was always anxious lest something might come of it, though

my husband told me we had no reason to fear either the attorney or the

justice, so long as he did his duty. But the gentry plot together, and a

poor man's innocence cannot protect him from their revenge. It's now two

years since I was brought to bed with a little daughter. Early that

morning I was in a bad way:--my husband was with me, and so were you,

Liptaka, when the attorney sent to us--I think the midwife had told him

about the way I was in--to order Viola to take four horses to the

Castle, and drive my lady to Dustbury. My husband spoke to the haiduk;

he said he could not go that day, and that his horses had done more

service that year than those of any of the other peasants; but that he

would be glad to go any other day. And we thought all was well; but the

haiduk came back, saying that my husband must do his duty, and that he

_must_ come, for that he had the best horses in the village. Viola was

angry, but I entreated him to send the servant with the horses, which he

did, though reluctantly, because he did not like to trust them with a

stranger. But my travail had just begun, when the haiduk came back with

the servant, saying that Viola must come, for my lady was afraid of

anybody else driving. And Viola saw my sufferings, and knew that I

wanted him to be near me; he said they might do as they pleased, it was

enough that he had sent the horses, and he wouldn't stir from the

spot--no! not for the king's own son. But the haiduk said, he'd do the

same if it was his own case; yet, for all that, he would advise my

husband to go, considering that the justice was at the Castle, who had

sworn an oath that he'd have him brought up per force; so he'd better

look to the end of it. Now my husband _is_ violent, and at times

obstinate; he sent word to the justice that he had done his robot for

that year, and he wouldn't go to save his soul from perdition. The

haiduk went away, and after that I know not what happened, for I got so

faint I could neither hear nor see; but the neighbours and the Liptaka

tell me that the justice came with his men, cursing and abusing Viola,

whom they bound, while I lay bereft of my senses, and dragged him to the

Castle!"

"It's quite true!" cried the Liptaka; "yes! it's quite true. I followed

them as they led Viola away. It was a fearful sight, I tell you; he

refused to walk, and cast himself on the ground; he was so angry! and

Mr. Skinner dragged him away as you would a pig. Every body was

horrified, and all the people from the village wept and followed them,

though none dared to help him. But we wept in our minds, and murmured

when they beat him, poor innocent fellow! because he would not walk--for

beat him they did with sticks and fokosh, while the judge walked along

with many fearful oaths and threats. And when we came to the house, the

justice examined the haiduk before us, asking him whether he had been at

Viola's, and told him that he was summoned to service, and what Viola

had said, and Lord knows what besides! and at last he said, 'I'll tie

you up for it, my fine fellow!' and sent for the deresh[17]; for he

said, 'I'll serve you out for contempt of the county.' And he said,

'Lash him to the deresh.' Now Viola stood among the Pandurs; and though

I were to live a hundred years, I'd never forget what a sight it was

when he stood in the yard, with his head and face covered with blood,

and his lips blue with biting them! They had untied his hands to lash

him down; and when he was in the yard, he tore away from the haiduks and

made a leap like a lion, shouting, 'Stand back, every man of you!' And

they stood back; but that incarnate devil, Skinner, cursed them, and

swore he'd kill them if they did not tie him down. They made a rush to

seize him. But Viola caught up an axe which had been used for

woodcutting, and which the devil put in his way. He seized the axe and

spun it round, and two of the fellows fell weltering in their blood. Oh!

and he raised the bloody axe, and rushing through them, he ran home, got

a horse, and rode off to the St. Vilmosh forest. One of the men he had

struck died of his wounds, and Viola has been an outlaw ever since."

[Footnote 17: See Note XIII.]

"And a robber ever since that day!" cried Susi, wringing her hands. "May

God bless you, Mrs. Tengelyi, for what you did for me and my poor

children! I'll go now and try to find my husband. If he knows aught of

the stolen things, or if he can trace them, you need not fear: Mr.

Tengelyi shall not lose his property."

"What are you about?" said Mrs. Ershebet; "do you think I will let you

go in this way?"

"Don't be afraid!" cried Susi, with a bitter smile. "I'm sure to come

back! I leave you my children; and though I _am_ a robber's wife, trust

me, I'll never leave my children."

"I did not mean _that_, Susi," replied Mrs. Ershebet, holding out her

hand; "but you are still in bad health, and to walk about in this cold

weather cannot be good for you."

"Thank you, but I'm pretty well now. The air of the heath will do me

good. But stay here I cannot. You suspect Viola; I know you do. The Jew

accuses him, and so do others. He was in the village--there's no denying

that! His bunda has been found in this room. Everything is against him,

and people cannot know that it was quite impossible for him to do that

of which they accuse him. It's a dark matter, but I will have it cleared

up. I'd die if I were to remain here and listen to all the horrid things

they are sure to speak of my husband." And Susi turned to leave the

room.

"Poor woman!" sighed Mrs. Ershebet. "She, at least, deserves a better

fate!"

Susi had reached the door, but when she heard these words she turned

round and cried. "A better fate? Trust me, if I were to be born again,

and if I were to know all that has happened to Viola, still I would not

have another husband. If they hang him, I'll sit down under the gallows,

thanking God that I was his wife. There is not such another heart on the

earth as his. But, adieu! and may God bless you!"

"I am sure," said Vandory, looking after her, "that Viola had no hand in

this matter. A man who goes on for eight years loving his wife in this

manner cannot act meanly and disgracefully!"

He had scarcely said these words when Tengelyi entered the room,

exclaiming, "Is it true that there has been a robbery committed here?"

"Only the safe was forced open," replied Mrs. Ershebet, trembling; "the

other parts of----"

"The safe? Give me the keys! Where are the keys?"

"I dare say they are in your desk. But the safe is open."

Tengelyi hastened up to the place, and throwing open the lid, he bent

down and turned the papers about, while his wife and Vandory stood by

silent and anxious. The fearful contraction of his features showed them

the extent of his loss. At length he rose, and throwing himself back in

his chair, he covered his face with his hands. "I am lost!" muttered he.

"My papers are gone--I am a ruined man!"

Mrs. Ershebet and Vandory did all in their power to take off the first

sharp edge of his sorrow; but what they said was unheeded by him.

"Right? It's all right," said Tengelyi; "the papers only are lost, are

they? Oh! I know it. You found the money all safe--it lay here close to

the door--did it not? But do you know, woman, that we are no longer

noble! We and our children are not noble! We are peasants!--things to be

despised, to be kicked, to be trodden under foot, things that have no

property, and that can have no merits, things like those which inhabit

the hovels around us. They are not aliens, because they were born here;

but still they have no rights, no property, and no country!" And,

turning to Vandory, the notary told him all that had happened at

Dustbury; adding, "Now you know it all. They ask for proofs of my noble

descent. I came from another county; my father, in his position as a

curate, had little cause to care for his nobility; nobody ever doubted

my rights, and I thought it was quite superfluous to have my title

proclaimed in this county; and now my papers and patents are lost! Alas!

my poor son!"

"Jonas," said Vandory, "you know that I too have had a loss. You know

the extent of that loss, and how likely it is to affect those things

which I care most about in this world. You understand me! But let us

place our trust in God."

"You have no children! Is there any son of yours the worse off for what

you have lost?"

"I understand you, and believe me I feel for you. My sympathy would

certainly be greater, if you were indeed deprived of your rights as a

nobleman. But is there no hope? Those papers are of no use to him who

stole them. He will send and ask a certain price for them. But suppose

he did not, cannot you prove that your papers were stolen, and that you

and your father enjoyed all the privileges of nobility? Besides, you can

make an appeal to the king's grace."

"The king's grace for _me_, a poor village notary?"

"Why not? If we do not find your papers, I myself will go to Vienna. I

will kneel before the king's majesty, and state the case to him. The

county is sure to send a petition, and I'll tell the king that you have

a family, and that you are wretched for their sake. God has made the

king so rich and so powerful--he has surely given him a feeling heart,

and a sense of pity and compassion for those that suffer."

"Friend," said Tengelyi, impatiently, "you are as mad as any optimist I

ever met with. The county, you say, is sure to petition in my favour?

Don't you see that there is a purpose in this robbery?--that it is part

of a plot to ruin me? and of a plot, too, which those very gentlemen

have made who, you fondly believe, are sure to petition in my favour?

Or do you think it's chance that my noble descent, which no one ever

doubted, is publicly denied at the very time that my papers are stolen?

Or was the composition of the commission accidental? Or was it an

accident that no one told me I should be called upon to prove my

nobility? Is all this mere chance and accident? Oh! you would not say

so, if you had seen that fellow Catspaw as he stood by the table

sneering at me! I am a victim to their diabolical plots! Viola is but

their tool. I'm down, never to rise again!"

"For God's sake, Jonas!" cried Mrs. Ershebet, seizing her husband's

hand; "my heart is ready to break when I see you thus desponding. Think

of the past!--think of all our sorrows and troubles!--did we not often

all but despair, when----"

Tengelyi's face bore the impress of the deepest agony. He pressed his

wife's hand, and asked with a low and tremulous voice,--"What is it that

has happened to Vilma?"

Her cheek grew pale, and her voice failed her.

"Ershebet!" gasped the notary; "what has become of my daughter?"

But Ershebet, scared by the expression of his face, was silent. Vandory

searched vainly for words to inform his friend of what had happened.

"I see!" said Tengelyi, pushing back her hand, which trembled in his.

"They told me the truth--nothing but the truth! My daughter's honour is

lost!"

Ershebet wept. Vandory said all he could say. He talked of young Rety's

honourable intentions,--of the love of young people,--and that it was

quite ridiculous to think of any violation of honour. Tengelyi stood

pale and stern. His lips moved, but they had not a word of comfort for

Mrs. Ershebet.

"Of course," murmured he, with a bitter smile,--"of course it's all

arranged--it's all for the best;--no doubt of it;--I am to have back my

nobility, and my daughter her honour. You, Vandory, you go to Vienna,

and his majesty gives us all we demand. The king indeed is a fountain of

honour, but do you think he can patch up a woman's reputation?"

Again Vandory attempted to demonstrate that there was no reason why

Akosh should not have met Vilma in her mother's presence, and that he

had sought the house with truly honourable intentions.

"But did he come to the house as an honourable man would?" asked

Tengelyi; "did he not leave Dustbury in secret and in the dead of the

night? Did he not tie his horse to the garden gate and creep to my

house just for all the world as if he were a thief? After this, who will

be fool enough to believe in his honourable intentions?"

"The future will prove them," said Vandory, quietly. "Who will dare to

speak against Vilma when she changes her name to Rety?"

"When she changes her name to Rety--that's it! isn't it, wife?" said

Tengelyi, turning fiercely upon Ershebet; "and it is you who wish it,

and it is you who I dare say are happy that things have happened as they

did, and that Akosh is bound. But are you aware that you have worked

your daughter's ruin? Are you aware that she will curse you for having

sacrificed her happiness to your vanity? Is my daughter to be Lady Rety

because she is dishonoured? because you have got Akosh in a corner.

They'll scorn her in her husband's house! She will have no position,

having lost the one which became her! She will be a slave! a wife by her

husband's charity! To see her will remind him of his having been _bound_

to marry her, but not of the love which made her his. I tell you, you

have ruined your own child!"

Ershebet wept.

"Weep, wretched woman, weep!" continued Tengelyi, "though your tears

cannot atone for your offence. Was there ever a better child, or one

more loving? and see what you have made of her! She was my pride; my

heart became young when I saw her. I forgot the past. I might almost

have loved mankind, because _she_ was of their kind, and because they

praised her. But now I must blush when her name is mentioned. I dare not

raise my eyes, and am a criminal for no crime of my own!"

"For God's sake, pity me!" cried Mrs. Ershebet; "if you love me,--if you

ever _did_ love me, pity me!"

"If I ever _did_ love you? God knows that I did! Did I ever speak an

unkind word to you? did I not listen to your wishes? did I not tell you

all my thoughts? and how did you requite me for all this love? I

entreated you not to receive young Rety in my house, and you promised

it, and, at that very moment, you thought of deceiving me. Akosh knew

the day on which my command was to be infringed! You taught your

daughter to deceive me. You waited for your guest in my absence. You

trembled at the thought of my approach! This is what you did for all my

love!"

"God sees my heart, Jonas. He knows that I do not deserve this!"

"Silence! don't speak to me unless you wish me to curse the day on

which I led you to the altar and brought you to this house!"

His violent speech was interrupted by Vilma, who, rushing into the room,

threw herself at his feet.

"Father!" cried she.

He stood still. He looked at his daughter, and felt that his heart was

indeed broken. All his passion was softened into grief. The hand which

he had raised for a curse dropped, and rested on the head of his child.

"Can you pardon your own Vilma?" said the girl.

"Come to my heart!" cried Tengelyi, clasping her in his arms. He wept.

CHAP. XII.

Young Rety's wound, as we have already stated, was by no means

dangerous, the bullet having passed through his left arm without

touching the bone. Indeed the young man was more than half ashamed of

having fainted, though but for a moment, in consequence of so slight a

wound. But the surgeon, who had been sent for from St. Vilmosh, and

Vandory, insisted on his going to bed, on account of the fever which

they expected to follow. We find Akosh Rety laid up and out of temper.

Kalman was smoking his cigar by the bed; and Janosh, the old servant,

was busy with sundry wet towels, which were being placed on the injured

limb. Young Rety's rooms were large and comfortable. Papers and books

lay on the tables, and the walls were hung with portraits of famous

Englishmen, and of still more famous English horses; guns, swords,

foils, and whips were heaped up in a corner, and a few foxes' brushes

and ears showed that the former objects were not only ornamental, but

also useful. Of course there was no lack of pipes, tobacco, and cigars;

in short, the room was a perfect bachelor's snuggery, even without the

sofas and lounging chairs, which form so necessary, and, let us say,

comfortable a feature in the _entourage_ of a young Hungarian. But in

spite of all these comforts, which were materially heightened by the

bright fire in the grate, the two young men were sadly out of spirits.

So much had happened since Akosh left Dustbury! Misfortune had sought

him in the midst of his happiness; and Kalman, though far from

regretting his defence of Tengelyi, felt that he had given fresh cause

of offence to the Retys, and thus created another barrier between

himself and Etelka. Janosh alone seemed to be in good spirits. He made

his spurs jingle as he walked about the room in the discharge of his

domestic duties; nor did his young master's moodiness affect him.

"I say, sir," said he at length, as he removed the bandages from Rety's

arm.

"Take care! mind my arm!" cried Akosh.

"I am an old donkey!" said Janosh. "I always hurt you!"

"Never mind. I am sure it does not hurt me now. Don't fret, Janosh; and

tell me what you were going to say."

"Oh, I was going to tell you, sir, that the weather is very bad."

"Indeed!" said Akosh.

"Yes, sir; and the potatoes which they are lifting to-day are done for.

They won't be good enough for the pigs to eat."

"Indeed!"

"Ay! and I hope none of the gentlemen will hunt on our fields. It will

spoil the crops. But," said Janosh, brightening up as if a sudden

thought had struck him, "I do beg and entreat you, sir, don't grieve at

it."

"At what?" said Akosh, astonished.

"Don't be sulky at the wound. It's a mere trifle. I can't say it does

one good; no, indeed, I myself had a taste of it in the battle of

Leipzig, and afterwards in France. But it doesn't do harm noways. You

see there are no bones broken."

"Why, you old fool! you don't think, surely, I fret about my wound?"

"What else have you to grieve for?" said the hussar. "I know that you

gentlemen feel every thing worse than we do. When we were on the march,

our young gentlemen were as delicate as ladies. They lamented and cried

out at the least hurt, and some of them were always a-going to the

hospital. But they got used to it; ay, indeed they did, sir. We are all

equal in war; and bullets and sabres have no respect for gentle flesh

and blood. Officers and men must do with little food or none, as the

case may be; and when they get something to eat, they share it like

brethren. You'd never believe it, sir, what doings there are in war."

Akosh smiled; but his face regained the whole of its former gloom as he

said, "Believe me, Janosh, were it but for this trifling wound, I should

not be sad. There are other sorrows to----"

"Other sorrows--ay, so there are! How could I possibly forget it?"

replied the old hussar, with a broad grin, for the purpose of making his

master understand that his sorrows were known and appreciated--"isn't it

about the notary's little Vilma? Oh! I know all about it. It's the same

with love as with new tobacco, which makes your eyes run with tears from

the mere looking at it. But do you know, sir, what I'd do if I were in

your place?"

"What is that?"

"Why, to tell you the truth, I'd marry her."

"You big fool! So I would if _I_ had the last word to say in the

matter."

"But who else has?" said the old man, shaking his head. "You won't be a

cripple, sir, from this here little wound; and I am sure Vilma wouldn't

take a man with three hands to your one. I'll be a cat, if Vilma will

ever be any other man's wife than yours!" Saying which, he left the

room, shaking his head and muttering.

"The old fellow has hit the mark," said Kalman. "You are in no danger of

losing Vilma's love. You have no cause for sorrow."

"Nor do I grieve on that account," replied Akosh, energetically;

"Vilma's love is not so lightly lost as all that. But I am anxious in my

mind because I'm uncertain about her future and mine."

"You're not accustomed to lie in bed. It makes you fanciful," said

Kalman.

"No, I tell you, no! Never was man more inclined to look at the bright

side of things than I am. I beat Vandory hollow; and in his own line

too. But ever since that accident happened to me, I am altogether

altered. My mind is filled with dark thoughts and bodings. I feel as if

the hand of fate were upon me, and I would fain flee if I knew but

whither."

"You've lost a precious deal of blood."

"No, it's not that!" said Akosh, shaking his head. "When I pressed Vilma

to me, when I felt the beating of her heart, and when I was more happy

than I ever thought it possible in my nature to be, it was then, Kalman,

the thought struck me, whether this was not my last joy, as it was my

greatest. Hitherto my thoughts of Vilma were all of hope; but since I

was thus rudely waked from my dream of bliss, I have examined my

position more narrowly. I cannot say that it gives me much comfort. A

man cannot make his wife happy unless he places her in a proper

position, in which she can respect herself and claim the respect of

others. If he fails in that, the utmost he can do is to share her grief,

and become a partner of her sorrows; but he will never come to make her

happy. Now that's _my_ case. Vilma's father is at daggers-drawn with my

parents."

Kalman sighed.

"Can I hope for my parents' consent? I don't mean a mere formal consent,

which people give because they cannot help it, but a real, ready, hearty

blessing, for it is that which I want for Vilma's happiness. Love scorns

sufferance; it asks for sympathy; and if that is denied it, and from

one's nearest relations too, my heart is lonely in spite of all love;

though it may cling to the beloved object, it is in sorrow, not in joy.

Mutual love is enough for bliss; but for that quiet happiness which we

look for in marriage, a great deal more is wanted than two mere loving

hearts."

"I don't deny it," said Kalman; "but time works wonders, let me tell

you. At present the old people have indeed a cordial, ay, a _fraternal_

hate against each other. Only think; when the Jew told Tengelyi that his

papers were gone, the notary was at once struck with the curious

coincidence (for _curious_ it was) of his noble descent being put in

question at the very moment of the theft. He spoke of a deep laid plan,

of a plot, the prime mover of which was----"

"Not my Father!" cried Akosh, anxiously.

"No, not exactly; besides, he is aware of my position in your family.

But he talked of our friend Mr. Catspaw, whom, as I take it, he thinks

but a tool in the hands of a third person."

"My father is incapable of such a thing!"

"Perhaps the notary does not suspect him so much as he does your

step-mother. He had much to say about the other robbery which they

attempted at the curate's, when the thieves, it appears, were likewise

after papers, for they touched none of the things in the room, but

opened the drawer in which Vandory kept his papers. Those papers have

since been removed to Tengelyi's house; and the notary told me over and

over again he was sure the two robberies were done by one and the same

hand, and planned by the same head. By the bye," said Kalman after a

pause, "do you happen to know any thing of Vandory's papers?"

"Who, I? Of course not. I've often wondered what important papers

Vandory must have, since it seems there _are_ people who wish to steal

them."

"I understand," whispered young Kishlaki, "that his papers have

something to do with your family."

"With _my_ family?"

"Ay, you know your father had an elder brother by your grandfather's

first wife. His second wife, your own grandmother, made the poor boy's

life miserable."

"Yes, and he ran away!" said Akosh. "They told me all about it. It

strikes me second wives don't do in the Rety family. But what connection

is there between all this and Vandory's papers?"

"I understand that that poor fellow, your uncle, went to Germany,

probably to some university; for he was seventeen when he ran away, and

a good scholar, they say. Now I am told that Vandory knew your uncle,

and that he still knows of his whereabouts; and, in short, that the

papers refer to your lost uncle Rety."

"This is indeed strange!" said Akosh.

"You know how people _will_ talk. Your father's friendship for Vandory,

and the curate's power over him, which is even greater than his wife's

influence, and a thousand other things, have made people believe that he

must have some means of acting upon your father; yes, that he knows of

something which it would not be convenient to tell to everybody; and

since the attempted robbery, there is not a blockhead in the county but

swears that there is something wrong somewhere."

"All I can say is, that this is a strange thing. Here we have two

robberies in less than two months, evidently for the purpose of

obtaining the papers; but then----"

Here the conversation was interrupted by Janosh, who entered with the

surgeon of St. Vilmosh.

"There, sir! there's some ice to put on your arm, and here's the

_sawbones_. Hell put things to right in no time."

The little man who was thus unceremoniously introduced as a "sawbones,"

cast an angry look at the hussar, walked up to his patient, examined the

wound, and expressed his satisfaction with its appearance and condition;

while Janosh, who always lost his temper when he saw anybody but himself

administering to his master's comforts, gnashed his teeth, grumbling and

discontented. He was wrong; for Mr. Sherer, a Magyar of German

extraction, who had successively exercised and failed in the various

callings of shoemaker and barber, and who had become a surgeon by dint

of great boldness, and by the grace of a rich widow, who had lent him

money to pay for his diploma, was deserving of any thing but

indignation. On the contrary, he was a very amiable man, who, during the

sixteen years he had lived at St. Vilmosh, had never given occasion for

the slightest complaint to those who, like Janosh, had never been ill.

"A nice wound! very nice! Yes, on my honour, pretty indeed!" said

Sherer. "On my word of honour, I never saw a prettier wound in my life."

"I wish you'd been in the wars," murmured Janosh, "you'd have seen

something like wounds, I tell you!"

"What do you know about it?" replied Sherer, "you'd value a wound by its

size. Now, on my word and honour, a large wound is not at all nice."

"No, indeed not. But a small wound is; one that heals without troubling

the sawbones."

Doctor Sherer (for by that title he loved to be called) turned away and

asked:

"How has it pleased you to sleep, sir?"

"Very well."

"And how do you feel?"

"Quite well."

"You don't feel excited?"

"Oh no! not by any means."

"Ay, perfect apirexy, which means want of fever?"

"I should say so."

"Perhaps you have some appetite?"

"Yes, I have."

"Did I not tell you so? Almond milk works wonders in such cases!"

Akosh smiled.

"Nobody can think what healing powers there are in almond milk. You are

quite well, eh? quite comfortable?"

"Yes, I am."

"On my word and honour, I am sorry they did not call me sooner! I would

have bled you."

"Why should you, since my master is well?"

"Hold your tongue! On my word and---- I tell you that phlebotomy works

wonders in such cases."

"The homoeopathists never bleed people," said Akosh, with a degree of

gravity which Kalman vainly attempted to imitate, when he saw the effect

these words had upon the doctor.

"Homoeopathists!" cried that learned person, with a grin of rage. "Well,

and what do _they_ do? do they give you emetics, tonics, and hot

medicines? Did any of them ever give you jalappa, bark, antispasmodic,

antiphlogistic, antirheumatic, and aromatic medicines? Cardus

benedictus, Rhabarbara, Tartarus, Sal mirabile Glauberi?"

"Stop!" cried Kalman. "I am as sick as a dog!"

"Who ever heard of a homoeopathist blistering or putting any other

plaster on you? I'll not talk of poultices, issues, cupping, and hot

baths. On my word and honour, what's a doctor good for if he can't even

give you a paltry black draught, Elixirum Viennense?"

"True, doctor," said Akosh; "a patient, if treated homoeopathically, must

do without a multitude of enjoyments. The healing art ought, above

all,----"

"To heal!" interrupted Sherer; "and it's the doctor's duty to try every

drug at the chemist's, and to call other medical men to a consultation,

until his patient's recovery----"

"Or death!" said Kalman.

"Bravo!" cried Janosh.

"Or death?" shrieked Doctor Sherer, highly disgusted. "On my word and

honour, I tell you, gentlemen, a really good doctor saves nine patients

out of ten; and if the tenth dies, why so much the worse, for I am sure

_he_ suffered from an old complaint, or he applied for advice when no

doctor could do him good. But suppose the patient were to die, sir; can

that circumstance, trifling I may call it, relieve the doctor from his

duty to give him everything which the professors teach at the

university? On my word and honour, sir! answer me that, sir, if you

can!"

"Oh, I can't. But the homoeopathists too have their medicines, and cure

their patients."

"Of course they do," sneered the doctor; "but then Nature does it for

them. Nature works wonders in many cases."

"But what does that signify if the patient recovers?"

"Yes, sir, it does matter. If you don't help Nature, it will over-exert

itself, and do more harm than good."

"But when your patients get well, who knows whether Nature or you did

it?"

"We, sir; we do; we who have been at the university for not less than

five years, where our professors have told us that a patient will not

recover unless we give him certain medicines. Those ignoramuses who know

nothing of science, those homoeopathists who know neither chemistry nor

mineralogy, nor anthropophagy--anthropology I meant to say, they are

always at their old tricks. Whenever we make a brilliant cure, they say

that Nature has done it. But we know better! Why, on my word and honour,

of what use would our studies at Pesth have been, if we did not know so

much as that?"

"Certainly!" said Akosh. "What's the use of learning so many things if

you know no more than anybody else?"

"True, sir; and catch a homoeopathist with a bad case!" cried Sherer.

"What does he do? He calls in an allopathist, as happened in the case of

the old advocate at Dustbury."

"He died three days after he had fallen into the hands of the county

physician," said Kalman. "I talked to the doctor who treated him first,

and he told me that, seeing that the case was hopeless, and that the

poor man's sufferings were great, he called in the county physician to

finish him. The doctors of your class despatch people so quickly, you

know."

This attack proved too strong for the surgeon's temper. He was convinced

of the usefulness of his science, for that science gave him, as district

surgeon, an annual income of three hundred florins, with the use of a

house, not to mention fees, which were considerable. What Kalman said

was to him worse than blasphemy; and unbounded were the disgust and

scorn expressed in all his features, when he saw Janosh, radiant with

joy, notifying his unqualified assent to, and approbation of, the jokes

of young Kishlaki.

"Now is there a single grain of sense in all the doings of the

homoeopathists?" said he at length. "Suppose a man is ill. Suppose he has

eaten a large quantity of Tarhonya, and he can't digest it. Now what

does a homoeopathist give him? On my honour and conscience, what else but

the millionth part of a drop of camomile oil? Now all I want to know is,

how you make it out? A large dish of Tarhonya and----"

"Of course," cried Kalman; "but I can't understand why bark should cure

me when I have the fever from stuffing myself with cake or cabbage?"

"I don't see how you should understand it," said the surgeon, with a

smile of conscious superiority. "You are ignorant of the science of

medicine. But, on my word and honour, it's the simplest thing in nature!

Bark has got a certain secret power against the fever; nothing more

natural than this. God has made bark for us to cure the fever with."

"But why did not God, when he created sausages and cabbages in this

country, which you know give us the fever, create bark likewise, since

it's rather a long way from here to China?"

"All you can do is to talk!" said Mr. Sherer, shaking his head; "we

cannot possibly converse with you on scientific subjects. But, now I'm

sure, nobody will deny, that if a small dose can have any effect, the

effect of a large dose must be still greater. If, therefore, the

millionth part of a drop of camomile can do any good, _I_ must do my

patients more good still, because I give them three large cups of

camomile tea; and this, after all, is the truth, for camomile tea, if

you administer it in large quantities, works wonders."

"Why," said Kalman, "much depends on the quantity, I grant; but much

depends likewise on the manner in which you administer the dose. Now

Doctor, for instance, you may sit on a bundle of sticks, say for two

hours and longer, without feeling greatly incommoded by the operation.

But suppose a _single_ stick be taken from the bundle, placed in the

hand of--say of Janosh--and applied in a certain manner of his own, to a

certain part of your own; I think, though the whole bundle did not cause

any disagreeable sensations, yet the single stick--How do _you_ think it

would act, Janosh?" continued Kalman, turning to the hussar, who

laughed immoderately.

"My opinion is, that it is all the same with the homoeopathy and the--I

forget how you call it; but faith, it matters very little! Our lives are

in God's hands, and when a man's last day is not come, he won't die

though you were to call in a hundred doctors."

There is no saying what Doctor Sherer would have said or done, (for he

looked _bistouris_ at the impertinent hussar,) had not Lady Rety entered

the room and interrupted the conversation. No sooner did the man of

science see her, than he hastened to kiss her hands, pouring forth a

long speech about cold water and ice, almond milk, camomile tea, and the

wonderful effects of each and all of these invaluable medicines.

Lady Rety was rather ill-tempered, and she showed it to the surgeon as

well as to Kalman, who received her with a low bow. But Akosh had always

great influence with his step-mother, and even now she treated him, if

not kindly, at least with politeness. Sitting down by his bed-side, she

asked him, with a great show of interest, how he felt.

Doctor Sherer and Janosh left the room. Kalman saw that his society was

not wanted; he went to the other end of the room, opened the window,

and looked down upon the garden. Lady Rety looked at Akosh. "Now you

see," said she, with a low voice, "what comes of your running after

women, instead of doing your duty at the election."

Akosh blushed, and said nothing.

"You need not blush. Vilma is pretty and----"

"My lady!"

But Lady Rety continued in the same tone.

"Vilma, I say, is a pretty woman; and as for you, young man, it would be

too hard upon you if we would quarrel with you for taking what is freely

offered. If the young woman does not care for her honour, why should

you?"

"My lady!" said Akosh; "I entreat you, do not speak in this tone!

Vilma----"

"Is a pretty woman," said the lady, with a sneer; "she is less correct

than I thought she was, but that's her mother's affair, not mine. They

over-educate these girls, and put strange fancies into their heads.

Tengelyi ought to have known that such an education is not fit for a

notary's daughter."

"Vilma is my betrothed," replied Akosh, who struggled manfully to keep

his temper.

"Indeed?" said his step-mother, with a forced smile. "Pray how many

_fiancées_ has your sultanship got?"

"She is the first," said Akosh, calmly, "and, I swear it, she shall be

my last."

Lady Rety cast her eyes down, and was silent.

"You talk wildly," said she at length, with her former gracious smile.

"Only think, Vilma to be a Lady Rety, and after such a scene!"

"Vilma being, as I told you, my betrothed, there is nothing

extraordinary in the whole occurrence."

"My father used to say to my brother, 'Whenever you marry, pray don't

take a woman who prefers you to her honour; for such a woman is likely

to prefer another man to her husband.'"

Akosh frowned. "I entreat you, don't rail at your own sex, by speaking

in this manner of a virtuous girl."

"Of course she is a virtuous girl. Master Akosh says it, and he ought to

know!"

"Do as you please! Why should you not be allowed to talk of your

daughter-in-law in any terms you like best?"

"_My_ daughter-in-law! Are you aware that Tengelyi's noble descent is a

matter of doubt?"

"I know it; but when Vilma is my wife she does not want any proofs of

nobility. To tell you the truth, that is another reason for me to marry

her."

"Tengelyi protests that he has papers by which he can prove his

descent----"

"He _had_ the papers, but they are gone. The Tengelyis have no one to

rely on but me!"

"But I understand," said Lady Rety, anxiously, "that the robbery did not

take place,--that the robber did not get the papers."

"On the contrary," replied Akosh, watching her emotion; "they left the

money, and took the papers."

Strive as she would, Lady Rety's face was radiant with joy.