"But still there is an appeal, and we'll make it. It's an appeal to the
future!"
"What does he say? I cannot understand it," said the old man.
"But _I_ do!" cried Lady Kishlaki. "You have planned his escape, have
you not?"
"I have, my dear mother. When he is once at large, we will make an
appeal; and if the worst come to the worst, he'll come before God's
judgment-seat at the end of his life. God will re-consider this day's
proceedings, and the sentence. But I know that the law cannot now do any
thing for him: indeed, the law may possibly condemn the step I am about
to take; but I don't care for it. My conscience tells me that what I do
is right; and if the Skinners and Catspaws are _in_ the law, why it's an
honour to be out of it."
Lady Kishlaki doted on her son; and her joy at his bold and manly speech
passed all bounds.
"You are right," said she, with that peculiar tone which marks a proud
and a happy woman: "you are right to scorn the law which would force us
to hang that wretched man on our own ground. Save his life; and may God
bless you for making your mother happy!"
Mr. Kishlaki, too, seemed relieved when he understood that there was a
means of saving Viola's life; but he soon fell back into his
characteristic irresolution.
"Take care," said he. "I cannot see how----"
"Leave him alone to manage it," cried Lady Kishlaki. "The moment I heard
him speak, I knew that his young mind, fertile in expedients,----"
"There you are mistaken, my sweet mother!" said Kalman, smiling. "That
young mind which, fertile in expedients, found the means for Viola's
flight, belongs not to me, but to old Janosh." And he proceeded to
detail the manner in which they hoped to effect their purpose.
"This, then, was the reason why you would not allow Viola to be put into
a better place!" said his mother. "I thought you cruel and
inconsiderate."
"And you wronged me," cried Kalman, gaily: "but, to make up for it, you
must assist us. I want the keys of the cellar and granary; for, in
Hungary, there's no getting on without the two. Will you trust me with
them?"
"With all my heart!" said Lady Kishlaki, handing him the keys. "Spare me
not; let them do as they please. Give the haiduks Tokay, if it must be;
but do save that poor man!"
Mr. Kishlaki walked, meanwhile, to and fro in a terrible state of
excitement. His wife followed him; and, placing her hand on his
shoulder, she asked: "What is the matter with you?"
"I think of the confounded scrape into which my weakness has brought me.
It was in my power to save that man: I might have done it orderly and
legally; and what's the consequence? My only son is compelled to step
in, and get himself into trouble, perhaps he will destroy the brightest
hopes of his life, and I am not even allowed to ask him to desist."
"My dear father!" cried Kalman; "how can I possibly destroy my hopes by
saving the life of a fellow-creature?"
"Who knows what the Retys will do when they learn that it was you who
saved Viola? You are aware of Lady Rety's vindictive character. I am
sure she hates you for what you did for Tengelyi."
"It does not signify,", replied Kalman, quietly. "I ask no favour at the
hands of Rety or his haughty lady; and as for Etelka, I trust this
letter will convince you that she, at least, will not owe me any grudge
for what I mean to do." Saying which, he produced the letter which
Janosh had brought him.
"She is an angelic creature; she is, indeed!" said Lady Kishlaki,
looking over her husband's shoulder, as he read the letter. "You are
right, my son. You're in duty bound to save Viola."
"It's the first letter I ever had from Etelka," cried Kalman. "If she
asked me to commit a crime, I'd do it with the greatest pleasure; and
this----"
"God forbid that I should oppose it!" said the old man. "Your motives
are good and generous; but still, what you intend doing is a crime
according to law. If you should be detected, I tremble to think of the
consequences!"
"Our success is certain," said Kalman. "Nothing can be more easy than to
make the haiduks drunk. To keep them sober would be a far more difficult
task. There's a door, of which I have the key. Nothing can be more
simple."
"But suppose they were to know of it? Suppose they were to indict you?"
"Indict _me_?" cried Kalman, laughing. "My dear father, are you not
aware that, to proceed against me, they must have the consent of the
quorum? How will they ever get it?" And, pocketing the keys, he left the
room.
"A generous lad!" said his mother. "How can Etelka help being fond of
him?"
"Capital plan!" sighed Kishlaki; "capital plan, if it remains a secret.
It's indeed a generous action; but it's criminal, my love; it's against
the laws."
"Do not worry yourself with these thoughts."
"And to think that I had it in my power to prevent it!"
"Never mind. Viola is saved; that's enough for all intents and
purposes."
"A cruel law, this," sighed Kishlaki. "I wonder what stuff the man was
made of who first proposed it!"
CHAP. IX
To make people reasonable is a difficult thing at all times; but there
are cases in which it is not less difficult to make them unreasonable.
Kalman Kishlaki was doomed to learn the truth of this maxim, for all his
endeavours to induce Mr. Skinner to drink away the niggardly allowance
of sense with which Nature had provided that individual, proved
abortive. As for Mr. Catspaw, we need not mention _him_, for he was one
of those wretches who are always sober. To intoxicate _him_ was a thing
that Kalman never dreamed of. The other guests, not even excepting Baron
Shoskuty, answered without any invitations, and as it were
spontaneously, to the wishes of their young host; the judge alone stood
unshaken, like a sturdy rock in a troubled sea. Mr. Skinner was one of
the deepest drinkers in the county; he was not indeed a stranger to the
condition in which Kalman wished to see him; but the presence of
Völgyeshy, whom he hated, the admonitions of Mr. Catspaw, and above all
his honest ambition to add fresh honours to his former trophies, made
him proof against any quantity of wine which Kalman induced him to
take.
"You'd like to make me drunk, now, wouldn't you?" said he, tossing off a
large tumbler of red wine. "Don't be ridiculous, my fine fellow! who
ever saw _me_ drunk?"
"_I_ have," smiled Mr. Kenihazy from his place at the card-table; "I've
seen you as drunk as David's sow!"
"Who did?" cried Mr. Skinner.
Zatonyi, who, leaning on his elbows, watched Mr. Catspaw shuffling the
cards, raised his head at the sound of the judge's shrill voice, and
observed that, after all, the day's business was neatly done.
"This is my sixteenth case," added he; "and, somehow or other, we always
managed to do for somebody."
"_Nihil ad rem!_" cried Mr. Skinner; "it's this man I want to ask."
"_Nihil ad rem_, indeed!" hiccoughed Zatonyi, "are not we in
court-martial assembled? It is provided that the court shall sit until
the sentence has been executed."
"Fiddlesticks! it's nothing _ad rem_, I tell you! I want to ask
Kenihazy!"
"Oh, fiddlesticks! eh?" cried the assessor, striking the table with his
fist, "when I say--eh, what did I want to say? yes, that's it, that's no
fiddlesticks! Consider, _domine spectabilis_, to whom you're speaking,
and where you are; I say, sir, lie prostrate in the face of the sanctity
of the place; for, sir, this is a court-martial!"
Mr. Skinner became more and more impatient.
Kalman, who hoped that a quarrel between them would serve his purposes
better than the heaviest Tokay, nodded approvingly to Zatonyi, who went
on, to the great annoyance of Mr. Skinner, though doubtless very much to
his own satisfaction.
"This is not a place for your frivolous jokes, sir--frivolous, I say,
sir; and make the most of it, if you please! Up to the criminal's
execution, we sit as a court-martial--all the time, sir, without
intermission, without--fiddlesticks! It is provided in the articles,
chapter four thousand five hundred and twenty-four, that we are to eat
in court-martial, sir, and we play at Tarok in court-martial, sir, and
we----"
"Cease your row!" snarled the justice.
"I will make a row! And I must make a row, and I'm entitled to make a
row, and I'd like to see the man who'd prevent me from making a row!
I'm as much of an assessor as any man in the county!"
The Baron had meanwhile studied his cards. He was prepared to come out
strong, and he urged them to continue the game; but neither Mr. Skinner
nor Kenihazy would listen to him, for Kalman did his utmost to excite
them still more. Mr. Skinner fancied he saw a sneer on Völgyeshy's lips,
which he could not ascribe to any thing but the doubts which it was
evident that hated person entertained of his assertion, that he, Paul
Skinner, would drink three glasses to Mr. Kenihazy's one, and remain
sober into the bargain.
"Don't boast!" said Kalman. "I'll never believe you."
"You won't?"
"No, indeed! I'll back Kenihazy against anybody."
"You will, will you? I say two cows to my greyhound."
"Done! Your greyhound is mangy; but I don't care. I am sure to win."
"Done, I say! Hand us the glasses."
Kalman could scarcely repress a smile of triumph, while Mr. Catspaw
moved heaven and earth to prevent the bet; but Kenihazy laughed, and
emptied his glass, the valorous judge followed his lead with three
glasses, and the game was continued, though rather more noisily than
before.
While Kalman was thus occupied in settling the masters, Janosh imitated
his example with signal success in the servants' hall; indeed so
strenuous were his attacks upon the general sobriety, that scarcely one
of the haiduks and peasants was left to whom an impartial observer would
have awarded the laurels of abstinence.
A deep silence prevailed in the prisoner's room, at the door of which
two of the least intoxicated among the haiduks were placed. Vandory had
passed above an hour in the cell, attempting to administer the comforts
of religion to the condemned criminal; and when he left, Susi came to
take her last leave of her husband, for, according to Mr. Skinner's
express orders, she was forbidden to remain later than nine o'clock.
Both Viola and Susi were fearfully anxious and disturbed in their minds.
Viola had often thought of the death which awaited him. From the moment
of his capture in the St. Vilmosh forest, he knew that his doom was
fixed. He made no excuses to the judges, he gave them no fair words; not
from pride, but because he knew that neither prayers nor promises could
avail him. And what, after all, is death but the loss of life? And was
his life of those which a man would grieve to lose? There were his wife
and children--but was it not likely that they would be happier, or at
least quieter, _after_ the misfortune in whose anticipation they passed
their days? Of what good could _he_ be to his wife? Was he not the cause
of her misery? of her homeless beggary? Of what use could _he_ be to his
children? Was not his name a stigma on their lives? Could he hope, could
he pray for any thing for them, except that they might be as unlike
their father as possible?
"When I am gone," thought he, "who knows but people may forget that I
ever lived? My wife, too, will, perhaps, forget that accursed creature,
whose life filled hers with shame and sorrow. My children will have
other names; they will go to another place, and all will be well and
good. I have but one duty, and that is to die."
His tranquillity of mind was disturbed by the plan of escape which
Janosh communicated to him. The old soldier was, indeed, resolved to
delay that communication till the last moment, lest Susi's excitement
and joy should attract the attention and awaken the suspicions of the
justice and his myrmidons. But when he entered the room which had been
assigned to Susi and her children; when he saw the pale woman nursing
the youngest child in her arms, and utterly lost in the gloom of her
despair; when Pishta, with his eyes red with weeping, came up to him,
asking him to comfort his mother, and when the infant awoke, and smiled
at him, the old hussar was not proof against so much love and so much
sorrow; and when Susi, kissing the child, exclaimed, "The poor little
thing knows not how soon it will be an orphan!" he wept, and cried out,
"No, no, Susi! this here child is as little likely to become an orphan
as you are likely to be a widow!" And it was only by her look of utter
amazement that he became conscious of what he had said.
There were now no means of keeping the secret. Little Pishta was sent
away, and Janosh told her in a whisper of all that they intended to do.
"You see," added he, "we've thought of everything. Don't fret, now; in a
few hours, when the gentlemen and the keepers are asleep, (and they are
settled, I tell you,) you'll see your husband at large, and on
horseback, too. It's no use being sad, and it's no use despairing--that
is to say--yes! I mean you ought to despair; you ought to be sad; come,
wail and pray, and ask for mercy! else they'll smell a rat. I am an old
fool, and ought to know better than to tell you, for if you cannot
impose upon them, it's all over with us."
Susi whispered some questions to Janosh, to which he answered in the
same subdued tone of voice; adding,
"Give me your child, that I may look at it, and dance it on my knee.
What a sweet child it is!" said he, his whole face radiant with smiles;
"I never saw a prettier child: and it laughs, too, and at me! No, my
fine fellow, we won't let your father come to harm. Ej, Susi, I wish to
goodness I had a child like this!"
"My children will love you as their second father," said she, with a
happy and grateful look.
"Yes, as their _second_ father," said the old man, sighing; "but it must
be a fine thing to be loved as a real father. I say, Susi, I've often
thought why God hasn't given _me_ children. You'll say it's because I
have no wife. That's true. But why haven't I got a wife? If they had not
sent me to the wars, I'd be a grandfather by this time; and, believe me,
I'd give my silver medal and my cross for such children as yours. I'd
give them both for a single child! Well, God's will be done. Perhaps I
have no children because if I had I'd not be so fond of other people's.
Young children are all equally beautiful; there's no difference between
them. They are fresh and lively, like river trout; but in course of time
one half of them turn out to be frogs, and worse."
Janosh saw that Pishta came back with Vandory to call his mother to
Viola. Imploring her not to betray the secret, he walked away, fearful
lest Susi should want the strength to dissemble her thoughts. His
anxiety on this head was perfectly gratuitous. The good news, which Susi
communicated to her husband, filled them both with unspeakable dismay.
Whoever could have seen Viola would have thought that his stout heart
was at last overcome with the fear of death. Need we marvel at this? Was
not life powerful within him, trembling in every nerve, throbbing in
every vein? Was not his wife by his side? Could he forget his children,
whom his death might drive to ruin and, possibly, to crime? Viola had
long wished to change his mode of life. He was now at liberty to do so.
The brother of the Gulyash was dead. The poor man died at the moment
when he was preparing to take his wife and three children to another
county, where a place as Gulyash was promised to him. The papers and
passports which were necessary for this purpose were in the hands of
old Ishtvan, who had promised to take Viola to the place. There, above a
hundred miles from the scene of his misfortunes, in a lonely tanya,
where nobody knew him or cared to know him, could he not hope to live
happily, peacefully, and contentedly? But did not that happiness hang on
a slender thread, indeed? Were there not a hundred chances between him
and its attainment? A whim of the justice's, a different position of the
sentinels, the noise of a falling plank, could snatch the cup of life
and liberty from his lips, and cast him back into the valley of the
shadow of death.
He was in this state of mind when Mr. Skinner made his appearance in the
cell. He was accompanied by Mr. Catspaw and the steward, for his
_umbra_, Kenihazy, was in a state which rendered him unfit to be company
to any one, even to Mr. Skinner. The change in Viola's manner was too
striking to escape the attention of either the attorney or the steward.
The justice perambulated the cell with a show of great dignity, and a
futile attempt to examine into the condition of the walls. He poked his
stick into the straw which served Viola for a lair; when the steward
walked up to him, and whispered that the robber had lost all his former
boldness.
"Indeed!" cried Mr. Skinner, with a shrill laugh. "I say, Viola,
where's your pluck? Where's your impertinence, man? Ain't you going to
die game, eh, Viola?"
"Sir," said the robber, biting his lips, "the step which I am preparing
to take is bitter, and, I will own it, I feel for my family. What is to
become of them?"
"Your family? Oh! your wife! Never mind; _I'll_ protect her."
Viola looked daggers at the man; but he curbed his temper and was
silent.
"And as for your children," continued the justice in a bantering tone,
"they're very fine children, are they not?--eh? Well, they'll grow up,
and come to be hanged--eh? But what's the use of this palaver? I say,
Susi, be off! You've had plenty of time for your gossip; and I say,
Viola, make your will and all that sort of thing."
The prisoner, deeply sensible of his precarious position, embraced his
trembling wife: but Susi would not leave him; she clung to him in all
the madness of sorrow.
"I say! you've had time enough to howl and lament!" cried the justice.
"Make an end of it, and be off!" And suiting the action to the word, he
seized Susi by her dress, and led her to the door. Mr. Catspaw and the
steward followed her; but the justice stayed behind, gloating over the
sufferings of the prisoner. At length he laughed, and said,--"I say,
Viola, who's the man that's in at the death? Who'll swing? I said I'd do
it, and you see I'm as good as my word!" And turning on his heels, he
left the room, and locked the door.
Two of the soberest men were placed in the hall to watch that door; but
even they, thanks to the endeavours of Janosh, were not sober enough for
Mr. Catspaw, who was just in the act of lamenting that, in consequence
of their host's excessive liberality, there was not a man in the house
but was drunk, when he was interrupted by Mr. Skinner.
"Who is drunk? What is drunk?" said the worthy justice, turning fiercely
upon the attorney. "I say, sir, nobody's drunk here--no one was drunk
here--no one will be drunk--and indeed no one can be drunk! That's what
_I_ say, sir! Who dares to contradict me?"
"Don't be a fool!" whispered the attorney; "who the devil said any thing
of _you_? But look at these fellows! they're roaring drunk."
"D--n you, he's right!--Confound you, you _are_ roaring drunk! Blast me,
I'll have you hanged! If that robber escapes, one of you shall swing in
his place! I say, fellows, look sharp! It's truly disgusting,"
continued the sapient justice, "that men _will_ get drunk--drown their
reason in wine, for all the world like so many beasts."
The sentinels vowed, as usual, that they had not had a drop ever so
long, and that the prisoner should not escape though he were the very
devil; but Mr. Catspaw, alike distrustful of their vigilance and
sobriety, insisted on seeing the door double-locked, and on taking away
the key. Mr. Skinner protested against this encroachment on the duties
of his office. He knew that the attorney suspected him of being less
sober than he might have been, and this suspicion rendered him the more
obstinate. He pocketed the key and sought his bed-room, denouncing drink
and drunkards in the true temperance meeting style.
The inmates of Kishlak manor-house followed his example. The judges, the
sentinels at the gate and round the house, the steward, and all retired
to rest; and although Susi watched, though Kalman paced his own room
with all the impatience of his age, and though old Kishlaki himself, for
the first time since many years, courted sleep in vain, yet the house
and its environs were hushed and silent. Stillness reigned in the
prisoner's cell; the sentinels at the door stood gaping, and waiting for
the hour of their relief. The night was cold, and though they did their
best to keep the cold out, or at least out of their stomachs, they
shivered and complained of the chilly night air. Janosh, who seemed to
like the cold and darkness, had meanwhile met Peti, who held Viola's
horse at the further end of the garden. The gipsy brought a crowbar and
all other tools which they wanted for their purpose; he told the hussar
that the Gulyash Ishtvan had promised to bring his cart and horses to
the threshing-floor, in order to take away Susi and her children. The
old soldier was greatly pleased with this good news. He tied the horse
to the garden gate, and told the gipsy to conceal himself somewhere near
the loft. This done, he went to look after the sentinels, whom, to his
great disgust, he found still awake.
"Is it not ten o'clock?" asked one of them, when Janosh came up.
"Of course it is!" said his comrade. "I'd rather do any robot service
than this cold kind of work. It's too much for a soldier, and it's far
too much for me. My comrade here was in the wars; he tells me they never
force soldiers to play the sentinel so long as we must."
"Who can help it?" said the other man. "It's by order, you know."
"Oh, indeed! It's easy enough, I dare say, to give an order; go and
come! stand still! be starved with hunger and cold!--nothing's more easy
than play the devil with a poor fellow, while they are stretching their
limbs in their warm beds. At least they ought to give us something to
eat, or some brandy; I'm sure I was never so cold in all my born days!"
"Don't get sulky!" said Janosh. "I'll tell you what I'll do for you.
Master Kalman has given me a bottle of brandy to drink his health.
Suppose I go for it. It's nearly full."
He went away and told Kalman how matters stood. When he returned, he
brought them a bottle of Sliwowiza and a loaf of bread.
"You see," said he, "that's the way things go on when there's no proper
officer. If the judge or any of the other gentlemen had been in the
army, they would have made some provision for you, and got some one to
relieve you, but as it is----"
"Why, I do hope and trust they will relieve us!" cried one of the men.
"Blessed are those that put their trust in the Lord," retorted Janosh,
laughing; "I'd be happy to know who is to relieve you? Why, man, they're
all asleep!"
"Give me the bottle! I'm as cold as ice!" said the other man, shaking
his head, while his comrade stood drowsily leaning on his musket.
Janosh handed him the bottle, and assured the two men that there was no
chance of their being relieved from their duty, and that nothing was
more likely than their falling asleep about daybreak, the very time when
the justice would go his rounds,--in which case he (Janosh) had no
ambition to be in their skins. The bottle went from hand to hand, to
keep them awake, as Janosh said, until the poor fellows swore that they
would not stand it any longer, and that, come what may, they must sleep.
"Very well!" said Janosh; "I've been in the wars, you know! I'm used to
the service. You see I'm not at all sleepy. You may go to the shed and
lie on the straw, and when I'm tired I'll wake you. A little sleep will
do you good; and by the time the justice turns out you'll be all right."
His offer was readily accepted. The two men walked off, and their loud
snoring soon informed Janosh that there was now no obstacle to the
execution of his plans. Leaving the musket behind, he walked to the
shed, where he assured himself of the firm and sound sleep of the two
sentinels; and, having done this, he hastened to the loft, where Peti
and Kalman waited for him. Janosh pulled off his boots, (there was no
occasion for the gipsy's following his example,) and, having lighted a
lamp, he crept up the stairs to the top of the house. Kalman kept watch
by the lower door. Wrapped up in his cloak, he listened with a beating
heart, lest something might interfere with the success of their scheme.
Something of the kind was likely to happen. Kalman was scarcely at his
post when he heard the sound of steps approaching from the house in
which the judges slept. The young man stepped aside to escape being
discovered, and he had already begun to blame himself for failing to
"settle" Mr. Skinner sufficiently, when he saw that the person who
approached the place, holding a lamp in one hand and a cudgel in the
other, was not Skinner, but Mr. Catspaw, the attorney. Kalman raised his
hand, and was preparing to rush forward, with a view of "doing for" the
lawyer by knocking him down; when, luckily for the attorney, it struck
him that that delicate operation could not be performed without some
noise, and, consequently, not without hazarding the success of the
enterprise. Mr. Catspaw was therefore allowed to pass on, which that
worthy man did with the utmost unconcern. But his peaceful and happy
state of mind was changed to utter disgust, confusion, and dismay,
when, on reaching the door of Viola's cell, he found that there were no
sentinels to guard the prisoner.
"Confound it!" muttered he, "they're after no good in this house. That
young fellow Kalman has made them all drunk--Skinner, the sentinels, the
servants, and all. They would like Viola to escape. They tried it this
morning, and as it was no go, they mean to do it by brute force.
Confound them! I'll go back and wake some of the men,--I'll remain here
and watch the door,--what the devil am I to do? That fellow must be got
out of the way! If the case is tried in a common court, he'll say enough
to implicate me in the matter; and goodness knows what may come of it!
There are some who hate me!----" And the attorney was about to return to
the lower parts of the house, when his attention was attracted by an
extraordinary noise, which seemed to come from the prisoner's cell. The
noise resembled that of the breaking of planks. He crept to the door and
listened. There was the creaking and the sound of the raising of planks;
and immediately afterwards there was a sound of some heavy object being
carefully lowered into the cell.
"They are breaking through the ceiling!" cried the attorney; "d--n them!
I'll stop them yet!" and, in defiance of his usual prudence, he
attempted, though unsuccessfully, to open the door. He cursed Skinner
for pocketing the key. Peti and Janosh, who were at work on the upper
loft, had provided themselves with a ladder, which they lowered into the
cell, the noise of which operation was distinctly heard by Kalman, and,
indeed, by the sentinels in the shed, whom it awaked, though not
sufficiently to induce them to get up, which, considering the quantity
of liquor they had drunk, was by no means an easy matter. But if the
noise was lost upon them, it was not lost upon the steward; on the
contrary, so effectually did it tell upon him, that he fell into an
agony of fear and despair.
That worthy servant of the Kishlakis had never donned his nightcap with
so proud and happy a feeling as on that night. The great condescension
of the members of the court, nor even excepting the Baron, for all that
he was a magnate; the important duties which he had to perform, such as
the guarding of the prisoner, the construction of the gallows, and other
arrangements which required ability and tact, and which brought out his
"_savoir faire_," gave him still stronger feelings of his own importance
than those which usually pervaded his unwieldy frame. He gloried in
himself, and lay awake, magnifying and exalting his own name.
"I'm born for better things," said he. "I was never meant for farming.
To look after the manure, and the planting, and the ploughing and
threshing,--curse it! it's slow work, and I am too good for it! I ought
to be a lawyer. Providence created me expressly for that profession!
Wouldn't I get on in that line! I might come to be a sheriff, and an
assessor of the high court, and indeed a lord-lieutenant, and a magnate
of the empire! For what place is too high for a Hungarian lawyer?"
Such were the stout man's thoughts. His imagination borrowed a glow from
his cups, (for he, too, had drunk deep), and the cares of his fancied
honours and dignities kept him awake, in spite of the fatigues of the
day, and, indeed, in spite of his own endeavours to go to sleep. He, to
whom it was an easy matter to talk a whole party to sleep, now vainly
exerted his skill upon himself. He tried every means; he occupied
himself with figures and accounts. But the figures danced in a wild
maze, and, somehow or other, the accounts would not tally. He opened his
eyes, and looked around. The dying glare of his candle threw a dim light
on the objects in the room, filling it with gaunt and shadowy forms. He
shuddered, and extinguished the candle; but the darkness made matters
worse. His thoughts _would_ run on robberies and murders. The greatest
brigand in the county, a man sentenced to death, was a prisoner in his
house. Who knows what Viola's friends were about? Perhaps they were
numerous. Perhaps they were formidable and fierce. Nothing was more
natural than that they should attack the house, and liberate their
captain. And if so, what was to become of the poor steward, who had so
jealously watched lest he might escape, and who had protested, yes, and
in the presence of at least a hundred people, every one of whom might
have told the robbers of it, that Viola must needs be hanged? That
thought made him shake in his bed. And besides, was not his door wide
open? Did he not keep it open ever since he was afraid of apoplexy? What
was to prevent the outlaws from entering his room, and hanging him on
his bed-post? Nothing; for the haiduk, whose duty it was to sleep on the
threshold, had been taken away to join the watch on Viola.
The poor steward's alarm had come to its _acmé_, when he heard the noise
of steps in the loft over his head. He sat up in his bed. He heard the
steps very distinctly, and immediately afterwards he heard the creaking
and breaking of the planks. Yes! the most dreaded event had come to
pass. The robbers were at their work of death and destruction! They
were burning the house, and cutting the throats of all the inmates!
"Gracious God!" groaned he, clasping his hands. What _could_ he do? He
might lock the door! There was a singing in his ear, his heart beat
irregularly, his breath failed him, his face was covered with sweat, and
his limbs trembled,--all these were symptoms of an apoplectic fit. "If I
lock the door, I am utterly lost!" thought he; "for no one can come to
my assistance!" He hid his head under the blankets. But the noise grew
louder, and he fancied somebody was breaking through the wall of the
room next to his. Perhaps there were not less than a hundred robbers;
perhaps they were bent upon torturing him! Unless the door was locked,
there was no possibility of screaming for help; for he knew the first
thing they intended to do was to gag him. But then, he was in a
perspiration; the room was icy cold: to get up and stand on the cold
floor was literally courting a fit of apoplexy. But when he heard Mr.
Catspaw hallooing, his fear got the better of all other considerations.
He jumped out of bed, wrapped himself up in a blanket, and ran to the
door. But what can equal his horror when he heard the door of the
corridor turning on its hinges, and when quick steps approached him! He
dropped the blanket because it interfered with his movements, and
seized the key, when the door was flung open. Before him stood a small
man, wrapped in a bunda.
There is a tide in the affairs of a coward in which fear makes him a
hero. Such a moment had come for the steward. Furious as a stag at bay,
reckless as a man who sees certain death before him, merciless as one to
whom no mercy is given, senseless, maddened, frenzied, he rushed upon
the new comer, and in the very next moment Mr. Catspaw measured his
length on the ground, and roared for help.
"Murder!" screamed the attorney.
"Assassin!" bawled the steward, throttling his adversary with his left
hand while he punched the wretched man's head with his right.
"He is mad!" groaned Mr. Catspaw, grasping the steward's ears, and
returning the blows; and thus they would have passed _un vilain quart
d'heure_, had not the noise of their combat roused the watch, who rushed
to the field of battle, and separated the champions. Lights were
brought, and the two worthies stood bleeding from their respective noses
and mouths, as they gaped and stared at one another.
"Was it you, sir, who wanted to steal my money?" said the steward.
"He's mad!" cried the attorney: "lock him up; for he's raving mad! Be
quick about it; the prisoner is making his escape!"
They seized the steward, pushed him into his room, and locked the door.
The poor man stood, for a moment, paralysed with an excess of fear,
fury, and fatigue; but the cold reminded him of his danger, viz., of
being struck with apoplexy. He crept into his bed, pondering on the
deceit and cruelty of this wicked world.
Mr. Catspaw and the servants hastened to the cell. They forced the door
open, and found that the robber had fled, as it is but natural to
suppose, if we consider the length of time the attorney spent in the
embrace or, more properly speaking, under the fists of the steward. For,
when Mr. Catspaw raised his first shout, Viola had reached the upper
loft, from whence he leaped down stairs, and out of the house. Kalman
locked the door of the loft, and hastened to inform Susi of the success
of their plan, and to conduct her to the back-door of the garden, which
they had scarcely entered, when the fleet steps of a horse, at the top
of its speed, informed them of Viola's safety. Susi kissed Kalman's
hand, and hastened away; while he, with the happy consciousness of a
good deed, hastened to the steward's house, where he found nothing but
clamour and confusion. Masters, servants, Pandurs, and peasants, with
torches, candles, and lamps, ran in every direction, hallooing and
screaming. Every one took his turn at the cell; and everybody declared,
what everybody was aware of, that the prisoner had escaped through the
ceiling; and everybody gave his advice, which nobody followed, and
orders, which nobody obeyed. Not one of them could be induced to go in
pursuit of the robber; and all Mr. Catspaw had for his watchfulness was
a battered face and the loss of a couple of teeth. Nor was it until
daybreak that they all and each became aware of the fact that they had
neglected to pursue the robber; and, as it was not likely that Viola
would come back of his own free will, they returned to their respective
beds, with the exception of Kenihazy, whom--_nec ardor civium, nec frons
instantis tyranni_--neither the shaking of the haiduks nor Skinner's
imprecations could induce to leave his bed, and who was not, therefore,
under the necessity of returning to it.
CHAP. X.
Nothing is more painful to a man of quick and ardent feelings than to be
compelled to inactivity, as was the case with young Rety while the
events which we have sought to record were passing around him. His
feverish anxiety, his petulance, and his obstinacy exceeded all bounds;
he would certainly have left his room, and taken an active part in
Viola's liberation, had not Etelka informed him of Vilma's anxiety for
his safety, and her urgent entreaties that he should not leave his room
without the permission either of Vandory or the doctor. Etelka felt her
brother's accident more painfully than any other member of the family,
not for his sake alone, but also for Vilma's; for she was aware how much
the poor girl would have to suffer in consequence. It is, therefore, no
wonder that Etelka was sad and dispirited when she retired to her
chamber on the evening of the election-day. There was a gloom on her
mind which she could not dispel. She knew too much of her step-mother to
believe she would ever consent to her brother's marriage with Vilma;
and as for her father, he had scarcely a will of his own. It was but
natural to suppose that he would do all in his power to change his son's
mind, partly in obedience to Lady Rety's behests, and partly because he
hated Tengelyi. And Akosh! how could _he_ yield, when even the delay of
a few days brought dishonour on the woman he loved? The least Etelka
expected was a grievous domestic quarrel; the worst, a breach between
father and son.
Her thoughts were bitter; but they were qualified by at least one soft
and kind feeling. She admired the generous manner in which Kalman
protected Tengelyi. The young man's behaviour was as intrepid as
disinterested. He was aware of the grudge which the sheriff bore
Tengelyi; and he must have known that his words in the notary's behalf
were so many barriers between him and Etelka. He knew it all, and yet he
had spoken; and Etelka, who was convinced of his love, admired him the
more for his reckless daring and his generous self-denial. Wrapped up in
these thoughts, she retired to rest, though restless; and, when she
dropped off to sleep, she was roused by the rattling of a carriage from
her dreams of the election, robbers, her brother's pale face, and
Kalman's bold attitude and looks of defiance. She sat up in her bed,
and listened. A quick step was heard on the stairs and in the corridor.
The door of the next room opened, and shut. The new comer was Mr.
Catspaw, who, after Viola's capture, returned with the notary's papers
to Tissaret; and whose apartments, as has been already stated, were next
to Etelka's chamber, from which nothing divided them but a thin brick
wall. Etelka (as, indeed, on a former occasion, her maid) heard every
one of the attorney's movements. "Where can he have come from?" thought
she, as she prepared to lie down again; when her attention was attracted
by the attorney's voice. To judge from the noise he made, he was
arranging some papers.
"Here they are!" said he; "here are the notary's diplomas! Well, sir,
who'll prove your descent? And here are the papers which Lady Rety
wants. Right, quite right!--I'll put them in a drawer, and lock them up!
I'll have my own price for them, won't I? that's all!"
He locked the drawer and walked about the room. Etelka had great
difficulty in catching his words; but she understood that they referred
to some piece of knavery, when suddenly her attention was attracted by
other steps in the corridor. The door opened again, and Mr. Catspaw
said, in his usual shrill voice:
"Victory! my lady! The day is ours! Viola is a prisoner. He fought to
the last; but we burned his hut, and smoked him out. The papers are in
my hands."
"Where are they?" said another voice, which Etelka knew as her
step-mother's.
"I burned them, the moment I could lay my hands on them. They'll not
give us any more trouble. They were all in a parcel, and Tengelyi's
papers too, which your ladyship was so anxious to have."
"For God's sake don't speak so loud!" said Lady Rety. "Etelka returned
last night with her father, and if she is awake she will hear every
word." Upon which Mr. Catspaw continued the conversation in a whisper,
which effectually prevented Etelka from catching the thread of their
discourse. When Lady Rety left the attorney's room, Etelka made vain
endeavours to sleep; at the break of day she hastened to inform her
brother of the events of the night. He induced her to write to Kalman,
and old Janosh received orders to take the letter to Kishlak. That day
passed in a painful uncertainty, which was but partly relieved when, on
the following morning, Janosh returned from his expedition. Viola was
saved; but what were Akosh and Etelka to do? They felt convinced that
Vandory's papers were stolen in consequence of their parents', or at
least their step-mother's, commands. Could there be any truth in the
statement (which Kalman communicated to Akosh) that these papers had
some relation to their father's elder brother, who had left their
grandfather's house when a boy, and that Vandory was the guardian of the
family secrets? But why all this mystery? Why did he not--why does he
not explain it? Suppose their unfortunate uncle were alive, and somebody
wished to deprive him of his property, was it to be expected that
Vandory would be a party to so vile a transaction? And if that
supposition is false, what papers can the curate possibly possess, that
should tempt Lady Rety to commit a crime to obtain them? There were
mysteries and uncertainties on every side. The papers, and with them
Tengelyi's diplomas, had not been destroyed. Etelka knew that the
attorney had locked them up; his having told Lady Rety that they were
burnt, proved that he wished to keep and to use them for his own ends.
How could Akosh obtain possession of those papers? Was it judicious to
speak to Mr. Catspaw? But the wily attorney was sure to deny all
knowledge of them, and to destroy or remove them at the very first
opportunity. And how could Akosh force him to restore the stolen
property? Not by threats of exposure, unless he wished to attack his
parents likewise. Akosh was a prey to the most painful indecision. "What
can we do?" cried he; "are we to suffer the rascal to rob Tengelyi of
his rights? Are we to stand by and let him ruin that good man; or shall
we, who are Rety's children, accuse our own parents?"
"Our best plan is to do nothing at all--at least for the present," said
Etelka. "All we can do is to watch him. He'll not destroy the papers
immediately, or employ them for any bad purpose; and though it is
against my principles, I mean, for once, to yield to a woman's
curiosity, and listen to all that happens in his room. There's always
time for extreme measures."
"I am fond of seeing my way clearly," replied her brother. "We ought not
to listen or play the spy. These people are too deep for us, and I'll
promise you he will take good care that you hear nothing. Indeed, all
you heard that night was owing to his not being aware of your presence.
Our best plan is to speak to our father."
"And spoil all! It's the surest way to destroy the papers. Whether he
is privy to the affair or not, it's all the same; the papers, will
disappear the moment he or anybody suspects _us_ of being in the
secret."
"You are right," said Akosh; "we are compelled to be patient and to
dissemble."
"Now be careful!" replied Etelka, preparing to leave the room. "I hear
my father's footsteps in the hall. He is sure to talk of Vilma;
therefore pray keep your temper and your counsel!"
And, kissing her father's hands (whom she met at the door), Miss Rety
withdrew.
Father and son met as antagonists, and their instincts taught them an
increase of that polite reserve which usually characterised their
intercourse. After the necessary inquiries after his son's health, both
were for a while silent, till at length the sheriff, with a violent
effort, launched into the debate.
"My son," said he, with a smile, which in him meant only that he was at
a loss what expression to give to his features; "I ought to scold you
for your late adventures, not only because they induced you to withdraw
your influence at the election (thank goodness! we managed to do without
you), but also for endangering your life. Consider what a father's
feelings must be when his son behaves like you."
"My dear father," replied Akosh, his voice trembling with emotion, "I am
happy you have broached the affair. That matter must be settled, and the
sooner the better."
The sheriff was by no means pleased with the eagerness with which Akosh
snatched at his words.
"I am at your service," he said; "but I would advise you to wait before
we come to an _éclaircissement_. Leave it till another day. You are
excited, and perhaps suffering."
"No, father," replied Akosh, "I cannot wait when my honour is concerned.
You know I love Vilma."
The sheriff smiled, and Akosh continued, with a blush:--
"You need not fear my giving you a homily on my love and Vilma's
virtues. I intend nothing of the kind; but you are aware of the
imprudent step which Tengelyi's obstinacy induced me to take. He would
not allow me to visit his house and see his daughter."
"Tengelyi is a sensible man; at least, in a great many respects."
"That may be. I, for one, will not contradict you, nor do I mean to
argue the question whether it is reasonable to ask a man to do
impossible things, or whether it shows good sense to oppose a strong and
honourable feeling, and to drive it, by that very opposition, to secrecy
and other steps of a questionable nature. I say I will not argue that
point. You know all that has happened. You know that Vilma's reputation
is at stake, and that I owe her satisfaction----"
"I know nothing of the kind!" said the sheriff. "My dear son, you make
mountains of mole-hills. I must confess, how Vilma's reputation can have
suffered is a thing which passes my comprehension. I grant that the
business does not reflect much credit on the Tengelyi family, nor,
indeed, on Mrs. Tengelyi; but as for the young woman, why, she is turned
seventeen!"
Akosh sickened at these words, and the tone in which they were spoken;
but he conquered his feelings, and went on:--
"This is no laughing matter, father. Vilma's reputation cannot but
suffer; and if I could have doubted it, I'm sure what my mother said of
her in this very room would have enlightened my mind on the subject.
There is but one remedy for this, and as I have long intended to marry
Vilma, I am now resolved to do so without delay. What I ask for is your
consent, my father."
Mr. Rety was one of those men who abhor plain questions, because they
require plain answers. The manner in which his son put to him one of
these objectionable questions, and in so important a matter, too,
overwhelmed him with confusion. He muttered something about the dangers
of brusquing any business, and that it was impossible for him to make up
his mind in a moment, or to give a decision on a subject of the bearings
of which he knew so little.
"As for me," replied Akosh, "my resolution is firmly fixed. But if you
wish to examine the bearings of the question, I trust you will not
forget that Vilma cannot possibly make her appearance any where, unless
it be as my betrothed; and that it is cruel in us to prolong, though
only for a day, the painful position into which I have brought her
family."
"My son," said Rety, with a show of great sympathy, "no one can admire
your delicacy more than I do! I promise you that you may rely on my
effectual co-operation in any thing we can do to indemnify the Tengelyis
for your inconsiderate rashness."
"Which means that you give your consent!" cried Akosh, seizing his
father's hand.
Rety proceeded: "I am prepared to go any lengths to indemnify Tengelyi.
We are rich, and, if you think proper, I have no objection, I assure
you, not the least objection, to grant him a certain quantity of land,
and to provide for Vilma in such a manner that----"
Akosh dropped his father's hand.
"Are you aware, sir," cried he, "that I love Vilma? That I love her more
than any thing in this world? That she loves me? and that I'd rather die
than leave her?"
The sheriff looked wretchedly confused. Akosh proceeded in a more
subdued tone:--
"Do not fancy that I come to you for assistance. My late mother's
property is in my hands; it will suffice to keep me and my wife. I leave
you to do as you please with your property. All I ask is your blessing,
which I _do_ trust you will not refuse me."
The sheriff was not without feeling, and the words of his son touched
his heart. He was, however, at that time of life in which our principles
(which usually emanate from and correspond with our interests) prevail
against the softer feelings of humanity, which are so strong in a young
and ardent heart; and even if this had not been the case, he would not
have dared to grant Akosh's request. Lady Rety's influence over him
precluded the mere idea of consent. His reply, therefore, consisted of a
variety of those common-place phrases which men are wont to adduce in
argument against passions of which they cannot fathom the depth. But his
reasonings, however specious, made no impression upon Akosh, who would
not even consent to delay, in spite of his father's solemn promise that
he was prepared to sanction his son's choice in a year, if Akosh would
but follow his advice, and go on his travels.
"You are unreasonable, indeed you are, my dear son!" said the sheriff,
at length, while Akosh paced the room in a state of great excitement.
"You ought to consider what you are about. You ought to consider that
your passion is likely to be your ruin. You must own that I am a good
father, an indulgent father. I never opposed any of your wishes, or even
whims. Your politics are opposed to mine; still you see I respect them,
trusting that time will at length cure you, as it does so many others.
My greatest wish was, that you should contract a suitable alliance:
indeed, I know several young ladies that would have pleased me, but I
have not urged you. I left you to yourself. I scorned to influence your
choice. I think it but just that in the present instance you should
yield to _my_ will. Consider that there is no stepping back if you once
step forward."
"I have left nothing unconsidered," replied Akosh. "My mind is made up.
Vilma is all I care for in the world."
"The world! And do _you_ know what the world is? Do you know what you
will care for when you are past thirty? At your time of life people are
mad for love and a cottage. But, believe me, there are other things in
this world to wish and to struggle for, and to possess. A youth is
amorous, but a man is ambitious. When love has ceased to yield us
happiness, we turn to the world, and would fain exult in the respect and
obedience of the many."
Akosh smiled and shook his head.
"You are sceptical now, but I know your time will come. You are
generous. You are free from egotism and selfishness: but, after all, you
are human. The expression of our features may vary; but we are all
formed of the same clay, and our feelings and instincts are very much
the same, however varying their expression may be. Your time will come.
There will be a day in which your soul will yearn for honours and
distinctions. There will be hours in which you will regret that your
talents have been left to rust in the back kitchen; and you will curse
your folly, which excluded you from the only career in which a man can
feel real happiness."
"I cannot believe it! But suppose such were the case; suppose that I
were to wake to ambition; who tells me that, in following your advice, I
can satisfy that ambition? Thousands of hands are stretched forth to
grasp those apples of Tantalus, but whose thirst did they ever slake?
Was there ever a man, who strove for distinction, who did not come to
despise that which he had gained?"
"Some there are, indeed," said the sheriff; "but they grasp at more than
they can reach."
"But who tells you that this is not to be my case? I have never wished
for greatness; but if I were to enter the lists, I know that I should
struggle for an object which millions have striven for in vain. To be
the great man of a county; to be the master of a poor few thousands; to
carry my head high like the reeds of the morass, surrounded by the
rottenness to which I owe my elevation; to bow and bend like a reed, so
that my weakness may not appear from my resistance: no, father, that is
not an object to devote one's life to, and yet, could I possibly aspire
to any thing else?"
"Why should you not?" replied the sheriff, with great eagerness, for he
rejoiced in the turn of the conversation, though smarting under his
son's words, which pictured his own condition in very unattractive
colours. "Why should you not? A young man of your class may aspire to
the highest honours. I admit that the path is thorny, and indeed you
would be obliged to make it straight through the county; but you are
young, and you have the means to begin where others end. At the end of
three years I intend to resign my place in your favour, and when you
have once obtained the shrievalty you can aspire to any thing. I trust I
shall live to see you as a _judex curiæ_."
"But, my dear father," said Akosh, with a smile, "even if the career you
trace out for me were to my mind, even if I would condescend to barter
my opinions for office, and to come to the mountain because the mountain
will not come to me--why, in the name of all that is reasonable, cannot
I do all this with Vilma, as well as without her?"
The sheriff looked up with the greatest amazement expressed in his
countenance.
"Are you not aware _where_ it is you live?" said he. "Don't you know
that nothing is to be got in this country, unless by means of family
influence? Personal merit is a cypher; it multiplies your value if your
position be added to it as number one; or do you think I could ever have
come to be a sheriff if I had married a woman of ignoble descent?"
"Is it not enough that _I_ am of a noble house?"
"Of course," replied Rety, with deplorable rashness; "if the wife of
your choice were any other but Vilma--any other but the daughter of a
village notary! I am no tufthunter. If you like, you may marry into a
merchant's family--or, really I do not care, take the daughter of a
proselyte from Judaism--any thing of the kind will do. I am by no means
a tufthunter, my dear Akosh; I am _not_ prejudiced, whatever people may
say to the contrary--no! I know too well that nobody ever saw the blood
which runs in the veins of the Retys. Take any girl you like, so that
she has plenty of money; it will set you upon your legs, my boy. Your
sister, you know, is coheiress with you, not with _my_ will, I assure
you; but if your wife is not rich, you'll have only one half of what I
possess, and----"
"My dear father," cried Akosh, "do not let us pursue this subject any
further. It's of no use; I have made up my mind. If my heart alone were
concerned, I would sacrifice all my hopes of happiness for your sake;
but my honour, and Vilma's present and future happiness, are at stake,
and nothing can shake my resolution. I beg, I entreat, do not refuse me
your consent! do not compel me to take the most important step of my
life without your permission and your blessing!"
"Consider, my son," urged Rety, "consider what your grandfather and
father did to raise our family to its present position! Are the
struggles of half-a-century to be sacrificed to your passion? to a whim
of the moment? Consider that you deprive my house of its peace; for,
believe me, my wife and Vilma can never meet as friends; and my wife
tells me that she would sooner leave the house than consent to this
cursed marriage. Think of your sister, for she too is likely to be
ruined by your obstinacy. What gentleman would be kin to a village
notary?"
The sheriff would probably have urged a variety of other reasons upon
the consideration of his son, but the door opened, and Lady Rety entered
the room. Rety's arguments were not likely to have any effect upon his
son; nor was it probable that Akosh could ever persuade his father, that
a man who had the full enjoyment of his reasoning faculties could prefer
the daughter of a poor village notary to the seductive charms of a
shrievalty; but still Akosh loved his father, and the sheriff's warmth
and sincerity touched his heart. But when his step-mother entered, and
(as usual) took the lead in the discussion, her commanding tone and
supercilious manner turned the young man's blood to gall, and his every
word betrayed his scorn and disgust of the woman, whom he knew to be an
accessory of a crime.
"I presume you have talked to Akosh," said Lady Rety, addressing her
husband. "Pray what has he to say for himself?"
"Yes, I did mention the matter--and Akosh said he would--that is to say,
just at present--that he----"
"That he will never resign Vilma," cried Akosh, "neither now nor ever;
that's what he says!"
"Oh, very well!" replied Lady Rety, with an angry look at her son. "You
are mistaken, if you believe, sir, that _we_ can ever be brought to
consent to this marriage."
"As for your ladyship, I never reckoned on your consent; but----"
"Nor will your father give his. I am sure my husband has never given you
reason to suppose----"
"Perhaps not!" said Akosh. "But since my father loves me, I have no
reason to suppose that his will is unchangeable."
"It _is_ unchangeable!" cried Lady Rety, violently. "I say it _is_
unchangeable! Am I right, Rety?"
The sheriff nodded his head in token of assent.
"No, never!" continued Lady Rety. "Neither he nor I will ever sanction
this folly!"
"If that's the case," said the young man, with a look of contempt, "I
shall be forced to do my duty as an honourable man without my father's
consent; I shall be forced to leave a house which, it appears, is so
completely monopolised by others, that there's no room left for me!"
"And which place does the young gentleman intend to honour with his
presence?" sneered Lady Rety. "Does he propose to reside on the domains
of his lady-love?"
"There's no occasion for it!" replied Akosh, trembling with excitement.
"My mother's property will suffice for me now that she is dead. If she
were alive, I'd not be forced to leave my father's house in this
manner!"
"Ungrateful wretch!" screamed Lady Rety; "do you reproach me with my
condescension? I was born a Baroness of Andorhazy, and nothing compelled
_me_ to marry a common-place nobleman! I am sure _I_ was not honoured
by the alliance! No, it was _I_ who honoured your family! And as for
your mother's property, you shan't have it! You are not of age. You have
no right to claim it!"
"I shall be of age in about six weeks."
"And I say no! and no! and no! I scorn the match! I won't stand the
disgrace--the infamy! Your father will disown you! curse you! I say I
will not allow you to disgrace the name which _I_ bear!"
Akosh would have spoken, but she continued:--
"I will not suffer it! What? is the daughter of a village notary to
become my daughter-in-law! A woman without a name! a woman with scarcely
a rag to her back! a woman I despise!"
"My lady!" cried Akosh.
"Yes, a dishonourable woman! Your mistress before she was your wife;
a----"
The cup was full. Akosh, in a frenzy of passion, rushed forward to
attack his step-mother, but the sheriff caught his arm as it descended.
"How dare you?" screamed the young man; "how dare _you_ say so! _you_,
the accomplice of robbers and thieves! _You_, who are indeed the
disgrace of our house! Why woman, if I were to speak, I could send you
to gaol, to your fellows!"
His words were so many thunders in Lady Rety's ear. She stood deadly
pale, trembling, with downcast eyes--a picture of guilt and misery.
There is no saying what the sheriff might not have done but for
Vandory's entrance, which put a stop to all further explanations. When
the curate entered, Lady Rety seized her husband's hand and led him out
of the room. Akosh, still exhausted with his illness, and fearfully
excited, flung himself on the sofa, and wept.
A short time afterwards the sheriff's servant brought a note, in which
Rety asked his son to leave the house at his earliest convenience. The
curate offered to effect a compromise, but Akosh insisted on going
immediately. He took a hurried leave of Etelka, and accompanied Vandory,
who had offered him shelter under his own roof.
CHAP. XI.
The majority of mankind are more or less eloquent on the subject of the
wounds which love inflicts on the human heart, while they most unjustly
forget that if love makes wounds, he also heals them, and that his
sorrows and pains are as nothing in comparison to the joys he gives us,
by rendering us (for the time) insensible to the other griefs that flesh
is heir to. This healing and protecting power of love relieved young
Rety from the sorrows that would otherwise have beset his mind, and
caused him to triumph over griefs which might have borne down a stouter
heart than his.
Vandory introduced his young guest to his house; and this done, he
hastened to Tengelyi. The notary was just returned from a journey to
some distant place, where he had been consulting a legal friend of his.
He was preparing to set out again for Kishlak, to talk to Viola, when he
was informed of the prisoner's escape. This news deprived him of all
hopes of profiting from Viola's confession; and the disappointment was
the more painful from the fact of its strengthening his suspicions of
the Rety family. Vandory's conversation did much to calm his mind, and
the two friends had a long debate on the situation of affairs, and the
danger which threatened Vilma's reputation, in the course of which the
curate put great stress on the fact that young Rety's love to Vilma was
the cause of his banishment from his father's house. Tengelyi was at
length induced to promise that he would not oppose his daughter's
attachment to Akosh; and when Vandory hastened away, and returned
accompanied by the trembling lover, the notary gave him a kind and even
hearty welcome, and, by way of a practical demonstration of the old
proverb, "the least said, the soonest mended," he led young Rety to his
daughter. Having thus far yielded to the influence of his wise and
judicious friend, he returned to Vandory, saying, as if to excuse his
own weakness,
"After all, what can we do? They love one another; and fate, it appears,
wills their union."
"I've often told you so, but you would not believe me."
"I was not always convinced of it; I wished for an older husband for my
daughter, for a man equal to her in rank and position; but fate has
willed it otherwise. And, after all, Akosh is thoroughly good and
honourable. He will protect my boy,--poor little fellow! he has lost
caste, and is now no better than a '_villain_.' My daughter's reputation
would have been lost, for we all know Lady Rety's malice: but this
marriage will set all right again. In short, it were folly to oppose it,
however hostile my principles are to alliances of this kind."
Thus the notary. And love, which but a few days ago had endangered the
tranquillity and peace of his house, served now to make it brighter and
gladder than ever. But the inmates of the manor-house of Tissaret were a
prey to grief and vexation of spirit.
Immediately after the stormy scene in Akosh's room, Lady Rety conducted
her husband to her own apartments, where she told him the secret of the
recent events, to which she added Mr. Catspaw's account of what had
happened during the trial of Viola. The sheriff was shocked and alarmed,
though far less than his wily wife had been led to expect. He left her
to think the matter over in his study. Lady Rety remained alone, a prey
to the bitterest feelings. She thought of what Akosh had said, and of
the sacrifices which she pretended to have made for that young man's
benefit.
"What," thought she, "what did I slave for? Why did I put my head into
the snares of that hateful attorney? Why, indeed? Was it not to raise
this family, and to secure a large fortune to that young fool, who now
turns against me?"
She sobbed and clasped her hands.
"My life," continued she, "has been _one_ long struggle, a continued
sacrifice of my feelings to objects which escaped from my grasp. The man
I loved was poor. I felt that my heart yearned for better things than
the insipid happiness of a good housewife. I married Rety because his
fortune and his position gave me a promise of rank, splendour, and
distinction. And what is it I have come to be?--I am a sheriff's lady,
the wife of a man who has neither talents nor energy which could raise
him to a higher position. Well, I was resigned. I sought another basis
for my happiness. I thought of raising Rety's children to that lofty
position which their father wanted the strength to reach, or even to
covet. What are these children to me? They are not my own children. They
have not sprung from my blood. But they bear my name; and though they
hate me, their step-mother, still they could not prevent me from
profiting by the position into which I wished to force them. All my
endeavours were directed to that end. And now! now! I have lost all!
All my plans, all the struggles of so many years are in vain, and only
because Akosh is in love with Vilma! There's nothing too high for him,
and he--he turns his back on me, on the world, on splendour and wealth;
and all for the notary's daughter. Confusion! and I cannot even revenge
myself on him!"
And Lady Rety racked her inventive mind to find a means to cross her
son's plans; but she sickened at the thought that the notary, whom she
hated because she could not despise him, was likely to triumph over her.
She was lost in these painful thoughts, when Mr. Catspaw entered her
room. Lady Rety asked him what the sheriff was doing.
"He is rather excited," said the attorney, seating himself
unceremoniously, and with a freedom of manner which was by no means in
keeping with his usual respectful politeness. "Your ladyship can have no
idea of his state of mind. Indeed he has gone to the length of abusing
me--the poor sheriff! But who the deuce can help it? It's a dirty
business, and in his position too----"
There was something in Mr. Catspaw's voice and manner which struck Lady
Rety, and which made by no means an agreeable impression upon her.
"You are merry, sir," said she; "though really I cannot understand what
there is to laugh at?"
"But I can!" replied Mr. Catspaw. "The man who is in at the death, and
after a hard run too, has a right to be merry."
"But we are not in at the death!" retorted Lady Rety; "Viola is at
large, and we are suspected."
"Fiddlesticks!" exclaimed the attorney, with a loud burst of laughter.
"Viola's escape is nothing to us. Is he not sentenced to death? Is he
not aware that he cannot appear against us, without bringing his own
skin to market? or do you think that the robber will come to be hanged,
merely for the pleasure of giving evidence against you and me? And as
for any one suspecting us, why it's sheer nonsense! The thing is too bad
for anybody to believe it!"
"You would change your opinion if you could hear what Akosh says. I am
afraid he knows more than is good for him and for us."
"Fiddlesticks! Stuff and nonsense!" cried the attorney. "What can _he_
know? I dare say he has smelled a rat, but that's all. But I'll dodge
him, madam; I'll dodge him!"
"You are determined to see the bright side of things," said Lady Rety,
amazed; for usually it was the worthy attorney's habit rather to
increase than to lessen the difficulties of a question.
"Why should I not?" answered Mr. Catspaw, as he leaned over towards her.
"Have I not devoted my whole life to your family? And have I not braved
all dangers? And now that the time of my reward is come, what can
prevent me from enjoying myself?"
"What do you mean, sir?" said Lady Rety, with a stare.
"Oh, my dear, good, clever lady, you know to a nicety what I mean! How
can you help it?" cried the attorney in a bantering tone, as he seized
her hand. "Why should you pretend to make sport of your humble servant?
What was your promise? Whenever I could lay my hands on Vandory's
papers, I was to have a grant of land as a reward for my faithful
services,--_propter fidelia servitia_. You know it was mentioned on the
day of the canvass. Your ladyship must remember it; we were in the
garden----"
"Yes, yes! I know all about it."
"And what were your ladyship's words on that memorable occasion?"
"I said, My dear Catspaw, on the day you produce those papers, we will
transfer the land."
"Oh, your ladyship, I too remember those words which bound me to you
with chains of gold. Here, in my heart, they are written in golden
letters, and----"
"Why do you remind me of that promise? Do you doubt me, sir?"
"Not I, indeed!" cried Mr. Catspaw, as he pressed her hand. "No! I am
sure you mean to stand by what you said. It's the very reason, you know,
why I am come to consult you about the draft of the document. Your
ladyship will understand, that in the preamble some mention must be made
of my merits and my natural modesty----"
"_C'est une vertu que vous cachez avec soin!_" said Lady Rety,
sarcastically. "Well, sir, I agree to an enumeration of your
transcendent merits. Leave it to me! I will take care that the document
is drawn up; but I trust the affair is not pressing."
"Who knows?" replied the attorney, with a sigh. "We are all of us
mortal, and----"
"I hope that _I_ do not look like a dying woman!" retorted Lady Rety,
with an impatient shrug of her shoulders.
"God forbid, that I, your devoted servant, should live to mourn your
loss! But, after all, who can be sure of to-morrow? and am I, whose only
hope lies in your promise, to risk my all, and perhaps lose it?"
Lady Rety overcame the disgust she felt at Mr. Catspaw's impertinence.
She replied that the suspicion which attached to them must necessarily
increase, if such a reward were given to the attorney at this particular
time.
"It is much safer to wait," added she, in a confidential tone. "You see
the affair must blow over: but to satisfy your mind, I repeat my
promise; and depend upon it, my dear Mr. Catspaw, you'll find me as good
as my word!"
The attorney kissed her hand in a transport of joy.
"A proud man indeed I am!" said he; "for where is so distinguished a
lady to be found as my gracious mistress? so careful, so clever, and so
businesslike a lady! And your ladyship is right: there are few
solicitors who get through their work as I do; and in the other point
too you are right, indeed you are! A cession of land, at this particular
time, might possibly get us into a scrape. The truth of the matter is, I
thought so too. I intended to point it out to you, but your ladyship's
sagacity puts me to the blush. What I wished to direct your attention to
is, that there is another way to vent your generous liberality, and to
keep the affair quite snug and secret. My plan is a most simple one.
Your ladyship need only persuade my gracious master, the sheriff, to
sign five bills of ten thousand florins each, of course with convenient
terms for payment, say from six to six months. After that----"
"This is a bad joke!" said Lady Rety, staring at Mr. Catspaw in wild
amazement. "Fifty thousand florins in Austrian money----"
"I was never more serious in my life. Please to consider that----"
"But it's thrice the value of the grant I promised you!"
"A fair valuation of the land would perhaps amount to a higher figure.
Besides, your ladyship must see that the affair was more troublesome and
dangerous than I was led to suppose; then there's the loss of my
reputation, for Viola's evidence does go for something against me; and,
besides, I have paid the Jew a large sum, and I know he'll be at me
again, for, to tell you the truth, I believe that Jew has some idea of
your ladyship's being mixed up in the affair; and considering all this,
it is but fair----"
"Do you really mean to say you expect me to satisfy your impertinent
demand?" said Lady Rety, boiling with rage; "do you think me and my
husband so foolish as that? What! are we to get into debt for your
sake?"
Her violence made no impression on the attorney, who replied with the
utmost coolness:
"I'm sure, your ladyship, you are so clever, and so businesslike and
generous, that----"
"No, sir, no!" screamed Lady Rety. "Don't you rely upon my generosity,
or folly, if you please! Indeed, Mr. Catspaw, I'm happy to know you at
last! I'm proud to understand what was at the bottom of your zeal!"
"Your ladyship does me too much honour!" said Mr. Catspaw, with his
grating voice; "and it's a pity that you should endanger your precious
health by the violence of your gratitude. But this generous burst of
passion adds to my conviction that your ladyship will joyfully embrace
my proposals."
"Your proposals, indeed!" cried the lady. "You are an impertinent
scoundrel, sir! I'd like to see the man that can force _me_ to any
thing! The very fulfilment of my promise depends upon my own free will.
Where are your witnesses, sir? Where's your judge? No, sir! You have
nothing to rely upon except my generosity, particularly since you
neglected to fulfil the very first condition of our bargain. Where _are_
those papers, sir? for all _I_ know they may be at Vandory's, or
somebody else's; and you, sir, how dare you ask me for money on the
wretched plea of your having burnt them!"
"Nothing is so easy for me as to satisfy your ladyship on that point,"
retorted the attorney, with a sneer. "The papers are still in my hands.
You are welcome to see them any time you like."
Lady Rety stood trembling, speechless, and stunned. At length she
muttered,--
"You forget, sir! You told me you'd thrown them into the fire."
"I'm fully aware of it!" sneered Mr. Catspaw, "And not only did I tell
you I'd burnt the papers, but for a moment I had that insane intention.
Thank goodness! I did not carry it into execution."
"But why did you not give me the papers?" said Lady Rety, with so
trembling a voice that it was clear she knew the attorney's motives.
"Why did I not give them to _you_? Can your ladyship dare to ask me such
a question? But I'll tell you. I did not do it, because, having devoted
my life to yourself and your family, I had no mind to be cast aside like
a used-up tool. I kept the papers, because I would not trust to your
generosity, and because I thought it was better to be safe than to be a
fool."
"Do let us talk it quietly over. Suppose I _was_ violent just now! are
we not old friends? and have you not spoiled me?" said Lady Rety,
forcing a smile. "The papers are in your hands: they are your property;
and nothing can be more fair than your wish to sell them. But your
demand of fifty thousand florins is utterly inadmissible."
"I would not take one penny less than that," replied Mr. Catspaw, with
great composure. "Papers for the possession of which a lady of your
ladyship's rank and condition condescends to such deeds as we enacted
together, I say, such papers must be worth their weight in gold."
"Beast!" growled Lady Rety, as she walked to and fro in the room.--"My
friend," said she, turning to her antagonist, "please to consider my
position. You know I have not one fourth part of the money in my
possession; and the bills, to be valid, must have my husband's
signature. How can I induce him to consent to so great a sacrifice?"
"I know your ladyship's power too well! Nothing can be easier for you
than to induce the sheriff to sign the bills. Everybody knows how
irresistible your ladyship is!"
Lady Rety made no reply to this cutting speech; but she turned, to hide
the tears which bedewed her cheeks. The attorney walked to the window,
and drew figures on the panes. After a long pause, the lady mustered up
her resolution; and, boldly confronting the lawyer, she asked: "Do you
really mean to stand by your demand?"
"I do, indeed," replied Mr. Catspaw.
"You will not let me have the papers under fifty thousand florins?"
"Certainly not."
"Very well, sir; keep them!" said Lady Rety, with a loud laugh: "keep
them, sir! make the most of them! What do I care about Akosh's fortune
now, since he _will_ marry the notary's daughter! and it was for his
sake alone I wanted those cursed papers."
"Am I to make the most of them? Am I, indeed?" said Mr. Catspaw,
somewhat startled by the sudden turn of the debate.
"Of course you are!" said Lady Rety. "I declare it's quite amusing! To
think that I should have forgotten that I have no reason whatever to
care for them since the young gentleman told me his mind! And as for
you, my dear sir, indeed it grieves me, but your conduct of this evening
will certainly induce me to re-consider my promise,--about the grant,
you know."
"Nothing more natural. The papers have possibly lost their former value
in your ladyship's eyes; nothing can be more natural, woman's heart is
so changeable! but, in my eyes, they retain much of their original
value. That value, madam," said Mr. Catspaw, seizing the lady's hand,
and affectionately pressing it, "is enhanced by the _manner_ in which we
became possessed of them."
"_We?_ Mr. Catspaw! What do you mean, sir?"
"What I mean is clear enough," retorted he, still squeezing her hand.
"Viola has accused your ladyship of theft, and of being a partner to a
robbery. No matter! Viola is a robber: no man in his senses will believe
a word he says. But suppose another witness were to come into court,
say, for instance, _I_ were to appear against your ladyship, say I were
to give evidence fully corroborating the robber's statements; and
suppose, in confirmation of my evidence, I were to produce the papers we
stole, the contents of which would prove, beyond the possibility of a
doubt, that you, and only you, could have an interest in their
abstraction,--what then? My humble opinion is, the affair would make
some stir in the county."
"Nonsense!" said Lady Rety. "I do not fear your threats; knowing, as I
do, that you cannot ruin me without ruining yourself."
"Don't be too sure of that! We are not exactly in the same position. I'm
not interested in the papers; but your ladyship is. I am a poor lawyer;
and suppose I were to come into court, declaring that I devoted my life
to the service of your house, that my zeal got the better of my duty,
and that I assisted your ladyship in the theft; but that, repentant and
conscience-stricken, I come to accuse myself, and to give the stolen
property up to the court,--is there not a deal of pathos in such an
account? Can it fail to touch the hearts of the judges?"
"Demon!" gasped Lady Rety, as she flung herself on the sofa, and covered
her face with her hands.
The attorney proceeded:--
"The business will give me a good reputation, and some profit, too.
Akosh would do any thing to get Tengelyi's papers. Perhaps he is open to
a negotiation; and Vandory, too, (he delights in repentant sinners,)
will take my part. But as for your ladyship----"
"Devil! cease to torment me!" screamed the lady, clasping her hands.
"The sheriff's lady in gaol!--it's an ugly thing. The sheriff's
influence no doubt would go for something to make the punishment short
and mild; they would give you, say, six months, or three months; but
still,--you have been in gaol, and,--for thieving in company with a Jew.
Besides, there are the cross-examinations, the evidence----"
"Catspaw!" screamed Lady Rety, with the bound of a wounded panther, "No!
you cannot do that!"
"I can and I will do it, unless I have the bills on Friday next."
"You shall have them!"
"Five bills of ten thousand florins each, and signed by the sheriff."
"Yes."
"The bills to be payable from six to six months."
"I know it all. For pity's sake, leave me!" cried she, with a dying
voice.
"You shall have the papers the day you give me the bills," added the
attorney, seizing his hat. "Good night, my lady!" And he left the room.
The noise of his steps had scarcely ceased to sound in the hall, when
the door of the hall stove opened, and Peti's curly head appeared in the
gap. The gipsy was Mr. Rety's stove-heater; and, in the present
instance, he had crept through the chimney to Lady Rety's apartments,
where he had listened to her conversation with Mr. Catspaw. He was just
about to leave the place, when he met Janosh.
"Dear me! what's the matter?" cried the hussar. "Your face is all soot
and ashes, man!"
"No wonder it is!" said the gipsy, wiping his face with the sleeve of
his shirt. "You know I am always at that dirty work."
"At it again, man! Make large fires in this house! Give them a taste of
hell! I am going to join my master. I've packed my things, and I've done
with this house, d--n it!"
"Are you, too, going?"
"With a vengeance, my boy!" replied Janosh. "I've eaten the sheriff's
bread, and I never dreamt I should ever leave his house without saying
'God bless you!' But that's the way they've sent my master about his
business. Good night!"
The hussar hastened away. Peti took his bunda, crept to the garden, and
disappeared in the darkness of the night.
CHAP. XII.
On the following day the sheriff's house resumed its usual tranquil
appearance. Mr. Rety, indeed, looked dispirited and gloomy, and Etelka
was less cheerful than usual. Lady Rety, too, looked pale; but whatever
her feelings were, she kept them under command; and when Mr. Catspaw
made his appearance, she received him with a smile, which had lost
nothing of its former graciousness. Lady Rety's temper, however violent,
was never allowed to interfere with her plans: Mr. Catspaw knew this. He
was too familiar with the lady's character to confide in the treacherous
tranquillity of her appearance, especially since her maid had told him
that her mistress had not gone to bed that night; that she walked to and
fro, and showed other signs of restlessness; and that early in the
morning she shut the windows of her room with such violence that she
broke several panes of glass, which were symptoms--as Mr. Catspaw sagely
observed--of an unsettled and disturbed mind. He watched her closely,
though unsuccessfully; and none but the chamber-maid knew that Lady
Rety, instead of sending the broken windows to the Jewish glazier, had
ordered that man to come to her room; and that, strange to say, although
the lady remained in the room while the Jew was at work, she never once
raised her voice for the purposes of correction and abuse. But as Lady
Rety complained of headache and fever, the chamber-maid was justified in
finding a reason for this extraordinary mildness in the weak state of
her health.
On the third day, however, she was so far restored, that she could
accompany her husband and Etelka on a visit to Dustbury. Mr. Catspaw
alone remained at home. He was anxious and restless; indeed he would
gladly have accompanied the family, for he could not believe in his own
safety unless he had his eye on Lady Rety. And that she should go to
Dustbury of all places!
"This woman," said Mr. Catspaw, "would do any thing to injure me. I'm
sure she has settled a plan of revenge in her mind; I'm quite sure of
it! her seeming kindness makes it clear beyond the possibility of a
doubt. What can it be? I would not mind it if she were to abuse me or
swear at me; but I don't like her present manner,--indeed I don't like
it," said Mr. Catspaw, emphatically, as if to convince himself of the
very dangerous nature of Lady Rety's intentions. He thought of all and
any thing she might, could, or would do; but there was nothing he could
think of by which she could ruin him with safety to herself.
"But is it not possible for her to sacrifice her safety to her
vindictiveness?" said the attorney; "and if she does, who is the victim?
I? It was I who took an active part in the theft. How am I to prove her
guilt? Viola knows all about it; but Viola is not likely to show his
face again. The county is too hot to hold him. As for the Jew, he'll be
as false to me as he is to everybody else; and when once accused, who
will believe me if I accuse the sheriff's wife? I must needs make
friends," exclaimed the amiable attorney; "everybody hates me; and the
cleverest man cannot stand the attacks of numbers. But what am I to do?"
After a careful examination of his position, it appeared to him that
there were two ways of providing for unforeseen contingencies. The first
was to ingratiate himself with Lady Rety by preventing young Rety's
marriage; the second, to creep into that young man's favour. The thing
was difficult, but it could be done. After receiving the bills, he could
easily retain a few of Vandory's papers. Lady Rety had never seen them:
she could not, therefore, suspect any thing. At a later period he (the
attorney) thought of presenting those letters and Tengelyi's papers to
Akosh, telling him how they were obtained, and what share Lady Rety had
in the transaction. Akosh was sure to keep the secret; and, as for Lady
Rety, it was not likely that she would accuse Mr. Catspaw, if she knew
that her own son was prepared to give evidence against her.
His resolution once taken, he commenced with his usual energy to carry
it out; and being informed that the notary was out walking with Vandory
and Akosh, and that Mrs. Tengelyi and Vilma were alone, he hastened to
the notary's house, studying his part as he walked along, and comforting
himself with the reflection, that, however ill they might receive him,
they were but women he would have to contend with, he knocked softly at
the door.
Mrs. Ershebet and Vilma were at work in the notary's room. They were not
a little startled by the attorney's appearance; and Mrs. Ershebet's tone
was none of the kindest, when she asked him why and what he came for?
but he managed to reply, with the utmost coolness, that he wished to pay
his respects to Mr. Tengelyi and his family; and, suiting the action to
the word, he took a chair, and waited to be spoken to.
His quiet assurance confounded Mrs. Ershebet. Mr. Catspaw knew it would,
and, knowing this, he had prudently timed his visit so as not to meet
Mr. Tengelyi. He suspected that the notary would not give him time to
say all the kind words which were to make his peace with the family. The
attorney's misgivings on that head showed his astounding sagacity; for,
indeed, nothing was more likely than that the notary, regardless of his
exordiums, would rush into _medias res_ by kicking him out of doors.
Mrs. Ershebet spoke reluctantly, but she spoke. Their conversation was
of the weather, the crops, and other things; and when Vilma left the
room, the attorney turned to Mrs. Tengelyi, and drawing his chair to her
table, said:--
"I am happy the dear girl is gone! I want to speak to you about a
subject which concerns your family, and especially your angel Vilma. I
know I can open my heart to you, for you are as clever as you are kind."
This flattering speech, and the tone of confidential adulation in which
it was spoken, told less strongly upon Mrs. Tengelyi than Mr. Catspaw
expected it would. But she concealed her disgust; and hoping to learn
something about her husband's papers, she intreated the attorney to
speak.
"My dear Mrs. Ershebet," continued that learned man, with a grotesque
whine, "permit me again to address you with the words which at one time
were so dear to my heart, and whose sound still fills my soul with the
reminiscences of youth!"
"Sir!" said Mrs. Tengelyi, angrily, "the less you remind me of the past
the better; and, moreover, you know, that at that time too----"
"Do you think I can have forgotten," sighed Mr. Catspaw, "that when,
many years ago, I offered you my heart and my hand, you rejected me with
contempt, and that you preferred Tengelyi and poverty to Catspaw and
tranquil happiness? But, oh! what agonies might have been spared to us
if my respected Ershebet had been less blindly devoted to Tengelyi's
shining talents, which after all cannot keep the pot boiling."
"If you _have_ something to say, say it, sir! or if you must needs
mention my husband, do it with proper respect, and consider to whom you
are speaking!"
"God forbid!" said the attorney, humbly, "that I should say or think any
offence to Mr. Tengelyi! No! I respect him above all men; and though he
wounded my heart, for it is he who robbed me of my hopes of happiness,
of my hopes of possessing you--and----"
"Enough!" replied Mrs. Ershebet, with a look of contempt. "I think we
know each other. You have given us so many proofs of your love and
respect, that we can dispense with your protestations."
The attorney sighed.
"Ah!" said he, "I grieve to find you a victim to the very delusion which
enthrals Mr. Tengelyi's mind. You too believe that I am the cause, or at
least the promoter, of the lamentable Dustbury quarrel. Very well! I
submit. The future will show how greatly you wrong me!"
"Heaven grant that it be so!" sighed Mrs. Tengelyi; "and whatever cause
we may have to complain of you, you can rely on my sincere gratitude, if
you exert yourself in behalf of my children."
"No thanks! my dearest Mrs. Ershebet, no thanks!" said the attorney,
with increasing warmth. "My heart's best wish is to show you that I am
still faithful to the love of my youth. If I can prove this, I am amply
rewarded; and I believe there is now an opportunity to convince you of
my constancy."
Mrs. Tengelyi was astonished, and more than half frightened; but she
replied that she had no doubt that Mr. Catspaw's position and influence
could be beneficially exerted in behalf of her family.
"Do not suppose that my influence is so great as people say it is. They
say that my word is law in Mr. Rety's house. The sheriff and his wife's
doings are put down as mine. They have the benefit of the obloquy which
falls on me, but I have the vexation and the enmities which ought to be
their share. God knows, things would be far different if I had my will.
But--never mind! I _have_ some influence in Rety's house, and perhaps I
can exert it to your advantage. Mr. Tengelyi, I understand, has been
summoned to show cause why he should not be considered as being in a
state of _villanage_?"
The coolness with which this question was asked by the very man whom she
considered as the prime mover of her husband's troubles, surprised Mrs.
Tengelyi to such an extent that she was unable to make any reply.
"And I learn," continued the attorney, "that the papers, by means of
which he expected to prove his noble descent have been feloniously
abstracted from these premises?"
"If anybody ought to know, it is you!" cried Mrs. Tengelyi, with utter
disgust.
"I understand you," said Mr. Catspaw, with a placid smile; "and I am
free to confess that I feel hurt that I, of all men, should be suspected
of such a thing. Even if such an action were not repugnant to my
feelings, I cannot understand what hopes of profit or advantage it could
possibly hold out to me. I have no claims on Mr. Tengelyi. His rights or
wrongs have no influence on my fortunes or interests. To suppose that I
should be guilty of the gratuitous perpetration of such a crime is
simply absurd."
"I cannot dispute with you; but, from what my husband says, and from
what we have heard of Viola's depositions, it appears----"
"But, dearest Mrs. Ershebet, if this were the case, can you think that I
would have dared to come to your house? Why it were the greatest piece
of impertinence,--and of folly" (added he, seeing that the former
supposition seemed by no means unlikely to Mrs. Tengelyi,) "and, indeed,
of madness, if, after so much danger and risk for the purpose of
wronging Mr. Tengelyi, I would now exert myself for his advantage."
"As yet we have no proofs of your wish to do any such thing," dryly
remarked Mrs. Tengelyi.
"Heaven knows," said Mr. Catspaw, with a pious look to the
ceiling,--"Heaven knows, madam, how unjustly you treat me! If you could
but know what I did to prevent the person--but no matter! I intend to
give you proofs of my friendship, and to gain the esteem even of Mr.
Tengelyi, your respected husband."
"God grant it! As far as in us lies, you may rely on our gratitude."
"No gratitude! Do not mention it! What I want is your friendship. The
papers," added the attorney, looking cautiously round, and drawing his
chair to Mrs. Tengelyi's side, "I say, are the papers such that they
give full and satisfactory proofs of your husband's noble descent?"
"Of course they do. What of that?"
"Indeed, indeed!" said Mr. Catspaw, abstractedly. "Important matter!
Valuable papers! What baptism is in the kingdom of Heaven, that is noble
descent in the kingdom of Hungary. I understand your grief now, and
especially when I think what is to become of your little boy!----"
"For God's sake, cease to torment me! If you know what has become of
them----"
"But tell me," said Mr. Catspaw, "have you lost _all_ your papers? Are
none of the documents left?"
"None!" sighed Mrs. Tengelyi. "They were tied in a parcel, and they are
all gone. But if you know where they are, I pray, I entreat you to tell
me. If I have ever offended you, pray consider that my children, at
least, are innocent of any grudges you may think you owe me!"
Mr. Catspaw had some difficulty to conceal the joy he felt at the effect
of his words.
"Alas!" said he, with a sigh, "if it were my own case--believe me,
dearest Mrs. Ershebet, if I only knew where the papers are, I'd walk a
thousand miles to restore them to you!"
"Do you mean to say that you do _not_ know where they are?" cried Mrs.
Tengelyi, with amazement.
"How should I? Do but consider the matter. What Viola says is a mere
invention. Let me ask you again: what are those documents to _me_, that
I should commit a felony for them?"
"But in what way do you propose to assist my children, if you cannot
help us to prove our nobility?"
"But who tells you that I do not mean to assist you in recovering your
nobility?" retorted the attorney, with a smile. "As for papers and
documents, never mind them! We can do without them."
Mrs. Tengelyi stared at him, but he went on:--
"My dearest Mrs. Ershebet, we live in Hungary, you know, though I am
afraid you are wofully ignorant of the doings and dealings of Hungarian
life. Who ever heard of nobility being obtained and proved by documents
only? Fancy, if every man enjoying the privileges of a nobleman were to
be asked for his parchments! I assure you such a proceeding would make
greater havoc amongst us than the battle of Mohatsh.[27] Don't you see,
my dear madam, that there is a better and simpler way to prove noble
descent, viz., by _usus_. Of late they have called it prescription, but
that word does not embrace the idea in all its bearings; for
prescription is, after all, a kind of law, and where there's law there's
no occasion for _usus_; nay, it is a peculiarity of the _usus_ that it
presupposes something which is not, and has not been, and never can be
founded on law. For instance, you have a large field, and I am your
neighbour. I encroach on your field, and plough a small piece away every
season. At length you bring an action against me. Very well. I prove
that I was in the '_usus_:' that I have always ploughed and reaped to a
certain point--say a stone, or tree, or any thing you like. Very well.
You say it's a bad habit of mine, and that the field belongs to you. But
it's all of no use: I've the _usus_ on my side, and if you go on with
your action you're a fool, that's all. Or say, you and I are joint
proprietors of a farm. I keep sheep, and you don't. At last you take it
into your head to keep sheep. But I say, 'No, you shall not!' And why?
Because I've the _usus_ for me!"
[Footnote 27: See Note X.]
"But of what use is all this in our case?"
"This is the use. As you can get any thing by _usus_, so you can get the
privileges of nobility by it also."
"I cannot understand this," said Mrs. Tengelyi.
"And yet it is as clear as daylight. I say A. or B. has not a rag of
paper to prove his nobility with; nay, more: he himself is aware that
his family are not noble; but he has friends in the county, who have
kept the tax-gatherer from his door. Now suppose somebody questions his
noble descent; what a horrid thing would it be for the poor man if he
were compelled to prove how, and why, and when his ancestors were
ennobled! No, he simply shows that he never paid any taxes, and he is at
once established as a nobleman; especially if he can prove that he has
attended an election, where he thrashed somebody, or where somebody
thrashed him; for, if there's a thrashing in the case, I'd like to see
the man who would dare to doubt the _usus_. I remember the case of a
party against whom they brought an action of that kind, and who proved
that his grandfather was repeatedly sent to gaol for horse-stealing,
without having ever been subjected to corporal punishment. Very well.
The _usus_ was proved, that's all. Believe me, you are sadly mistaken if
you fancy that you want documents to prove your noble descent. There are
many counties in which hundreds of _villains_ are admitted to the
franchise by the parties in office, merely for the purpose of carrying a
contested election. All you want for the purpose is a friend and----"
"Alas! we have no friends!" sighed Mrs. Tengelyi.
"No, but you have, my dear madam!" cried Mr. Catspaw, nodding his head
with great energy; "I say, madam, you have friends who would do any
thing to be of service to you! who would hire a score of witnesses to
swear that Mr. Tengelyi is descended _rectâ viâ_ from a count's family.
Even Mr. Rety----"
"I am sure _he_ will oppose us to the last."
"You are mistaken. When he once sees what interest I take in you, he too
will be eager to stop the recorder's process against your husband. I
assure you, Mr. Rety is a dear good gentlemanly man; and if we could but
remove the cause of this disagreeable quarrel, dear me! I don't see why
they shouldn't be as they were at the German university.--I speak of
your husband and Mr. Rety, madam."
"What do you mean?"
"The cause of the quarrel, you know, is young Rety's love to that dear
girl, Vilma. If means could be found to arrange that business, I am sure
we'd go on smoothly and comfortably."
"I am afraid you are not aware, sir," said Mrs. Tengelyi, to whom these
words gave a clue to the attorney's intentions, "that it is no use
trying to remove that cause of the quarrel. Akosh has made a formal
offer; Vilma loves him, and he has our consent. If the sacrifice of my
daughter's happiness is the only thing you have to propose----"
"But who thinks of sacrificing the poor girl's happiness?" said Mr.
Catspaw, reproachfully. "What man can desire the dear angel's happiness
more than I do? But I say, are her affections irrevocably fixed on the
sheriff's son?"
Mrs. Tengelyi would have spoken, but the attorney interrupted her.
"A great name and a large fortune are capital things! indeed they are;
and I, of all men, ought to know it. It's a fine thing to have your
daughter living in a large house, and driving about in a
carriage-and-four; but is this happiness? Why, you yourself are the best
proof that it is not. You might have married a wealthy man, who would
have led you a comfortable life; but you preferred Tengelyi----"
"If you think," cried Mrs. Ershebet, angrily, "that we accepted the
offer only because Akosh is rich, you are very much mistaken, I assure
you! On the contrary, we wish he were of our own condition in life."
"Just so; exactly, my dear Mrs. Ershebet! If I had a daughter of my own,
I'd never give her to my betters. It is true such gentlemen are enabled
to introduce their ladies to all the enjoyments of life, enjoyments,
too, which are quite out of the question in the humble paths of an easy,
comfortable competence, of honourable poverty, if you like the term.
They can surround them with splendour, luxury, and Heaven knows what.
But as for real love, dearest Mrs. Ershebet, real love, as you and I
understand it, flies from the glittering snares of a monied alliance!"
"Akosh is an exception. He adores Vilma."
"Of course he does! nothing more natural. Whom does he not adore! His
heart is so full of sentiment. But you see, dearest Mrs. Ershebet, it's
a strange thing, a peculiar thing, indeed, my dear madam, this very
adoration is--what is it, after all? You kneel down, raise your hands,
are transported, enraptured, and all that sort of thing; and when
you've done with your prayer, you get up, and go your way. That's
adoration, madam."
"No, sir!" said Mrs. Tengelyi, firing up; "I know Akosh! I respect him!
I would never have promised him my daughter's hand, if I had doubted his
honour."
"Madam, I respect you for respecting Akosh; on my word, I do. He's the
best, the most honourable of gentlemen, though I say it, who ought not
to say it, because I'm his friend. If he were my own son, I couldn't
like him better than I do. Who would quarrel with him for being
excitable, and less constant in love than we old people would like to
see young gentlemen? You see, dearest Mrs. Ershebet, it is not just, it
is not fair, to ask that kind of thing of a young gentleman of Mr.
Rety's station."
"But I do ask it!" protested Mrs. Tengelyi. "I give him my daughter; and
I have a right to ask----"
"Not an impossibility, I trust!" said Mr. Catspaw, with a smile. "If
Akosh were of our own standing in society, your wish to monopolise him
would be natural; but in the higher spheres of life such a desire is
perfectly ridiculous. What would the world say, if a gentleman of his
rank were to confine his attentions to his lady!"
"I trust you do not insinuate any thing disreputable against Akosh----"
"Disreputable? No; indeed not! He has some mistresses; but----"
"Mistresses!" screamed Mrs. Tengelyi.
"Well! and what of that?"
"What, indeed!" cried Mrs. Tengelyi, utterly forgetful of who it was, to
whom she spoke. "If he were capable of having but one mistress, now that
he has told my daughter, at least a hundred times, that he loves her
alone, why it were infamous, despicable,----"
"But I assure you it is wrong to attach any importance to that kind of
thing!"
"But I do! Rather than permit such doings----"
"My dear, good Mrs. Ershebet," whispered the attorney, drawing still
closer to her; "I know your views of life; and, as your friend and
sincere well-wisher, I feel bound to express my opinion that Akosh will
never be what you expect him to be. He is a young gentleman of great
talents, of energy, hot temper, business habits; he is all that, and
more; but he is neither faithful nor constant in love. If you desire a
constant son-in-law," he added, seizing her hand, "I can tell you of
one."
Mrs. Tengelyi looked at him in hopeless bewilderment.
"Yes, dearest Mrs. Ershebet!" continued Mr. Catspaw, with increasing
pathos; "I know a man of tried constancy, of unbounded devotion! a man,
indeed, who cannot vie with Akosh in splendour, but in whose arms Vilma
is sure to find that tranquil happiness whose value she knows so well
how to appreciate. I, madam,--I am ready to take young Rety's place!"
"You, Mr. Catspaw!" cried Mrs. Ershebet, holding up her hands.
"Why not?" said the good man, brimful of kindness. "I am not quite the
boy I was when I proposed for you; but I'm not an old man, eh? I am a
man in the prime of life, a man of substance, dear Ershebet. What I
offer is more than a competence. I've a hundred and fifty thousand
florins, if I have a penny. If Vilma marries me, there will be no more
questioning about Tengelyi's nobility; indeed, the Retys would be happy
to make me a handsome cession of land. And as for that little affair
with Akosh, you know I am by far too sensible and indulgent----"
While he was engaged in enumerating the advantages of an alliance
between him and Vilma, the attorney had neglected to watch Mrs.
Tengelyi's features, and to mark the unmistakeable expression of scorn
and disgust which they bore. He was not, therefore, at all prepared for
the scene which ensued, when the insulted mother rose and told him to
leave the house instantly. He would have spoken, explained, excused
himself, and what not! but Mrs. Tengelyi would not allow him to speak,
and, to make bad worse, the door opened at this very critical moment,
and Tengelyi entered the room.
"What do you want here?" said the notary, with an awful frown.
Mrs. Ershebet cut off the attorney's reply by a circumstantial account
of Mr. Catspaw's proposal, in the course of which she commented on that
worthy gentleman's behaviour in severe and, indeed, pungent terms.
"Be off! and never again dare to show your impudent face in my house!"
said the notary, in reply to Mr. Catspaw's offer; but that gentleman,
who, on seeing the notary, had expected no less than that the latter
would assault him on the spot, was misled by this seeming moderation. He
thought it a duty he owed to himself to make the best of so favourable
an opportunity, and launching forth into protestations of his unlimited
friendship for the Tengelyi family, he was just in the act of venting
his admiration and love of the notary, when the latter addressed him
very unceremoniously,--
"Get out, sir! If you don't, I'll kick you!"
"But, sir, please to give me a moment's hearing! Indeed, sir, this is
not the way you ought to treat my offer! If Vilma----"
"Don't presume to mention her, you miscreant!" cried Mr. Tengelyi.
"_You_ my daughter's husband? You!--a robber, a thief?"
The noise of the altercation brought Vilma and the Liptaka into the
room, and the passers-by in the street stopped at the window and
listened. Mr. Catspaw was of opinion that the presence of so many
witnesses would prevent the notary from proceeding to acts of bodily
violence; and, moreover, he was aware that his dignity would not allow
him to submit to Tengelyi's insulting language. To talk big was not only
safe, but prudent.
"This is too bad!" screamed he. "I'll make you repent it, sir!"
"Repent it?" shouted Tengelyi.
"Yes, repent it, if you please, my dear notary! Perhaps you are not
aware that you are not a nobleman?"
"Reptile! dost thou dare to remind me of thy villany?" cried the notary,
raising his stick, in spite of the endeavours of his wife and daughter,
who sought to restrain him.
"Though I condescend to propose for your daughter, you ought not to
forget the difference between your rank and mine!"
"It's the difference between an honest man and a rascal!" cried
Tengelyi, still struggling to disengage his arm from the grasp of Mrs.
Ershebet.
Mr. Catspaw saw clearly that the delay of another minute would prove
dangerous. He retreated, and reached the door just when Tengelyi, whose
fury brooked no restraint, broke from those who held him, and rushed in
pursuit of him.
"God knows but I'll be the death of that fellow!" said the notary, as he
returned to his house, accompanied by Vandory and Akosh, who luckily met
him as he was running after the attorney. Exhausted with his passion, he
flung himself on a chair; and though his wife, Vandory, and Akosh
assured him that Mr. Catspaw was beneath an honest man's notice, a
considerable time elapsed before he regained his usual equanimity. The
witnesses of the scene, too, were greatly excited and interested; and a
report was spread, by some, that Mr. Catspaw had been beaten and
kicked, and by others, that Tengelyi would have killed the attorney, but
for the flight of the latter.
While these and sundry other rumours on the subject of his danger were
spreading in Tissaret, the worthy Mr. Catspaw reached his apartments in
safety, though by no means in an enviable mood.
"What a confounded fool I've made of myself!" said he. "Propose for the
girl, indeed! curse me, I'm a victim to that silly attachment of mine
for the Retys. Would they have given me a penny more for marrying her?
No. They cannot help giving me fifty thousand florins, but they won't
give me a farthing more. And even if I were to prevent young Rety's
marriage, his ungrateful mother would never forgive me. She'll never get
over those money matters. Curse her! She'd skin a flint! But who the
deuce could have thought that the woman wouldn't let me speak, and that
Tengelyi would come home? And he insulted me!--publicly!--before
everybody did he insult me, and I cannot even retaliate upon him! I dare
not offend that puppy Akosh; for, after all, I don't see what I can do,
except giving him Tengelyi's documents, and a few of Vandory's letters.
It's a good plan, and it will protect me against being prosecuted. But
before doing this I must have the bills in my pocket."
But even this resolution did not quite conquer Mr. Catspaw's
apprehensions; for did not Akosh hate him? and might not the young man
institute proceedings against him? No! he would bind Akosh by his word
of honour,--these young men are so full of prejudice! "And besides, he
cannot inform against me, without dishonouring his own name. His
mother-in-law is too much mixed up with the affair," muttered the
attorney, as he lighted a candle and sat down to examine Vandory's
papers.
It was almost eleven o'clock when he finished his labours. He took a few
of the letters, put them in an envelope, and placed them in a secret
corner of his desk. His examination of the letters had satisfied him
that the Retys could not think of braving the publicity of a court of
justice. This discovery put him into the best of tempers.
"Capital!" said he, rubbing his hands; "in a few days I shall have fifty
thousand florins, and by communicating the affair to Akosh, I can foil
any plans of revenge which this woman may have against me. I'm worth two
hundred thousand florins! At last I know what I've lived for!" And he
prepared to lock the door. He turned the key and tried the door, but it
remained open. He tried it again, but without success. Mr. Catspaw shook
his head. Something must be the matter with the lock. He thought of
bolting the door; but the bolt would not move.
"What the deuce can be the matter?" said he, after another unsuccessful
attempt.
He recollected that since Akosh, Etelka, and the Retys were gone, he was
quite alone in that part of the house; and so much had his mind of late
been occupied with robbers and robberies, that he became uneasy at the
thought of passing the night alone and with open doors; and while he
thought of it, it struck him that something moved in the stove. He
approached it and listened.
"I am a fool!" said he at last; "if I can't lock the door, it's because
the lock's used up; and as for the bolt, why I've never moved it. It
ought to be rusty by this time!" He went to bed, still thinking of the
most profitable plan of investing his money, when a slight noise
interrupted his train of agreeable thoughts. Steps were heard on the
stairs. They were soft and cautious, like the steps of one who wishes to
escape detection. Mr. Catspaw heard them distinctly. They approached
from the stairs, and crept along the corridor to his room. He was just
about to leave his bed when the door was softly opened, and a man,
wrapped up in a bunda, entered the room.
"_Viola!_" said Mr. Catspaw, with a trembling voice, for the shout which
he wished to raise died in his throat. His hair stood on end; his jaws
shook.
"It's well you know me!" said the outlaw, as he advanced to the
attorney's bed. "If you call for help, you are a dead man! Besides, it's
no use calling; nobody will hear you."
"I won't call! I won't make a noise!" said Mr. Catspaw, while an ashy
paleness spread over his features. "I know you are the last man to hurt
me, good Mr. Viola! Do you come for money? I am a poor man, but you are
welcome to all I have. No thanks! I am happy to oblige you!"
"_I_ am the last man to hurt you!" said the robber, giving the attorney
a look which made his blood creep. "Am I indeed? Don't you think bygones
are bygones with me! Not your agony, not all the blood in your veins,
can pay me for what you've done to me and mine!"
"You are mistaken, my dear sir; indeed you are----;" the attorney cast a
despairing look around him; "I am not----"
"Who?" said Viola, sternly. "Who was it made me a robber? Who was it
that drove me forth, like a beast of the forest, while my wife and
children were cast as beggars on the world? Say it was not you! Say it
was not you who wrote my doom! Say it was not you who would have drunk
my blood! Say it is not you who are my curse and my enemy!----"
"I'll give you my all,--I'll give you all I have! I've a couple of
hundreds of Mr. Rety's money too, and you are welcome to them, though I
shall have to refund them, and----"
"I don't want your money!" said Viola, scornfully. "I want the papers
you stole from the notary."