"What do you mean, sir?"
"I humbly beg to remind your honour that you were pleased to commission me to lay hands upon certain Latin exercises of your grandson Koloman. I humbly beg to inform you that they are now in my possession."
"Oh!" said old Lapussa, with a forced assumption of sang froid, "you may give them to me to-morrow, I will look them through."
"Crying your honour's pardon, they are in Latin."
"Well, I can get someone to look them through for me."
"I beg humbly to represent that it would not be well to put them into anybody's hands, for strange things are contained therein."
"What!" cried the old man angrily, "you don't mean to say you have looked into them?"
"Yes, I have read them all through."
"I did not tell you to do that."
"No, but you were graciously pleased not to forbid me to do so. Now, I know everything. I know the cause of the young lady's illness. I know why she does not wish to become the wife of Count Hátszegi. Nay, I even know what will happen in case she does. I know all that I say—and here it is in my pocket."
"And what presumption on your part to read other people's letters!"
"I beg your honour's pardon, but it is not presumption; I only wanted to know the value of the wares I have obtained for your honour. I wanted to know whether they were worth one florin, two florins, a hundred florins, a thousand florins, lest you should do me the favour to say to me: 'look, ye, Margari, my son, here are some coppers, go and drink my health!'—and so get the better of me."
"You are becoming impertinent! Do you want me to ring for the footman?"
"Pray do not give yourself the trouble! If you are determined to take the documents away from me by force I will fling them into the fire that is burning there on the hearth before the footman can come in and there will be an end to them."
"Then it is money you want, eh? How much?"
This question made Margari still more bumptious.
"How much do I want? A good deal, a very good deal, I can tell you. In fact I cannot tell at present how much."
But then he suddenly reassumed his obsequious cringing mien and added: "I tell you what, your honour, procure me some petty office at Count Hátszegi's. I don't care what it is, so long as I get a life-long sinecure—suppose we say his bailiff, or his librarian, or his secretary? A single word from your honour would do it."
An idea suddenly occurred to Mr. Demetrius.
"Very good, Margari, very good. So it shall be. I give you my word upon it—you shall be Hátszegi's secretary."
"But it must be life-long. I humbly beg of you, it must be till the term not of his but of my natural life."
"Yes, yes, till the term of your natural life."
"But if he won't have it?"
"I'll pay you myself. You shall receive your regular salary from me without including whatever you may get over and above from him. Will you be satisfied with a yearly salary of three hundred florins with your board and keep?"
At these words Margari's breath failed him. It was not without difficulty that he put the rapacious question: "Will your honour do me the favour to give me this promise in writing?"
"Certainly! Bring writing materials and I will dictate it to you on the spot."
And so an agreement was duly drawn up whereby Mr. Margari, in consideration of a yearly salary of 300 florins to be punctually sent to him at the beginning of every quarter, undertook in his capacity of secretary to Baron Hátszegi, to keep his Honour Demetrius Lapussa informed of all that he saw and heard at the residence of that gentleman, Henrietta's future husband, and this obligation of maintaining Margari was to be transferred on the death of Mr. Demetrius to his son John. And no doubt Mr. Demetrius knew very well what he was about.
This document signed and sealed, Mr. Margari, with the greatest alacrity, produced the Latin exercises in question, first of all, however, respectfully kissing the hand of his patron.
It took till midnight to read and translate all these documents one by one. Mr. Demetrius was very well satisfied with the result, that is to say so far as concerned the fidelity of the translation,—with the tenor of the original text he had not the slightest reason to be pleased.
When, shortly after midnight, these revelations were concluded, Mr. Demetrius commanded Margari to go up into his room and have a complete translation of all this Latin rigmarole written down in honest Hungarian by the morning and to encourage him in his task he gave him two guldens and an order on the butler for as much punch as he could drink. By the morning all the punch was drunk, but the translation also was finished, to the tune of bacchanalian songs which Margari kept up with great spirit all night long.
Next day, punctually at the appointed hour, the lawyer, Mr. Sipos, appeared at the house of the Lapussas, with the necessary documents neatly tied up with tape, under his arm as usual; he was not like our modern lawyers who carry their masterpieces in portfolios as if they are ashamed of them. The only persons in the reception room besides the old man, were Madame Langai and Mr. John. Henrietta, still an invalid, had been allowed to take a stroll to the woods near the town in order to visit her favourite flowers once more and possibly take leave of them for ever. She had received no invitation-card for this lecture. Why, indeed, should a bride know anything of her bridegroom's biography before marriage! The lawyer took his place at the table, untied his pile of documents and began to read.
It appeared from these documents that the founder of the Hátszegi family, the great grandfather of the present baron, was one Mustafa, who had been a Defterdar[2] at Stamboul, and had used his unrivalled opportunities for making money so well that he found it expedient to fly from Jassy to Transylvania, where he made haste to get baptized and naturalized. His son, now an Hungarian nobleman, cut a fine figure at court and gallantly distinguished himself in the Turkish wars against his former compatriots, his exploits winning for him the estate of Hidvár and the title of baron. His son again was a miser of the first water who could be enticed neither to court nor into the houses of his neighbours. He was continually scraping money together and was not over particular in the choice of his scraper. By adroit chicanery he acquired possession of the gold mines of Verespatak, which he exploited with immense advantage, and by means of money lending and mortgages got into his hands the vast estate of Hátszegi in the counties of Hunyad and Feher, so that when he died it took thirty heavy wagons to convey his ready money in gold and silver alone from the Vadormi caverns, where he had concealed it to the castle of Hidvár, which his only son, Leonard, chose as his residence after his father's death. All these details were certified by unimpeachable documents in schedules B. C. and D.
[2] The chief of the financial department in the Turkish vilagets.
Moreover, the blood of many nationalities circulated in the veins of Baron Leonard. The Defterdar himself was a Turk of Roumelian origin, whose only son was the child of his Hindu concubine. He again married the daughter of a Polish countess at the court of Vienna. The wife of Baron Leonard's father was a wallachized Hungarian lady, whom he married for her wealth. It was not wonderful, therefore, if the noble baron possessed the qualities of five distinct races. Thus he had something of the voluptuousness of the Turk, the ostentation of the Hindu, the flightiness of the Pole, the foolhardiness of the Hungarian, and the obstinacy of the Wallach.
"For, I speak of his faults first," the lawyer proceeded, "because I consider that they outweigh his good qualities. That the baron is a rich man is evident from the accounts and inventories classed under schedule E; that the baron is a handsome man is evident from the photograph under schedule H; that the baron is physically sound is clear from the certificates annexed to schedules I and K, one of which is supplied by his physician and the other by his hunting comrades. Those who require nothing from a man save health, wealth, strength, and beauty, will of course consider him fit and proper to make a woman happy. Yet having regard to the following facts (1) that the aforesaid baron is not merely unstable in love affairs but capricious to the verge of eccentricity, and a winebibber and gourmand to boot; (2) that he is as vain as an Indian prince who takes unto him a wife for the mere pomp and show of the thing; (3) that he is violent and brutal, sparing nobody in his sudden fits of passion and, as the documents testify, has frequently inflicted mortal injuries on those who have come in his way while he was in an ill-humour; (4) that he has an odd liking for rowdy adventures, which do not reflect much credit upon him; and (5) that, according to the whispers of those nearest to him there is a strange mystery pervading his whole life, inasmuch as mysterious disappearances, which nobody can make head or tail of, occupy an incalculable number of his days and weeks which remain unaccounted for, and make a pretty considerable hiatus in every year of his life—taking all these things into consideration, I am constrained to give it as my opinion that I do not consider such a man a fit and proper husband for such a tender, sympathetic young lady as the Miss Henrietta in question, and let the world if it likes consider such a match as the greatest piece of good fortune imaginable, I, for my part, would nevertheless call it a calamity to be avoided at any price. And now would you do me the honour to examine the original documents I have brought with me as exhibits in corroboration of my statements—though I would mention," he quickly added, perceiving that Madame Langai had greedily clutched hold of them, "that among those documents there are sundry by no means suited for a lady's perusal."
"When I come across any such I will pass them over," said she. Of course these were the very passages she proceeded to search for straight away.
Meanwhile Mr. Demetrius also had drawn a packet of papers from underneath the cushions of his sofa and handed them to Mr. Sipos.
"Then you do not advise me to give Henrietta to Baron Hátszegi to wife? Good! And now, perhaps, while we run through the exhibits and schedules, perhaps you'll be so good as to cast your eye over these papers. I don't think they will bore you."
These documents, by the way, were the Latin documents discovered by Mr. Margari—in natura.
Mr. John was marching pettishly up and down the room, and Madame Langai was reading her documents with the greatest attention so that nobody observed the surprise, the confusion reflected in the countenance of the lawyer as he looked through the fatal Latin manuscripts. He kept shaking his head and twisting his moustache right and left, fidgeted in his armchair, and the beads of perspiration which stood out on his forehead gave him enough to do to wipe them away with his pocket-handkerchief; at last he had read the papers, and then he laid the whole bundle on the table and stared silently before him like one whose reason for the moment had no counsel to give him.
Just about the same time Madame Langai had completed the perusal of her documents, and now she too seemed to be in an extreme state of agitation. During the course of her reading, she had been unable to restrain herself from exclaiming at intervals: "the monster! the scoundrel!"
Mr. Demetrius had been amusing himself all this time by carefully observing the various mutations of expression in the faces of the readers, which certainly afforded considerable entertainment to an onlooker with any sense of humour.
When every document had produced its expression, he remarked in a soft gentle voice: "Well, my daughter, what do you think of the affair?"
Madame Langai clapped to her eyeglass and, with the air of one who had made up his mind once for all, replied instantly: "I would not allow a decent chambermaid to become Baron Hátszegi's wife, let alone a Henrietta Lapussa."
"And what is your opinion, Mr. Lawyer?" enquired the old man turning to Mr. Sipos.
"I?" replied the honest man, visibly perturbed, with a voice full of emotion: "I would advise that the young lady should be married to the baron as quickly as possible."
Madame Langai regarded him with wide-open eyes.
"What! After all that is in these papers?"
"No, after all that is in those other documents."
"What are they?" cried Madame Langai pouncing upon them incontinently and extremely vexed, the next moment, to find them all written in Latin. She perceived that they were Koloman's exercises, and that was all. She did not understand their connection with the case in point.
"I'll take those documents back please," said old Demetrius, stretching out a skinny hand towards them. "They will be of use to us though I have a translation of them besides. Then, you think, Mr. Lawyer, it will be as well to marry Henrietta to the baron, eh? Very well! Let me add that on the day when Henrietta goes to the altar with Baron Leonard, I will make you a present of all this scribble. Till then I shall require them. Do you understand?"
Mr. Sipos was completely beaten; you might have knocked him down with a feather. He had never been so badly worsted in his professional capacity. Madame Langai would have besieged him with questions, but he avoided her, put on his hat and departed.
Madame Langai thereupon turned to her father: "What is the cause of this wondrous change?" she cried. "What secrets do those miraculous papers contain?"
Mr. Demetrius tucked the documents in question well beneath him and replied: "They contain secrets the discovery whereof will be a great misfortune and yet a great benefit to the parties concerned."
"Have they any connection with Henrietta's wedding?"
"They have a direct bearing thereupon, and, indeed, necessitate it!"
"Poor girl!" sighed Madame Langai.
Mr. Sipos passed by his own dwelling three times before he knew that he had reached home, so confused was he by what he had just learnt. When he did get inside the house he walked for a long time up and down his consulting room as if he were trying to find a beginning for a business he would very much have liked to be at the end of. At last he gave the bellrope a very violent pull and told the clerk who answered the bell to send him his assistant, Mr. Szilard, at once.
Szilard appeared on the very heels of the messenger. His was one of those faces which women never forget. There was ardent passion in every feature and the large flaming black eyes, which spoke of courage and high enthusiasm, harmonized so well with the wan hue of the pallid face.
"Well, my dear fellow, do you feel quite well again now?" asked Mr. Sipos in a tone of friendly familiarity; "did the doctor call to see you to-day?"
"I have no need of him, there's nothing the matter with me."
"Nay, nay! Not so reckless! You have been working again, I see. You know the doctor has forbidden it."
"I only work to distract my thoughts."
"You should seek amusement rather. Why don't you mix in society like other young men? Why don't you frequent the coffee-houses and go to a dance occasionally? Why, you slave away like a street-porter! Young blood needs relaxation."
"Oh, I am all right. My dear uncle, you are very kind, but you worry about me more than I deserve."
"That is my duty, my dear nephew. Don't you know that your poor father confided you to my care on his death-bed, bade me be a father to you. Don't you remember?"
"I do," replied the young man, and catching hold of his guardian's hand he pressed it, murmuring in a scarcely audible voice: "You have indeed been a second father to me!"
But Mr. Sipos tore his hand passionately from the young man's grasp and said in a somewhat rougher tone: "But suppose your dead father were to say: 'That is not true! You have not watched over my son as a father should! You have lightly left him to himself. He was in danger and you were unaware of it. He hovered on the edge of the abyss and you were blind and saw nothing. And if God and my dead hand had not defended him, he would have become a suicide and you knew it not—wherefore?'"—
The young man trembled at these words, he grew even paler than before and gazed with a look of stupefaction at his chief. Then the old man approached him, and took him by the hand as if he would say: "I am going to scold you, but fear nothing. I am on your side."
"My dear Szilard," said he, "don't you recollect that when you were a little child and did anything you should not have done, and your father questioned you about it, did he not always say to you: 'when you have done wrong and are ashamed to confess it, keep silence! press your teeth together! but don't lie, don't deny it, never think of taking refuge behind any false excuse, for your name is Szilard,[3] and cowardice does not become the bearer of such a name!' You understood him. You acted as he would have had you act. And now I also would remind you once more that you were christened Szilard and I ask you therefore to listen calmly to what I am about to say to you. Don't interrupt, don't attempt to deceive me. If you don't want to answer my questions, simply shake your head! And now sit down, my son! You are still barely convalescent. Your head is weak and what I have to say to you might very well make it reel again."
[3] Strong, firm.
Then the old lawyer tenderly pressed the youth into a chair and sighing deeply, thus continued: "You fell in love with the daughter of a great family and she with you. You got acquainted at a dance and the intimacy did not stop there. Every conceivable obstacle intervened between you, but love is artful and inventive and you found a way. The rich girl had a neglected brother whom his relations sent to the grammar school and the rascal frequently took refuge with me, the family attorney, when he was ill-treated at home, and here you came across him. You cared for him and explained to him the difficulties in his lessons which he was unable to do for himself. The boy grew very fond of you. He spoke to you of your beloved, and he spoke to her of you, and he was always praising each of you to the other. The grandfather, the uncle, the aunt, the governess, the domestics who never took their eyes off the girl for an instant, had no idea that she was already involved in a love affair. But amazing is the ingenuity of love and lovers! You knew that none of the older members of the family understood the classical language of the orators, and the girl loved so dearly that she did not consider it too great a labour to learn a dead tongue which could be of no further use to her in order to be able to say to her beloved: Ego te in aeternum amabo! One must admit that that was a great and noble sacrifice. Every day you corresponded with each other. Before school time the girl dictated his lessons to her young brother, beginning with the usual scholastic flowers of rhetoric but ending in the passionate voice of love, and after school was over, you, in your turn dictated a similar lesson for the lad to carry back with him. Naturally, this lesson book he never took to school with him; you kept the other here, the genuine one which he had to show to his masters. And this ingenious smuggling was carried on beneath the very eyes of the family without their perceiving it. Yet at last it was discovered. This very day, only an hour ago, the old head of the family placed these papers in my hands that I might read them, informing me at the same time that he had already read a translation of them. Terrible were the things I discovered in these papers. The appearance of a rich and noble suitor who, according to the notions of the world, was just made for the girl, frustrated all your plans of waiting patiently for better times. The family forced this union upon the girl. You, in your despair, racked your brain as to what you should do. At first you resolved upon an elopement, but the redoubled vigilance with which every step of the young girl was watched made this impossible. Then a black and terrible thought occurred to you both. You resolved to kill yourselves—it was your one remaining means of deliverance. Yes, you resolved to kill yourselves at once, on the self-same day, in the self-same manner. For many days you deliberated together as to the best way of accomplishing your design. Great caution was necessary. You had to pick your words lest the little brother who wrote them down from dictation should have guessed your intentions. The girl asked you, at last, to send her a book on natural science. You sent it to her. She, with the help of it tried to find out what sorts of poisons could be most easily procured. For two whole days you deliberated together as to the best way of obtaining matches, the phosphorus of which is the most efficacious of poisons. But in vain. In great houses only the domestics have charge of the matches, it was impossible to get any. At last the girl hit on an expedient. She discovered that if you put a copper coin in a glass dish and pour strong vinegar over it, verdegris will be formed and verdegris is poison. Your minds were at once made up. The girl prepared poison for herself and taught you to do the same. . . . Merciful Heaven! what notions children do get into their heads to be sure."
CHAPTER V
SHE IS NOT FOR YOU
Up to this moment the youth had listened to the lecture in silence, but now he arose and said in a calm clear voice: "'Tis all true; it is so!"
"I should say it was all very bad, very bad indeed!" said the lawyer vehemently, as if completing a broken sentence. "What! Children to meditate suicide because things in this world don't go exactly according to their liking! Have you never regarded the affair from its practical side? Did you imagine that the girl's relations would support you? And would you yourself endure to be their pensioner, their butt, the scorn of the very domestics, for a poor son-in-law is the standing jest of the very flunkeys—you ought to know that!"
Szilard's face burned like fire at these words, but the old man hastened to soothe him.
"No, you could never reconcile yourself to that, I am sure. But you thought, perhaps, that the girl might descend to your level and share your poverty. There are in the world many a poor lad and lass who endow one another with nothing but their ardent love and yet make happy couples enough. So, no doubt, you argued, and herein lies the fallacy that has deceived you. If you had been enamoured of a poor girl, I should have said: it is rather early to think of marriage, but if it be God's will, take her! Work and fight your way through the world where there is room enough for every one. The lass, too, is used to deprivation, and you are also. She will be content with little. She can sew, she will do your cooking for you, and, if need be, your washing likewise! She can make one penny go as far as two. When there is a lot to do she will sing to make the work lighter, and when your supper is slender, her good humour and her loving embraces will make it more. But my dear boy! how are you going to make a poor housewife out of a girl who has been rich? How can she ever feel at home in a wretched, out-of-the-way shanty, where she will not even have you always by her side, for you will have to be looking after your daily bread? She will say nothing, she will make no complaint, but you will perceive that she misses something. She will not ask you for a new dress, but you will see that the one she wears is shabby and it would break your heart to reflect that you have fettered the girl you love to your step-motherly destiny, and your manly pride would one day blush for the recklessness which led you to drag her down with you."
"My dear guardian," said Szilard, "to prove to you that I did think of all these things let me tell you that I have put by from my salary and commissions enough to enable us to live comfortably for at least a twelvemonth. For a whole year I have lived on two pence a day in order to save, and during all that time I am sure you have not heard from me one word of complaint."
Mr. Sipos was horrified. It was an even worse case than he had imagined. What! to live for a whole year on two pence a day in order to scrape together a small capital for one's beloved! It would be very difficult to cure a madness which took such a practical turn as this!
"But my dear boy!" he resumed, "what is the good of it all? What can you do now that your secrets are discovered? It would have served you right if the girl's parents had proceeded against you on a charge of murder, for you were an accomplice in this poisoning business; but I am pretty sure they will only threaten to do so in case she refuses the baron. And what, pray, can you do in case they thus compel her to become his wife?"
"Whoever the baron may be," rejoined Szilard, "I suppose he is at least a gentleman; and if a woman looks him straight in the face on the wedding day and says to him: 'I cannot love you because I love another and always will love another,'—I cannot think he will be so devoid of feeling as to make her his wife notwithstanding."
"And if she does not say this, but voluntarily gives him her hand in order to save you from the persecutions of her family, what then?"
"Hearken, my dear guardian! She may be compelled to write to me that she loves me no more and I must forget her, but I shall not believe it till she pronounces or writes down a word the meaning of which only we two understand and nobody else in the world can discover. So long as this one word does not get into the possession of a third person, I shall know that she has not broken with me and no power in this world shall tear her from my heart. She may be silent, because she is not free to speak; she may speak because she is commanded to speak; yet, for all that, this religiously guarded word tells me what she really feels—and what no other human intelligence can understand. If you like, my dear guardian, you may betray this confession of mine to Henrietta's relatives and they will torment the girl till they get her to pronounce the mysterious word which once pronounced will burst the bonds that unite us. She will be driven to say something. But oh! women who love are very crafty. The word they will report to me will not be the right one. It is possible, too, that they may take her far away from me. Let them guard her well I say, let those who watch over her never close an eye. And if they give her a husband, they had best pray for his life for they know not what a fated thing it is to give away in marriage a girl who bears about in her heart the secret of a third person."
"My dear young friend, I see that we shall not come to an understanding with each other. You are bent upon plunging into ruin a poor defenceless girl in the name of what you call love, and will not renounce, though you have not the slightest hope of winning her—that I do not understand. I, on the other hand, am the legal adviser of the young lady's family, and, in that capacity, I considered it my duty to protest very energetically against the match in question. But when they placed those precious papers in my hands, I said at once that they must marry her to this man in any case. Otherwise they would have fancied I was advocating your crazy hopes, that I was an interested party and simply opposed the family candidate in order to smuggle in a kinsman of my own in his stead. That idea I was determined to knock out of their heads, happen what would. But that of course you do not understand. And now you had better return to your room. Destiny will one day explain to all of us what we do not understand now."
At about the same hour the second act of this drama was proceeding in the torture-chamber of the Lapussa family.
Henrietta had returned home from her little tour laden with flowers, when old Demetrius sent word to her that he would like to see her in his room. He had taken the precaution of sending Madame Langai away shortly before and Mr. John was absent at the Corn Exchange.
"My little maid, Hetty, come nearer to me," said the old gentleman, turning sideways on his couch and ferreting out from beneath his pillows a concave snuff-box, "pray do not be angry with me for putting you to inconvenience. Bear with me for the little time I have still to live. But if you find living under the same roof with me unendurable, all the greater reason for you to seize the opportunity of releasing yourself as quickly as possible."
Henrietta was too much used to these choleric outbursts to think of replying to them.
"Pray, put your hand beneath my pillow. You will find a packet of papers there. Take them out and look at them."
Henrietta did with stolid indifference what the old man bade her and drew forth from this peculiar repository—which served as a sort of lair for snuff-boxes, pill-boxes and odd bits of pastry—a large bundle of manuscripts which she recognized at the first glance. The apprehended papers, which during her illness had prevented her from sleeping, which had made it impossible for her to get well, were now in the possession of him from whom she had been most anxious to conceal them. The criminal stood face to face with the witness whose damning evidence was to condemn her. There was no escape, no defence.
"My little maid," said the old man, exultantly stuffing his eagle nose full of that infernal heating material which goes by the name of snuff, "don't be angry with me for directing your attention to this scribble. I don't want to make any use of it. I know quite enough of it already, but be so good as to listen to me!"
Henrietta absolutely could not look away from her grandfather's blood-shot eyes; it seemed to her as if those eyes must gradually bore through to her very heart.
"You won't marry an eminent and wealthy man who bestows an honour upon your family by asking for your hand, and yet you would run away with a worthless fellow who does not even know why he was put into the world, and when your family steps in to prevent it, you would violently put yourself to death in order to die with him, to our eternal shame and dishonour. That was not nice of you. But sit down. I see you are all of a tremble. I would fetch you a chair myself if it was not for this infernal gout of mine."
Henrietta accepted the invitation and sat down, otherwise she must have collapsed.
"Now look ye, my dear little girl! if you had to deal with an unmerciful, austere old fellow, a veritable old tiger, in fact, as I have no doubt you fancy I am, he would make no bones about it but pack you straight off to a nunnery and so cut you off from the world for ever."
Henrietta sighed. Such a threat as that sounded to her like a consolation.
"In the second place, an old tyrant, such as I am imagining, would have sent that rip of a brother of yours, who is not ashamed to lend a hand in the seduction of his own sister, would have sent him, I say, to a reformatory. I may tell you there are several such institutions, celebrated for their rigour, whither it is usual to send precocious and incorrigible young scapegraces. And richly he would have deserved it, too."
"Poor Koloman!" thought the little sister. They were tenderly devoted to each other.
"In the third place, our old tiger would have prosecuted at law that reckless youth who had a share in this fine suicide project of yours. For death, my dear, is no plaything and jests with poison are strictly forbidden. He would certainly be condemned to hard labour for five or six years, which would be a very wholesome lesson for him."
"Grandfather!" screamed the tortured child. This last allusion dissolved her voice in tears. She fell down on her knees before him and shed innocent tears enough on his hand to wash out all the old specks and stains on it.
"I am glad to see those tears, my dear little girl, they show that you have confidence in me. I am not a tiger who eats little children, what I have said might happen but I don't say it necessarily must. I don't want to be cruel and vindictive. I don't want to recollect anything of the insults showered upon me in that scribble of yours, all I ask of you is that you will not stand in your own way. Get up and don't cry any more or you will be ill again. Go up into your own room and ponder deeply what you ought to do! In two hours' time I shall send for you again, and in the meantime make up your mind about it. You have the choice between accepting as your husband an honourable gentleman of becoming rank and at the same time renouncing and forgetting a fellow who will never be able to raise himself to your level, or of taking the veil and bidding good-bye to this world. In the latter case, however, your brother will be sent to a reformatory and an action will be commenced against your accomplice. It is for you to choose. You have two whole hours to turn the matter over in your mind. In the meantime I shall send for my lawyer and, according to your decision, I shall get him to draw up a marriage contract or a summons to the criminal court. It all depends upon you. And now put back those documents beneath my head. Remember that you will only receive them back from me as a bridal gift. Go now to your own room and reflect. For two hours nobody shall disturb you."
The girl mechanically complied with his commands. She put back the ominous documents in their receptacle and withdrew to her room. There she stood in front of a vase of flowers and regarded their green leaves for an hour without moving. In the vase was a fine specimen of one of those wondrous tropical plants whose leaves never fall off, one of those plants which the seasons leave unchanged and which, therefore, is such a beautiful emblem of constancy. This beautiful plant has a peculiar property. If one of its compact shining leaves be planted in the earth it takes root and grows into a shrub whose fragrant wax-like flowers diffuse an enchanting perfume. Three years before at a jurists' ball, when Henrietta and Szilard met for the first time, he had given her a bouquet, among the flowers of which was one of these green-gold leaves, and when she got home she had planted it in a jar and it had taken root, spread its shoots abroad and grown larger and larger every year. And Henrietta had called it Szilard and watched over its growth and cared for it as if it had been a living human creature. For a long time she stood before this flowering plant as if she would have spoken to it and taken counsel of it. At last she turned away and with her hands behind her head, she walked slowly up and down the room, and as often as she paused before the vase, she behaved like one whose heart is breaking. But time was hastening on, an hour is so short when one would have it stay. Alas! nowhere was there any help, any refuge. She was abandoned. She had nothing in the world but this one flowering plant which she called Szilard. And the moments swiftly galloping after one another called for a decision. There must be an end to it. Once more she approached her darling plant and kissed all the leaves of its beautiful flowers one by one. And now there came a knock at the door. Mr. Demetrius's messenger had come and a cold shudder ran through the girl's tender frame. "I am coming!" she cried. The next moment not a tear was to be seen on her face, nay, not a trace of sorrow, or fear, but only snow-white tranquillity.
All the members of the family were assembled together again in grandpapa's room. Mr. Sipos was also present, he had been told all about the business.
"Well my dear little grandchild," said Mr. Demetrius, motioning Henrietta to take her place at the table with the others, "have you made up your mind?"
"I have."
"Veil or myrtle wreath?"
"I will be married."
"To the baron?"
"Yes," replied the girl in a strangely calm and courageous tone, "but I also have my conditions to impose."
"Let us hear them."
"In the first place I must be sure that my brother Koloman will not be persecuted. I suppose you will not let him come with me?"
"No, that one thing cannot be allowed."
"But I cannot let him remain here. Send him to some other town. You are always talking of your rank and riches, give him an education to correspond."
The child in those two hours had grown older by ten years, she now spoke to the other members of the family with the air of a matron.
"Agreed!" cried Mr. Demetrius. "Besides it will be much better if we do not see him."
"My second request is that I may take the furniture I have been used to and my flowers along with me to the place where I have to go."
"Granted, a harmless feminine caprice. Be it so!"
"In the third place I should like the papers grandfather knows of to be given back to him whom it most concerns."
"Certainly," said Mr. Demetrius, "I promised, did I not, that it should form part of your marriage portion. Mr. Sipos, would you be so good as to place these documents in the hands—of the proper person?"
Mr. Sipos bowed and promised to carry out the mournful commission.
"And now, my girl, the marriage-contract is before you, the baron has already signed it and awaits your decision in the adjoining room. Show us what a nice hand you can write."
And Henrietta did show it. She signed her name there in such pretty little delicately rounded letters that it looked as if some fairy had breathed a spell upon the page.
"And just one thing more, my dear young lady," put in Mr. Sipos politely, "while the pen is still in your hand, would you be so good as to write down on the cover of the returned documents a particular word, that particular word, I mean, which is known only to yourself and one other person in the world, as a proof that your renunciation is genuine and irrevocable."
The girl fixed her mysterious black eyes for a long time on those of the lawyer. It was in her power to deceive him if she would and he knew it well. At last she gently stooped over the bundle of papers and pressing down the pen with unusual firmness she wrote that barbarously sounding name of a beautiful bright star: "Mesarthim" and then quietly laid down the pen. There was not the slightest sign of agitation in her face. Could it be the right word?
"And now the bridegroom can come in and the necessary pre-nuptial legal formalities can be carried out."
When Mr. Sipos got home he went straight up to the room of his young protegé.
"My dear fellow," said he, "I have brought you some medicine. As you know, medicine is generally nasty and bitter, but perhaps none the worse on that account. As I said beforehand, the young lady reconsidered her position, chose the better way and consented to the marriage with the baron. The betrothal is an accomplished fact and they signed the marriage contract before my eyes."
"Doubtless," returned Szilard coldly.
"My friend, the girl did not make such a sour face over it as you are doing. She was strong-minded and decided. I was amazed at the composure with which she addressed her family, she was like the capitulating commandant of a fortress dictating the terms of surrender. Not a tear did she shed in their presence and yet I believe she suffered."
"Oh, she has lots of courage."
"I wish you had as much. Here is your absurd scribble, its surrender was one of the conditions imposed. I am glad these mischievous exercises are safely in our hands again. Don't bother your head about them any more! The girl is going away, you will remain here, in a year's time you will have forgotten each other."
Szilard smiled frostily.
"And that word which binds us together or tears us asunder?" said he.
"Yes, I thought of that, too. She looked me straight in the eyes for a long time when I asked for it and I told her I wanted the real, the genuine word. She has written it on the back of these papers, look!"
Szilard stretched forth a tremulous hand towards the papers, seized them, turned them round, and cast one look at the word written there and then fell at full length on the floor, striking his head against the corner of the table so that the blood flowed.
Mr. Sipos, cursing the whole stupid business and wishing the papers at the bottom of the sea, raised the young man tenderly and bathed his head with cold water. He did not call for assistance (why should the whole world be taken into his confidence?), but when the youth came to again, he soothed and consoled him with loving words. And Szilard, unable to contain himself any longer, hid his head in the good old man's bosom, pressed his lips to his hand and wept long and bitterly.
A fortnight later the marriage of Baron Hátszegi and Henrietta Lapussa was solemnized with great pomp and befitting splendour. The bride bore herself bravely throughout the ceremony, and they tell me that her lace and her diamonds were fully described in all the fashionable papers.
CHAPTER VI
BRINGING HOME THE BRIDE
In those days there were no railways in Hungary. It took a whole week to travel post from Pest to the depths of Transylvania, with relays of horses provided beforehand at every station. On the very day after the wedding the young bride set out on her journey. She had only stipulated that they should set off very early before anyone was up and stirring. They travelled in two carriages. In the first sat the bride and Clementina, who had begged and prayed so urgently to be allowed to accompany the young lady that to get rid of her they had at last consented. The poor thing fancied she would better her position thereby: it was not from pure love of Henrietta that she had been so importunate. In the second carriage sat the baron and Margari. Margari was just the sort of man the baron wanted. He was a scholar who could be converted into a domestic buffoon whenever one was required. Now-a-days it is difficult to catch such specimens, all our servants have become so stuck-up. Henrietta did not dare to ask how far they were going, or where they were to pass the night, she felt so strange amidst her new surroundings. Her husband was very obliging and polite towards her,—in fact he gave her no trouble at all.
Towards the evening they stopped at a village to water the horses and there Hátszegi got out of his carriage and, approaching his wife's, spoke to her through the window: "We shall rest in an hour," said he. "We shall put up for the night at the castle of an old friend of mine, Gerzson Satrakovich. He has been duly apprised of our coming and expects us."
But the promised hour turned out to be nearly two hours. The roads were very bad here and it was as much as the carriage wheels could do to force their way through the marshy sand. The monotonous Bucskak[4] which extended desolately, like a billowy sandy ocean, to the very horizon, were overgrown with dwarf firs that looked more like shrubs than trees. Not a village, not a hut was anywhere to be seen. From the roadside sedges, flocks of noisy wild-geese, from time to time, flew across the sky which the setting sun coloured yellow. At last a great clattering and rattling gave those sitting in the carriage to understand that they were passing into a courtyard and the carriage door was opened. Henrietta got out. The young wife looked around with the same sort of curiosity which a robber condemned to a long term of imprisonment and conveyed to a distant jail might feel on first surveying his new environment.