A Hungarian Nabob

"Oh, if I were to tell, the riddle would be at an end. You must guess."

"About me?"

"Anybody who would circulate gossip about you would have to be endowed with a very lively imagination."

"About whom then?"

"Don't worry me. I will tell you. I came here, indeed, resolved to tell you; but then I thought it might disturb you, and I take you to witness that I only come out with it after the most rigorous inquisition on your part. It does not please me, nay—more than that, it disquiets me to see you so very friendly with Madame Kárpáthy."

"Ah!" So astounded was Flora, that that was all she could say. It was the last thing in the world she had expected to hear. "This really is surprising!" she exclaimed at last. "Another husband would only have been afraid of his wife's intercourse with men: you present the very first example of a husband who is afraid of his wife's women-friends likewise."

"It is because I love you so. My love of you is so devoted, so idolatrous, that I would have every one who sees and knows you approach you with a reverence, a homage equal to mine own. Not even in thought must any one dare to sin against you."

"And do I give cause to the contrary?"

"You do not, but your surroundings do; and this Kárpáthy woman has a very equivocal reputation."

"Rudolf, my good Rudolf, why are you so incensed against this poor woman? If you only knew her, you would say there was not a more honourable woman in the whole world."

"I know all about her; and you, from sheer compassion, have made her a present of your heart. Your sympathy does you honour, but the world has an opinion of this woman very different from yours: in the world's opinion she is frivolous enough."

"The world is unjust."

"Not altogether, perhaps. This woman has a past, and there is much in that past which justifies the world's judgment."

"But in her present there is much which contradicts that judgment. This woman's present conduct is worthy of all respect."

Rudolf tenderly stroked the head of his consort.

"My dear Flora, you are a child; there is much you do not understand, and will not understand. In the world there are ideas, ugly, extraordinary ideas, of which your pure, childlike mind can form no notion."

"Oh, don't suppose me so simple! I know everything. I know that Fanny's sisters were very bad, unprincipled women, and that only the energy of good kinsfolk saved Fanny herself from being betrayed and ruined. I know that in the eyes of the world hers is a very dubious record; but I also know that, so long as I hold that woman's hand in mine, the world will not dare to reproach, will not dare to condemn her; and the thought of it makes me proud and well pleased."

"And suppose you are attacked?"

"I don't understand."

"Suppose they say of you what they say of her, that you are a frivolous, flighty woman?"

"Without cause?"

"Not without cause. She lives in the midst of a band of empty-headed men, who certainly have no particular regard for a woman's reputation. And you, in consequence of your intimacy with Madame Kárpáthy, rub shoulders every day with her acquaintances, and will also be taken for a light, frivolous, frail sort of woman."

"I a light, frail, frivolous woman!" cried Flora, visibly wounded; but the moment afterwards she shrugged her shoulders. "It matters not. Rather let the whole world be unjust to me, than that I should be unjust to any one. And, after all, why should I care about the world, when you are the whole world to me? Let everybody regard me as a light woman for Madame Kárpáthy's sake; so long as you do not, I care nothing about the others."

"And if I, also, considered you as much?"

Flora sprang up from Rudolf's side in amazement.

"Rudolf! think what you are saying. Are you serious?"

"Yes, I am serious."

Flora reflected for an instant, then she said decidedly—

"Very well, Rudolf, I assure you that I am neither frivolous nor weak—weak not even in respect to you." And with that she sprang to the bell-rope and pulled it violently three times.

The maid entered.

"Netti, you will sleep in here with me to-night."

Rudolf looked at his wife with the greatest surprise.

"This is a sentence of banishment, eh?"

"It is."

"For how long?"

"Until you withdraw your words."

Rudolf smilingly kissed her hand and quitted the room; but he lay down in a very bad humour, and it was a long time before he could go to sleep. Often he was on the point of starting up, hastening to her room, begging her pardon, and giving her a written assurance under his hand and seal that women are the strongest, the most determined creatures in the world, and that there never was and never will be such a thing as a frivolous, frail young woman—but the self-respect of a husband always restrained him. It was not right that he should surrender so soon. He must show that if his wife had strength of mind enough to dismiss him, his strength of mind was not less than hers. On the morrow she would certainly be the first to plead guilty of contumacy; and with thoughts like these he went to sleep.

CHAPTER XVII.

"You see I am not so flighty as you fancied. I am not weak even where you are concerned; but I can love, and nobody shall forbid me to love whom I will." And with that she blew him a kiss from the threshold of her bedroom, and Rudolf heard her double-lock the door behind her.

Now this of itself was more than enough to make any man angry.

Rudolf tore at least two buttons off his coat in the act of undressing, and in his wrath took down Hugo Grotius, read steadily away at it till midnight, and then dashed Hugo Grotius to the ground, for he did not understand a word that he had been reading. His thoughts were elsewhere.

And the following day passed away with the same peculiar variations.

His wife was captivatingly amiable. Like a seductive siren, she immeshed her husband in the magic charms of her caresses, was kindness, tenderness personified, loaded him with every little attention which one can look for from a gracious lady, right up to her bedroom door, which she again locked in his face.

Now this was the most exquisite torture conceivable to which a man can be submitted. Compared with this little fairy, a Nero, a Caligula was a veritable philanthropist.

"But how long is this obstinacy to last?" burst forth Rudolf one day, in spite of himself.

"Until you withdraw your disparaging opinion of women."

Well, a single word would have been enough, but that single word was too precious for the pride of a husband to part with. Such a word meant submission, unconditional surrender; only at the very last extremity could it be resorted to.

No, instead of that, he will compel his wife to surrender, and he had plenty of time in those lonely, sleepless nights to hatch a plan of action. He would leave home for a week, and not tell his wife where he was going. The Kárpáthys were now at their castle at Nagy Kun Madaras; he would spend the week with them. That young woman would be certain to welcome him most gladly, and he would pay his court to her. Success was certain. He was sure to triumph over women of a much more obstinate character, if only he made up his mind to conquer. Old Kárpáthy would not trouble himself about it; he would only be too glad if his wife had plenty of amusement. There was not even any necessity for using any particular charm or seduction, the young woman was so avid of pleasure, that she was pretty sure to show favour to any one. She herself would be his best ally.

With such ideas in his head, he prepared, on the following day, for his journey. Flora was as kind, as tender as ever as she parted from him, and it was impossible to suspect her of any pretence.

Rudolf whispered lovingly in her ear, "Come now, shall there be an end to our warfare?"

"I require an unconditional surrender," said Flora, with an unappeasable smile.

"Good! there shall be an end to it when I return, but then I shall dictate peace."

Flora shook her pretty head dubiously, and kissed her husband again and again; and when he was actually sitting in the coach, she ran after him to kiss him once more, and then went out on the balcony and followed him with her eyes, whilst Rudolf leaned out of the coach, and so they kept on bidding each other adieu with hat and handkerchief till the coach was out of sight.

And thus an honest husband quitted his house with the fixed resolve to deceive another man's wife, simply in order that he might thereby win back his own.

If only he had known what he was doing!

Since the day of the installation, the Kárpáthys had been residing at their castle at Madaras. Old Kárpáthy had yielded to his wife's wishes in that respect. She had begged that they might live there for a short time, although it was by no means so pleasantly situated as Kárpátfalva. Fanny wished, in fact, to be far away from Szentirma, and had no longer the slightest desire to go to Pest since hearing from Kecskerey that the Szentirmays intended living there during the winter.

Squire John and his wife were just then walking in the newly-laid-out English garden. The gentle fallow deer already knew their mistress well. Her pockets were always full of sugar almonds, and they drew near to eat the dainty morsels out of her hand, and accompanied her up and down the walk. Suddenly the rumble of a carriage was audible on the high-road, and Kárpáthy, looking over the fence, exclaimed—

"Look, look! those are the Szentirmay horses!"

Fanny almost collapsed. The Squire felt her arm tremble.

"I trod on a snail," said his wife, turning pale.

"You silly thing, what's there to be afraid of? I knew that Flora would come here to seek you out. Oh, how greatly that lady loves you! But, indeed, who would not love you?"

But Fanny could see very well, from afar, that in the carriage which was approaching sat not a woman but a man. Kárpáthy's eyes were weak. He could recognize a horse even at a distance, but he could not distinguish people.

"Come, we will go and meet her," said he to his wife as the carriage swept into the park.

Fanny stood still as if her feet were rooted to the ground.

"Come, come, don't you want to meet your friend?" insisted the good old man.

"It is not Flora," stammered Fanny, with frightened, embarrassed eyes.

"Then who else can it be?" asked the Squire. He must have been somewhat surprised at the conduct of his wife, but there was not a grain of suspicion in his composition, so he simply asked again, "Then who else can it be?"

"It is Flora's husband," said Fanny, withdrawing her hand from her husband's arm.

Squire John began to laugh.

"Why, what a silly the girl is! Why, you must welcome him too, of course. Are you not the mistress of the house?"

Not another word did Fanny speak, but she hardened her face as well as her heart, and hastened towards the coming guest on her husband's arm.

By the time they reached the forecourt of the castle, Rudolf's carriage was rumbling into the courtyard. The young nobleman perceived and hastened towards them. Kárpáthy held out his hand while he was still some way off, and Rudolf pressed it warmly.

"Well, and won't you hold out your hand too?" said the Squire to his wife; "he's the husband of your dear friend, is he not? Why do you look at him as if you had never seen him before?"

Fanny fancied that the ground beneath her must open, and the columns and stone statues of the old castle seemed to be dancing round her. She felt the pressure of a warm hand in hers, and she involuntarily leaned her dizzy head on her husband's shoulder.

Rudolf regarded her fixedly, and his ideas concerning this woman were peculiar: he took this pallor for faint-heartedness, this veiled regard for coquetry, and he believed it would be no difficult matter to win her.

As they ascended the staircase together, he told Kárpáthy the cause of his coming: he had, he said, to settle a boundary dispute between two counties, which would detain him for some days.

The two men spent the hours of the afternoon together; only at the dinner-table did they all three meet again.

Kárpáthy himself was struck by the paleness of his wife; all through dinner the lady was speechless.

The conversation naturally turned on general subjects. Rudolf had little opportunity of speaking to Dame Kárpáthy by herself. After dinner Kárpáthy used generally to have a nap, and it had now become such an indispensable habit with him that he would not have given up his after-dinner repose for the sake of all the potentates of the Orient.

"And meanwhile, little brother," said he to Rudolf, "amuse yourself as you please. Have a chat with my wife, or, if you think it more prudent, make use of my library."

The choice was not difficult.

Fanny, as soon as dinner was over, withdrew to the garden. Presently, hearing footsteps approaching, she looked up and beheld Rudolf.

The unexpected apparition of a tiger just escaped from his cage would not have terrified her so. There was no escape from him. They stood face to face.

The young man approached her with friendly courtesy, and a conversation on some general topic began. Rudolf remarked that the flowers in the garden around them were as wondrously beautiful, as if they were sensible of the close proximity of their mistress, and did not wish to be inferior to her in beauty.

"I love flowers," stammered Fanny, as if she felt obliged to answer something.

"Ah, if only your ladyship were acquainted with them!"

Fanny looked at him inquiringly.

"Yes, if only your ladyship knew the flowers, not merely by name, but through the medium of that world of fancy which is bound up with the life of the flowers! Every flower has its own life, desires, inclinations, grief and sorrows, love and anguish, just as much as we have. The imaginations of our poets give to each of them its own characteristics, and associates little fables with them, some of which are very pretty. Indeed, you will find much that is interesting in the ideal lives of the flowers."

Here Rudolf broke off an iris from a side-bed.

"Look, here is a happy family, three husbands and three wives, each husband close beside his wife. They bloom together, they wither together; not one of them is inconstant. This is the bliss of flowers. These are all happy lovers."

Then Rudolf threw away the iris, and plucked an amaranth.

"Now, here we have the aristocrats. In the higher compartment is the husband, in the lower the wife—upper-class married life. Nevertheless, the ashen-purple colour of the flower shows that its life is happy."

Here Rudolf rubbed the amaranth between his fingers, and innumerable little dark seeds fell into the palm of his hand.

"As black as pearls, you see," said Rudolf.

"Yes, as pearls," lisped Fanny, thinking it quite natural that they should pour out of the youth's hand into her own, for it was a shame to lose them. There was not a pure pearl in the Indies that she would have exchanged for these little seeds. And now Rudolf threw the amaranth away too.

Fanny glanced in the direction of the rejected flower, as if to make sure of the place where it had fallen.

"And now will your ladyship look at those two maples standing side by side? What handsome trees they are! One of them seems to be of a brighter green than the other: that, therefore, is the wife; the darker one is the husband. They also are happy lovers. But now look over yonder! There stands a majestic maple tree all by itself. How yellow its foliage is! Poor thing! it has not found a husband. Some pitiless gardener has planted it beside a nut tree, and that is no mate for it. How pale, how yellow it looks, poor thing! But, good Heavens! how pale you are! What is the matter?"

"Nothing, nothing, sir," said Fanny, "only a little giddiness," and without the slightest hesitation she leant on Rudolf's arm.

He fancied he understood, but he was very far from understanding.

And now they reached the richly furnished conservatory in which a splendid snow-white dahlia with a scarce perceptible rosy tinge in its innermost petals was just then beginning to bloom. It was a great rarity in Europe at that time. Rudolf thought this specimen very beautiful, and maintained that only at Schönbrunn was a more beautiful one to be seen.

And again they fell a-talking about trifling general topics, walking as they talked up and down the garden; and Rudolf fancied that now he had conquered this woman, and the woman fancied that she had already sinned sufficiently to be condemned for ever. It is true she had only been walking arm-in-arm with Rudolf throughout one long hour, and they had only been talking of insignificant, comical, general topics. But oh, through it all she had felt a sinful pleasure in her heart. And what did it matter that nobody knew, she herself felt that that happiness was a stolen treasure.

At last they returned to the Castle again.

When Rudolf went to bed that night, he found on a table in the antechamber of his bedroom a bouquet of flowers in a handsome china vase, in the midst of which he immediately distinguished the unique and magnificent dahlia.

And he thought he understood.

Next day the men were occupied all the morning with so-called official business, and who would think of a woman in the midst of such grave matters?

In the afternoon, rainy weather set in, whence arose the double disadvantage that Squire John was doubly as sleepy as usual, and that Fanny was unable to seek refuge in the garden where, beneath the protection of the open air, she was better protected against the threatened danger.

She felt the fever in every limb. She knew, she felt that the man whom already she madly adored wanted to make her love him. If this was sport on his part, what a terrible sport! and if it were reality, how much more terrible still!

When there was a knock at the door she was scarce able to say, "Come in." The door opened, and Rudolf entered.

Fanny was not pale now, but her face burned like fire when she perceived Rudolf. She immediately arose from her recumbent position and confusedly begged him to excuse her for a moment; she would be back in a short time, and in the mean time would he occupy her place, and with that she fled from the room. She wanted to speak to her lady-companion, she said. She traversed three or four rooms without perceiving a soul. God only knew where everybody had gone. Not a domestic was near. And with this disquieting knowledge she was obliged to return.

At the very moment when she returned, Rudolf noticed that Fanny had hastily concealed a book which she evidently had hitherto been reading, and flung a handkerchief over it in order that he might not see it.

Rudolf was interested, he felt he must take a deeper glance into the character of this woman. What book could it be that she was so anxious to hide from him? These modern women read risky books in private, and love to be rigid moralists in public at the same time.

He raised the handkerchief from the book, and he opened the book—it was a Prayer-book. And as the book opened wide of its own accord in two places, he perceived two pressed flowers between its leaves—an iris and an amaranth.

Rudolf suddenly grew grave. His heart felt heavy. Only now did he begin to reflect what sort of a game he was playing. These two flowers so fascinated him, so engrossed his attention, that he only perceived that the lady had returned when she stood feverishly trembling before him.

Each of them shrank back from the other.

The secret was revealed.

Rudolf gazed speechlessly at the woman and she at him. How beautiful, how bewitchingly beautiful she was in her dumb misery as slowly, unconsciously, she folded her hands together and pressed them against her bosom, to stifle by force the tempest of her tears!

Rudolf forgot his part, and, deeply moved, exclaimed, "My God!"

Now, for the first time, he really understood everything.

The sorrow in his voice broke down the energy with which Fanny had hitherto restrained her tears, and they began to flow in streams down her beautiful face as she sank into an armchair.

Taking tenderly one of her pretty hands, Rudolf asked compassionately, "Why do you weep?"

But he knew well enough now why she wept.

"Why did you come here," inquired the lady in a voice trembling with emotion—she could control herself no longer—"when, day after day, I have been praying God that I might never see you again? When I avoided every place where I might chance to meet you, why did you seek me out here? I am lost, for God has abandoned me. In all my life, no man's image has been in my heart save yours alone. Yet I had buried that away too, far out of sight. Why, why did you make it come to life again? Have you not observed that I fled every spot where you appeared? Did not your very arms prevent me from seeking death when we met together again! Ah, how much I suffered then because of you? Oh, why did you come hither to see me in my misery, in my despair?"

And she covered her face with her hands, and wept.

Rudolf was vexed to the soul at what he had done.

Presently Fanny withdrew the handkerchief from the Prayer-book, dried her streaming eyes, and resumed, in a stronger voice—

"And now what does it profit you to know that I am a senseless creature struggling with despair when I think of you? Can you be the happier for it? I shall be all the unhappier, for now I must deny myself even the very thought of you."

What could he say to her? What words could he find wherewith to comfort her? What could he do but extend his hand to her and allow her to cover it with her tears and kisses? What could he do but allow her in her passionate despair to fall upon his breast, and, sobbing and moaning, hold him embraced betwixt unspeakable agony and unspeakable joy?

And when she had wept herself out on his breast, the poor lady grew calmer, and ceasing her sobbing, said in a determined voice—

"And now I swear to you before that God who will one day judge me for my sins, that if ever I see you again, that same hour shall be the hour of my death. If, then, you have any compassion, avoid me! I beg of you not your love but your pity; I shall know how to get over it somehow in time."

Rudolf's fine eyes sparkled with tears. This poor lady had deserved to be happy, and yet she had only been happy a single moment all her life, and that moment was when she had hung sobbing on his breast.

How long and weary life must be to her from henceforth!

Rudolf quitted the woman, and scarce waiting until Kárpáthy had awoke, he took his leave and returned to Szentirma. He was very sad and ill at ease all the way.

On reaching home, his merry, vivacious, affectionate wife flew towards him, and dried the traces of the bitter tears with her loving kisses.

"Ah, ha! so you were at Madaras, eh?" said Flora, roguishly; "a little bird whispered me that you would go a-spying. Well, what have you discovered?"

"That you are right," said Rudolf, tenderly—"women are not weak."

"Then there is peace between us. And what news of Fanny?"

"God help the poor lady, for she is very, very unhappy!"

CHAPTER XVIII.

His first business was to get together a sufficient number of gentlemen to form a club where only eminent and distinguished members of society would assemble. Kecskerey himself was a singularly interesting person, and when he had dressed himself for the evening, and laid himself out to be agreeable, he had such a store of piquant anecdotes to draw upon, all more or less personal experiences during his artistic ramblings, that even the tea-tables were deserted and the witty gentleman was surrounded by merry crowds of eager listeners.

Something particular was in the wind now, for there was a considerable whispering among Kecskerey's habitués, and they let it be known that should he be seen conversing with Abellino, it would be as well to be within earshot, as something unusually interesting would be going on.

"Why, what great misfortune can have befallen Abellino that our friend Kecskerey can speak of him so lightly?" inquired Livius, turning towards Rudolf. "Generally speaking, he is in the habit of treating him with greater respect in view of his ultimate claims to the Kárpáthy estates."

Rudolf shrugged his shoulders. What did it matter to him what befell Abellino?

Look; now he is coming in! He had still that defiant, devil-may-care step, that haughty, insolent look, as if the whole world were full of his lackeys, that repellent beauty, for his features were as vacant as they were handsome.

"Ah, good evening, Bélá; good evening, Bélá!" screeched our friend Kecskerey, while Abellino was still some distance off; he did not move from his place, but sat there with his arms embracing his legs like the two of clubs as it is painted on old Hungarian cards.

Abellino went towards Kecskerey. He attributed the fact that he drew after him a whole group of gentlemen, who quitted the tea-tables and the whist-tables to crowd around him, to the particular respect of the present company to himself personally.

"I congratulate you," cried Kecskerey, in a shrill nasal voice, waving his hands towards Abellino.

"What for, you false club?"

Thus it was clear that Abellino also was struck by Kecskerey's great resemblance to the historical playing-card already mentioned, and this sally brought the laughter over to his side.

"Don't you know that I have just come from nunky, my dear?"

"Ah, that's another matter," said Abellino, in a somewhat softer voice. "And what, pray, is the dear old gentleman up to now?"

"That's just where my congratulations come in. All at home send you their best greetings, kisses, and embraces. The old gentleman is as sound as an acorn, or as a ripe apple freshly plucked from the tree. Don't be in the least concerned on his account; your uncle feels remarkably well. But your aunt is sick, very sick, and to all appearance she will be sicker still."

"Poor auntie!" said Abellino. "No doubt," thought he to himself, "that is why he congratulates me; and good news, too. No wonder he congratulates me. Perhaps she'll even die—who knows?—And what's the matter with her?" he asked aloud.

"Ah, she is in great danger. I assure you, my friend, that when last I saw her, the doctors had prohibited both riding and driving."

Even now the real state of things would not have occurred to Abellino's mind, had not a couple of quicker-witted gentlemen, who had come there for the express purpose of laughing, and were therefore on the alert for the point of the jest, suddenly laughed aloud. Then, all at once, light flashed into his brain.

"A thousand devils! You are speaking the truth now, I suppose?"

His face could not hide the fury which boiled up within him.

"Why, how else should I have cause to congratulate you?" said Kecskerey, laughing.

"Oh, it is infamous!" exclaimed Abellino, beside himself.

The bystanders began to pity him, and the softer-hearted among them quietly dispersed. It was a horrible thought that this man, who on entering the room had believed himself to be the master of millions, should have been plunged back into poverty by a few words.

Kecskerey alone had no pity for him. He never pitied any one who was unfortunate; he reserved all his sympathy for the prosperous.

"Then there's nothing more to be done," murmured Abellino, between his teeth, "unless it be to kill myself or that woman."

Kecskerey's strident rasping voice seemed to cut clean through that desperate murmur.

"If you want to kill or be killed, my friend, I should advise you to read Pitaval,11 wherein you will find all sorts and kinds of tips for murderers, including lists of poisons both vegetable and mineral, a liberal choice of weapons of every description, and the best means of disposing of the corpus delecti afterwards, either by submersion, combustion, dissection, or inhumation. The whole twelve volumes is a little library of itself, and a man who reads it patiently through to the end will easily persuade himself that he is a born murderer. I recommend the matter to your attention. Ho, ho, ho!"

To all this Abellino paid no attention. "Who can be this woman's lover?" said he.

"Look around you, my friend, and choose for yourself."

"At least I should like to recognize and kill him."

"I am absolutely sure I know who her lover is," remarked Kecskerey.

"Who?" asked Abellino, with sparkling eyes. "Oh, that man I should like to know!"

Kecskerey, who was having rare sport with him, drew his neck down between his shoulders, and continued—"How many times have I not seen you fall upon his neck, and kiss and embrace him!"

"Who is it, who is it?" cried Abellino, catching hold of Kecskerey's arm.

"Would you like to know?"

"I should."

"Then it is—her husband."

"This is a stupid jest," cried Abellino, quite forgetting himself; "and nobody will believe it. That woman loves somebody, loves some one with shameful self-abandonment. And that old scoundrel, her husband, knows and suffers it in order to gratify his vengeance on me. But I will find out who he is, I will find out who it is if it be the devil himself, and I will bring a scandalous action against this woman, the like of which the world has never yet seen."

At that moment a loud manly voice rang out amidst the group of listeners who were beginning to rally Abellino, and ironically beg him not to suspect them as they were quite innocent, and could not lay claim to the honour of making Madame Kárpáthy happy.

"Gentlemen," it said, "you forget that it is not becoming in men of breeding to make ribald jests about the name of a lady whom nobody in the world has any cause or any right to traduce."

"What, Rudolf! Why, what interest have you in the matter?" inquired the astonished Kecskerey.

"This much—I am a man and will not allow a woman whom I respect to be vilified in my presence."

That was saying a great deal, and there was no blinking it, not only because Rudolf was right and enjoyed the best of reputations, but also because he was known to be the best shot and swordsman in the place, and cool-headed and lucky to boot.

So from henceforth Madame Kárpáthy's name ceased to be alluded to in the club.

CHAPTER XIX.

What should be the child's name? It should be the name of one of those princes who drank out of the same wine-cup with the primal ancestor of the House of Kárpáthy on the fair plains of Hunnia. It should be Zoltán—Zoltán Kárpáthy—how beautifully that would sound!

Presently they brought to him this new citizen of the world, and he held him in his arms and kissed and embraced him. He could scarce see him for the tears of joy that streamed from his eyes, and yet how greatly he longed to see him! With twinkling eyes he regarded the child, and a fine, vigorous little lad it was, like a little rosy-cheeked angel; his little hands and neck were regularly wrinkled everywhere from very plumpness, his mouth was hardly larger than a strawberry, but his sparkling eyes, than which no precious stone was ever of a purer azure, were all the larger by contrast, and whenever he drooped them the long lashes lay conspicuous on his chubby cheeks. He did not cry, he was quite serious, just as if he knew that it would be a great shame to be weak now, and when Squire John, in his rapture, raised him to a level with his lips and kissed his little red face again and again with his stiff, bristly moustache, he began to smile and utter a merry little gurgle, which those who were standing round Squire John were quite positive was an attempt to speak.

"Talk away, my darling little soul," stammered Squire John, perceiving that the child was screwing up his little round lips all sorts of ways, as if he knew very well what he wanted to say but could not find the right words, "talk away, talk away! Don't be afraid, we understand you. Say it again."

But the doctor and the nurses thought well to interpret the little suckling's discourse as a desire to go back to his mother. Enough of caresses then, for the present, they said, and, taking him out of Squire John's arms, they brought him back to his mother, whereupon the good gentleman could not but steal softly into the adjoining room and listen whether the child was crying, and every time anybody came out he would ask what was going on or what had happened since, and every time anybody went in he sent a message along with him.

Towards the afternoon the doctor emerged again, and asked him to retire with him to another room.

"Why? I prefer being here; at least I can hear what they are talking about."

"Yes; but I don't want you to hear what they are talking about in there."

John stared at him. He began to feel bad as he met the doctor's cold look; and he followed him mechanically into the adjoining room.

"Well, sir, what is it you wish to say to me that others may not hear?"

"Your worship, a great joy has this day befallen your house."

"I know it. I understand it. God be praised!"

"God has indeed blessed your worship with a great joy, but it has also seemed good to Him to prove you with affliction."

"What do you mean by that?" thundered the terrified Kárpáthy, and his face turned blue.

"Look now, your worship, this is just what I feared, and that is why I called you aside into an adjoining room; show yourself a Christian, and learn to bear the hand of God."

"Don't torture me; say exactly what has happened."

"Your honour's wife will die."

After hearing this Kárpáthy stood there without uttering a word.

"If there was any help for her in this world," continued the doctor, "I would say there is hope, but it is my duty to tell you that her hours, her moments, are numbered, therefore your honour must play the man, and go to her and bid her good-bye, for ere long she will be unable to speak."

Kárpáthy allowed himself to be led into the dying woman's chamber. The whole world was blurred before him, he saw nobody, he heard nothing; he saw her only lying there pale, faded, with the sweat of death upon her glorious face, with the pallor of death around her dear lips, with the refracted gleam of death in her beautiful inspired eyes.

There he stood, beside the bed, unable to speak a word. His eyes were tearless. The room was full of serving-maids and nurses. Here and there a stifled sob was to be heard. He neither saw nor heard anything. He only gazed dumbly, stonily, at the dying woman. On each side of the bed a familiar form was kneeling—Flora and Teresa.

The good old aunt, with clasped hands, was praying, her face concealed among the pillows. Flora held the little boy in her arms; he was sleeping with his head upon her bosom.

The sick woman raised her breaking eyes towards her husband, stretched out her trembling, fevered hand, and, grasping the hand of her husband, drew it towards her panting lips, and gasped, in a scarcely audible voice, "Remember me!"

Squire John did not hear, he did not understand what she said to him, he only held his wife's hand in both his own as if he believed that he could thereby draw her away from Death.

After an hour's heavy struggle, the feverish delirium of the sick woman began to subside, her blood circulated less fiercely, her hands were no longer so burning hot, her breathing grew easier.

She began to look about her calmly and recognize every one. She spoke to those about her in a quiet, gentle voice; the tormenting sweat had vanished from her face.

"My husband, my dear husband!" she said, casting a look full of feeling upon Squire John.

Her husband rejoiced within himself, thinking it a sign of amendment; but the doctor shook his head, he knew it was a sign of death.

Next, the sick woman turned towards Flora. Her friend guessed the meaning of her inquiring look, and held the little child nestling on her bosom to the sick woman's lips. Fanny tenderly strained it to her heaving breast, and kissed the face of the sleeping child, who at every kiss opened its dark-blue eyes, and then drooped them and went on sleeping again.

The mother put it back on Flora's breast, and, pressing the lady's hand, whispered to her—

"Be a mother to my child."

Flora could not reply, but she nodded her head. Not a sound would come to her lips, and she turned her head aside, lest the dying woman should see the tears in her eyes.

Then Fanny folded her hands together on her breast, and murmured the single prayer which she had been taught to say in her childhood—

"O God, my God, be merciful to me, poor sinful girl, now and for evermore. Amen."

Then she cast down her eyes gently, and fell asleep.

"She has gone to sleep," murmured the husband, softly.

"She is dead," faltered the doctor, with a look of pity.

And the good old Nabob fell down on his knees beside the bed, and, burying his head in the dead woman's pillows, sobbed bitterly, oh, so bitterly!

CHAPTER XX.

Alone on these dun-coloured roads, in the fall of the long winter evening, a peasant's sledge, without bells, might have been seen gliding along through that featureless, semi-obscure wilderness towards Kárpáthy Castle.

In the rear of the sledge sat a man wrapped in a simple mantle; in front, a peasant, in a sheepskin bunda, was driving the two lean horses.

The sitter behind frequently stood up in the sledge, and swept the plain on every side, as if he were in search of something. The preserves of the Kárpáthy estate loomed darkly before him, and by the time they reached a ramshackle old wooden bridge, the visitor perceived what he sought.

"Those are pine-trees, are they not?" he inquired of the coachman.

"Yes, young sir; one can recognize them from a distance, for they are still green when the others have shed their leaves."

They were the only trees of the sort in the whole region. They had all been planted in Squire John's time.

"Here we will stop, old comrade. You return to the wayside csárda; I will take a turn about here alone. I shall not be longer than an hour away."

"It would be as well were I to accompany you, young sir, if you mean to take a stroll, for wolves are wont to wander hither."

"It is not necessary, my good friend, I am not afraid."

And with that the stranger dismounted from the sledge, and, taking his axe in his hand, directed his way through the snowy field to the spot where the pines stood out darkly against the snow-white plain.

What was beneath those pines?

The family vault of the Kárpáthys, and he who came to visit it at that hour was Alexander Boltay.

The young artisan had heard from Teresa on her return home that Fanny was dead. The great lady had been lowered into her tomb for the worms just as the wife of the poorest artisan might have been, and her tomb was perhaps still more neglected than the tomb of the artisan's wife would have been.

Then Alexander opened his heart to the old people. He meant, he said, to make a pilgrimage to the tomb of the dead dear one whom he worshipped both in life and in death, and to whom, now that she was under the ground, he might confess his love, he had as much right now to her death-cold heart as anybody else in the world. The two old people did not attempt to dissuade him; let him go, they thought; let him take his sorrow there and bury it; perchance he will be lighter of heart when he has wept himself out there.

In the ice-bound season the young man set out, and from the description which Teresa gave him, he recognized the funereal pine-grove which John Kárpáthy had had planted round the family vault, in order that there it might be green when everything else was white and dead.

He quitted the sledge, and cut across the plain, while the driver returned to the wayside csárda.

Meanwhile a pair of horsemen might have been seen slowly approaching from the opposite direction. One of them was a little in the rear of the other, and led four hardy hounds in a long leash.

"I see the trail of a fox, Martin," said the foremost horseman, calling the attention of the one behind to the trail. "We can easily track him through the fresh snow if we look sharp, and can catch him up before we reach Kárpátfalva."

The groom appeared to confirm his master's assertion.

"Follow the trail as straight as you can, and hand over two of the hounds to me while I make a circuit of the wood yonder."

With that he took over two of the dogs, and sending his escort on in front, turned aside, slowly wading through the snow. But the moment his man was out of sight, he suddenly changed his direction, and strode rapidly towards the pine grove.

On reaching the trench which surrounded it, he dismounted, tied his horse to a bush and the dogs to his saddle bow and waded across the narrow ditch. By the light of the snow it was easy to find his goal.

A large white marble monument arose by the side of a green tree, on the top of it was the sad emblem of death, an angel with an inverted torch.

The horseman stood alone before the monument—this visitor was Rudolf.

Thus both of them had come at the same time, and it was the will of Fate that they should meet there before the tomb.

Rudolf hastened confidently towards the white colonnaded monument and stood rooted to the ground with amazement on perceiving the figure of a man, apparently in a state of collapse, half sitting, half kneeling on the pedestal. But the man was equally amazed to see him there.

Neither recognized the other.

"What are you doing here, sir?" asked Rudolf, who was the first to recover his composure, drawing nearer to the pedestal.

Alexander recognized the voice, he knew that it was Rudolf, and could not understand why he should have come to that place at that hour.

"Count Szentirmay," he said gently, "I am that artisan to whom you showed a kindness once upon a time; be so good as to show yet another kindness to me by leaving me here alone and asking no questions."

Then Rudolf recognized the young man, and it suddenly flashed across his mind that the dead woman before she became Dame Kárpáthy had been engaged to a poor young artisan who had so bravely, so chivalrously, exposed himself to death for her sake.

Now he understood everything.

He took the young man's hand and pressed it.

"You loved this lady? You have come hither to mourn over her?"

"Yes, sir. There's nothing to be ashamed of in that. One may love the dead. I loved that woman, I love her now, and I shall never love another."

Rudolf's heart went out to the young man.

"You remain here," he said, "I will leave you to yourself. I will wait in the cemetery outside, and if I can be of any service to you command me."

"Thank you, sir, I will go too; I have done what I came here to do."

The name of the dear departed was inscribed on the tomb in golden letters, and these letters gleamed forth in the light of the snow: "Madame Kárpáthy, nee Fanny Meyer."

The young artisan removed his cap, and with the same respect, the same reverence with which one touches the lips of the dead, he kissed every letter of the word "Fanny."

"I am not ashamed of this weakness before you," said Alexander, standing up again, "for you have a noble heart, and will not laugh at me."

Rudolf answered nothing, but he turned his head aside. God knows why, but he could not have met the young man's eyes at that moment.

"And now, sir, we can go."

"Where will you spend the night? Come with me to Szentirma!"

"Thank you; you are very good to me, but I must return this very hour. The moon will soon be up, and there will be light enough to see my way by. I must make haste, for there's lots for me to do at home."

He could not prevail upon him; a man's sorrow has no desire to be comforted.

Rudolf accompanied him to the wayside csárda, where the sledge was awaiting him. He could not restrain himself from warmly pressing the artisan's hand and even embracing him.

And Alexander did not guess the meaning of that warm grasp, or why this great nobleman was so good to him.

Shortly afterwards the sledge disappeared in the darkness of the night by the same road by which it had come. Rudolf returned to the pine-trees, and paid another visit to the white monument. There he stood and thought of the woman who had suffered so much, and who, perhaps, was thinking of him there below. Her face stood before him now as it had looked when she had followed with her eyes the rejected amaranth; as it had looked when she galloped past him on her wild charger; as it had looked when she had hidden it on his bosom in an agony of despairing love, in order that there she might weep out her woe, amidst sweet torture and painful joy, that secret woe which she had carried about with her for years. And when he thought on these things, his fine eyes filled with tears.

He noticed the imprints of the knees of the departed youth, where he had knelt on the pedestal of the monument in the snow, and he fell a-thinking.

Did not this woman, who had so suffered, lived and died, deserve as much? And he himself bent his knee before the monument.

And he read the name. Like a spectral invitation, those five letters, F-a-n-n-y, gleamed before him so seductively.

For a long time he remained immersed in his own reflections, and thought—and thought—

At last he bent down and kissed the five letters one after another, just as the other young fellow had done.

Then he flung himself on his horse. His errant groom, not finding his master, was impatiently blowing his horn in every direction. Rudolf soon came up with him, and half an hour later they were in the courtyard of John Kárpáthy's castle. Kárpáthy had invited Rudolf to hasten to him that very night.

CHAPTER XXI.

"Many thanks, Rudolf, many thanks for coming. Pardon me for sending for you at such an hour and in such hot haste. God has brought you. Thank you very much for coming. Rudolf, a peculiar feeling has come over me. Three days ago, a strange sort of sensation, not unpleasant, took possession of my limbs, and when I awoke from my sleep in the night it was with a odd sort of joy, I know not how to express it, as if my soul had quitted me. I take it as an omen of my death. Do not gainsay me, I beg. I am not afraid of death; I long for it. At such times a quick current of air brushes past my ear, as if some one were about to fly away from close beside me. I know what that means. Twice I have had a similar sensation, and on each occasion a current of air has struck me. I fancy this will be the last of them. I think of it with joy, and have not the slightest fear of it. I have sent for you in order that I may make my last will, while I still have the possession of all my faculties, and I wish you to be my executor. Will you accept the trust?"

Rudolf indicated his willingness in silence.

"Then come with me to my library. The other witnesses are waiting there now. I have got them together as rapidly as I could, and they are all honest fellows."

As they were passing through the suite of rooms, Squire John suddenly stopped Rudolf, and said—

"Look! in this room I heard her laugh for the last time. On that chair yonder she lost her shawl—it is there still. On that table is a pair of gloves, the last she ever wore. Here she used to sit when she sketched. There's the piano, still open—a fantasia lies, you see, on the music-stand. If she should come back again, eh?"

And now he opened the door of a room illuminated by candles—Rudolf shrunk back.

"Old friend, that's not a fit place to enter. Surely you have lost yourself in your own house! That is your wife's bedroom."

"I know, but I can never pass it without going in. And now I mean to have a last look at it, for to-morrow I shall have it walled up. Look, everything remains just as she left it. She did not die in this room—don't be alarmed! That door yonder leads to the garden. Look, everything is in its old place—there the lamp by which she used to read, on the table a half-written letter, which nobody has read. A hundred times have I entered the room, and not a word of that letter have I read. To me it is holy. In front of the bed are her two little embroidered slippers, so tiny that they look as if they had been made for a child. On the table is an open prayer-book, between the open leaves of which are an iris and an amaranth and a maple leaf. She greatly loved those flowers."

"Let us go away from hence, let us go away," urged Rudolf. "It pains me to hear you talk so."

"It pains you, eh?—it does me good. I have sat here for days together, and have called to mind every word she said. I see her before me everywhere, asleep, awake, smiling, sorrowful—I see her resting her pretty head on the pillows, I see her sleeping, I see her dying——"

"Oh! come, come away!"

"We will go, Rudolf. And I shall never come back again. To-morrow a smooth wall will be here in the place of the door, and iron shutters will cover all the windows. I feel that I ought not to seek her here any more. Elsewhere, elsewhere I will seek her: we will dwell together in another room. Let us go, let us go!"

And smilingly, without a tear, like one who is preparing for his bridal day, he quitted the room, casting one more look around upon it from the threshold, and a dumb kiss into the darkness, as if he were taking leave for a last time of a beloved object visible only to himself.

"Let us come, let us come!"

In the large library the witnesses were awaiting them.

They were four—the local notary, a stoutish young man, with his back planted against the warm stove; the estate agent, benevolent Peter Varga, who had asked, as a favour, that he might wear black like the other family servants; the parish priest, and Mike Kis. That worthy youth had quitted the brilliant saloons whose hero he was, to comfort his old friend in the days of his tribulation. The fiscal was there also, cutting quills for every one present, and sticking them into the inkstands, which were placed all round the round table in front of the witnesses.

When Squire John and Rudolf entered the room, every one present saluted them with the grave solemnity befitting the occasion.

The Squire beckoned to everybody to be seated—Rudolf on his right, Mike Kis on his left, the fiscal opposite to him, that they might the better hear what he was going to say.

At the furthest end of the table sat Mr. Varga, with all the candles piled in front of him. He knew why.

"My dear friends and good neighbours," began the Nabob, while every one listened with the deepest attention, "God has numbered my days, and is about to call me from this transitory life to His glory, and therefore I call you all to witness that what I am going to say now is said clearly, deliberately, and while I am in the full possession of all my faculties. I find that the estates which God, of His goodness, has entrusted to my hands, now yield over a million of florins more of clear income than when I came into possession of them. God grant that they may be more productive of blessings in the hands of others than they have been in mine! I begin my last will and testament with a reference to her who was dearest to me in the world and now slumbers in her tomb. This tomb is the beginning and the end of my arrangements in this life; it has been my first thought when I rose up, and my last thought when I lay down, and will last on when I rise up no more. My first bequest, then, is 50,000 florins, the interest on which is to go to that gardener on my domains whose duty it shall be, in return therefor, to cultivate from early spring to late autumn, irises and amaranths,—flowers which 'she' loved so much,—and have them planted regularly round the grave of my unforgettable wife. Furthermore I bequeath the interest of 10,000 florins to the gardeners of the Castle of Madaras, from father to son, whose corresponding obligation it shall be to maintain a conservatory near to the maple tree, beneath which is a white bench." Here the Squire sighed, half to himself, "That was her favourite seat; there she used to sit all through the afternoons. And the gardener is to plant another maple tree beside it, that it may not stand so solitarily there. If at any time the tree should wither, or if any careless descendant of mine should ever cut it down, the whole amount reserved for this purpose shall go to the poor."

Rudolf sat there with a cold, immovable face while all this was being said; nobody guessed what he felt while these words were being spoken.

"'How foolish the old man must have grown in his latter years,' his descendants will one day say, when they read these dispositions, 'leaving legacies to trees and shrubs!'"

"Furthermore," pursued Squire John, "I bequeath 50,000 florins to form a fund for dowering girls of good behaviour on their marriage. On every anniversary of the day on which my unforgettable wife fell asleep, all the young maids on my estate shall meet together in the church to pray to God for the souls of those that have died; then the three among these virgins whom the priest shall judge to be the most meritorious shall be presented with bridal wreaths in the presence of the congregation, and the sum of money set apart for them; and then they shall proceed to the tomb and deck it with flowers, and pray that God may make her who lies there happier in the other world than she was in this. And that is my desire."

Here he stopped, waiting till the lawyer had written down all his words, during which time a mournful silence prevailed in the room, interrupted only by the scratching and spluttering of the pen on the paper.

When the lawyer looked up from his parchment by way of signifying that he had written everything down, the Squire sighed, and hung his head.

"When it pleases God to bring upon me the hour in which I shall quit this transitory life, when I am dead, I desire to be buried in the dress in which I was married to her; my faithful servant, old Paul, will know which it is. The coffin, in which I am to be put, stands all ready in my bedroom; every day I look at it, and accustom myself to the thought of it; often I lay me down in it, and bethink me how good it would be were I never to rise from it again. It is quite ready. I took some trouble about it; it is just like hers. My name has already been driven into it with nice silver nails, only the date of my death has to be added. That priest is to pray over me who prayed over her, and how beautiful that will be!"

"Sir, sir!" interrupted the priest, "who can read in the book of life and death, or tell which of us twain will live longest, or die first?"

The Squire beckoned to the priest to bear with him—he himself knew best.

"Further, remove none of the mourning draperies from the rooms, let everything remain as it was at the time of her burial. Let the selfsame cantors come from Debreczen and sing over me the same chants, and no other. Just what they sang over her, and the selfsame youths must do it. All those chants were so dear to me."

"Oh, sir," said the priest, "perchance every one of these students may be grown-up men by then."

The Squire only shook his head, and thus proceeded—

"And when they have opened the vault, they are to break down the partition wall between the two niches, so that there may be nothing between her coffin and mine, and I may descend into the grave with the comfortable thought that I shall sleep beside her till the day of that joyful resurrection which God grants to every true believer. Amen!"

And all those big grave men sitting round the table there fell a-weeping, and not one of them felt ashamed of himself before the others. Even the matter-of-fact lawyer spoilt his nib, and could not see the letters he was writing. Only on the Squire's face was there no sign of sadness. He spoke like one bent on preparing his bridal chamber.

"When I am buried, my funeral monument—it is standing all ready in my museum—must be placed beside hers. The date of death is alone wanting, and I want nothing added to the inscription: it must remain just as it is—my name and nothing more. Beneath it are inscribed these lines: 'He lived but one year, the rest he slept away.' One of my treasures is beneath the ground, and in no long time I shall be alone with it. My second treasure, my joy, the hope of my soul, remains here. I mean my son."

At these words the first tear he had shed appeared in Kárpáthy's eyes. He dried it hastily, but it was a tear of joy.

"May he never resemble me in anything! may he be better, wiser than his father was! Mr. Lawyer, write down what I say in as many words. Why should I make any mystery of it? I am standing before the presence of God. I want my son to be better than I was. Perchance God will forgive me for the sake of his virtues. May my country, too, forgive me, and my ancestors who have led lives like mine, for our sins against her! May his life make manifest what ours ought to have been! May his wealth never spoil his heart, so that in his old age he may not repent him of his youth. I would have my son a happy man. But what is happiness? Money? possessions? power? No, none of these. I possessed them all, and yet I was not happy. Let his soul be rich, and then he will be happy. Let him be an honourable, wise, courageous citizen, a good patriot, a nobleman not merely by name, but in heart and soul, and then he will be happy.