"The land beyond the sunset."
And now the shadows of evening were slowly invading the plains. The
autumn wind, lulled for a time to rest with the setting of the sun, had
sprung up in angry gusts, lashing up clouds from the southwest and
sending them to tear along and efface the last vestige of the evening
crimson glow.
Elsa and Andor had both remained quite still after Klara left them; yet
Elsa--like all simple creatures who feel acutely--was longing to run and
let the far horizon, the distant unknown land, wrap and enfold her while
she thought things out for herself, for indeed this real world--the
world of men and women, of passions and hatred and love--was nothing but
a huge and cruel puzzle. She longed for solitude--the solitude which the
plains can offer in such absolute completeness--because her heart was
heavy and she felt that if she were all alone she might ease the weight
on her heart in a comforting flow of tears.
But this would not have been kind to Andor. She could not leave him now,
when he looked so broken down with sorrow and misery and doubt. So,
after a little while, when she felt that if she spoke her voice would be
quite steady, she said gently:
"It is not all true, is it, Andor?"
She could not--she would not believe it all true--not in the way that
Klara had put it before her, with all its horrible details of
callousness and cowardice. For more years than she could remember she
had loved and trusted Andor--she had known his simple, loyal nature, his
kind and gentle ways--a few spiteful words from a jealous woman were not
likely to tear down in a moment the solid edifice of her affection and
her confidence. True! his silence had told her something that was a
bitter truth; his passionate rage against Klara had been like a cruel
stab right into her heart--but even then she wanted the confirmation
which could only come from his own lips--and for this she waited when
she asked him, quite simply, altogether trustingly:
"It is not true, is it?"
Nor did it occur to Andor to lie to her about it all; the thought of
denial never for one moment entered his head. The fatalism peculiar to
this Oriental race made the man scorn to shield himself behind a lie.
Béla was now for ever silent; the young Count would scorn to speak! His
own protestations in the ear of this loving, simple-minded girl, against
the accusations of a woman of the despised race--jealous, bitter,
avowedly half-crazy--needed only to be uttered in order to be
whole-heartedly believed. But even the temptation to pursue such a
course never assailed his soul. With the limitless sky above him, the
vast immensity of the plains stretching out unbroken far away, with the
land under his feet and the scent of the maize-stubble in his nostrils,
he was too proud of himself as a man to stoop to such a lie.
So when Elsa spoke to him and asked him that one straight and firm
question, he raised his head and looked straight into her tear-dimmed
eyes.
"What, Elsa?" he asked quietly.
"That you let Béla go to his death--just like that--as Klara said . . .
that is not all true, is it?"
And as she returned his look--fearlessly and trustfully--she knew that
the question which she had thus put to him was really an affirmation of
what she felt must be the truth. But already Andor had raised his voice
in hot and passionate protest.
"He was a brute to you, Elsa," he affirmed with all the strength of his
manhood, the power of his love, which, in spite of all, would not
believe in its own misery; "he would have made you wretchedly unhappy
. . . he . . ."
"You did do it, then?" she broke in quietly.
"I did it because of you, Elsa," he cried, and his own firm voice was
now half-choked with sobs. "He made you unhappy even though you were not
yet bound to him by marriage. Once you were his wife he would have made
you miserable . . . he would have bullied you . . . beaten you, perhaps.
I heard him out under the verandah speaking to you like the sneering
brute that he was. . . . And then he kissed you . . . and I . . . But
even then I didn't give him the key. . . . Klara lied when she said
that. I didn't urge him to take it, even--I did not speak about the key.
It was lying on the table where I had put it--he took it up--I did not
give it him."
"But you let him take it. You knew that he meant to visit Klara, and
that Leopold was on the watch outside. Yet you let him go. . . ."
"I let him go. . . . I was nearly mad then with rage at the way he had
treated you all day. . . . His taking that key was a last insult put
upon you on the eve of your wedding day. . . . The thought of it got
into my blood like fire, when I saw his cruel leer and heard his sneers.
. . . Later on, I thought better of it . . . calmer thoughts had got
into my brain . . . reason, sober sense. . . . I had gone back to the
presbytery, and meant to go to bed--I went out, I swear it by God that
I went out prepared to warn him, to help him if I could. The whole
village was deserted, it was the hour of supper at the barn. I heard the
church clock strike the half-hour after ten. I worked my way round to
the back of Goldstein's house and in the yard I saw Béla lying--dead."
"And you might have raised a finger to save him at first . . . and you
didn't do it."
"Not at first . . . and after that it was too late. . . ."
"You have done a big, big wrong, Andor," she said slowly.
"Wrong?" he cried, whilst once more the old spirit of defiance fired
him--the burning love in him, the wrath at seeing her unhappy. "Wrong?
Because I did not prevent one miserable brute being put out of the way
of doing further harm? By the living God, Elsa, I do not believe that it
was wrong. I didn't send him to his death, I did not see or speak to
Leopold Hirsch, I merely let Fate or God Himself work His way with him.
I did not say a word to him that might have induced him to take that
key. He picked it up from the table, and every evil thought came into
his head then and there. He didn't even care about Klara and a silly,
swaggering flirtation with her, he only wanted to insult you, to shame
you, to show you that he was the master--and meant to have his way in
all things. . . . And this he did because--bar his pride in your
beauty--he really hated you and meant to treat you ill. He meant to harm
you, Elsa--my own dear dove . . . my angel from heaven . . . for whom I
would have died, and would die to-day, if my death could bring you
happiness. . . . I let him go and Leopold Hirsch killed him . . . if he
had lived, he would have made your life one long misery. . . . Was it my
fault that Leopold Hirsch killed him?--killed him at the moment when he
was trying to do you as great harm as he could? By God, Elsa, I swear
that I don't believe it was my fault . . . it was the will of God--God
would not punish me for not interfering with His will. . . . Why, it
wouldn't be justice, Elsa . . . it wouldn't be justice."
His voice broke in one agonized sob. He had put all his heart, all his
feelings into that passionate appeal. He did not believe that he had
done wrong, he had not on his soul the sense of the brand of Cain.
Rough, untutored, a son of the soil, he saw no harm in sweeping out of
the way a noisome creature who spreads evil and misery. And Elsa's was
also a simple and untutored soul, even though in her calmer temperament
the wilder passions of men had found no echo. True and steadfast in
love, her mind was too simple to grasp at sophistry, to argue about
right or wrong; her feelings were her guide, and even while
Andor--burning with love and impatience--argued and clung desperately to
his own point of view, she felt only the desire to comfort and to
succour--above all, to love--she was just a girl--Andor's sweetheart and
not his judge. God alone was that! God would punish if He so
desired--indeed, He had punished already, for never had such sorrow
descended in Andor's heart before, of that she felt quite sure.
He became quite calm after awhile. Even his passion seemed to have died
down under the weight of this immense sorrow.
And the peace which comes from the plains when they are wrapped in the
darkness of the night descended on the humble peasant-girl's soul; she
saw things as they really were, not as men's turbulent desires would
have them be--above all, not as a woman's idealism would picture them.
She no longer had the desire to run away--and if the distant, unknown
land was to wrap and enfold her out of the ken of this real, cruel
world, then it should enfold her and Andor together, and her love would
wrap him and comfort him too.
So now--when he had finished speaking, when his fervent appeal to God
and to her had died down on his quivering lips--she came close up to him
and placed her small, cool hand upon his arm.
"Andor," she said gently; and her voice shook and was almost
undistinguishable from the sweet, soft sounds that filled the limitless
plain. "I am only an ignorant peasant-girl--you and I are only like
children, of course, beside the clever people who can argue about such
things. But this I do know, that there is no sin in the world so great
but it can be blotted out and forgiven. You may have done a big, big,
wrong, Andor--or perhaps you are not much to blame . . . I don't know
how that is . . . Pater Bonifácius will tell you, no doubt, when next
you make your confession to him. . . . But I am too ignorant to
understand . . . the plains have taught me all I know . . . and . . .
and . . . I shall always love you, Andor . . . and not judge what you
have done. . . . God will do that. . . . I can only love you. . . . That
is all!"
Her voice died away in the soughing of the wind. For a moment or two he
stood beside her--not daring to speak--or to move--or to take that cool,
little white hand in his and kiss it--for now she seemed to him more
pure than she had ever been--almost holy--like a saint--hallowed by the
perfect selflessness of her love.
And as he stood beside her--with head bent and throat choked with sobs
of infinite happiness--the darkness of the night fell wholly upon the
plain. Nothing around but just this darkness, filled with all the sounds
of hidden, pulsating life; overhead the clouds chased one another
ceaselessly and restlessly, and from far away the dull murmur of the
water came as a faint and rumbling echo.
Andor could no longer see Elsa now, not even her silhouette; but her
hand was still on his arm, and he felt the nearness of her presence, and
knew that henceforth, throughout the years that were to come, a
happiness such as he had never even dared to dream of would be his and
hers too, until the day when they would leave the beautiful, mysterious
plains for that hidden land beyond the glowing horizon, beyond the rosy
dawn and the crimson sunset.
Andor slowly fell on his knees and pressed his burning lips on the
small, white hand. Just then in the east there was a rent in the clouds,
a lining of silver appeared behind the darkness; the rent became wider
and ever wider; the silver turned to lemon-gold, and slowly,
majestically, the waning moon--honey-coloured and brilliant--emerged
triumphantly, queening it over the plain.
The silvery radiance lit up the vast, silent expanse of nothingness, the
huge dome of the sky, the limitless area of stubble and stumps of hemp
and dead sunflowers, and where the mysteries of the earth merged in
those of the sky--it touched with its subtle radiance that unknown land
on the horizon, far away, which no child of the plain has ever reached
as yet.
And from the distant village came softly sounding the tinkle of the
church bell, tolling for evening prayer.
Hand in hand, Andor and Elsa wandered back to the
village--together--hand in hand with memory--hand in hand in
never-fading love and understanding and simple trust--hand in hand upon
the bosom of the illimitable plain.
* * * * *
Transcriber's note:
Some names were spelled inconsistently in the original text.
All occurrences of "Benko" have been corrected to "Benkó",
"Bonifacius" has been corrected to "Bonifácius", and "Hohér"
has been corrected to "Hóhér".
In addition, the following typographical errors have been
corrected.
In Chapter XX, "violent and suddent" was changed to
"violent and sudden".
In Chapter XXI, "wont . . . won't you sit down?" was
changed to "won't . . . won't you sit down?"
In Chapter XXV, "make Andor giddy" was changed to "made
Andor giddy".
In Chapter XXVIII, a missing period was added after
"quietly laid to rest".