Chapter II: Night Brings Counsel

While the two ladies were occupied with these trifles, and Klempa with his beard sealed to the table slept the sleep of the just, Gyuri had also retired to his bed, but found it impossible to sleep. It was not from indigestion, for Mrs. Mravucsan's excellent supper had not disagreed with him; it was his brain which was hard at work, going over all the incidents that had taken place that day. He seemed to have lived through years in the last few hours. What an age it seemed since he had looked for the umbrella in Mrs. Muencz's shop! And it was found quite unexpectedly. God had given it into the charge of an angel.

From the umbrella his thoughts flew to the "angel."

She was a nice little thing, he decided; not a bit unpleasant like other girls of that age he knew, who were thoughtless, useless creatures. Veronica was an exception. And she seemed to have taken to him too.

He passed again in revision all her words, her movements, and as he went on, he found among the smiles, the softened voice, the unwatched moments, certain signs of coldness here and there, as though she were putting a restraint upon herself.

But he was so happy now, that he did not need the friendship of a silly girl. He was a rich man now, a nabob beginning from to-day. He would live like a prince henceforward, spend the winter in Budapest, or on the Riviera, in Monaco, and the summer at Ostend; in fact, he would be a grand gentleman, and not even look at poor priests' sisters. (How tiresome it was, his thoughts would always return to Veronica.)

Sleep would not come, how could it be expected? One scheme after the other passed before his mind's eye, like the butterflies in the Glogova woods. And he chased them all in turn. Oh! if it were only daylight, and he could move on. His watch was ticking on the table beside his bed; he looked at it, the hands pointed to midnight. Impossible! It must be later than that; his watch must be slow! Somewhere in the distance a cock crew, as much as to say: "Your watch is quite right, Mr. Wibra." He heard faint sounds of music proceeding from the "Frozen Sheep" in the distance, and some one on his way home was singing a Slovak shepherd's song.

Gyuri lighted a cigar, and sat down to smoke it and think things over. How strangely the umbrella had been found--at least _he_ had not found it yet, it was not yet in his possession, and when he came to look at the facts, he found he was not much nearer to it than he had been. Until now he had supposed it had been thrown away as a useless rag, and he had had little hope of finding it. And now, what had happened? Things were quite different to what they had imagined them; for as it turned out, the umbrella was a treasure, a relic in a church. What was to be done about it? What was he to say to the priest to-morrow? "I have come for my umbrella"? The priest would only laugh at him, for, either he was bigoted and superstitious, in which case he would believe St. Peter had brought the umbrella to his sister, or he was a Pharisee, and in that case he would not be such a fool as to betray himself.

The wind was rising, and the badly fitting windows and door of the little room that had been allotted to him were rattling, and the furniture cracked now and then. He could even hear the wind whistling through the Liskovina Wood, not far from the house. Gyuri blew out the light and lay down again under the big eider-down quilt, and imagined he saw the corpse Mr. Mravucsan had spoken of, hanging from a tree, waving from side to side in the wind, and nodding its head at him, saying: "Oh, yes, Mr. Wibra, you'll be well laughed at in the parish of Glogova."

The lawyer tossed about on the snow-white pillows, from which an odor of spring emanated (they had been out in the garden to air the day before).

"Never mind," thought he, "the umbrella is mine after all. I can prove it in a court of justice if necessary. I have witnesses. There are Mr. Sztolarik, Mrs. Muencz and her sons, the whole town of Besztercebanya."

Then he laughed bitterly.

"And yet, what am I thinking of? I can't prove it, for, after all, the umbrella does not belong to me, but to the Muencz family, for the old man bought it. So only that which is in the handle belongs to me. But can I go to the priest and say: 'Your reverence, in the handle of the umbrella is a check for 200,000 or 300,000 florins, please give it to me, for it belongs of right to me'?"

Then Gyuri began to wonder what the priest would answer. He either believed the legend of the umbrella, and would then say: "Go along, do! St. Peter is not such a fool as to bring you a check on a bank from Heaven!" Or if he did look in the handle and find the receipt, he would say: "Well, if he did bring it, he evidently meant it for me." And he would take it out and keep it. Why should he give it to Gyuri? How was he to prove it belonged to him?

"Supposing," thought our hero, "I were to tell him the whole story, about my mother, about my father, and all the circumstances attending his death. Let us imagine he would believe it from Alpha to Omega; of what use would it be? Does it prove that the treasure is mine? Certainly not. And even if it did, would he give it to me? A priest is only a man after all. Could I have a lawsuit, if he would not give it me? What nonsense! Of course not. He might take the receipt out of the handle, and what proofs can I bring then that it was ever in it?"

The perspiration stood on his forehead; he bit the bed-clothes in his helpless rage. To be so near to his inheritance, and yet not be able to seize hold of it!

"Black night, give counsel!" was Gyuri's prayer. And it is best, after all, to turn to the night for help. Gyuri was right to ask its advice, for it is a good friend to thought. Among the Golden Rules should be written: "Think over all your actions by night, even if you have decided by day what course to take!" For a man has night thoughts and day thoughts, though I do not know which are the better. I rather think neither kind is perfect. For daylight, like a weaver, works its colors into one's thoughts, and night covers them with its black wings. Both of them paint, increase and decrease things--in one word, falsify them. Night shows the beloved one more beautiful than he is, it strengthens one's enemies, increases one's troubles, diminishes one's joy. It is not kind of it; but night is sovereign, and is answerable to no one for its actions. Take things as they come, but do not put aside serious thought when you are seeking the truth. Though, of course, you do not really seek the truth; even if it comes to meet you, you get out of its way. I ought to have said, do not despise the night when you are trying to find the way out of a thing. Night will show you what to do, without your even noticing it. If it can do it in no other way, it brings you gentle sleep, and gives you advice in dreams.

After a time the wind dropped, the music at the "Frozen Sheep" ceased, and Gyuri heard nothing but a rhythmic murmur, and all at once he seemed to be in the woods of Glogova, chasing butterflies with Veronica.

As they ran on among the bushes, an old man suddenly appeared before them, with a golden crook, a glory round his head, and his hat hanging by a bit of string from his neck.

"Are you Mr. Wibra?" he inquired.

"Yes; and you?"

"I am St. Peter."

"What do you want?"

"I wish to sign a receipt for your happiness."

"For my happiness?"

"I see you cannot get your umbrella, and my friend Gregorics has asked me to help you. So I am quite willing to sign a paper declaring that I did not give the umbrella to the young lady."

"It is very good of you, but I have neither paper nor ink here. Let us go back to the village."

"I have no time for that; you know I have to be at the gates of Heaven, and I can't stay away for long."

"Well, what am I to do, how am I to get my umbrella?"

St. Peter turned his back, and began to walk back the way he had come, but stood still beside a large oak-tree, and made a sign to Gyuri to approach. Gyuri obeyed.

"I'll tell you what, my friend, don't think too long about it, but marry Veronica, and then you will have the umbrella too."

"Come," said Gyuri, catching hold of the golden crook. "Come and ask her brother to give his permission."

He pulled hard at the crook, but at that moment a strong hand seemed to pull him back, and he awoke.

Some one was knocking at the door.

"Come in," he said sleepily.

It was the Mravucsans' farm-servant.

"I've come for your boots," he announced.

Gyuri rubbed his eyes. It was day at last, the sun was smiling at him through the window. His thoughts were occupied with his dream, every incident of which was fresh in his mind. He thought he heard St. Peter's voice again saying: "Marry Veronica, my friend, and then you will have the umbrella too."

"What a strange dream," thought Gyuri; "and how very much logic it contains! Why, I might have thought of that solution myself!"

* * * * *

By the time Gyuri was dressed, it was getting late, and every member of the Mravucsan household was on foot. One was carrying a pail to the stables, another a sieve, and near the gate which last night's wind had partly lifted off its hinges, Gyuri's coachman was examining the damage done. Seeing his master advancing toward him, he took off his hat with its ostrich feathers (part of the livery of a Hungarian coachman is a kind of round hat, with two ends of black ribbon hanging from it at the back, and some small ostrich tips in it).

"Shall I harness the horses, sir?"

"I don't know yet. Here, my good girl, are the ladies up?"

"They are breakfasting in the garden," answered the maid he had accosted. "Please walk this way."

"Well, then, you may harness, Janos."

Gyuri found the ladies seated round a stone table under a large walnut-tree. They had finished breakfast, only madame was still nibbling a bit of toast. He was received with ironical smiles, and Veronica called out:

"Here comes the early riser!"

"That title belongs to me," said Mravucsan, "for I have not been to bed at all. We played cards till daybreak. Klempa is still asleep with his beard sealed to the table."

"A nice sort of thing for grown-up folks to do!" remarked Mrs. Mravucsan.

Gyuri shook hands with them all, and Veronica got up and made a deep courtesy.

"Good-morning, early riser," she said. "Why are you staring at me so?"

"I don't know how it is," stammered Gyuri, gazing at the girl's beautiful face, "but you seem to me to have grown."

"In one night?"

"You were quite a little girl yesterday."

"You appear to be dazed!"

"I certainly am when I look at you."

"You seem to be sleepy still. Is this the time of day to get up?"

The playful, gentle tone was delightful to Gyuri, and he began to be quite talkative.

"I fell asleep for a short time, and if the servant had not woke me, I should be asleep still. Oh, if he had only waited five minutes longer!"

"Had you such a pleasant dream?" asked Mrs. Mravucsan. "Will you take some coffee?"

"If you please."

"Won't you tell us your dream?"

"I was going to marry--in fact, had got as far as the proposal."

"Did she refuse you?" asked Veronica, raising her head, the beauty of which was enhanced by the rich coronet of hair, in which she had stuck a lovely pink.

"I don't know what would have happened, for at the critical moment the servant woke me."

"What a pity, we shall never know how it would have turned out!"

"You shall know some time."

"How?"

"I will tell you."

"How can you do that? Dreams cannot be continued from one night to another like novels in a periodical."

Gyuri drank his coffee, lit a cigar, and from out the cloud of smoke he replied in a mysterious voice, his eyes turned heavenward:

"There are such dreams, as you will see. And how did you sleep?"

Thereupon Mrs. Mravucsan began to tell the story of Veronica's adventure with the kitten. Every one laughed, poor Veronica was covered with blushes, and Mrs. Mravucsan, finding the opportunity a good one, launched upon a little lecture.

"My dear child, exaggeration is never good, not even in modesty. You will have to get used to such things. What will you do when you are married? You will not be able to shut your husband out of your room."

"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Veronica. "How can you say such dreadful things!"

And she jumped up, blushing furiously, and ran away to the gooseberry-bushes, where her dress got caught, and in trying to move on, the gathers got torn. Thereupon there was a rush for needle and thread, and the confusion was heightened when the carriage drove up, the two handsome black horses pawing the ground impatiently.

(The lawyer's business must be a good one; he must have lied a lot to be able to buy such horses!)

Every member of the household had some task allotted to her. Anka must wrap up the ham in a cloth, Zsuzsa must run and fetch the fresh bread that had been baked for the occasion. Some one else must bring knives and forks. Would they like a little fruit packed in the basket? The foreign lady would be glad of something of the kind. And should she put a small pot of jam in too?

"But, my dear Mrs. Mravucsan, we shall be at home by dinner-time!"

"And supposing something happens to prevent it? You never can know."

And off she went to her storeroom, while the mayor tried to persuade them to stay at least an hour longer; but it was of no use, the travellers had made up their minds to start; not even the possibility of seeing Klempa wake up would induce them to change their plans.

They got into the carriage, the two ladies on the back seat, and Gyuri on the box with the coachman, but his face turned toward the ladies. Whether he would hold out in that uncomfortable position till Glogova remained to be seen.

"To Glogova," said Gyuri to the coachman, and Janos cracked his whip and the horses started, but hardly were they out of the yard, when the mayor's wife came tripping after them, calling out to them at the top of her voice to stop. They did so, wondering what had happened. But nothing serious was the matter, only Mrs. Mravucsan had unearthed a few apples in her storeroom, with which she filled their pockets, impressing upon them that the beautiful rosy-cheeked one was for Veronica. Then they started again, with a great amount of waving of handkerchiefs and hats, until the house, with its smoking chimneys and its large walnut-tree, was out of sight.

As they passed Mrs. Muencz's shop she was standing at the door in her white cap, nodding to them with her gray head, which seemed cut into two parts by the broad-rimmed spectacles. At the smithy they were hammering away at the priest's broken chaise, and farther on various objects which had been left unsold at yesterday's fair were being packed in boxes, and then put in carts to be taken home again. They passed in turn all the tiny houses, with their brightly-painted doors, on which the names of the owners were printed in circles. At the last house, opposite the future Jewish burial-ground, two pistol-shots were fired.

The travellers turned their heads that way, and saw Mr. Mokry in his new suit, made by the noted tailor of Besztercebanya, with his hat in one hand, and in the other the pistol he had fired as a farewell greeting. On the other side of the road was the dangerous windmill, its enormous sails throwing shadows over the flowering clover-fields. Luckily it was not moving now, and looked like an enormous fly pinned on the blue sky.

There was not a breath of wind, and the ears of wheat stood straight and stiff, like an army of soldiers. Only the sound of the horses' hoofs was to be heard, and the woods of Liskovina stretched before them like a never-ending green wall.

The Third Devil