"Bravo!" said the Jew, pushing the bottle over to his comrade; "it is quite ridiculous to think that Viola should presume to give his orders to a man like you."
"Of course, so it is!" cried the robber; "and what stupid orders his are! The other day he finds me driving a peasant's oxen from the field, and kicks up a row, and swears that I must take them back, for he wouldn't allow any of the poor people to be hurt. Last year I shot a Jew, whereupon the fool told me he'd shoot me if that kind of thing were to happen again. But never mind! D—n him, we'll see which of us is to be food for the ravens first! He'll feel my revenge by and by!"
"Ah, I see!" cried the Jew. "It is you, then, who told his worship the justice that Viola was coming to Tissaret."
"Confound you! hold your tongue! And suppose I did tell him; what next?"
"Nothing that I know of; but I know an opportunity of giving Viola a kick, and making good sum of money too."
"Halljuk!" shouted the robber.
"Silence!" cried the Jew, "you'll wake every man in the house. What did you get for that little job at the parsonage?"
"Are you at it again, you hound of a Jew?"
"Never mind. What do you say to five-and-twenty florins? I'll put you in a way to get them."
"Five-and-twenty florins? But how?"
"If you've but pluck——"
"Pluck!" repeated Tzifra, staring at his comrade.
"Well, never mind! Mark me now. The papers which you could not get the other day are at Mr. Tengelyi's."
"I am glad to hear it."
"Be quiet, will you? They are in the large iron safe, where you won't put your fingers on them, if I do not open it for you. Now, look here!"
And the Jew produced an old rag from which he took two keys. "Here they are," said he; "here are the keys, my man. I've got the key of the room too, and——"
"D—n the fellow!" cried Tzifra, grinning; "how in the devil's name did you get those keys?"
"I reconnoitred the place, saw the box, and knew it at once. Tengelyi bought it from one of our people in the market at Dustbury. He gave me the keys. The notary is at present at the election. We can do the job, and there is little danger."
"Aye!" said the robber; "let me see?"
"I won't!"
But Tzifra took the keys and put them into his pocket.
"So, now I don't want you. I can do it alone."
"Don't be a fool!" said the Jew; "what can you do with the keys?"
"Do?" cried Tzifra. "Go in and win! I'll have a hundred florins instead of five-and-twenty. I know that's the price which they offered."
"You're vastly clever, my friend. But do you happen to know the secret of the lock?"
"What is the secret?"
"Not so fast! You may wait a long while before I tell you."
"If you don't I——"
"Don't kick up a row. Give me the keys, and come along with me, and the five-and-twenty florins are yours. All you have to do is, to watch the house, and, in case of danger, to come to my assistance."
"But twenty-five florins! Rascal, you know you'll have a hundred, and you offer me but twenty-five!"
"But who is it that enters the house? Who got the keys? Twenty-five florins is a deal of money—it is the price of two young oxen."
"Will you give me fifty florins?"
"Impossible!" said the Jew. "The keys alone cost me no less than ten."
"Impossible? Very well. Oh! I am quite satisfied. I'll go to the election, and you may go to——"
"Give me the keys!" cried the Jew. "I'll find another man."
"Nonsense! I'll keep them. If you want another comrade, I'll leave you to find other keys."
"I'll give you forty."
"I'll be d—d if I take less than fifty."
After quarrelling for a time they struck the bargain; and the Jew, putting his hand in his pocket, paid the robber ten florins in advance.
"Now let us be off," said the Jew, "for when the leaders get up they won't let you go."
"You are right," rejoined Tzifra. "They take us to the election as they do cattle to the market."
They had scarcely left the room when the dusky face of Peti was seen to emerge from a heap of coats and cloaks. The gipsy had listened to their conversation. He left his hiding-place, stole from the room, and hastened away to St. Vilmosh.
It is now our pleasant duty to turn to a far different scene from that which we were compelled to place before our readers, any of whom, if they have ever loved, can easily guess the sensation with which Akosh mounted his horse on the eve of the election, and, leaving the streets of Dustbury, hastened to Tissaret. Night had set in, and his absence escaped observation. A dense fog covered the plain between Dustbury and Tissaret, and the horseman found it difficult to keep on the path which led through the meadow-lands. But he did not feel the searching coldness of the night air, nor was he inclined to stop by the watch-fires of the shepherds, and to dry his clothes. He hurried on, for Etelka had promised her brother that he should meet Vilma, to whose house he now directed his course.
Strange though it may appear to the less initiated into the mysteries of the human heart, Tengelyi's influence with his family, though paramount in every other respect, was eclipsed by the superior power of their feelings; Vilma and her mother knew of young Rety's visit, and expected him with great eagerness and anxiety. Mrs. Ershebet's time and attention were indeed taken up with the cares and anxieties which fill the heart of a Hungarian housewife who is expecting and preparing for the reception of a favoured guest; but when the evening wore on, when the turkey[13] was on the point of over-roasting, and the pastry drying up,—and when the good woman looked at the clock and saw its hands approaching to eight, she shook her head, and, looking out at the kitchen-door into the drear and misty night, she was fairly overpowered with fear.
She went to Vilma's room, and, in order to lighten the load of anxiety which pressed upon her own heart, she commenced consoling her daughter. "I am sure he will soon be here," said she; "but the worst is, my supper will be spoilt. But do not be afraid, child. There is indeed a dense fog—you cannot see over the way—but then Akosh knows his road in the dark as well as by daylight. There are no wolves about the country now; no, indeed! and he does not care whether he rides by day or by night." And Mrs. Ershebet laughed, and appeared rather amused than otherwise by Akosh's staying away. But her words had a far different effect from what she intended. Vilma had never once thought that any misfortune could befall him she loved; and when her mother's words directed her attention to the possibility of an accident which might happen to Akosh, she became painfully alive to all sorts of dangers by which she fancied him surrounded.
"Good God!" cried she, "if any thing happens to him, it is I who am the cause!"
"Oh!" said Mrs. Ershebet, anxiously, "he is on good terms with the robbers, his horses are safe, he knows his way, and it is quite ridiculous to think that he should have strayed into the morasses of St. Vilmosh."
Vilma opened the window; and when she saw the thick fog, she shuddered to think that Akosh was alone on the heath. Half an hour passed amidst the greatest uneasiness; at length the sound of a horse's hoofs was heard in the distance. Mother and daughter listened anxiously, and their surprise was any thing but agreeable, when the door opened, and, instead of Akosh, the Liptaka entered the kitchen. Vilma, scarcely able to repress her tears, cried out:—
"Oh, mother! now I am sure he is lost!"
"Perhaps he has not been able to get away," said Mrs. Ershebet; "at least, not early enough. He'll come to-morrow."
"To-morrow!" cried the Liptaka: "do not tell the girl such a thing. Mr. Akosh would not stay away—nay, that he would not!—even if there were as many thunderbolts as there are drops of rain. Akosh too late! Is there a finer fellow in the county? I do not speak of the gentlemen, for it's easy to be a better man than any of them; but he beats us vulgar people, and in our own line, too. He is as strong as any that ever wore a gatya[14], and he is as bold as any szegeny legeny[15] in the world; and should he be afraid of darkness and rain? No, no, missie dear! any man will brave death for such a sweetheart as you are!"
"Don't be foolish!" said Mrs. Ershebet, highly flattered; "Vilma is no man's sweetheart."
"No matter," said the Liptaka, shaking her head; "it's what we poor people call a sweetheart. But never mind; come he must and he will, though the darkness of Egypt were on the heath."
"I am sure he will come," said Vilma, trembling. "Akosh is so bold! he knows not what danger is; but it is that which frightens me. The night is dark; and how easily can he have met with an accident!"
"The night is indeed dark," replied the Liptaka, with great earnestness; "but are not God's eyes open in the darkness? Not a sparrow falls from the roof without His will, and He protects the righteous on their paths. Fear nothing, missie sweet!" added the old woman: "young Mr. Rety is in no danger. Perhaps he will suffer from the cold; but the fire of your eyes will warm him soon enough. A sorry thing it would be, indeed, if such a fellow could not manage to ride from Dustbury to Tissaret. Ay, indeed, if he were a fine gentleman, as the others are: but no! Akosh is a jewel of a lad. I eat his soul.[16] I suckled him when a child, and I ought to know what stuff he is made of."
"Oh, Liptaka, I wish he were here!" whispered Vilma, while her mother walked to the other room. "I am so afraid." And the Liptaka replied in the same tone: "I, too, should be sorry to see your mother go to the kitchen. There are others who have come from a longer journey, and who dare not enter until Mr. Rety is here."
"For God's sake!" said Vilma, "is Viola here?"
The Liptaka's reply was prevented by the appearance of Akosh. To attempt a description of Vilma's joy would be a vain endeavour. No word in any language can convey to those who never felt the like, any idea of the deep, heartfelt happiness which was expressed in her gestures and face, and in the tone with which, calling out her mother's name and that of her lover, she hurried the new comer into the next room.
The old nurse left the room by the opposite door. "Now for Viola," muttered she; "for he, too, loves his wife. Why, old fool that I am! my eyes have got full of tears in looking at the children! I can't help it; but I must think of my own Jantshy, and how I loved him, and how happy we were; and now the poor fellow is buried in France. It is written, Man shall not sever what God has brought together; but, for all that, the magistrates took Jantshy from me, and made him a soldier."
She was roused from these cogitations by a low voice, calling her name.
"Who's there?" said the old woman.
"It is I! Don't you know me?"
"Peti!" cried the Liptaka. "I thought you were at Dustbury. Where do you come from?"
"For God's sake, be quiet! Is he here?"
"Who?—Viola?"
"Yes! Whom else could I mean?"
The Liptaka was silent, for she knew that there were false brethren in Viola's gang.
"Do you suspect me?" said the gipsy, impatiently. "I have been on my legs ever since yesterday; but, if you do not know where he is, I must run until I find him, tired though I am."
"Are you coming to see him on business?"
"I must talk to Viola! I must, I tell you!"
"Very well; come with me," said the Liptaka, moved by the plaintive voice of the gipsy: and, more than half ashamed of having suspected him, she added: "One does get cautious in this sad time, since there are so many rascals even among the poor people."
The notary's house was indeed the home of happiness. They say, love spoils a man's appetite; but a ride of twenty miles goes a great way to counteract at least this symptom of the complaint. Mrs. Ershebet had cause to be pleased with her guest, who, fatigued with his ride and starved with the cold, was in that lucky temper in which a man enjoys a warm room and a hot supper.
"Take another piece of this tart," said Mrs. Ershebet, when young Rety's attention to the dishes began to flag; "it is not so good as the pastry your worship is accustomed to, but it is of the best our poor house can afford. It is, perhaps, a little too brown,—for your worship came later than we expected; but it is very soft. Take some, I pray."
Akosh—who would have done any thing to escape the peine forte et dure of the tart, protested against Mrs. Ershebet's ceremonious address. "Am I a stranger to you, that you should call me 'your worship?' Have you not a kinder name for me?"
Ershebet was confused; but the look which she cast at Akosh expressed so much affection and joy, that the latter, kissing her hand, continued: "Call me your Akosh! call me your son! for that is the title I covet most."
"My dear Akosh!—my son!—if you will have it so," said Mrs. Ershebet, with tears in her eyes. "You are good, you are generous, Akosh. No man in this world is so deserving of Vilma's love: and yet you can have no idea what a treasure the girl really is!"
Vilma embraced her mother, while Akosh kissed her hand; and his soul was moved as he thought of his own mother.
"Is it not too childish?" said Mrs. Ershebet, at length. "I weep with joy when I see you both, and feel the happiness which you might find in your love; but I forget how many obstacles there are between the present moment and that in which I may call you really and truly my son. Dearest child," continued Mrs. Ershebet, "you had better tell them to take the things away:" and, when Vilma had left the room, she pressed Rety's hand, and said, with a trembling voice: "Akosh! I implore you, make my child happy!"
Akosh was silent; but he pressed her hand, and his eyes filled with tears.
"You cannot know—you cannot think—how devotedly the girl loves you! and if she were deceived; if she——"
"Do you think me so mean, so utterly abandoned, as to make myself unworthy of Vilma's love?"
"No, my dear Akosh! not by any means!" said Mrs. Ershebet, with great composure. "If I did not respect you so much, surely there would be no need of this conversation; nor would I, for the first time in my life, disobey my husband's commands. I would not receive you in my house if I were not convinced of your noble and generous nature. But, Akosh, you are rich—you have a grand future before you; and it is this which makes me anxious. Look at all the great families whom you know, and tell me how many there are with whom real love and real happiness dwell? Your life offers a thousand enjoyments—a thousand temptations: it is full of purpose and splendour; glory and popularity surround you. Have you the strength to keep your heart undivided amidst so many objects? For to be happy, Vilma wants your whole heart. The fragments of a husband's love cannot satisfy her. And besides," continued Mrs. Ershebet, when Akosh had done his best to convince her of the immutability of his love, "have you thought of all the objections which others may raise?"
"I shall be twenty-four in a few weeks, and consequently independent. My mother's property, of which I am already possessed, is enough to keep my wife and me; and if my father were to quarrel with me, I do not care. I prefer Vilma's love to all!"
"I believe you, dear Akosh," said Mrs. Ershebet; "but what will Tengelyi say? He is good and loving; but when he takes it into his head that something is opposed to his principles, no power on earth can make him yield."
"Except the power of love," said Akosh.
"No, not even that: Jonas never loved any thing or anybody as he does me; may God bless him for it! and still I cannot obtain any thing from him that is opposed to his convictions."
"Yes; but can it be against his principles to see his daughter happy? may we not hope for his blessing? As for my father, why should we despair of his consent? Nobody knows him better than Vandory does, and he told me over and over again that my father is sure to yield."
Mrs. Ershebet's fears were dispelled. Akosh told her that he intended to take Vilma to his new residence, in a neighbouring county, where she need not come into contact with his mother-in-law. Mrs. Ershebet, to whom he explained the whole arrangement of the house, rose up as her daughter entered, and pressed her to her heart.
"So, my children," said Mrs. Ershebet, taking Akosh and Vilma by the hand, "be true and constant in your love, and God will not allow you to be separated. You see Jonas and me; we had many difficulties to contend with; but we overcame them. Come, my dears," continued the good woman, kissing Vilma's forehead, "speak to each other now, and say all you have to say, for God knows when you will meet again."
"Vilma," said Akosh, taking the blushing girl by the hand, "your eyes were filled with tears when I came. Why did you weep?"
"Oh! you will laugh at me! I am a weak, frightened girl; we were all anxious about you; and when I saw you safe——"
"My angel, how happy you make me with your love! When I look into your eyes, and see their loving gaze fixed upon me; and when I hear your sweet voice; when I press your hand to my lips, and think that this hand is to be mine—that within a short time perhaps you are to be truly, wholly mine, I feel as in a dream, or as if some misfortune must happen to us, for I cannot conceive it possible for human beings to be so thoroughly happy!"
"For God's sake take care!" cried Vilma. "You are bold and careless of danger. You shun nobody; but you ought to think of us. My mother, too, was greatly frightened to-night."
"On account of my staying away?"
"Certainly! and on account of the fog. We thought you had met with some accident in the swamps of St. Vilmosh."
"If there are no greater dangers than those of the Dustbury road, you may be easy," replied Akosh, smiling. "There is not at present water enough in the swamps of St. Vilmosh to drown a child; and my only danger to-night was one which certainly does no credit to me—I lost my way. The fog was so dense that I was hopelessly lost; and perhaps I should still be erring in the wilderness but for the sound of hoofs, which I heard at a distance. I turned my horse in the direction of the sound; but when I approached the horseman, he went off in a gallop. I followed, and we made a race of it, in which he beat me. At last I saw a light, and found myself at the entrance of the village. I presume the man, who belonged to the village, mistook me for a robber. Thank goodness I met him, for without him I had no chance of finding my way."
"But how will you return?" said Vilma, anxiously. "My mother tells me that you intend going back this very night."
"Of course I must, unless I wish my expedition to be known at Dustbury. I have tied my horse to the garden gate. At midnight I must take to the saddle, and the dawn of morning finds me in the council-house. But I promise you I will not lose my way this time; and——but really things cannot remain as they are! This state of uncertainty is unbearable. I will speak to your father."
"Beware!" cried Vilma. "We cannot hope for my father's consent until your father gives his."
"But I know my father will approve of my choice. I will open my heart to him. I will tell him how dearly I love you, and that I cannot be happy without you. I will tell him that to live with you is bliss; but that to live away from you is worse than hell. And if I tell him all this, asking for his blessing and nothing else, trust me he will not refuse it. Oh, Vilma! we are sure to be happy!"
Vilma did not withdraw her hand, which Akosh seized; nor did she speak to confirm her lover in his hopes; but there was a heaven of joy in the look which she cast upon him.
"Yes, Vilma, we are sure to be happy. I have spoken to your mother, and explained everything. I have a home not far from here—it was my mother's property; and my father gave it into my hands. I have had the garden put to rights. The rooms of the little house are comfortably furnished—it is there we will live. Of course your father and mother go with us."
"And Mother Liptaka," said the girl, smiling with gladness, "she is so fond of us."
"Yes, she shall go; and Vandory is sure to come often to see us."
"Oh, he is sure to come. We will get him a large arm-chair to sit in when he comes, and we will send for a glass of fresh water from the well. Oh, it will be so beautiful. And did you not say there was a garden?"
"There is a large garden, full of roses!"
"Oh, roses!" cried Vilma, clapping her hands, "and when you come back from the hunt, or from Dustbury or Tissaret, and when I hear your horse's hoofs I will come to meet you, with roses in my hair and in my hands. I will fill your room with them. Oh, happiness!"
"Vilma!" cried Akosh, seizing her hands, and covering them with kisses, "can you think—can you believe—can you dream how happy we shall be?"
Vilma withdrew her hands, and sighed. "Who knows whether all this is to be?" muttered she.
"To be?" cried Akosh, again pressing her hands to his lips, "God vouchsafes us the sight of such bliss; He gives us a deep conviction that without this bliss our life is a curse; how, then, can you doubt?"
Vilma trembled. "Akosh!" said she, "your hands are feverish. I am sure you are ill. Pray be calm."
"Oh, Vilma, do not withdraw your hand! do not treat me as you would a stranger! Call me your love—say you are mine!"
Vilma blushed.
"Oh, tell me that you love me! tell me that you will never leave me, whatsoever may happen! tell me that you are mine own!"
"Your own!" whispered Vilma; and Akosh caught the trembling girl in his arms, and his first kiss burned on her lips.
At that moment the sound of a heavy fall, followed by a stifled groan, came from the next room. There was a tramp of feet, and all was quiet again. Vilma screamed, and sprang from her lover's embrace. Mrs. Ershebet, who had been asleep in her arm-chair, rose; and Akosh, seizing a candle, hastened to the door of the apartment.
Tzifra and the Jew, who had planned to rob the notary's house in the course of the night, and whose conversation had been overheard by Peti, had no idea of young Rety's presence. When all was quiet in the village they made their way to the house. They found the door of the kitchen locked, and the windows dark, for the shutters of that one room in which there was a light were closed. The Jew placed Tzifra as a sentinel at the gate, and commenced his operations by opening the outer door of Tengelyi's room. Having effected an entry, he produced a small lamp, lighted it, and prepared to unlock the iron safe. He did indeed hear the conversation in the next room, but he continued his work with great equanimity, because he fancied that the speakers were Mrs. Ershebet and Vandory, and because he was resolved to use his knife if they should happen to surprise him. The safe was opened. The papers and a bag of money were in his hands, and he was on his way to the door, when he felt himself seized by the throat.
"Hands off from the papers, you thief!" whispered the man who held him. The Jew thought of Tzifra; but the dying glare of the lamp, which had fallen to the floor, displayed to him the features of Viola.
When Peti informed him of the intended robbery, the outlaw hastened to the notary's house to watch it. He had no means of preventing the execution of the theft. His own life was forfeited to the law, and if he had attacked the thief before the crime was committed, the latter might have called for help, his own life would have been endangered, and the Jew might at any other time have carried out his project. Viola waited therefore until the Jew had entered the house, and sending Peti to the gate to watch Tzifra, he crept into the room, where he seized him in the act.
"Hands off the papers!" said Viola, "you're a dead man if you keep them."
Vainly did the Jew strive to shake off the iron grasp of his assailant. He tried to stab, but a blow from Viola's fist knocked him down. His fall alarmed the family. Viola took the papers and fled. Peti followed him. The Jew, still stunned from the effects of the blow which he had received, crawled through the door; and when Akosh entered he saw nothing but the open safe, a bag of money, and Viola's bunda lying on the floor.
Akosh hastened to the door. In the yard he found the Jew lying on his back and calling for help. He stooped to raise him. At that moment a shot was fired, and Akosh fell bleeding to the ground.
Ershebet and Vilma, who had followed him, screamed out. The villagers hastened to the spot, and the smith next door saw, as he left his house, a man hastening by. He raised the shout of "Murder!" and pursued the fugitive.
The late events at Tissaret had not yet transpired at Dustbury; and though Mr. Rety was any thing but pleased with his son's absence (which he ascribed to political reasons), still he looked with deep-felt satisfaction on the large crowd of his champions, who bore him to the scene of the grand national fête. Those who believe that great men are unmindful of those to whom they owe their elevation, would change their opinion if they could have seen the kind and even humble bearing of the sheriff. Nay, the wish of that enthusiastic Cortes of St. Miklosh, who held the sheriff's foot, and who repeatedly exclaimed, "What a pity that we cannot carry that dear sheriff from one year's end to another!" was not only very flattering for Mr. Rety, but, considering the position of the Cortes, it might be called a wise wish. Owing to the great number of noblemen, the scene of the election was laid in the court of the council-house. When the members of the holy crown remove their court from the hall to the yard, the arrangements of what one might call the hustings are very much the same any where, no matter whether the piece is acted on the banks of the Danube or of the Theiss. A long table of rude workmanship is usually placed before the lord-lieutenant's chair; this table is as usually covered with any odd pieces of green baize that happen to be found in the council-house. The other parts of the yard are filled with the hostile factions, and from the windows of the council-house and other high places we find the fair and tender sex looking down on the scene of the great contest, where (without the assistance of either steel or flint) the finest sparks of enthusiasm are struck from the eyes of noblemen; where the magistrates of the county are created, as the world was, out of Chaos; where the faces of so many assessors not only burn, but actually sweat for their principles; and where the patriot, in beholding the enthusiasm which causes such numbers to offer their services to the country, obtains the proud conviction that Hungary will never perish, at least not for want of functionaries.
The Dustbury election was as complete in its arrangements as the zealous care of the rival parties could make it, and there was, moreover, a company of soldiers for the express purpose of assisting the magistrates. This circumstance caused a few of the older assessors to shake their heads with an air of great wisdom. But the young men, who were children of their time, were by no means astonished to see the bayonets, because they knew that soldiers were present at all the elections in the adjacent counties; and why should not Takshony have its soldiers as well as its betters? To cry out against the army was perfectly absurd!
The ceremonies of the election came off in due course. The lord-lieutenant addressed the assembly less (he said) for the purpose of enlightening them, than because he wished to give vent to his feelings and to those of his audience, who drowned his voice in deafening cheers. Rety too made a considerable display of oratorical talent in his farewell speech for himself and his brother magistrates; and, lastly, a provisional court was appointed for the suppression and punishment of any excesses that might be committed. This done, two deputations were sent off under the guidance of Baron Shoskuty and another magistrate in red and blue, for the purpose of collecting the votes, while the parties raised Bantornyi and Rety, and carried them—not without some mutual violence—out of the gate; the yard was left to his Excellency's private enjoyment, a benefit which he shared with three curates and an old assessor. Even the ladies, eager to attend the birth of the new magistrates, and panting for the glory of the fight, turned to the opposite side of the council-house, whence they looked down upon the battle of the vote-collecting deputations.
The council-house, which was built in the form of a square, had, besides the front gate, two more gates at the sides of the building. They were each occupied by a deputation. The front entrance was closed, and the Cortes were invited to pass through either Bantornyi's or Rety's gate, as the case might be.
The county of Takshony had lately become a convert to the ballot, principally at Tengelyi's suggestion. The sight of the preparations for carrying out one of his favorite principles would have gladdened that good man's heart. A small table was placed close to the gate and round it sat Shoskuty, Slatzanek, Kishlaki, and—for the other party too was represented—the brother of the rival candidate. At some distance two screens were placed, and between them the table with the urn. Augustin Karvay and Mr. Skinner watched the gates, to prevent the approach of any unqualified persons. Mr. Catspaw joined the last-named party as a volunteer.
The assessors lighted their pipes; the gates were flung open, and the electors entered for the purpose of secret voting. They, to a man, on seeing the deputation, shouted "Eljen Rety! Eljen Bantornyi!" a shout to which the Cortes outside replied with equal fervor; and the person entering having then done his duty as a nobleman, retired behind the screens to give his vote.
"Nothing in the world so beautiful as this plan of secret voting," said Mr. James, taking his cigar and pushing off the ashes, while he shook the hand of an elector who had come up to the table with a thundering shout of "Eljen Bantornyi!" "If that contrivance could be introduced in England, they would have the most perfect constitution. The ballot, the ballot for ever! that's our cry; it makes a man feel so independent!"
"All this is very well," sighed Kishlaki; "but I wish to goodness they would not go on bawling in that heathenish way. My friend," said he, interrupting one of the Cortes in his shout of "Eljen Rety!" "don't roar so loud. It's secret voting, you know!"
"Of course, so it is! Vivat the Sheriff Rety!" And he disappeared behind the screens.
"I really do beg your pardon," said Kishlaki, rising; "but this must be stopped. It's a mere farce, you know."
"But who can dictate to the feelings of our dear noble friends?" cried Shaskay; "it's natural that they should vent them at such a moment, and they do vent them, and——"
"Very well, let them give vent to their feelings; but what the deuce are the screens for? Besides, they are continually being kicked over."
Shaskay remarked that the screens were placed there by the express order of the magistrates.
"Then let the worshipful magistrates know that they have decreed the thing which cannot be done!" cried Kishlaki. "These fellows roar all the louder for being allowed to roar singly; they vie in showing the strength of their lungs. We shan't come to the end of this kind of thing; and here's a precious cold draught, let me tell you."
"But, begging your pardon," interposed Mr. James, "is there any harm in these people shouting a name? They may still give their secret vote behind the screen. Quite independent, you know."
"Ay, indeed; but——"
"I say," continued Mr. James, "how the deuce can they see for whom we vote, no matter what name they may cry?"
"But the names of the two candidates are written on the urns: now if a man can't read, how is he to vote? I have seen ten of them at least who I know never knew a letter. Hollo, Pishta!" cried Kishlaki, stopping the man who was just walking to the screens; "do you know your letters?" And Pishta replied, with great pride, "I do not read before the Lord our God."
"But then you can read!" suggested Shoskuty. "You do not read because you don't choose; but you could if you would?"
"No, I never learnt it. I am none of your Slowak students; neither did my grandfather learn it in his time."
"I told you so!" cried Kishlaki, triumphantly; and addressing the Cortes, "What urn did you throw your ball in?"
"The right-hand one!" replied the Cortes, adjusting his bunda. "Any thing to please my judge. Eljen Bantornyi!"
"This man came to vote for Bantornyi, and you see, gentlemen, he has voted for Rety," said Kishlaki, with great satisfaction. "Now I ask whether this sort of thing is to continue?"
"It is very extraordinary!" sighed Mr. James; while Slatzanek, stroking his moustache, protested that accidents would happen.
"Accidents, indeed! let us have another look at these accidents. Can you read?"
"No."
"And you?"
"God forbid!"
"And you?"
"I learnt it when a child, but——"
"And you?"
"A little!"
Mr. Shaskay, who seemed greatly amused by these questions, and the answers which they elicited, said he hoped Mr. Kishlaki was now satisfied that the illiterate were in the majority; and James hastened to the gate, where he implored every new comer to vote for his brother. But Shoskuty, desirous to carry out the resolution of the county magistrates, placed two assessors behind the screens for the purpose of explaining the names on the urns to the voters.
The ballot was being proceeded with on this improved and practical principle, when Tengelyi, accompanied by Kalman Kishlaki and others, approached the gate. A single look showed him the absurdity of the proceedings. "How, in the name of Heaven," said he, addressing Shoskuty, "can you, dare you, allow this gross violation of the county law?"
"Violation!" cried Shoskuty. "What violation? What do you mean, sir?"
"Did not the county magistrates give an order that the voting should be secret?"
"And because they gave that order, sir, we obey that order, sir! Or do you think, sir, that we sit here for the mere joke of the thing? What are the screens for, I should like to know? Secret voting, indeed! What do you call this, sir? Hasn't the draught given me a cold already? and how dare you say, sir, that I violate my instructions?"
"You cannot go on in this manner!" said Tengelyi, with great warmth; "I'll speak to the lord-lieutenant. This election is null and void."
"Hold you tongue, sir notary!" cried Slatzanek, angrily; "don't you mistake this place for one of your alehouse clubs. You may give your vote if you please, and for whom you please, but we won't be lectured, and, least of all, by the like of you."
"Stop, sir!" cried Kalman. "Tengelyi is right. There can be no secret voting in the presence of two people."
"I thought so too," said old Kishlaki, "but the majority——"
"Sir, I do pray——"
"Rogo humillime——"
"I am going to explain it!" cried Slatzanek, Shoskuty, and another assessor; but Shoskuty's shrill voice overcrowed them, and the baron said:—
"My dear young sir, I do pray you will consider what your honoured father was pleased to observe just now, namely, that the majority of this deputation are agreed on all the arrangements of this ballot, and that it is quite ridiculous to talk of errors or faults. And besides, are you not aware that no act is valid in Hungary without the testimonium legale of two magistrates? Very well, then, the gentlemen behind the screen will—if need be—prove that the Cortes gave secret votes—absque irâ et studio—quite independent."
Kalman laughed. Tengelyi spoke, though no one listened, of the sanctity of the laws, and the proceedings came to a stand-still. Mr. Skinner, to whom Catspaw had whispered, advanced, and, seizing Tengelyi by the collar, said, "Be off, sir; you have no business here, not being a nobleman!"
The astonishment which these few words created was prodigious. Shoskuty wrung his hands; Shaskay sighed and looked up to heaven; Slatzanek looked fierce and scornful; and old Kishlaki, who felt most for Tengelyi, exclaimed, "Did I ever!—no, I never!" Saying which he fell back into his chair.
Tengelyi's face was purple with rage; but the justice, addressing the deputation, said, "Strange though it may seem to you, gentlemen, this man is not noble; I move that he shall not be allowed to vote."
Tengelyi had meanwhile regained his self-possession. "And who," said he, "is there to prove that I am not noble?"
"Onus probandi semper privato incumbit!" said the recorder.
"Of course it does!" cried Shoskuty. "Incumbit privato, which means you must give us proof of your noble descent, or you may go and be —— for all I care. Noble descent is proved——"
The worthy baron's memory failed him, and the recorder resumed the argument.
"Have you a royal donation, sir, the 'Armales,' or have you an authentic Transsumtum, or the Statuaries with the clause 'Cum nos,' or, at least, according to Verbötzi I. 6., the receipts for the quartalitium?"
"Why," said Tengelyi, pettishly, "there is not a man in all Hungary who can give such satisfactory proofs of his noble descent as I can, but——"
"Very good sir; give them!" cried the recorder. "Perhaps you claim a prescriptive right; but that too must be proved with documents. You prove it with extracts from baptismal registers, royal grants of land—come sir, give us something of the kind!"
"My papers are in my house."
"Then bring them here. As soon as you bring those documents we will admit you to the vote," said the recorder, with a sneer.
"Of course," cried Shoskuty. "Show us your papers!"
"But I always enjoyed the privileges of a nobleman; I always paid my contributions to their rates."
"Fraus et dolus nemini opitulatur!" cried Shaskay. "Why did you not register your patent in the county?"
"Because no one ever doubted of my nobility," said the notary, trembling with passion. "Because I stood for a justice seat, and was actually appointed to a notariat."
"It's a good thing for a man to have his patent properly registered," said the recorder: "if you had been more cautious, you would have avoided this awkward inquiry. But your having pretended or been appointed to a post of honor cannot decide any thing. It's not legal evidence. Are there not plenty of instances of the recorders having neglected their duties, by allowing the number of noblemen to increase in the said illegal manner, to the no slight detriment and prejudice of the tax-paying population?"
The notary found it impossible to repress the feelings of scorn which the recorder's last words called forth. "Ay, ay, sir," said he, "you are indeed a generous man. What a blessing to the tax-payers if they could always have you for an advocate!"
"Don't stand losing your time!" cried Shoskuty; "tell them to go on with the ballot, and let Mr. Tengelyi send for his documents."
"I insist on giving my vote," said Tengelyi. "A nobleman cannot lose his rights on the ground of an information; and pending the proceedings I have a right to my present position."
"Mr. Tengelyi is right," said a young solicitor; "the act of——"
"De 21 Julii 1785?" added the recorder, shaking his head. "The said bill enacts that while the inquiry on the nobility cujuscunque is pending, the defendant is to remain in his former position."
"Which means in the fourth estate, which is the notary's case until he procures his documents," suggested Slatzanek.
"I have always passed for a nobleman—have I not?" said Tengelyi, turning round upon Mr. Catspaw. "You ought to know, for you have known me these thirty years."
"All I can say," said the little attorney, rubbing his hands, "is that my worshipful master, the sheriff, has always treated Mr. Tengelyi as he would a nobleman; but then all the world knows that my master is a most charitable gentleman, though indeed he gets no thanks for his goodness. I never saw Mr. Tengelyi's documents. His patent is not registered. To tell you the truth, he came from some distant place; and there are cases in which——"
"Knock him down! kick him out!" roared the crowd; and Karvay, whose voice was most conspicuous in the general confusion, advanced and seized Tengelyi.
"Come on, any man who is tired of his life!" cried Kalman, taking his stand in front of the old man. "Tengelyi is my friend; and whoever touches him is a dead man, even if he had as many lives as a cat!"
The gallant Captain Karvay retreated almost as quickly as he had advanced. Kishlaky hastened to his son's side, and reminded him of his alliance with the Rety party. Baron Shoskuty spoke with great energy about the sanctity of the place; and the recorder was heard to pronounce the ominous word "Actio."
But Kalman was not the man to be either cajoled or intimidated; and old Kishlaky himself would have been at a loss to say whether he wept tears of joy or of sorrow when his generous son exclaimed:
"What alliances? what do I care for engagements? they are nothing to the duty which I owe to every honest man and to myself! I cannot, and I will not, allow anybody to be treated with injustice, if I can help it!"
"But, domine spectabilis, I must humbly implore you to consider that this is the council-house!" groaned Shaskay.
"Thank you for reminding me of it I!" roared Kalman. "This house—yes! it was built for the maintenance of public order and safety, and it is here that honest men are in danger of being knocked down. Men come here to seek justice, but, confound you all! they don't find it. We look for judges and find cudgels. God knows, to look at you all, one would fancy that this place is a robbers' den!"
"D—n him, he abuses us!" cried a leader of the Cortes. "He attacks the nobility. Actio! Actio!" And the crowd roared, "Actio! Actio!"
"Actio? Very well, you worshipful gentlemen!" sneered Kalman; "make it an action if you please, and put it on record that it is enough in the county of Takshony for such a fellow"—here he pointed at Mr. Skinner—"to calumniate an honest man, to rob the latter of all his rights." And flinging his ring on the table, he took Tengelyi's arm.
"Come along, dear sir. I myself will drive you to Tissaret. I promise you I will bring you back before the day is over."
The noble mob groaned, and Slatzanek said to Kishlaki, "If Mr. Kalman is not elected, you will not accuse us, I am sure." Old Kishlaki sighed.
The notary's house was now indeed the abode of care and sorrow. Young Rety's wound was not dangerous, for only his arm was hurt; and at his own entreaty, and with Vandory's consent, he had that very night been removed to the Castle: but the theft, Vilma's state of excitement and despondency, and the consciousness of having disobeyed her husband's orders in receiving Akosh in her house,—all this plunged Mrs. Ershebet into the lowest depth of misery and remorse. The whole place was in confusion. Vilma had gone to bed; and the servants ran to and fro, scared and gossiping. Mother Liptaka was scarcely able to reply to and send away the crowd of curious inquirers who entered the house, thus adding to its confused and cheerless aspect. Vandory was the only friend the family had; and it was owing to his gentle persuasion that Vilma became gradually calmer, and that even Mrs. Ershebet mustered up some courage against her husband's return. Vandory had been sent for immediately after the accident, and he had not left the house since. He examined the safe, and ascertained the loss of his own papers and of most of Tengelyi's. He knew, therefore, the extent of his loss; but his pious confidence, and his firm conviction that God will not abandon the righteous, imparted itself to those who surrounded him, and shielded poor Ershebet from despair.
"She is asleep," said she, entering the room in which Vandory sat; "the poor girl is asleep. Oh, God! what will Jonas say when he sees her looking so pale! When he left us she was fresh and blooming; and now——"
"Vilma will be all right before Tengelyi comes home. Akosh has given orders that none of the people of the house are to go to Dustbury; you need not expect your husband until the election is over."
"Oh, I am miserable! I am ruined!"
"Now pray be calm, my dear Mrs. Ershebet," said Vandory, taking her hands. "Rety's wound is not dangerous; and the loss of the papers is not so serious a matter as you seem to think. They will be restored."
"Perhaps; but my husband's confidence—will that, too, be restored? I have lost his love, his respect—in short, I am ruined! How often did he not intreat me, 'Pray do not allow Akosh to come to our house! Do not allow him to speak to Vilma,—the girl's peace of mind and her honour are at stake!' And I promised to—but I did not obey!"
"It is a sad case; but I know Tengelyi is kind; he will pardon you: I know he will. And do not be concerned about your daughter's reputation. Vilma and Akosh are betrothed. Who knows but that his wound will be of use to him? for neither the Retys nor Jonas can oppose the marriage after this."
"Oh, these Retys!" sobbed Mrs. Ershebet.
"These Retys! dearest Mrs. Ershebet. I am afraid you take them to be worse than they really are. Rety is weak, but good and kind; and his wife——can there be any woman who would not, after such an event, urge her son to act the part of an honest man?"
"And to consider," said Mrs. Ershebet, "that it is Viola who did all this to us, and that we took pity on his wife and children when no one else would pity them!"
"I have my doubts whether it was Viola."
"There can be no doubt. When the Jew recovered, he told us that, passing our house on his way to his home, he saw our gate open; and, knowing that my husband was at Dustbury, he thought that something must be wrong; he entered for the purpose of inquiring whether my husband had come back. At that very moment Viola left the room with his booty; and, meeting the Jew, he knocked him down. The smith, who went in pursuit of the robber, tells me the man whom he saw was Tzifra, one of Viola's men: and the Liptaka, too, has confessed that Viola was in the village, and even in her house.—There can be no doubt.—Besides, you may ask the Jew, who is still suffering from Viola's violence."
"The Jew is a liar!" said a female voice in the room. Mrs. Ershebet and Vandory turned round, and saw Viola's wife, Susi, who had entered during the latter part of their conversation. "Ay," continued Susi, "it is I who say it. Viola did not steal in this house; he'd never do it, though he were to live for a hundred years!"
"Thank God that it is so!" said Vandory, who was loth to lose his faith in his fellow-creatures. He was happy to see the effect which Susi's words produced on Mrs. Ershebet.
"Trust me, so it is!" cried Susi. "Viola is a poor, ruined man, driven from house and home, hunted from place to place like a wild beast; but I know that he has not done this. Cut him to pieces!—tear his heart out!—you will never find him ungrateful!"
"You are right, Susi," said Mrs. Ershebet; "you are right in taking your husband's part, for you have vowed to be his own for better and for worse; and I, too, wish I could believe you; but it is in vain. Everything is against him; and—I do not mean to hurt you, my good woman; but you know your husband is a robber."
The words were repented almost as soon as spoken. Vandory said something to calm the poor woman's mind; but Susi advanced, and, leaning her arms on the table, stood with a flushed and frowning face. "Yes," said she, "Viola is a robber; you are right: I am a robber's wife. They know it in the village; they know it in the county. A reward has been offered for his capture. The very children in the streets know it. But when the Day of Judgment comes, and when God appears visibly to our eyes, with His Son at His right hand, and all the angels round him, and when He judges our crimes, do you think He will call Viola to account for being a robber? No, He will not. He will enter into judgment with those who forced him to be a robber—with those who punished him before he was guilty. God is just. He cares not who is rich and who is poor. He looks into our heart; and I know that Viola is pure before his God!"
The Liptaka, who entered in that moment, overheard Susi's last words. "You are right, my child," said she: "trust in God, who will not abandon you."
"Oh, you bid me trust in God!" said Susi, gloomily. "You've told me that at least a hundred times, and, indeed, what would poor people come to, if they did not trust in God? But when I think of our misfortunes, and when I see that we are suspected by everybody, and that the honestest people—such as the curate and Mrs. Tengelyi—believe that my husband would injure his greatest benefactors, why then, you see, my good angel leaves me, and there is a voice that whispers in my ear that there is no God for the poor!"
"Fye, Susi!" said the Liptaka. "It is written that 'it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of heaven.' The poor, of all men, ought not to doubt God's goodness, for His Son chose His disciples from among our number. And suppose Mrs. Tengelyi said bitter things, you ought to consider that she did all she could for you. The best of us are unjust when we suffer; even my own husband—may God give him eternal rest!—suspected Peti, the gipsy, when they stole our cow. Bear your cross humbly with your Saviour."
"Aye, but He was the Son of God! and I am but a sinful child; and besides, can you, can anybody know what I have suffered? I was a poor orphan. My father and mother died when I was a child, and if you had not taken me to your house, I'd have perished, as many children do who have no mother to take care of them. But you, God bless you! brought me up, and there wasn't a merrier girl in the village than I was. O, though my sweet mother died when I was born, yet you loved me as much as she would have done, I'm sure!"
Vandory and Ershebet were silent; the eyes of the Liptaka filled with tears.
"Yes, I was a merry girl!" said Susi. "I didn't think I could be happier, and I thanked God for my happiness. But this was not all. It is since I knew Viola that I know what it is to have a heaven on earth. At first I did not think that a man such as he could love me. Viola was wealthy. He had inherited a fine farm from his father. Next to the notary's, his house was the finest in the village; he had splendid cattle,—how then could I, poor orphan, expect him to love me? When I was reaping the harvest in the field, and he stopped by my side, with his four beasts, and helped me to tie up the corn,—or at the Theiss, when he filled my pails,—or at weddings, when he brought me bunches of rosemary, I said to myself, 'Viola is good, ay, very good and kind;' but I never thought that he would marry me, and I prayed that such proud thoughts might be kept out of my mind. But when he called at Christmas, and asked me whether I loved him, and when I did not reply to that, but looked down, and he took me in his arms and said that he would marry me in the spring, oh! it was then I felt giddy with happiness, and I fancied the angels of heaven must envy my joy!"
"Poor, poor woman!" said Mrs. Ershebet, drying her tears.
"A proud woman I was then!" cried Susi, "ay! a proud woman indeed, and a happy one! The whole world seemed to me one large marriage feast; my happiness took away my breath, and I could have wept at any moment. But that was nothing to my happiness in my husband's house, and when our first child was born, and we had to take care of our little Pishta. Oh! and God blessed our house and our fields; and our cattle were healthy, and our wheat was the finest in the county. There's many a bride enters her husband's house with a happy heart; but I, proud woman, thought each day more blessed than the last, nor did I ever think of my wedding-day, I was so happy!"
Her heart was oppressed with the reminiscences of the past. For some moments she did not speak; and when she continued, it was with a hoarse and low voice, as though that breast of hers had not breath enough to tell the tale of her woe.
"And then, you see," said she, "it breaks my heart to think that all is lost now. We were not overbearing in our happiness. We never offended anybody. My husband paid his taxes and rates, and served his fifty-two robot-days; he was kind to the poor—ay, very good and kind, for God had blessed us. He was wealthy; but then he was but a peasant, and among the gentry there were those that hated him. The attorney—may the Lord find him!" said Susi, shaking her fist, "he hated my husband, for he was the speaker of the other peasants when they had a complaint to make. And the justice too swore he'd have his revenge, for he wanted to go after me; but I, as an honest woman, told him to leave my house, as it was my duty to do. I was always anxious lest something might come of it, though my husband told me we had no reason to fear either the attorney or the justice, so long as he did his duty. But the gentry plot together, and a poor man's innocence cannot protect him from their revenge. It's now two years since I was brought to bed with a little daughter. Early that morning I was in a bad way:—my husband was with me, and so were you, Liptaka, when the attorney sent to us—I think the midwife had told him about the way I was in—to order Viola to take four horses to the Castle, and drive my lady to Dustbury. My husband spoke to the haiduk; he said he could not go that day, and that his horses had done more service that year than those of any of the other peasants; but that he would be glad to go any other day. And we thought all was well; but the haiduk came back, saying that my husband must do his duty, and that he must come, for that he had the best horses in the village. Viola was angry, but I entreated him to send the servant with the horses, which he did, though reluctantly, because he did not like to trust them with a stranger. But my travail had just begun, when the haiduk came back with the servant, saying that Viola must come, for my lady was afraid of anybody else driving. And Viola saw my sufferings, and knew that I wanted him to be near me; he said they might do as they pleased, it was enough that he had sent the horses, and he wouldn't stir from the spot—no! not for the king's own son. But the haiduk said, he'd do the same if it was his own case; yet, for all that, he would advise my husband to go, considering that the justice was at the Castle, who had sworn an oath that he'd have him brought up per force; so he'd better look to the end of it. Now my husband is violent, and at times obstinate; he sent word to the justice that he had done his robot for that year, and he wouldn't go to save his soul from perdition. The haiduk went away, and after that I know not what happened, for I got so faint I could neither hear nor see; but the neighbours and the Liptaka tell me that the justice came with his men, cursing and abusing Viola, whom they bound, while I lay bereft of my senses, and dragged him to the Castle!"