"Some day."
A week went by after the funeral before Elsa saw Andor again. She had
not purposely avoided him, any more than she had avoided everyone else:
but unlike most girls of her class and of her nationality she had felt a
great desire to be alone during the most acute period of this life's
crisis through which she was passing just now.
At first on that never-to-be-forgotten morning when she woke to her
wedding-day--her white veil and wreath of artificial white roses lying
conspicuously on the top of the chest of drawers, so that her eyes were
bound to alight on them the moment they opened--and saw her mother
standing beside her bed, dishevelled, pale, and obviously labouring
under some terrible excitement, she had been conscious as of an awful
blow on the head, a physical sensation of numbness and of pain.
Even before she had had time to formulate a question she knew that some
terrible calamity had occurred. In jerky phrases, broken by moans and
interjections, the mother had blurted out the news: Erös Béla was
dead--he had been found just now--murdered outside Klara Goldstein's
door--there would be no wedding--Elsa was a widow before she had been a
bride. Half the village was inclined to believe that Ignácz Goldstein
had done the deed in a moment of angry passion, finding Béla sneaking
round his daughter's door when he himself was going away from
home--others boldly accused Andor.
Elsa had said nothing at the time. That same imagined blow on the head
had also deprived her of the power of speech. Fortunately Irma talked so
loudly and so long that she paid no attention to her daughter's silence,
and presently ran out into the village to gather more news.
And Elsa remained alone in the house, save for the helpless invalid in
the next room. She washed and dressed herself quickly and mechanically,
then sat down on her favourite low chair, close beside her crippled
father's knee, cowering there like some little field mouse, attentive,
alert, rigidly still, for very fear of what was to come.
Irma did not come back for two or three hours: when she did it was to
bring the exciting news that Leopold Hirsch had been found hanging to a
beam in his back shop, with the knife wherewith he had killed Erös Béla
lying conspicuously on a table close by.
Elsa felt as if the weight of the world had been lifted from off her
brain. All through these hours the thought of Andor having committed
such an abominable crime never once entered her mind, but nevertheless
when her mother told the news about Leopold Hirsch, and that the police
officers had already left the village, she was conscious of an
overwhelming sense of relief.
Fortunately her mother was busy all day gossiping with her cronies and
Elsa was allowed the luxury of sitting alone most of the day, silent and
absorbed, doing the usual work of the house in the morning and in the
afternoon busying herself with carefully putting away the wedding dress,
the veil, the wreath which would not be wanted now.
Late in the evening, when there was a chance of finding the street
deserted, she ran out as far as the presbytery. Fortunately the night
was dark: a thin drizzle was falling, and it spread a misty veil all
down the village street. Elsa had tied one of her mother's dark-coloured
handkerchiefs over her head and put her darkest-coloured petticoat on
the top of all the others. She had also wrapped her mother's dark shawl
round her shoulders, and thus muffled up she was able to flit
unperceived down the street, a swift little dark figure
undistinguishable from the surrounding darkness of the night.
Fortunately the Pater was at home and ready to see her. She heaved a
sigh of relief as she entered the bare narrow little hall which led on
the right to the Pater's parlour.
She had been able to tell Pater Bonifácius exactly what was troubling
her--that sense of peace, almost of relief, which had descended into her
soul when she heard that she never, never need be Erös Béla's wife.
Since this morning, when first she had heard the terrible news, she had
not thought of his death--that awful fate which had so unexpectedly
overtaken him--she had only thought of her own freedom, the peace which
henceforth would be hers.
That was very wrong of course--a grievous sin no doubt the Pater would
call it. She shed many tears of contrition, listened eagerly to a kind
homily from the old priest on the subject of unnecessary and
unprofitable searchings of conscience, and went away satisfied.
Strangely enough, after this confession she felt far more sorry for poor
Béla than she had done before, and she cried her eyes out both before
and after the funeral because, do what she would, she always saw him
before her as he was that last day of his life--quarrelsome,
dictatorial, tyrannical--and she remembered how she had almost hated him
for his bullying ways and compared him in her mind with Andor's kindness
and chivalry.
And now she cried with remorse because she had hated him during the last
hours of his life; she cried because he had gone to his death unloved,
and lay now in his coffin unregretted; she cried because her heart was
full and heavy and because in the past week--before her wedding day--she
had swallowed so many unshed tears.
And while she felt miserable and not a little forlorn she didn't want to
see anybody, least of all Andor. Whenever she thought of Andor, the same
remorse about Béla gnawed again at her heart, for when she thought of
him she not only felt at peace, but it seemed as if a ray of happiness
illumined the past darkness of her life.
Once or twice during the last day or two, when she had sat stitching,
she caught herself singing softly to herself, and once she knew for
certain that she had smiled.
Then the day came when Andor called at the house. Irma fortunately was
out, having coffee and gossip with a friend. No doubt he had watched
until he was sure that she was well out of the way. Then he knocked at
the door and entered.
Elsa was sitting as usual on the low chair close by the sick man. She
looked up when he entered and all at once the blood rushed to her pale
cheeks.
"May I come in?" he asked diffidently.
"If you like, Andor," she replied.
He threw down his hat and then came to sit on the corner of the table in
his favorite attitude and as close to Elsa as he dared. The eyes of the
paralytic had faintly lit up at his approach.
"Are you quite well, Elsa?" he asked after a long pause, during which
the girl thought that she could hear the beating of her own heart.
"Yes. Quite well thank you, Andor," she replied softly.
"No one has seen you in the village this past week," he remarked.
"No," she said, "I am not very fond of gossip, and there was a deal too
much of it in Marosfalva this past week to please me."
"You are right there, Elsa," he rejoined, "but there were others in the
village, you know, those who did not gossip--but whose heart would have
been gladdened by a sight of you."
"Yes, Andor," she murmured.
We may take it that the young man found these laconic answers distinctly
encouraging, for presently he said abruptly:
"Perhaps, Elsa, it isn't right for me to begin talking to you . . .
about certain matters . . ."
"What matters, Andor?" she asked ingenuously.
"Matters which have lain next to my heart, Elsa, for more years now than
I would care to count."
"Perhaps it is a little too soon, Andor--yet--" she whispered under her
breath.
Oh! She could have whipped herself for that warm blush which now covered
not only her cheeks but her neck and bosom, and for that glow of
happiness which had rushed straight at her heart at his words. But he
had already seen the blush, and caught that expression of happiness in
her blue eyes which suddenly made her look as she did of old--five years
ago--before that wan, pathetic expression of resignation had altered her
sweet face so completely.
"I don't want to worry you, Elsa," he said simply.
"You couldn't worry me, Andor," she said, "you have always been the best
friend I had in the world."
"That is because I have loved you more dearly than anyone ever loved
you on this earth," he said earnestly.
"God bless you for that, Andor."
He leaned forward, nearer to her now: his gaze had become more fixed,
more compelling. Since he had seen that look on her face and that blush
he was sure of his ground; he knew that, given time and peace, the wheel
of fate, which had already taken an upward turn for him, would soon
carry him to the summit of his desires--the woman whom he loved was no
longer unattainable and she had remained faithful throughout all this
time.
"Do you think, Elsa," he asked more insistently now, and sinking his
voice to that whisper which reaches a woman's ear far more truly than
the loudest beating of drum, "do you think that, now that you are free,
you could bring yourself to . . . to care . . . to . . . ? You were very
fond of me once, Elsa," he pleaded.
"I am fond of you now, Andor," she whispered in response. "No, no," she
added hurriedly, for already he had made a movement towards her and the
next moment would have been down on his knees with his arms around her,
but for the gently-restraining touch of her hand, "it is too soon to
talk about that."
"Yes--too soon," he assented with enforced calm, even though his heart
was beating furiously; "it is too soon I know, and I won't worry you,
Elsa--I said I wouldn't and I won't. . . . I am not a cur to come and
force myself on you when you are not ready to listen to me, and we won't
talk about it all . . . not just yet." . . .
His throat felt very dry, and his tongue felt several sizes too large
for his mouth. It was mightily difficult to keep calm and to speak
soberly when one's inclination was firstly to dance a war-dance of
triumph and of joy and then to take that dear, sweet angel of a woman
in one's arms and to kiss her till she was ready to faint.
"When do you think I might speak to you again, Elsa?" he said, with a
certain pathetic hesitancy, "about . . ."
"About what, Andor?" she asked.
"About our getting married--later on."
"Not just yet," she murmured, "but . . ."
"No, no, of course I understand. There are the proprieties and all that
. . . you were tokened to that blackguard and . . . Oh! All right, I am
not going to say anything against him," he added quickly as he saw that
words of protest and reproach were already hovering on her lips. "I
won't say anything about him at all except that he is dead now and
buried, thank the good God! . . . And you . . . you still care for me,
Elsa," he continued, whilst a wave of tenderness seemed to sweep all
other thoughts away. "No, no, don't say anything--not now--it is too
soon, of course--and I've just got to wait till the time comes as best I
can. But you mustn't mind my talking on at random like this . . . for I
tell you I am nearly crazy with joy--and I suppose that you would think
it very wrong to rejoice like this over another man's death."
His talk was a little wild and rambling--it was obvious that he was half
distracted with the prospect of happiness to come. She sat quite still,
listening silently, with eyes fixed to the ground. Only now and then she
would look up--not at Andor, but at the paralytic who was gazing on her
with the sad eyes of uncomprehension. Then she would nod and smile at
him and coo in her own motherly way and he would close his
eyes--satisfied.
And Andor, who had paused for that brief moment in his voluble talk,
went rambling on.
"You know," he said, "that it's perfectly wonderful . . . this room, I
mean . . . when I look round me I can hardly credit my eyes. . . . Just
a week ago . . . you remember? . . . I sat just there . . . at the
opposite corner of the table, and you had your low chair against the
wall just here . . . and . . . and you told me that you were tokened to
Erös Béla and that your wedding would be on the morrow . . . well! That
was little more than a week ago . . . before your farewell feast . . .
and I thought then that never, never could I be happy again because you
told me that never, never could we be anything to each other except a
kind of friendly strangers. . . . I remember then how a sort of veil
seemed to come down in front of my eyes . . . a dark red veil . . .
things didn't look black to me, you know, Elsa . . . but red. . . . So
now I am quite content just to bide my time--I am quite content that you
should say nothing to me--nothing _good_, I mean. . . . It'll take some
time before the thought of so much happiness has got proper root-hold of
my brain."
"Poor Andor!" she sighed, and turned a gaze full of love upon the sick
man. Her heart was brimming over with it, and so the paralytic got the
expression of it in its fullest measure, since Andor was not entitled to
it yet.
"But just tell me for certain, Elsa . . . so that I shouldn't have to
torment myself in the meanwhile . . . just tell me for certain that one
day . . . in the far-distant future if you like, but one day . . . say
that you will marry me."
"Some day, Andor, I will marry you if God wills," she said simply.
"Oh! But of course He will!" he rejoined airily, "and we will be married
in the spring--or the early summer when the maize is just beginning to
ripen . . . and we'll rent the mill from Pali bácsi--shall we, Elsa?"
"If you like, Andor."
"If I like!" he exclaimed. "If I like! The dear God love me, but I think
that if I stay here much longer I shall go off my head. . . . Elsa, you
don't know how much I love you and what I would not do for your sake.
. . . I feel a different man even for the joy of sitting here and
talking to you and no one having the right to interfere. . . . And I
would make you happy, Elsa, that I swear by the living God. I would make
you happy and I would work to keep you in comfort all the days of my
life. You shall be just as fine as Erös Béla would have made you--and
besides that, there would be a smile on your sweet face at every hour of
the day . . . your hands would be as white as those of my lady the
Countess herself, for I would have a servant to wait on you. And your
father would come and live with us and we would make him happy and
comfortable too, and your mother . . . well! your mother would be happy
too, and therefore not quite so cantankerous as she sometimes is."
To Andor there was nothing ahead but a life full of sunshine. He never
looked back on the past few days and on the burden of sin which they
bore. Béla had been a brute of the most coarse and abominable type; by
his monstrous conduct on the eve of his wedding day he had walked to his
death--of his own accord. Andor had _not_ sent him. Oh! he was quite,
quite sure that he had not sent Béla to his death. He had merely forborn
to warn him--and surely there could be no sin in that.
He might have told Béla that Leopold Hirsch--half mad with jealousy--was
outside on the watch with a hunting-knife in his pocket and murder in
his soul. Andor might have told Béla this and he had remained silent.
Was that a sin? considering what a brute the man was, how his action
that night was a deadly insult put upon Elsa, and how he would in the
future have bullied and browbeaten Elsa and made her life a misery--a
veritable hell upon earth.
Andor had thought the problem out; he had weighed it in his mind and he
was satisfied that he had not really committed a sin. Of course he ought
before now to have laid the whole case before Pater Bonifácius, and the
Pater would have told him just what God's view would be of the whole
affair.
The fact that Andor had not thought of going to confession showed that
he was not quite sure what God--as represented by Pater
Bonifácius--would think of it all; but he meant to go by and by and
conclude a permanent and fulsome peace treaty with his conscience.
In the meanwhile, even though the burden of remorse should at times in
the future weigh upon his soul and perhaps spoil a little of his
happiness, well! he would have to put up with it, and that was
all!--Elsa was happy--one sight of her radiant little face was enough
for any fool to see that an infinite sense of relief had descended into
her soul. Elsa was happy--freed from the brute who would have made her
wretched for the rest of her life; and surely the good God, who could
read the secret motives which lay in a fellow's heart, would not be hard
on Andor for what he had done--or left undone--for Elsa's sake.