Timar's Two Worlds

Timar's face brightened.

"Then I did get angry. I am well known to be an admirer of the fair sex, but this insult demanded satisfaction. 'Well, I will just show you that you will come with me, if you don't allow me to stop here. You will follow me of your own accord'—and with that I took little Dodi's hand to lead him away.

"Devil!" cried Timar.

"Gently, gently, we can't both speak at once; your turn will come, and then you can talk as much as you like—but hear me out. I was not quite right when I said there were only two on the island—there were three; that confounded beast Almira was there. The dog had been lying under the bed, and seemed not to notice me, but when the child began to cry, the great brute flew out at me without being asked. I had my eye on her, drew out my pistol quickly, and shot her through the body."

"Murderer!" groaned Timar.

"Nonsense! If I had no more on my conscience than that dog's blood! and the beast was not even crippled by the ball; she made nothing of it. She only flew at me more furiously than ever, bit me in the arm, threw me down, and held me so that I could not move: in vain I tried to get at my second pistol—she held my arm in her teeth like a tiger. At last I entreated Noémi to set me free; she tried to get the beast away, but the raging fiend only sent her teeth deeper in. Then Noémi said, 'Ask the child—the dog will obey him.' I begged Dodi's help. The boy is kind-hearted; he had pity on me, and put his arms round Almira; then the dog let go, and the child kissed her." A tear ran down Timar's cheek. "So I was provided with another memento," said Theodor Krisstyan, as he pushed his dirty, blood-stained shirt-sleeve down from his shoulder. "Look at the mark of the dog's bite; all three fangs went to the bone: that is memorial number four, for which I have to thank you. I bear on my skin a whole album of wounds which I owe to you: the brand, the chain-sore, the sword-cut, and the dog's bite—all are remembrances of your friendship. And now say, what shall I do to you that our account may be balanced?"

As the escaped prisoner said to Timar, "And now say what shall I do to you?" he stood entirely undressed before him, and Timar had to look at all the horrible wounds with which he was scarred from head to foot . . . and naked, too, the wretch's soul stood there, and it too was full of loathsome wounds inflicted by Timar's hand.

The man knew that Timar had played a bold game with him; and now he was at his mercy: even physically he had not power to cope with him; his limbs were as feeble as those of a man overcome with sleep. The sight of the scarred form had the unnerving effect of an evil spell. The adventurer knew it, and no longer took precautions against him. Rising from his chair, he leaned the gun in the corner and spoke over his shoulder to Timar, "Now, then, for the toilet; while I dress you you can think over your answer to my question, what I shall do with you."

With that he tossed his ragged clothes one after another into the fire, where they flared crackling up, so that the flame rushed up the chimney. Then he began to put on Timar's clothes in a leisurely way. On the mantel-piece he found Timar's watch: this he put in his waistcoat-pocket, and inserted Timar's studs in his shirt-front, finding time to arrange his hair in the glass. When he was quite ready, he threw up his head, and placed himself before the fire with outstretched legs and folded arms. "Well; now then, comrade."

Timar began to speak. "What do you require of me?"

"Aha! at last I have loosed your tongue! How if I were to say an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth? go and have a gallows-brand burned on you; wander by land and sea among sharks, Indians, jaguars, rattlesnakes, and secret police; be cut over the head by your wife's lover, be bitten by your mistress's dog—and then we shall begin to share alike. But you see I am not so hard on you; I won't talk about my wounds—a dog's bones soon mend—I will be kinder than you. I must disappear for a time; for I am wanted not only because of your money—my escape from the galleys, and the overseer I threw overboard, are not yet forgiven. Your money will do me no good till I get rid of the burn and the scar on the chin. I shall get rid of the one with vitriol, and for the other mineral baths will be of service. I am not afraid of your putting my pursuers on my track—you are too wise for that; but foresight is the mother of wisdom. In spite of our close friendship, it might happen that some one should give me a knock on the head in the dark, or some convenient brigands might shoot me, or a friendly glass of wine might send me the same road as Ali Tschorbadschi. No, my dear fellow, I would not even venture to ask you to fill me this wine-flask again, not even if you drank first. I shall always be on my guard."

"What do you want then?"

"How formally you talk! my company is too low for you. But first let us ask what the noble lord wants on his side. Probably that I should hold my tongue over all the secrets I have got hold of. The noble lord would perhaps not be disinclined to settle on me in return an income of a hundred thousand francs in government stock."

Timar without hesitation replied, "Yes."

The vagabond laughed. "I require no such heavy sacrifice, your honor. I told you money was no use to me at present. Such a gallows-bird, with so many bad habits, would be arrested anywhere, and then what good should I get of my income? What I want is, as I said, rest, and a place where I can remain hidden for a considerable time, and where I should meanwhile enjoy a comfortable, easy life; that is reasonable enough surely?"

With that he took the gun up again, sat down on the chair, and held the gun before him in both hands, so as to be ready to fire at any moment. "I do not ask the hundred thousand francs at present; I only demand—the ownerless island."

Timar felt as if struck by lightning; these words roused him from his stupor. "What do you want with it?"

"Illustrissimo! See now. The air of the island is excellent, and most necessary to the re-establishment of my health, which suffered much in South America. I have heard from that dear departed saint, Frau Therese, that healing herbs grow there which are good for wounds; in botany books I have read that they will even make boiled flesh sound again. Then, too, I long for a quiet, contemplative life after all my trials; after the sybarite existence I have led, I long for the rustic joys of the golden age. Give me the ownerless island, excellency—serene highness."

The fellow begged so mockingly with the gun in his hand.

"You are a fool," said Timar, whom these jeers enraged, and then he turned his chair round and showed Theodor his back.

"Oh, don't turn your back on me, noble sir—señor, eccelenza, my lord, durchlaucht, mynheer, pan volkompzsnye, monsieur, gospodin, effendi. In what language shall I address you, to persuade you to grant the poor fugitive's request?"

This unseemly mockery did not do the assailant any good, but lessened the effect of the spell which lay on Timar, who began to recover from his stupefaction, and to recollect that he had to deal with a condemned man who was really in mortal danger. He spoke angrily. "Have done! Name any sum—you shall have it! if you want an island, go and buy one in the Greek Archipelago, or in China; if you are afraid of pursuit, go to Rome, Naples, or Switzerland: give yourself out as a marquis, get on terms with the Camorra, and no one will touch you; I will give you money—but you won't get the island."

"Indeed? Your lordship is going to talk to me like that?" cried Krisstyan. "The drowning man has risen again, and is going to swim ashore—now just wait till I push you in again. You think to yourself, 'Very well, booby, tell any one what you know; the first result will be that you will be arrested, clapped into jail, and forgotten there like a dog; you will soon be too dumb to tell anything more—or something else may happen.' I see what you think. But don't mistake the man you have to deal with. Now learn that you are tied hand and foot, and that you lie at my mercy like a miser gagged and bound by robbers, who must bear thorns thrust under his nails, his beard plucked out hair by hair, and boiling oil dropped on his skin, till he tells where his money is hidden. I shall do the same with you; and when you can bear no more, then cry 'enough.'"

Timar listened with the deadly interest of a man on the rack to the words of the galley-slave. "Till now I have told not a soul what I know, on my honor. Except the few words which escaped me at Komorn, I have never spoken of you, and what I said then was neither fish nor flesh; but all I know of you is written down—I have it here in my pocket, and in four different documents, with different addresses. One is a denunciation to the Turkish Government, in which I reveal what Ali Tschorbadschi took from Stamboul, and what, as the confiscated property of a traitor, is due to the sultan. Even the jewels described to me by my father are enumerated there, piece by piece, with the account of their present possessors, and of how they came by them. In the second letter I inform the Viennese authorities of your murder of the pasha, and your theft of his property. My third letter is directed to Frau von Levetinczy at Komorn. I tell her what you did to her father, and how you came into possession of her mother's picture and the other treasures you presented to her. But I have told her something else besides—the place you go to when you are not at home—the secret joys of the ownerless island—the intrigue with another woman—the deceit you practice on her. I tell her about Noémi and little Dodi. Now shall I drive another thorn under your nails?"

Timar's breast heaved with heavy panting sobs.

"Well, as you say nothing, we will proceed," said the cruel torturer. "The fourth letter is to Noémi. I tell her in it all she does not yet know: that you have a lawful wife out in the world—that you are a gentleman who has dishonored her, and can never be her husband; who only sacrificed her to his base lusts, and who is a murderer besides. What! you don't ask for mercy yet? Do you see those two towers? That is Tihany; there live pious monks, for it is a monastery; there I shall deposit the four letters, and beg the prior, if I do not return within a week, to forward them to their addresses. It would be no use for you to put me out of the way, for the letters would still reach their destination, and then you could not stay any longer in this country. You can not go home; for even if your wife forgave you her father's death, she would never forgive you Noémi. Justice would make inquiries, and then you would have to let out how you came by your riches.

"The Turkish Government would bring you to trial, and the Austrian too. The whole world would soon learn to know you, and those who looked on you as a man of gold, would see in you the very scum of humanity. You could not even take refuge in the ownerless island, for there Noémi would shut the door against you; she is a proud woman, and her love would turn to hatred. No, there is nothing left to you but to fly from the world, like me; change your name, like me; slink secretly from town to town, and tremble when steps approach your door, like me. Now, shall I go or stay?"

"Stay!" groaned the sufferer.

"Oho! you give in!" cried the rascal; "then let us sit down again. First, will you give me the ownerless island?"

A feeble subterfuge occurred to Timar's heart, which he used to gain time. "But the island belongs to Noémi, not to me."

"A very true observation; but my request is not altered by that fact. The island belongs to Noémi, but Noémi belongs to you."

"What do you mean?" asked Timar, wildly.

"Now don't roll your eyes; don't you know you are fast bound? Let us take it all as it comes. The thing can be arranged. You write a letter to Noémi, which I will carry; meanwhile that fierce black brute will have died, and I can land safely. In the letter you will take leave of her; you will say that you cannot marry her, because unavoidable family complications stand in the way; that you have a wife, the beautiful Timéa, whom Noémi will remember: you will write that you have taken care to provide for her suitably; that you have recalled her former betrothed from the New World, who is a fine handsome fellow, and ready to marry her and shut his eyes to the past. You will promise to provide for them both handsomely in the future, and give them your blessing and good wishes for a happy life together!"

"You want Noémi too?"

"Why, what the devil! Do you think I want your stupid island in order to live there like Robinson Crusoe? I shall want something to sweeten my life in that desert. Over there I have reveled in a surfeit of embraces from black-eyed, sable-tressed women; now, after seeing Noémi's golden locks and blue eyes, I am quite mad about her. And then she struck me in the face, and drove me away; I must have payment for that. Is there a nobler revenge than to give a kiss for a blow? I will be the master of the refractory witch; that is my fancy. And by what right do you deny her to me? Am I not Noémi's betrothed, who would make her my legal wife and bring her to honor, while you can never marry her, and can only make her unhappy?"

The man drops boiling oil on Timar's heart: he wrung his hands in agony.

"Will you write to Noémi, or shall I take these four letters over to the cloister?"

In Timar's torture the words escaped him, "Oh, my little Dodi!"

The fugitive laughed with a knavish grin. "I'll be his father, a very good sort of father—"

At that instant Michael sprung from his seat, threw himself with a leap like a jaguar's on the convict, seized him by both arms before he could use his weapon, dragged him forward, gave him a blow in the back and a shove which sent him flying through the open door on to the landing, tumbling over and over: there he got up with difficulty, still giddy with his fall, stumbled over the first step, and limped groaning and swearing down the stairs. All below was darkness and silence. The only man besides these two in this winter castle was deaf, and sleeping off a carouse.

CHAPTER V.
WHAT HAS THE MOON TO TELL?

The dark figure on the balcony would be a good mark for any one who wished to aim at it. Theodor Krisstyan walked underneath, and looked up: the half-closed wound on the brow had reopened in his fall, and was bleeding; the blood ran down over his face. Perhaps Timar had gone outside just because he expected the furious man would shoot him out of revenge. But he only stood still in front of him, and began to mutter words without sound—just like Athalie. How well those two would suit! Krisstyan only spoke by movements of the mouth. He limped, for he had hurt one foot in his fall. He struck his left hand on the gun, which he still held, then seemed to say "No," shook his fist at Timar, and threatened him by gestures. This pantomime meant, "Not thus will I destroy you; I have another fate designed for you; just wait!" Timar looked after him as he left the yard, following him with his eyes along the snowy path as far as the ice-covered lake. He gazed after him till he could only see a black speck moving in the direction of the double towers on the high peak.

Storm-clouds were rising over the Zala range. Timar saw them not. Round the Platten See a hurricane often arises in calm weather without the slightest warning; the fishermen who hear from afar the rustling of the leaves have not time to get back to the shore: the bursting storm drives a snow-cloud before it, from which tiny crystals drift down, sharp as needle-points. The cloud only covered half of the great panorama, wrapping the Tihany side, the peninsula with its rocky ridge and its gloomy church, in darkness, while the eastern level lay bright in the moonlight. The storm roared howling through the tall forests of the Aracs valley; the vanes on the ancient castle groaned like the cries of accursed spirits; and as the furious wind swept across the ice, it drew from the frozen floes such an unearthly music that one could fancy one saw the spirits which uttered it chasing each other, and yelling in their flight.

Amidst the ghostly music it seemed to Timar as if he heard through the howling of the tempest an awful scream in the distance, such as only human lips can utter—a cry of anguish, despair, blasphemy, which would rouse the Seven Sleepers and make the stars shudder. After a few seconds it came again, but shorter and more feeble, and then only the music of the storm was audible.

That ceased too. The snow-shower swept across the landscape; the storm held only one snow-cloud; the trees were still; the tones of the wind moaning over the ice-flats faded away in the distance with dying chords; the sky cleared, and all was once more silence. Timar's heart too was at rest; he had finished his career. No road lay open to him. He could go neither forward nor back; he had fled as long as life was possible; and now the abyss yawned in front of him which had no other shore. His whole life passed before him like a dream, and he knew that at last he was about to awake from it. His first desire for the possession of the rich and lovely girl was the origin of all these events; his life hung on it like the enigma of the Sphinx. When the riddle was solved, the Sphinx would fall into the abyss.

How could he live on, unmasked before the world, unmasked before Timéa, and before Noémi? Thrown down from the pedestal on which he had stood for years at home and abroad, under the halo of his sovereign's favor and his compatriots' veneration! How could he ever look again on the woman who had defended him in his rival's presence with such holy sorrow, when she learned that he was the very opposite of all she had admired in her husband, and that his whole life was a lie? And how could he meet Noémi when she knew he was Timéa's husband? or dare to take Dodi on his lap? Nowhere, nowhere in the wide world was there a place where he could hide. It was as that man had said: there was nothing for him but to turn his back on the civilized world—like him; to change his name—like him; to sneak like a thief from one town to another—like him; to wander homeless on the face of the earth. . . .

But Timar knew of another place; there is the moon's icy countenance—what did Noémi say? There live those who cast their lives away because they have ceased to know desire; they go where nothing exists: if that man seeks out Noémi on the ownerless island and brings despair on the lonely creature by his news, she will follow him there—to the frozen star.

Timar felt so tranquilized by this reflection that he had the self-control to direct his telescope on to the waning moon, on whose sphere shining spaces alternated with large, crescent-shaped shadows, and there came to choose a monstrous ravine, and say, "That shall be my dwelling; there will I wait for Noémi!"

Then he went back to his room. The adventurer's burned clothes still glowed red on the hearth, the ashes showing the texture of the charred cloth. Timar laid fresh logs on, so that the fire might destroy every remnant. Then he threw on his cloak and left the house. He bent his steps toward the Platten See. The moon lighted the great ice-floes, an icy sun shining over a world of ice. . . . "I come, I come!" cried Timar; "I shall soon know what you have to tell me—if you have called me I shall be there." He went straight to the great chasm. The poles erected by the good fishermen, the sticks with straw bundles on the top, warned every wanderer from afar to keep away—Timar sought them out. When he reached one of these danger-signals he stopped, took off his hat, and looked up to heaven.

Years had passed away since last he prayed. In this dark hour the Great Being came to his mind who teaches the stars their courses and rides on the storm, and who has created only one creature which defies its Maker—man. In this hour he was impelled to uplift his soul to Him. "Eternal Might, I fly from Thee, yet to Thee I come. I come not to ask for mercy: Thou didst lead me, but I fled from Thy ways; Thou didst warn me, yet I would not hear. Now, with blind obedience, I depart for the hereafter: my soul will rest there in cold annihilation. I must atone for making so many miserable who have been mine and have loved me; take them into Thy protection, Thou Eternal Justice! I have sinned, and I give myself up to death and damnation—they are not guilty—I alone. Thou Everlasting Justice, who hast brought me to this, be just also to them. Protect, console these feeble women, the helpless child, and give me alone over to Thine avenging angels—I am judged and I am silent."

He knelt down. Between the edges of the fissure the waves of the Balaton plashed softly. The gloomy lake often moans even in a dead calm, and when its surface is ice-bound it swells up in the clefts and roars like the sea. Timar bent down to kiss the waves, as one kisses his mother before he starts for a long journey—as one kisses the pistol before blowing out one's brains with it.

And as he bent down to the water, a human head rose from the depths in front of him. Over the forehead of the upturned face was a black band covering the right eye; the other eye, bloodshot, glassy, and cold as stone, glared at him; through the open mouth the water ran out and in . . . the phantom sunk again.

Timar sprung, half crazed, from his kneeling position, and stared after the ghostly apparition: it was as if it called on him to follow. Between the frozen margins the living water splashed. And again in the distance resounded the organ-tones which are the precursors of the nocturnal storm: amidst the howling of the approaching gale were heard the shrieks and groans of the miserable spirits, and higher and higher swelled the ghostly song. Again the whole frozen mass gave out the unearthly music, like the strings of myriad harps, until the sound grew into a booming roar, as though the lightning lured an awful, deafening melody from the resounding waves. The voices of the storm bellowed below the surface. With a frightful crash the floes were set in motion, and the tremendous pressure of the atmosphere closed once more the chasm in the ice.

Timar fell trembling on his face upon the still quivering glassy mirror.

CHAPTER VI.
WHO COMES?

"Don't be afraid; I won't let you go."

"If he kills us both?"

"Then we shall both go to heaven."

"And Almira too?"

"No; not Almira."

"Why not?"

"Because she is an animal."

"And my little bird?"

"No; not Louise."

"Oh, don't say that; she can fly up to heaven better than we can."

"She can not fly as high as heaven."

"Then there are no animals and no birds there? Well, then, I'd rather stop down here with papa and my little Louise."

"Yes, stay, my sweetheart!"

"If papa were here he would kill the wicked man?"

"The bad man would run away from him."

"But when is father coming back?"

"This winter."

"How do you know?"

"He said so."

"Is everything true that father says? Does he never tell a story?"

"No, my boy; what he says is always true."

"But it is winter now."

"He will soon be here."

"If only Almira does not die before he comes!"

The boy got up from his stool and went to the groaning dog.

"Dear Almira, do not die! Don't leave us alone here! See, now, you can't go with us to heaven; you can only be with us here. Do stay. I will build you a lovely house like the one father built for me, and give you half of all I have. Lay your head on my lap and look at me. Don't be frightened; I won't let the naughty man come and shoot you again. If I hear him coming, I will fasten the door-latch; and if he puts his hand in, I will cut it off with my ax. I will take care of you, Almira."

The wise creature raised its beautiful eyes to the boy, and wagged its tail gently on the ground; then it sighed, as if understanding all that was said. Noémi stopped spinning, leaned her head on her hand, and looked into the flickering lamp.

When that dreadful man went raging away, he had yelled in at the window, "I shall come back and tell you what the man is whom you love." That he should come again was threat enough, but what did he mean? Who can Michael be? Can he be other than he seems? What will that horrid phantom have to tell, which has turned up from the antipodes? Oh, why had Michael not done as Noémi said—if only three feet of earth lay between them!

Noémi was no feeble woman; she had grown up in the desert and learned to trust in herself; the enervating influences of the outer world had never affected her mind. The wolf knows how to defend her lair against the dogs with claws and teeth. Since that fearful visit she always carried Michael's knife in her bosom, and—it is keen and sharp. At night she fastened a beam across the door.

As fate wills. If one comes first, she will be a happy and blessed woman; if the other, she will be a murderess—a child of wrath.

"Almira, what is the matter?"

The poor beast, struggling with death, raised its head painfully from the child's lap, and began to sniff the air with outstretched neck. It whined and growled uneasily, but the sound was more like a hoarse rattle. Whether its tones were of pleasure or anger, it was hard to distinguish. The animal scented the approach of a visitor. Who is it? Is it the good or the bad man? the life-giver or the murderer? Out there in the silence of the night the sound of steps was heard on the frosty grass. Who comes?

Almira gasped heavily, struggling to get up, but fell back. She tried to bark, but could not. Noémi sprung from her seat, felt with her right hand under her shawl, and seized the handle of the knife.

All three listened silently—Noémi, Dodi, and the dog. The steps come quickly nearer. Ah, now all three recognize them!

"Papa!" cried Dodi, laughing.

Noémi hastened to cut the rope which fastened the door-bolt with her sharp knife, and Almira raised herself on her fore-feet and suddenly gave utterance to a bark.

The next moment Michael had Noémi and Dodi in his arms. Almira crawled to her beloved master, raised her head to him once again, licked his hand, then fell back dead.

"Will you never leave us again?" faltered Noémi.

"Don't leave us alone any more," begged little Dodi.

Michael pressed both to his breast, and his tears streamed over his dear ones. "Never—never—never!"

CHAPTER VII.
THE CORPSE.

Among the floating ice the fishermen found a body. It was already in an advanced stage of decomposition, and the features were unrecognizable; but yet the identity of the individual could be ascertained with the greatest certainty. These were the mortal remains of Michael Timar Levetinczy, who disappeared so suddenly after the memorable capture of the fogasch-king, and for whose return those at home had waited so long. On the body could be recognized clothes belonging to that gentleman—his astrakhan pelisse, his studs, and his initials marked on the shirt. His repeater was in the waistcoat-pocket, with his full name enameled on the case. But the strongest proof was afforded by the pocket-book, which was crammed with bank-notes, whose number could still be deciphered, and on which Timéa's hand had embroidered "Faith, Hope, Charity;" while in the side-pocket were four other letters tied together, but the writing was completely obliterated, as they had been four months exposed to the action of water. About the same time, the fishermen at Fured found Herr von Levetinczy's gun entangled in a net. Now all was explained.

Old Galambos remembered all about it. The gracious master had said to him that if foxes and wolves came down on to the lake in the night, he would go out with his gun and have a shot at them.

Many others then remembered that on that night a snow-storm had passed across the lake, which only lasted a short time. No doubt, to this was due the accident to the noble lord. The snow blew in his face; he did not notice the ice-rift, fell in, and was sucked under.

When Timéa received the first news of the event, she went at once to Siosok, and was present in person at the judicial inquiry. When she saw her husband's clothes she fainted away, and could only with difficulty he brought back to consciousness; but she held her ground, she was present when the disfigured remains were laid in the leaden coffin, and specially inquired for the ring of betrothal, which, however, was lost—the fingers were gone.

Timéa had the dear relics brought to Komorn, and interred in the splendid family vault, with all the pomp which is permissible by the rites of the Protestant Church, to which the deceased had belonged. On the black velvet coffin, name and age were marked with silver nails. Senators and deputies carried him to the hearse. On the coffin lay his knightly sword, with a laurel crown, and the decorations of the Hungarian Order of St. Stephen, the Italian Order of San Maurizio, and the Brazilian Annunciata star.

The pall-bearers were Hungarian counts, and on each side of the hearse walked the dignitaries of the city. Before it marched the school-children, the guilds with their banners, then the national guard in uniform and with muffled drums: behind came the ladies of the town all in black, and among them the mourning widow, with the white face and with weeping eyes. The celebrities of the country and the capital, the military authorities, even his majesty had sent a representative to the funeral of the venerated man. With them went a countless multitude of people, and amidst the tolling of all the bells the procession moved through the town. And every bell and every tongue proclaimed that a man was gone whose like would never be seen again: a benefactor of the people, a pillar of the nation, a faithful husband, and the founder of many a generous endowment.

The "Man of Gold" was carried to his grave. Women, men, and children followed him through the whole town to the distant cemetery. Athalie too was in the procession. When they bore the coffin down to the open grave, the nearest friends, relations, and admirers of the deeply mourned followed him into the vault.

Among them was Major Katschuka; in the crowd on the narrow steps he came in contact with Timéa and—with Athalie. When they came up again, Athalie threw herself on the bier and prayed to be buried too: luckily Herr Johann Fabula was there, and he raised the beautiful lady from the ground, bore her back in his arms to the daylight, and explained to the astonished crowd how much the young lady had loved the dear deceased, who had been a second father to her.

After the lapse of a few months a splendid monument was erected on which might be read this inscription in letters of gold:—

On the granite pedestal stands a marble statue of a woman bearing a funeral urn. Every one says this statue is a faithful likeness of Timéa.

And Timéa goes every day to the burial-ground to deck the grass with fresh wreaths, and to water the flowers which smell so sweetly within the railings of the tomb: she waters them with showers of cold water—and burning tears.

Theodor Krisstyan could never have dreamed that he would be so highly honored after his death.

CHAPTER VIII.
DODI'S LETTER.

"No. And I shall never have anything to do there again."

"What will become of your business then?"

"Would you like to know?"

"Yes, indeed. The thought troubles me that a clever man like you should be shut up here in the narrow bounds of this island, and only because you love us: if you have no other reason for staying here always except your great love for us, it pains me."

"It is well, Noémi. I will tell you then who I was out there in the world, what I did there, and why I stay here. You shall know all: when you have put the boy to bed, come to me on the veranda and I will tell you everything. You will shudder and wonder over what you will hear; but in the end you will forgive me, as God forgave me when He sent me here."

After supper Noémi put Dodi to bed, and then came out to Michael, sat beside him on the bench, and leaned on his breast. The full moon shone down on them between the leaves: it was now no longer the ghostly star, the ice-paradise of suicides, but a kind acquaintance and friend. And then Michael told Noémi all that had befallen him out in the world.

The sudden death of the mysterious passenger, the sinking of the ship and the concealed treasures: how he had married Timéa. He described her sorrow and her suffering; he spoke of Timéa to Noémi as of a saint; and when he described faithfully the nocturnal scene when he had watched Timéa from his hiding-place, and how the woman had defended her husband against evil report, against her own beloved, and against her own heart, how Noémi sobbed and how her tears flowed for Timéa!

And then Michael described to her what he had suffered in the fearful situation from which he could not free himself, having on one side the ties of his worldly position, his riches, and Timéa's fidelity; while his love, his happiness, and every aspiration of his soul drew him in another direction. How sweetly Noémi consoled him with her soft kisses! . . .

When, finally, he told her of the awful night in which the adventurer appeared at his lonely castle, of how despair had led him to the brink of the grave, and how, as he looked down into the waves, instead of his own face mirrored in the water, the dead face of his enemy emerged from the depths, and God's hand suddenly closed before his eyes the opening of the icy tomb—oh! how passionately Noémi pressed him to her breast, as if to hold him back from falling into the grave.

"Now you know what I have left behind in the world, and what I have found here. Can you forgive me for what you have suffered and for all my offenses against you?" Noémi's tears and kisses replied.

The confession had lasted long: the short summer's night was over, and it was daylight when Michael concluded the story of his life.

He was forgiven. "My guilt is obliterated," said Michael. "Timéa had recovered her freedom and her wealth. The vagabond had on my clothes and carried my pocket-book away with him: they will bury his body as if it were mine, and Timéa is a widow. I have given you my soul, and you have accepted it. Now all is equal."

Noémi took Michael's arm and led him into the room where the boy was asleep. He awoke under their kisses, opened his eyes, and when he saw that it was morning, he knelt up in his little bed, and with folded hands offered his morning prayer: "Dear Lord, bless my good father and my dear mother!"

"All is forgiven, Michael! . . . One angel prays for you beside your bed, the other at your grave, that you may be happy."

Noémi dressed little Dodi, and then her eyes rested thoughtfully on Michael. She wanted time to realize all she had heard from him, but women have quick perceptions.

Suddenly Noémi said to her husband, "Michael, you have still one duty to fulfill in the world."

"What duty, and to whom?"

"You owe Timéa the secret that other woman revealed to you."

"What secret?"

"About the door which leads into her room from the secret passage. You must tell her of it. Some one might get in to her when she is asleep and alone."

"But no one knows of this secret passage except Athalie."

"Is that not enough?"

"What do you mean?"

"Michael, you little know us women. You don't know what Athalie is, but I can guess. My tears flowed for Timéa, because she is so wretched, because she does not love you, and you are mine; but if she felt for you what she feels for that other man, and if you spurned me for her sake, as that man did Athalie, then may God keep me from ever seeing her asleep and in my power!"

"Noémi, you frighten me."

"That is what women are. Did you never know it. Hasten to reveal this secret to Timéa. I want her to be happy."

Michael kissed Noémi on the brow. "You darling child! I dare not write to Timéa, for she would recognize my writing; and then she could not be my widow, nor I your husband returned from the dead, and ascended into the paradise of your love."

"Then I will write to her."

"No, no, no! I won't allow it. I have heaped gold and diamonds upon her, but she shall not have a word from you; that is one of my own treasures. I brought Noémi nothing of Timéa's, and I will not give Timéa anything of Noémi's. You shall not write her a word."

"Well, then," said Noémi, smiling, "I know another who can write to Timéa. Dodi shall write the letter."

Timar burst out laughing. There was a world of humor, of child-like simplicity, happy pride, and deep emotion in the idea. Little Dodi will write to warn Timéa of her danger. Dodi to Timéa! . . . Timar smiled with tears in his eyes. But Noémi was in earnest; she wrote the copy, and Dodi wrote the important lines on ruled paper, without a mistake. Of course he had no idea what he was writing. Noémi gave him a lovely violet ink, a decoction of marsh-mallow, and sealed the letter with white wax; and as there was no seal in the house, nor even a coin which could serve for one, Dodi caught a pretty golden-green beetle, and stuck it on the wax, instead of a coat of arms. The letter was given to the fruit-dealer to take to the post.

Little Dodi's letter went off to Timéa.

CHAPTER IX.
"YOU STUPID CREATURE!"

As long as Timar lived, Herr Katschuka had invariably received invitations to the Sunday receptions, which he as regularly answered by depositing his card at the door: he never came to the parties. This year the fête-day party had been omitted, as the faithful Susanna was in mourning. On the morning of the lovely May day on which Timéa's beautiful white-rose bouquet usually arrived, a servant in mourning livery brought a letter to Katschuka. On opening the envelope the major found a printed invitation-card inside, which bore the name, not of Susanna, but of Timéa Levetinczy, and had reference to that very day. Herr Katschuka was puzzled. What a curious notion of Timéa! To draw the attention of all Komorn to the fact that Susanna, a good Calvinist, was keeping the day of the Greek saint Timéa, and the more because she only sent out her invitations the same morning! It was an outrageous breach of etiquette. Herr Katschuka felt that this time he must accept. In the evening he took care not to be among the earliest arrivals. The time named was half past eight; he waited till half past nine, and then went. As he laid aside his cloak and sword in the anteroom, he asked the servant whether many visitors had arrived. The servant said no one had come yet. The major was startled. Probably the other guests had taken the shortness of the invitation badly, and decided not to appear; and he was confirmed in this idea when, on entering the saloon, he found the chandeliers lighted and all the rooms brilliantly illuminated—a sign that a large assembly was expected. The servant informed him that his mistress was in the inner room.

"Who is with her?"

"She is alone. Fraülein Athalie has gone with her mamma to Herr Fabula's house—there is a great fish-dinner there."

Herr Katschuka did not know what to think: not only were there no other guests, but even the people of the house had left the mistress alone. Timéa awaited him in her own sitting-room.

And for this grand party, amid all this splendor, Timéa was dressed entirely in black. She celebrated her fête-day in mourning: amid the radiance of the golden lusters and the silver candelabra a black mourning-dress, which, however, was not suited to the face of its wearer. On her lips hovered a charming smile, and a soft color lay on her cheeks. She received her single guest most cordially. "Oh, how late you are," she said, as she gave him her hand.

The major pressed upon it a respectful kiss. "On the contrary, I fear I am the first."

"Not at all. All I invited have already arrived."

"Where?" asked the major, in astonishment.

"In the dining-room—they are at table, and only waiting for you." With these words she took the arm of the wondering man, led him to the folding-doors, and threw them open; and then, indeed, the major knew not what to think. The dining-room was brilliantly lighted with wax candles; a long table was spread with places for eleven, and the same number of chairs were placed round it, but no one was there—not a single creature. But as the major threw a glance round he began to comprehend, and the clearer the riddle grew, the more his eyes were dimmed with tears. Before each of nine of the places stood a white-rose bouquet under a glass shade—the last of freshly gathered flowers; the roses of the others were dry, faded, and yellow.

"Look, they are all there which greeted me on Timéa's fête-day year after year—these are my birthday guests. There are nine of them. Will you be the tenth? Then all whom I have invited will have assembled."

The major, in speechless delight, pressed the lovely hand to his lips. "My poor roses—"

Timéa did not refuse him that privilege—possibly she would have allowed even more; but the widow's cap stood in the way, and Timéa felt it.

"Do you want me to exchange this cap for another?"

"From that day I shall begin to live again."

"Let us set apart for it my own fête-day, which every one knows."

"Oh, but that is so far off."

"Don't be alarmed, there is a St. Susanna in the summer; we will keep her day."

"But that is distant too."

"It is not an eternity to wait till then. Have you not learned patience? Remember, I want time to get used to happiness—it does not come all at once; and we can see each other every day till then—at first for a minute, and then for two, and then forever. Is it agreed?"

The major could not refuse, she begged so sweetly.

"And now the banquet is over," whispered Timéa; "the other guests are going to sleep, and you must go home too. But wait a moment—I will give you back a word from your last birthday congratulations." She took from the fresh rose-bouquet one bud, touched it hardly perceptibly with her lips, and placed it in the major's button-hole; but he pressed the rose, this "one word," to his lips and kissed it. . . .

When the major had gone, and looked up from the street at the windows of the Levetinczy house, all was dark. He was the last to leave.

Timéa learned gradually the art of growing used to hope and happiness—she had a good teacher. Thenceforward, Herr Katschuka came every day to the house; but the major did not keep to the prescribed arithmetical progression—first one minute, then two. The wedding was fixed for the day of St. Susanna, in August. Athalie too, it appeared, had resigned herself to her fate. Herr Fabula's wife was dead, and she accepted his hand; it is not unusual for a pretty girl to give herself to a rich widower—one knows how he treats his wife, and one runs less risk in taking him than some young dandy who has not yet sown his wild oats. Heaven bless their union!

Timéa proposed to give Athalie, as a dowry, the sum which Michael had offered her, and which she had refused. Every one thought she was trying to become a suitable wife for Herr Fabula. But Katschuka was not deceived; he saw through her black heart. He knew what he had done to Athalie, and the reckoning she had against Timéa, and destiny never leaves such a score unsettled. Have you forgotten, you lovely white woman, that this other girl was mistress here when you came; that she was a rich and honored bride, wooed by men and envied by women? And from the moment when the water cast you on these shores, misfortune followed her—she was made a beggar, brought to shame, spurned by her betrothed. It was not your fault, but it was owing to you—you brought bad luck; it sat on your forehead, between your meeting eyebrows, and brought the ship to destruction, and the house in which you set foot; it ruins those who injure you, as well as those who set you free. And you are not afraid to sleep under the same roof with Athalie—this roof!

Since Katschuka came to the house, Athalie had controlled herself, and treated even her mother kindly. She made tea for her which Frau Sophie liked, especially with plenty of rum in it—she made it herself; and was very good to the servants too, treating them also to tea, which, for the men-servants, almost might have been called punch; they could not say enough for her. Frau Sophie guessed the reason of all this kindness—those servile natures always look for a reason if they receive a favor, and repay it with suspicion.

"My daughter is currying favor with me, that I may go with her when she marries; she knows nothing of housekeeping—she can't even make milk-soup. That's why I am 'Dear mamma' all over the place, and get tea every night; as if I did not know what is in my daughter Athalie's mind!" She will soon know even more.

Athalie carried her submissiveness to servility, in the presence of Timéa and the major. Neither by look nor manner did she betray her former claims. When he came, she opened the door with a smile, showed him in to Timéa, politely took part in the conversation, and, when she left the room, she might be heard singing next door. She had adopted the manners of a maid-servant.

Once Timéa asked her to play a duet, on which Athalie said, modestly, that she had forgotten her music—the only instrument she could play on now was the chopping-board. Since the great catastrophe, Athalie only played the piano when she knew no one could hear.

Do not your nerves shudder when this woman looks you in the face? does not your blood run cold when she stoops to kiss your hand? when she laces your boots, is it not as if a snake wound round your foot? and when she fills your glass, does it not occur to you to look what may be in it? No, no. Timéa has no suspicions; she is so kind, she treats Athalie like a sister; she has prepared a dowry of a hundred thousand gulden, and told Athalie so. She wished to make her happy, and thought she could console her for the loss of her first betrothed. And why should she not think so? Athalie herself refused him. When Timar offered her the money she said, "I will never have anything to do with the man again, either in this world or the next." Timéa did not know of the visit Athalie had paid by night to her betrothed, when she was sent away by him alone and rejected; and Timéa did not know that a woman will give up the man she hates to another woman, even less willingly than the one she loves; that a woman's hate is only love turned to poison, but still remains love. Katschuka, however, well remembered that nocturnal meeting; and therefore he trembled for Timéa, but dared not tell her so.

Only one day was wanting to the fête of St. Susanna. Timéa had gradually laid aside her mourning, as if it was hard to separate from it entirely, and as if she wished to learn gladness slowly. First she allowed white lace at her neck; then she changed black for dark gray, and silk for wool; then white stripes appeared in the gray; and at last only the cap remained of the mourning for Michael Levetinczy. This also will disappear on the fête-day; the beautiful Valenciennes cap of the young wife is already made, and must be tried on.

An unlucky fit of vanity induced Timéa to wait to do this till the major arrived. For a young widow the lace cap is what the orange-blossoms are to a girl. But the major was late because the white-rose bouquet was late in arriving from Vienna: this was the second fête-day bouquet in one year. A whole shoal of letters and notes of congratulation had arrived for Timéa, who had many acquaintances far and near. Timéa had not opened a single one; they lay in a heap in a silver basket on the table, many of them directed by children, for Timéa had a hundred and forty god-children in the town among the orphan boys and girls. She would have enjoyed these naïve letters, but her thoughts were otherwise occupied.

"Look what a comical one this is!" said Athalie, taking up one of the letters; "instead of a seal, there is a beetle stuck on the wax."

"And what curious ink it is!" remarked Timéa. "Put it with the others—we will read it to-morrow."

Some secret voice whispered to Timéa that she had better read it to-day. It was Dodi's letter which was put aside.

But see, here comes the major; then all the hundred and forty god-children and their letters were forgotten, and Timéa ran to meet him. Nine years ago the fortunate bridegroom had brought a splendid red-rose bouquet to another bride.

And she too was present; and possibly the great mirror into which Athalie had cast her last glance on her bridal dress was the same which now stood there.

Timéa took the lovely white bouquet from the major's hand, put it in a splendid Sèvres vase, and whispered to him, "Now I will give you something: it will never be yours, but always mine, and yet it is a present for you." The pretty enigma issued from its box—it was the lace cap.

"Oh, how charming!" cried the major, taking it in his hand. "Shall I try it on you?" The major's words died on his lips—he looked at Athalie.

Timéa stood before the glass with childish pleasure, and took off her widow's cap; then she grew grave, put it to her lips and kissed it, while she said low and brokenly, "Poor Michael!"—and so she laid aside the last token of her widowhood.

Herr Katschuka was holding the white cap.

"Give it me that I may try it on."

"Can I help you?"

The hair was then dressed very high, so that Timéa required assistance.

"You don't know how; Athalie will be so good."

Timéa spoke quite simply, but the major shuddered at the pallor which overflowed Athalie's face at the words: he remembered how Athalie had once said to Timéa, "Come and put on my bridal veil!" And perhaps even she had not then thought what venom lay in the words. Athalie came to Timéa to help her with the cap, which required to be fastened with pins on both sides. Athalie's hand trembled—and she pricked Timéa's head with one of the pins.

"Oh, you stupid creature!" cried Timéa, jerking her head aside.

The same words, before the same man!

Timéa did not notice, but Herr Katschuka saw what a flash flew over Athalie's face—a volcanic outburst of diabolical rage, a glow of flaming spite, a dark cloud of purple shame; the muscles quivered as if the face was a nest of snakes stirred up by a rod. What murderous eyes! What compressed lips! What a bottomless depth of passion in that single look. Timéa regretted her hasty word almost before it had passed her lips, and hastened to atone for it. "Don't be angry, dear 'Thaly; I forgot myself," she said, turning to kiss her. "You'll forgive me—you are not angry?"

The next moment Athalie was as humble as a maid who has done some damage, and began in a flattering tone, "Oh, my dear pretty Timéa, don't you be angry; I would not hurt your dear little head for the world. How sweet you look in your cap, just like a fairy!" And she kissed Timéa's shoulder.

A shudder ran through the major's nerves.

CHAPTER X.
ATHALIE.

She sat alone in the room where she had seen Timéa for the first time. The old furniture had long been replaced by new; only one embroidered stool remained as a remembrance. Athalie was sitting on it when Timar entered, in company with the pale maiden. There sat Katschuka, at work on Athalie's portrait, over which, while he gazed at Timéa, his pencil drew a long line. Athalie sat alone there now. The portrait had long ago gone to the lumber-room; but Athalie seems to see it still, and the young lieutenant who begged her with his flattering tongue to smile a little and not to look so haughty.

The room was dark; only the moon shone in, but it would soon go down behind the gable of the tall church of St. Andrew.

Athalie reviewed the horrid dream called life. There were wealth, pride, and happiness in it: flatterers had called her the prettiest girl in Komorn, the queen, and pretended to adore her; then came a child by chance into the house—a ridiculous creature, a lifeless shadow, a cold doll, made to be an object of ridicule, to pass the time away by pushing it about. And only two years later, this vagrant, this white phantom, this reptile, was mistress of the house, and conquered hearts, turning a shipping-clerk, by the magic of her marble face, into his master's powerful enemy, into a millionaire, and causing the betrothed bridegroom to be false to his troth.

What a wedding-day was that! The bride, recovering from her swoon, found herself lying alone on the ground. And when splendor and homage were at an end, she longed still to be loved—loved in secret and in concealment. This too was denied her.

What a memory was that!—the path she had trodden to the house of her former lover and back again, twice in the darkness! her vain expectation next day! how she had counted the strokes of the clock, amidst the noise of the auction! And he never came! Then long years of painful dissimulation, of disguised humiliation! There was only one person who understood her—who knew that the balm of her heart was to see her rival share her passion, and fade away under it.

And the one man who knew to his cost what Athalie really was—the only hinderance to Timéa's happiness, the finder of the philosopher's stone which exercises everywhere a malevolent spell—that one man finds his death by a single false step on the ice!

And then happiness comes back to the house, and no one is miserable but herself. In many a sleepless night the bitter cup had filled drop by drop up to the brim; only one was wanting to make it overflow; and that last drop was the insulting word, "You stupid creature!" To be scolded like a maid, humbled in his presence! Athalie's limbs shook with fever. What was now going on in the house? They were preparing for the morrow's wedding. In the boudoir whispered the betrothed couple; from the kitchen, even through all the doors, came the noise of the merry-making servants.

But Athalie never heard the cheerful din: she heard only the whisper. . . . She had something to do during the night. . . . There was no light in the room; but the moon shone in, and gave light enough to open a box and read the names of the poisons inside it—the unfailing drugs of an Eastern poisoner. Athalie chose among them, and smiled to herself. What a good jest it would be if to-morrow, at the moment of drinking some toast, the words should die on the lips of the feasting guests! if each saw the face of his neighbor turn yellow and green; if they all sprung up crying for help, and began a demoniac dance, fit to make the devil laugh; if the bride's lovely face petrified into real marble, and the proud bridegroom made grimaces like a skull!

Ping! . . . A string gone in the piano! Athalie started so that she dropped what she held, and her hands twitched convulsively. It was only a string, coward! Are you so weak? She put back the poisons in her box, leaving out only one, and that not a deadly poison, only a sleeping-draught. The first idea had not satisfied her; that triumph would not suffice: it would not be sufficient revenge for "You stupid creature!" The tiger cares not for a corpse, he must have warm blood. Some one will have to take poison, but that is only herself—a poison not to be bought at the chemist's: it lies in the eye of St. George's dragon. She slipped noiselessly out to go to the hiding-place whence a view of Timéa's room could be obtained. The sweet murmurs and the caressing looks of the lovers will be the poison she must absorb in order to be fully prepared.

The major was about to take leave, and held Timéa's hand in his. Her cheeks were so rosy! Was any more deadly poison needed? They did not speak of love, and yet no third person had a right to listen. The bridegroom asked questions allowed to no one else. "Do you sleep alone here?" he asked, with tender curiosity, lifting the silken hangings of the bed.

"Yes, since I became a widow."

"(And before too," whispered Athalie, behind the dragon.)

The bridegroom, availing himself of his privileges, pursued his researches in the bride's room.

"Where does this door lead to?"

"Into an anteroom where my lady visitors take off their cloaks; you came that way when you visited me the first time."

"And the other little door?"

"Oh, never mind that—it only leads to my dressing-room."

"Has it no exit?"

"None; the water comes by a pipe from the kitchen, and flows away by a tap to the basement."

"And this third door?"

"You know that is the corridor by which you reach the principal entrance."

"And where are the servants at night?"

"The females sleep near the kitchen, and the men in the basement. Over my bed hang two bell-ropes, of which one goes to the women's room and the other to the men's."

"There is no one in the adjoining room?"

"There Sister Athalie and Mamma Sophie sleep."

"Frau Sophie too?"

"Yes, to be sure. You want to know everything. To-morrow it will all be differently arranged."

("To-morrow?")

"And do you lock the door when you go to bed?"

"Never. Why should I? All my servants love me, and are trustworthy; the front door is barred, and I am safe here."

"Is there nowhere a secret entrance to this room?"

"Ha! ha! You seem to take my house for a mysterious Venetian palace!"

("Is it your house? Did you build it?")

"Do, to please me, lock all your doors before you go to bed."

("He seems to guess what we shall all be dreaming of to-night.")

Timéa smiled, and smoothed away the frown from the bridegroom's grave face.

"Well, then, for your sake I will lock all my doors to-night."

("See that they are secure," whispered the dragon.)

Then followed a tender embrace and a long, long kiss.

"Do you pray, my beloved?"

"No; for the good God in whom I believe watches ever."

("How if He slept to-day?")

"Forgive me, dearest Timéa; skepticism does not become a woman. Her adornment is piety; leave the rest to men. Pray to-night."

"You know I was a Moslem, and was never taught to pray."

"But now you are a Christian, and our prayers are beautiful. Take your prayer-book to-night."

"Yes, for your sake I will learn to pray."

The major found in the book of devotion Timar had once given his wife, the "prayer for brides."

"I will learn it by heart to-night."

"Yes, do so—do so!"

Timéa read it aloud. Athalie felt a diabolical rage in her heart. The man will be discovering the secret in the wall; he will keep Timéa up praying all night. Curses, curses on the prayer-book!

When the major left the anteroom, Athalie was already there. Timéa called from her room to light the major to the door, thinking there would be a servant there as usual; but to-day, as we know, they were engaged in anticipating the morrow's feast. Athalie took the candle which stood outside, and lighted the major along the dark passage. The happy bridegroom had no eyes for any other woman's face—he saw only Timéa, and thought it was the maid-servant who opened the door for him. He wished to be generous, and pressed a silver thaler into Athalie's hand; then he started as he recognized the voice.