St. Peter's Umbrella: A Novel

CHAPTER II.
THREE SPARKS.

Good gracious! When and where? Why, now, under the tree! Ah, Madame Krisbay, you feel you ought to faint now, partly because you are a correct woman, and consequently horrified at the way the event has taken place, and partly because you have fallen among such strange people; but your bottle of Eau de Cologne is quite at the bottom of your travelling-bag, and so it will be better not to faint now. But it is very shocking all the same! For though a tree is suitable for flirting under, or for declarations of love, it is not the correct place to ask a parent or guardian for a girl's hand. The proper place for that (especially in novels) is a well-furnished drawing-room. If the girl is very shy she runs out of the room; if not very shy she falls on her knees and asks the blessing of her parents or guardian, as the case may be. But how is one to kneel under a tree? These were the thoughts that were troubling Madame Krisbay, not Veronica. She, on the contrary, was thinking that one fine day she would return to this spot with her sketch-book, and draw the old tree as a souvenir.

All this time the carriage was rolling along the dusty road. There was no room for the coachman, so he had to follow on foot, and Gyuri took the reins into his own hands, Veronica sitting on the box beside him. Oh dear! she thought, what would they think of her in the village as they drove through?

The road was better now, and they could drive faster, so Gyuri loosened the reins, and began to think over the events that had taken place. Was it a dream or not? No, it could not be, for there was Veronica sitting near to him, and behind him Father János was talking to Madame Krisbay in the language of the Gauls. No, it was simple truth, though it seemed stranger than fiction. Who would have believed yesterday that before the sun set twice he would find his inheritance, and a wife into the bargain? Twenty-four hours ago he had not known of the existence of Miss Veronica Bélyi. Strange! And now he was trying to imagine what the world had been like without her. It seemed impossible that he had not felt the want of her yesterday. But the wheels were making such a noise, that he found it difficult to collect his thoughts. Wonders had happened. One legend, that of the umbrella, was done away with, but on its ruins another had built itself up. Heaven and earth had combined to help him to his inheritance. Heaven had sent a dream and earth a protector.

His heart swelled as he thought of it. Oh, if the girl next him only knew to what a rich man she had promised her hand!

After passing the Kopanyicza Hills, which seem like a screen to the entrance of the valley, Glogova, with its little white houses, lay before them.

"We are nearly at home now," said Veronica.

"Where is the Presbytery?" asked Gyuri.

"At the end of the village."

"Tell me when to turn to the right or the left."

"Very well, Mr. Coachman! At present keep straight on."

A smell of lavender pervaded the street, and the tidy little gardens were filled with all sorts of flowers. In front of the houses children were playing, and in most of the courtyards a foal was running about, with a bell tied round its neck. Otherwise the village seemed quite deserted, for all who could work were out in the fields, and the women, having cooked the dinner at home, had carried it out to their husbands. Only on the grass-plot in front of the school-house was there life; there the children were at play, and their greetings to those in the carriage was in Hungarian.

Of the villagers only the "aristocratic" were at home. At the threshold of a pretty little stone house stood Gongoly, much stouter than some years before. In front of the smithy sat Klincsok, quietly smoking, while the smith mended a wheel.

"Hallo!" he called out. "So you've come back! Why, we were thinking of looking out for another priest!" Which showed that Father János' absence had been noticed.

How Glogova had changed in the last few years! There was a tower to the church, the like of which was not to be seen except in Losoncz; only that on the tower of Losoncz there was a weathercock. In the middle of the village was a hotel, "The Miraculous Umbrella," with Virginian creeper climbing all over it, and near it a pretty little white house, looking as though it were made of sugar; behind it a garden with a lot of young trees in it.

"Whose house is that?" asked Gyuri, turning round.

"The owner is on the box-seat beside you."

"Really? Is it yours, Veronica?"

She nodded her head.

"There is a small farm belonging to it," said Father János modestly.

"Well, we won't take it with us, but leave it here for your brother, shall we, Veronica?"

Then he turned to the priest again, saying:

"Veronica has a fortune worthy of a countess, but neither you nor she knows of it."

Both the priest and Veronica were so surprised at this announcement, that they did not notice they were in front of the Presbytery, and Gyuri would have driven on if Vistula, the old watch-dog, had not rushed out barking with joy; and old Widow Adamecz called out, with the tears rolling down her face:

"Holy Mary! you have heard the prayers of your servant!"

"Stop! here we are. Open the gate, Mrs. Adamecz."

The widow wiped away her tears, dropped her book, and got up to open the gate.

"Is dinner ready?" asked Father János.

"Dinner? Of course not. Whom was I to cook for? We all thought your reverence was lost. I have not even lighted the fire, for my tears would only have put it out again."

"Never mind, Mrs. Adamecz. I feel sure you were anxious on my account, but now go and see about some dinner for us, for we are dying of hunger."

Veronica had become suspicious at the widow's words, and began to storm her brother with questions; then burst out crying and turned her back upon Gyuri, declaring they were hiding something from her. So they were obliged to tell her the truth, and her poor little heart nearly broke when she thought of what her brother had gone through, and what danger he had been in.

While this was going on, Mrs. Adamecz was bustling about in the kitchen, and giving every one plenty of work to do. Both the maids were called in to help, and the farm-servant too.

"Come and whip this cream, Hanka. And you, Borbála, go and fetch some salt. Is the goose plucked? Now, Mátyás, don't be so lazy, run and pick some parsley in the garden. Dear me! How very thin the good lady is whom Miss Veronica has brought home with her. Did you see her? I shall have hard work to feed her up and make her decently fat. Give me a saucepan; not that one, the other. And, Borbála, grate me some bread-crumbs. But the young man is handsome. I wonder what he wants here? What did you say? You don't know? Of course you don't know, silly, if I don't. But this much is certain (between ourselves of course), there is something strange in Miss Veronica's eyes. Something has happened, but I can't make out what."

Widow Adamecz thought of all sorts of things, both good and bad, but her cooking was excellent, and she gave them such a dinner, that even the lovers found their appetites.

After dinner, Gyuri sent a man on horseback with a letter to Mr. Sztolarik in Besztercebánya.

He told the messenger to hurry.

"I'll hurry, but the horse won't!"

"Well, use your spurs."

"So I would, but there are no spurs on sandals!"

The horse was a wretched one, but all the same, next day they heard a carriage stop at the door, and who should get out but Sztolarik himself. Great man though he was, no one was glad to see him except the priest. Veronica felt frightened. She hardly knew why, but it seemed as though a breath of cold air had entered with him. Why had he come here just now?

The old lawyer was very pleasant to her.

"So this is little Veronica?" he asked.

"Yes," answered Gyuri proudly.

The old gentleman took her small hand in his large one, and pinched her cheek in fatherly fashion. But no amount of pinching would bring the roses back just then. Her heart was heavy with fear. Why, oh, why had he come?

Gyuri was surprised too, for Sztolarik hated to leave his home.

"Have you brought them?" he asked.

"Yes."

Veronica drew a breath of relief, for Gyuri had mentioned that he expected the engagement rings from Besztercebánya.

"Give them to me," he said.

"Later on," answered the old lawyer. "First of all I must speak to you."

He must speak to him first? Then he must have something to say which could not be said after they had exchanged rings! Veronica again felt a weight on her heart. Gyuri got up discontentedly from his place next to Veronica, whose fingers began to play nervously with the work she had in her hands.

"Come across to my room then."

Gyuri's room was at the other end of the house, which was built in the shape of an L. It used to be the schoolroom before the new school was built. (Widow Adamecz had learnt her A B C there.) The priest who had been there before Father János had divided the room into two parts by a nicely painted wooden partition, and of one half he had made a spare bedroom, of the other a storeroom.

Veronica was feeling as miserable as she could, and her one wish at that moment was to hear the two gentlemen's conversation, for everything depended on that. Some demon who had evidently never been to school, and had never learned that it was dishonorable to listen at doors or walls, whispered to her:

"Run quickly, Veronica, into the storeroom, and if you press your ear to the wall, you will be able to hear what they say."

Off went Veronica like a shot. It is incredible what an amount of honey a demon of that description can put into his words; he was capable of persuading this well-educated girl to take her place among the pickled cucumbers, basins of lard, and sacks of potatoes, in order to listen to a conversation which was not meant for her ears.

Not a sound was to be heard in the storeroom but the dripping of the fat from a side of bacon hanging from the rafters, and which the great heat there was causing it to melt. Some of it even fell on her pretty dress, but what did she care for that just then?

"So you have found out all about the umbrella," she heard Sztolarik say, "but have you seen it yet?"

"Why should I?" asked Gyuri. "I cannot touch its contents till after the wedding."

"Why not sooner?"

"Because, for various reasons, I do not wish the story of the umbrella known."

"For instance?"

"First of all, because Father János would be the laughing-stock of the place."

"Why do you trouble your head about the priest?"

"Secondly, because it would give Veronica reason to think I am only marrying her for the sake of the umbrella."

"But she will know it later on in any case."

"I shall never tell her."

"Have you any other reasons?"

"Oh, yes. I dare say they would not even give me the check; it is probably not made out in any particular name; so how am I to prove to them that it is mine? It really belongs to the person who has it in his possession. And perhaps they would not even give me the girl, for if her fortune is as large as we think it, she can find as many husbands as she has fingers on her hands."

Veronica felt giddy. It was as though they were driving nails into her flesh. She could not quite understand all they were talking about—of umbrellas, receipts, large fortunes. What fortune? But this much she had begun to understand, that she was only the means to some end.

"Well, well," began Sztolarik again after a short pause, "the affair seems to be pretty entangled at present, but there is still worse to come."

"What more can come?" asked Gyuri in an uncertain voice.

"Don't do anything at present. Let us find out first of all whether you love the girl."

Poor little Veronica was trembling like a leaf in her hiding-place. She shut her eyes like a criminal before his execution, with a sort of undefined feeling that the blow would be less painful so. What would he answer?

"I think I love her," answered Gyuri, again in that uncertain voice. "She is so pretty, don't you think so?"

"Of course. But the question is, would you in other circumstances have asked her to marry you? Answer frankly!"

"I should never have thought of such a thing."

A sob was heard in the next room, and then a noise as though some pieces of furniture had been thrown down.

Sztolarik listened for a few moments, and then, pointing to the wall, asked:

"Do you know what is on the other side?"

"I think it is the storeroom."

"I thought I heard some one sob."

"Perhaps one of the servants saw a mouse!"

And that is how a tragedy looks from the next room when the wall is thin. If there is a thick wall it does not even seem so bad. One of the servants had seen a mouse, or a heart had been broken; for who was to know that despair and fright only have one sound to express them?

Veronica, with her illusions dispersed, ran out into the open air; she wished to hear no more, only to get away from that hated place, for she felt suffocating; away, away, as far as she could go.... And this all seemed, from the next room, as though Widow Adamecz or Hanka had seen a mouse. But, however it may have seemed to them, they had forgotten the whole thing in half a minute.

"You say it would never have occurred to you to marry her. So you had better not hurry with the wedding. Let us first see the umbrella and its contents, and then we shall see what is to be done next."

Gyuri went on quietly smoking his cigarette and thought:

"Sztolarik is getting old. Fancy making such a fuss about it!"

"I have thought it well over," he went on aloud, "and there is no other way of managing it; I must marry the girl."

Sztolarik got up from his chair, and came and stood in front of the young man, fixing his eyes on him.

"But supposing you could get at your inheritance without marrying Veronica?"

Gyuri could not help smiling.

"Why, I have just said," he exclaimed impatiently, "that it cannot be done, but even if it could, I would not do it, for I feel as though she also had a right to the fortune, as it has been in her possession so long, and Providence seems to have sent it direct to her."

"But supposing you could get at it through Veronica?"

"That seems out of the question too."

"Really? Well, now listen to me, Gyuri, for I have something to tell you."

"I am listening."

But his thoughts were elsewhere, as he drummed on the table with his fingers.

"Well," went on Sztolarik, "when I went in to Huszák's this morning to buy the two rings you wanted sent by the messenger (for I had no intention of coming here myself then), Huszák was not in the shop, so the rabbit-mouthed young man waited on me. You know him?"

Yes, Gyuri remembered him.

"I told him to give me two rings, and he asked whom they were for. So I said they were going a good distance. Then he asked where to, and I told him to Glogova. 'Perhaps to the priest's sister?' he asked. 'Yes,' I said. 'She's a beauty,' he remarked. 'Why, do you know her?' asked I. 'Very well,' he answered."

Gyuri stopped tapping, and jumped up excitedly.

"Did he say anything about Veronica?"

"You shall hear in a minute. While he was wrapping up the rings he went on talking. How had he got to know the priest's sister? 'I was in Glogova last year.' 'And what the devil were you doing in Glogova?' 'Why, the villagers were having a silver handle made here for a wretched-looking old umbrella, which they keep in their church, and the stupid things were afraid to send the umbrella here for fear any one should steal it, though it was not worth twopence; so I was obliged to go there in order to fasten the handle on.'"

"Why, this is dreadful!" exclaimed Gyuri, turning pale.

Sztolarik smiled.

"That is only why I said, my friend, that we had better wait a bit before deciding anything."

"Let us go at once to Father János and ask him to show us the umbrella."

He could not wait a minute longer. He had been so near to his object, and now it was slipping from him again, like a Fata Morgana, which lures the wanderer on to look for it.

It was easy to find the priest; he was feeding his pigeons in the garden.

"Father János," began Gyuri, "now Mr. Sztolarik is here he would like to look at your wonderful umbrella. Can we see it?"

"Of course. Mrs. Adamecz," he called out to the old woman, who was plucking a fowl at the kitchen door, "will you bring me out the key of the church, please?"

She did as she was asked, and the priest, going on in front, led his visitors through the church.

"This way, gentlemen, into the sacristy."

As they stepped in there it was before them! Pál Gregorics's old umbrella smiled at them, and seemed like an old friend, only the handle, yes, the handle was unknown to them, for it was of silver.

Gyuri gazed at it speechlessly, and felt that the end was near. A demon was behind him, constantly urging him on, and whispering: "Go on, go on, and look for your inheritance!" A second demon ran on before him, beckoning and crying: "Come along, it is this way!"

But there was a third one, the liveliest of all, who followed in the wake of the second one, and each time Gyuri thought he had attained his end, this demon turned round, and laughed in his face, saying: "There is nothing here!"

Sztolarik kept his countenance, and carefully examined the handle of the umbrella, as though he were admiring the work.

"Had it always this same handle?" he asked.

"Oh dear no, this is of real silver, and very finely chased. The jeweller in Besztercebánya made it, and he is quite an artist. Just look at the style, and what taste is displayed in it. My parishioners had it made last summer as a surprise for me while I was away at the baths. The old handle had been broken off, and it was almost impossible to make use of the umbrella. I expect it was Klincsok's idea, for he started the collection. There are still plenty of good Christian hearts to be found."

Then he turned to Gyuri.

"I will introduce you to Klincsok, he is a very worthy man."

Gyuri wished the worthy Klincsok in Jericho, and he could even have found him a companion for the journey, for behind him was the first demon, again whispering: "Go and look for your inheritance!"

"But I suppose they kept the old handle?" he asked.

"I do not think so," answered the priest. "It was only of common wood; I believe Mrs. Adamecz asked Veronica for it."

(It must have been the second demon speaking through the priest: "The handle of the umbrella is in Mrs. Adamecz's possession.")

Sztolarik now became curious too.

"Who is Mrs. Adamecz?" he asked.

"My old cook, who just now brought me the keys."

Mr. Sztolarik burst out laughing, the walls of the empty church re-echoing with the sound. When they were outside, and the priest had gone in with the keys, the old lawyer took the two rings out of the paper they were wrapped in and pressed them into Gyuri's palm, saying quaintly:

"According to your logic of half an hour ago, you must now marry old Mrs. Adamecz, so go and ask for her hand at once."

Gyuri gave no answer to this cruel thrust, and went into the kitchen, where the widow was frying pancakes.

"I say, Mrs. Adamecz, where have you put the old handle of the church umbrella?"

Widow Adamecz finished frying her pancake, put it on a wooden platter with those she had already fried, and then turned round to see who was speaking to her.

"What have I done with the old handle, my dear? Well, you see, this is how it was. My little grandson, Matykó, got ill last year just at cabbage-cutting time—no, I believe it was earlier in the year ..."

"I don't care when it was, only go on."

Widow Adamecz quietly poured some more of the batter into the frying-pan.

"Let me see, what was I saying? Ah, yes, I was speaking of Matykó. Well, it was the result of the staring."

(The peasants think that if a child is much looked at and admired it pines away.)

Gyuri began impatiently to tap with his foot on the floor.

"Will you tell me where it is?"

"It is there under the table."

"What, the handle?"

"No, the child."

Yes, there was Matykó, sitting on a basin turned upside down, a fat-faced, blue-eyed Slovak child, playing with some dried beans, its face still dirty from the pancakes it had eaten.

"Bother you, woman! Are you deaf?" burst out the lawyer. "I asked you about the handle of the umbrella, not about the child."

Mrs. Adamecz tossed her head.

"Well, that's just what I am talking about. I tell you, they persisted in admiring Matykó, and the poor little angel was fading away. There is only one remedy for that; you must take a burning stick, and let three sparks fall from it into a glass of water, and of this the child must drink for three days. I did this, but it was of no use; the child went on suffering and getting thinner from day to day, and my heart nearly broke at the sight of him; for I have a very soft heart, as his reverence will tell you ..."

"I don't doubt it for a minute, but for heaven's sake answer my question."

"I'm coming to it in a minute, sir. Just at that time they were having the silver handle made to the umbrella, and our young lady, pretty dear, gave me the old handle. Why, thought I, that will be just the thing for Matykó; if three sparks from that holy wood are of no use, then Matykó will be entered in the ranks of God's soldiers."

At the thought of little Matykó as one of God's soldiers her tears began to flow. It was lucky if none of them fell into the frying-pan.

"Mrs. Adamecz!" exclaimed Gyuri, alarmed, his voice trembling. "You surely did not burn the handle?"

The old woman looked at him surprised.

"How was I to get the three sparks from it if I did not burn it?"

Gyuri fell back against the wall, the kitchen and everything in it swam before his eyes, the plates and basins seemed to be dancing a waltz together; a tongue of fire arose from the fireplace, bringing with it the third demon, who exclaimed: "There is nothing here!"

But all at once he felt a hand laid on his arm. It was Sztolarik.

"It was, and is no more," he said. "But never mind, Fate intended it to be so. For the future you will not, at all events, run after a shadow, you will be yourself again, and that is worth a good deal, after all."

CHAPTER III.
LITTLE VERONICA IS TAKEN AWAY.

The hands of the parish clock pointed to the Roman figure II., and the chimes rang out on the air; the servants laid the table for dinner, Mrs. Adamecz brought in the soup, and his reverence led his guests into the dining-room, and placed them right and left of Madame Krisbay, when all at once they noticed that Veronica was missing.

"I was just going to ask," said Madame Krisbay, "if she had been with the gentlemen?"

"I thought she was with you," said the priest.

"I have not seen her for two hours."

"Nor I."

"Nor we."

"Perhaps she is in the kitchen?"

Madame Krisbay looked vexed, got up from her seat, and went into the kitchen to call her pupil, but returned at once with the remark that she had not been seen there either.

"Where can she be?" exclaimed the priest, and ran out to look for her, sending the servants to some of her favorite seats in the garden, thinking she might have gone there to read, and have forgotten the time.

Mrs. Adamecz grumbled in the kitchen, for the dinner was spoiling.

"Well, serve the dinner," said Father János, for, of course, he could not keep his guests waiting, especially as Sztolarik wanted to return home as soon as possible.

So the dishes were brought in one after the other, but still there was no sign of Veronica; and Hanka had returned with the news that no one had seen her.

Gyuri sat in his place, pale and quiet.

"Perhaps she is in the apiary," suggested her brother, "or perhaps" (here he hesitated a minute, not knowing how to continue), "perhaps something unpleasant has taken place between you?"

Gyuri looked up surprised.

"Nothing has taken place between us," he said coldly.

"Then, Hanka, run across to the new house and look in the apiary. Please excuse her, gentlemen, she is such a child still, and follows her own whims. She is probably chasing a butterfly. Take some more wine, Mr. Sztolarik."

He was trying to reassure himself, not his guests, as he sat there listening to every sound, paying scant attention to the conversation, and giving many wrong answers.

Sztolarik asked if the bad weather this year had made much difference to the harvest.

"One or two," answered the priest.

"Have you any other brothers or sisters?"

"I don't know."

His answers showed the perturbed state of his mind, and it was with difficulty he kept his seat at table. At length the old lawyer said:

"Perhaps it would be better if your reverence were to go and look for Miss Veronica yourself; and I should be glad if you would send word to my coachman that I wish to start as soon as possible, for it is a long drive to Besztercebánya."

The priest seized the opportunity, and begging Madame Krisbay to excuse him, hurried away, for he found Veronica's absence very strange, and was beginning to get anxious. So, Madame Krisbay having retired, the two gentlemen were left alone, and a painful silence ensued. Gyuri was gazing with melancholy eyes at the canary, which was also silent now.

"You had better order your carriage, too," said Sztolarik, breaking the silence at last. "We could leave at the same time."

Gyuri murmured some unintelligible answer, and shook his head.

"But you will have to leave soon, for our part here is played out."

"I tell you it is impossible."

"Why?"

"Don't you see that Veronica is lost?"

"What does that matter to you? The umbrella handle is lost too."

Gyuri made an impatient gesture.

"What do I care about the umbrella?"

"So it is the girl you want? You told me a different tale before dinner."

Gyuri turned round.

"I did not know then."

"And now you know?"

"Yes, now I know," he answered shortly.

"And may I ask," said Sztolarik, "when did Amor light this flaming fire? for you did not seem to take much interest in the girl before her disappearance."

"And yet it is causing me at the present moment all the tortures of hell. Believe me, my dear guardian, the loss of my inheritance seems to me a trifle beside the loss of Veronica."

Sztolarik was impressed by the apparent sincerity of Gyuri's sorrow.

"That's quite another thing," he said. "If that is how you feel I will stay here with you. Let us go and look for the girl ourselves, and find out what she thinks on the subject."

When they went out, they found great confusion reigning in the courtyard, but Mrs. Adamecz was loudest in her lamentations.

"I knew this would be the end of it. A legend should never be tampered with by a mortal's hand, or it will fall to pieces. Oh, our dear young lady! She was God's bride, and they wanted to make her the bride of a mortal, so God has taken her to Himself."

Sztolarik sprang toward her, and caught hold of her hand.

"What is that you say? Have you heard anything?"

"Gundros, the cowherd, has just told us that he saw our young lady this morning running straight toward the Bjela Voda, across the meadows, and her eyes were red, as though she had been crying. There is only one conclusion to be drawn from that."

A lot of women and children were gathered round the kitchen door, and one of them had also seen Veronica earlier than Gundros had.

"Did she look sad?" asked Gyuri.

"She was crying."

"Oh dear!" exclaimed Gyuri despairingly.

"We will look for her," Sztolarik assured him.

"Where?"

"Out in the meadows or in the village, for it is certain she must be somewhere about, and we shall soon know where."

"That will not be so easy," sighed Gyuri, "for we have no glass to show us things, as they have in fairy-tales."

"I'll have the whole village round us in a few minutes."

Gyuri shook his head doubtfully. Had Sztolarik gone mad to think he could call all the people together from the fields, from the woods, from everywhere round about? But the old lawyer was as good as his word. Veronica must be found at any cost.

"Where is his reverence?" he asked of the bystanders.

"He has gone to the pond where the hemp is soaked, to see if the young lady has fallen in there."

"Where is the bell-ringer?"

"Here I am, sir."

"Go up at once into the tower, and ring the big bell."

"But there is no fire!"

"That does not matter. If I order it to be done, you must do it. Do you know me?"

Of course he knew Mr. Sztolarik, who had often been to Glogova since he had been made President of the Courts. So off ran Pál Kvapka, and in a few minutes the big fire-bell was tolling. There was no wind, and the sound was carried for miles around over the meadows, into the woods, over the mountains, and soon the people came running up from every side. It was astonishing how soon the villagers were assembled round the Presbytery. Those who saw it will never see its like again, until the Archangel Gabriel sounds his trumpet at the last day.

Sztolarik gazed placidly at the crowd assembled around him.

"Now," he said, "I have only to stand up in their midst and ask them if any of them have seen Veronica. But it will be quite unnecessary, for Veronica herself will soon be here. Look out of the window," he called up to the bell-ringer, "and tell me if you can see the young lady."

"Yes, I can see her, she is running through the Srankós' maize-field."

"She lives!" exclaimed Gyuri ecstatically, but his joy was soon at an end, for he thought: "If there is nothing the matter with her she must have run away from me."

And he began to wonder if it would not have been better if she were dead, for then he could have believed she loved him, and could have loved her and sorrowed for her.

The bell-ringer still went on tolling the bell, so Sztolarik called up to him:

"Stop tolling, you fool, can't you? Show us which way the Srankós' maize-field lies."

The bell-ringer pointed to the right.

"You run on in front, Gyuri, and try and get out of her what is the matter with her."

But Gyuri was already gone, through the priest's garden, across Magát's clover-field, and his heart began to beat, for from there he could see Veronica in her green dress, without a hat, only a little red silk shawl round her shoulders. Across Szlávik's corn-field, then into Gongoly's meadow, and they were face to face.

The girl drew a sobbing breath when she saw him, and began to tremble violently.

"Where is the fire?" she asked.

"Don't be frightened, there is no fire. My guardian had the bell rung so as to make you return home. Why did you run away?"

The girl turned pale, and bit her lip.

"It is enough if I know the reason," she said in a low voice. "Please leave me alone."

And she turned round as though to return to the woods.

"Veronica, for heaven's sake don't torture me; what have I done?"

The girl looked at him coldly, her eyes were like two bits of ice.

"Leave me alone," she said, "what do you want with me?"

The young man caught hold of her hand, and Veronica did her best to free herself from his grasp, but he would not let go her hand till he had forced a ring on to her finger.

"That is what I want," he said.

"That is what you want, is it?" laughed the girl bitterly. "And this is what I want!" And she tore off the ring and threw it away, across the meadow, into the grass. Poor Gyuri fell back a few steps.

"Oh!" he exclaimed, "why did you do it? Why?"

"Do not try to deceive me any longer, Mr. Wibra. You should not put a ring on my finger, but on the umbrella, for that is what you really want to marry."

Gyuri began to understand what had taken place.

"Good heavens! You listened to our conversation!"

"Yes, I know all!" said Veronica, blushing slightly. "It is no good your denying it."

"I don't wish to deny anything. But listen to me, please."

They walked quietly through the meadow, Gyuri talking, the girl listening, while the thousands of insects which peopled the fields flew away before their feet. Gyuri related the story of his life, and of his father's, of the supposed inheritance, of his search for it, and how he had gathered the threads together till they led him to Bábaszék. The girl listened to him, first with reproach in her eyes, then as judge, trying to find out the truth, and as the story began to interest her more and more, she became quite excited. Now she was neither plaintiff nor judge, only an interested listener, surprised that the threads led nearer and nearer to herself. Now Gyuri is speaking of Mrs. Müncz's son, now Móricz is telling his story, which shows that the umbrella must be in Glogova. Then the forester's wife tells the tale of St. Peter's bringing the umbrella to the orphan child. A few more words and the story was complete.

Veronica knew all, and her eyes were swimming in tears.

"Oh, dear, how dreadful! Mrs. Adamecz burned the handle!"

"God bless her for it!" said Gyuri brightly, seeing the girl's depression, "for now at least I can prove to you that I love you for yourself alone."

Veronica had taken off the small red shawl and was swinging it in her hand. Suddenly she caught hold of Gyuri's arm, and smiled at him through her tears.

"Do you really mean that you still want to marry me?"

"Of course. What do you say to it?"

"I say that ..." She ceased speaking, for there was a queer feeling in her throat.

"Well?"

"That you are very volatile, and ..."

"And?"

"And that ... Let us run back and look for my ring."

With that she turned, and ran as fast as she could to the part of the meadow in which they had been standing when she threw the ring away. Gyuri could hardly keep up with her.

They looked for the ring a long time, but it was not to be found. And soon Father János appeared on the scene.

"I say, Gyuri, don't say anything about the umbrella to my brother."

"No, my darling, I will never mention it."

His reverence gave Veronica a good scolding.

"You naughty girl! Is that the way to behave? How you frightened us! Of course you were chasing a butterfly?"

"No, I was running away from one, but it caught me."

"What, the butterfly?"

"Yes, that ugly, big butterfly standing beside you."

His reverence understood as much as he was meant to, and set to work, too, to look for the ring. But they might have looked for it till Doomsday if Mr. Gongoly had not passed that way. Veronica had quite despaired of finding the ring.

"Well, well, my dear," said the nabob of Glogova, shaking back his long gray hair, "never mind, trust in Gongoly, he will find it for you. There is only one way to do it, so in an hour's time they will be making hay in this field."

Though the grass was not two inches high (it had only been cut a fortnight before), Mr. Gongoly sent his men there to mow it, with the result that next day the ring was safely resting on Veronica's finger. And for years the people spoke of the wonderful fact that in that year Mr. Gongoly's meadow gave two crops of hay, and it was always mentioned if any one spoke disparagingly of the Glogova fields.

What more am I to say? I think I have told my story conscientiously. All the same there are some things that will never be known for certain; for instance, what really became of Pál Gregorics' fortune, for there is no sign of it to this day. Was the supposed receipt in the handle of the umbrella or not? No one will ever know, not even little Matykó, who drank the water with three sparks in it. No king drinks such precious liquid as he did—if the story be true.

The legend of the holy umbrella is still believed in in those parts. Mr. Sztolarik, who was fond of a gossip, certainly told his version of the story, how old Müncz the Jew had made a present to Christianity of a holy relic, and so on; but the old belief was strongly rooted, and he was only laughed at when he told his tale. And after all, there was something mystic and strange in the whole affair, and the umbrella had brought worldly goods to every one, Gyuri included, for it had given him the dearest little wife in the world. They were married very soon and never had such a wedding taken place in Glogova before. According to Veronica's special wish, every one who had been at the Mravucsáns' supper was invited to the wedding, for she wanted all those who had been present at their first meeting to take part in their happiness. There were a lot of guests from Besztercebánya too, among them the mother of the bridegroom, in a black silk dress, the President of the Courts, the mayor, and lots of others. Then there were the Urszinyis from Kopanyica, two young ladies from Lehota in pink dresses, and Mrs. Müncz from Bábaszék, with lovely golden earrings on.

There were so many different kinds of conveyances in Glogova that day, it would have taken a week to look at them all.

Dear me, what a lovely procession it was too; the peasants stood and gazed open-mouthed at all the people in their beautiful dresses, but most of all at the bride, who walked at the head of the procession in a lovely white dress with a long veil and a wreath of orange-blossoms. Oh, how pretty she was!

But the bridegroom was splendid too, in the same kind of dress in which the king has his portrait painted sometimes. His sword, in a velvet sheath mounted in gold, clattered on the pavement as he walked up the church.

They stood in a semicircle round the altar, each lady with a nosegay of flowers in her hand, and perfumed to such an extent that the church smelled like a perfumer's shop.

It was a little cool in the church, and the young ladies from Lehota were seen to shiver now and then in their thin pink dresses; but everything went off very well.

The bridegroom spoke his "yes" in a loud, firm voice, the walls seemed to re-echo it, but the bride spoke it almost in a whisper, it sounded like the buzzing of a fly.

Poor child! She got so nervous toward the end of the ceremony that she began to cry. Then she looked for her handkerchief, but was there ever a pocket in a wedding dress? She could not find it, so some one from behind offered her one, then turned and said:

"Button up your coat, Wladin!"

THE END.