Chapter I (5)

"This is not a place for your frivolous jokes, sir--frivolous, I say, sir; and make the most of it, if you please! Up to the criminal's execution, we sit as a court-martial--all the time, sir, without intermission, without--fiddlesticks! It is provided in the articles, chapter four thousand five hundred and twenty-four, that we are to eat in court-martial, sir, and we play at Tarok in court-martial, sir, and we----"

"Cease your row!" snarled the justice.

"I will make a row! And I must make a row, and I'm entitled to make a row, and I'd like to see the man who'd prevent me from making a row! I'm as much of an assessor as any man in the county!"

The Baron had meanwhile studied his cards. He was prepared to come out strong, and he urged them to continue the game; but neither Mr. Skinner nor Kenihazy would listen to him, for Kalman did his utmost to excite them still more. Mr. Skinner fancied he saw a sneer on Völgyeshy's lips, which he could not ascribe to any thing but the doubts which it was evident that hated person entertained of his assertion, that he, Paul Skinner, would drink three glasses to Mr. Kenihazy's one, and remain sober into the bargain.

"Don't boast!" said Kalman. "I'll never believe you."

"You won't?"

"No, indeed! I'll back Kenihazy against anybody."

"You will, will you? I say two cows to my greyhound."

"Done! Your greyhound is mangy; but I don't care. I am sure to win."

"Done, I say! Hand us the glasses."

Kalman could scarcely repress a smile of triumph, while Mr. Catspaw moved heaven and earth to prevent the bet; but Kenihazy laughed, and emptied his glass, the valorous judge followed his lead with three glasses, and the game was continued, though rather more noisily than before.

While Kalman was thus occupied in settling the masters, Janosh imitated his example with signal success in the servants' hall; indeed so strenuous were his attacks upon the general sobriety, that scarcely one of the haiduks and peasants was left to whom an impartial observer would have awarded the laurels of abstinence.

A deep silence prevailed in the prisoner's room, at the door of which two of the least intoxicated among the haiduks were placed. Vandory had passed above an hour in the cell, attempting to administer the comforts of religion to the condemned criminal; and when he left, Susi came to take her last leave of her husband, for, according to Mr. Skinner's express orders, she was forbidden to remain later than nine o'clock.

Both Viola and Susi were fearfully anxious and disturbed in their minds. Viola had often thought of the death which awaited him. From the moment of his capture in the St. Vilmosh forest, he knew that his doom was fixed. He made no excuses to the judges, he gave them no fair words; not from pride, but because he knew that neither prayers nor promises could avail him. And what, after all, is death but the loss of life? And was his life of those which a man would grieve to lose? There were his wife and children--but was it not likely that they would be happier, or at least quieter, _after_ the misfortune in whose anticipation they passed their days? Of what good could _he_ be to his wife? Was he not the cause of her misery? of her homeless beggary? Of what use could _he_ be to his children? Was not his name a stigma on their lives? Could he hope, could he pray for any thing for them, except that they might be as unlike their father as possible?

"When I am gone," thought he, "who knows but people may forget that I ever lived? My wife, too, will, perhaps, forget that accursed creature, whose life filled hers with shame and sorrow. My children will have other names; they will go to another place, and all will be well and good. I have but one duty, and that is to die."

His tranquillity of mind was disturbed by the plan of escape which Janosh communicated to him. The old soldier was, indeed, resolved to delay that communication till the last moment, lest Susi's excitement and joy should attract the attention and awaken the suspicions of the justice and his myrmidons. But when he entered the room which had been assigned to Susi and her children; when he saw the pale woman nursing the youngest child in her arms, and utterly lost in the gloom of her despair; when Pishta, with his eyes red with weeping, came up to him, asking him to comfort his mother, and when the infant awoke, and smiled at him, the old hussar was not proof against so much love and so much sorrow; and when Susi, kissing the child, exclaimed, "The poor little thing knows not how soon it will be an orphan!" he wept, and cried out, "No, no, Susi! this here child is as little likely to become an orphan as you are likely to be a widow!" And it was only by her look of utter amazement that he became conscious of what he had said.

There were now no means of keeping the secret. Little Pishta was sent away, and Janosh told her in a whisper of all that they intended to do.

"You see," added he, "we've thought of everything. Don't fret, now; in a few hours, when the gentlemen and the keepers are asleep, (and they are settled, I tell you,) you'll see your husband at large, and on horseback, too. It's no use being sad, and it's no use despairing--that is to say--yes! I mean you ought to despair; you ought to be sad; come, wail and pray, and ask for mercy! else they'll smell a rat. I am an old fool, and ought to know better than to tell you, for if you cannot impose upon them, it's all over with us."

Susi whispered some questions to Janosh, to which he answered in the same subdued tone of voice; adding,

"Give me your child, that I may look at it, and dance it on my knee. What a sweet child it is!" said he, his whole face radiant with smiles; "I never saw a prettier child: and it laughs, too, and at me! No, my fine fellow, we won't let your father come to harm. Ej, Susi, I wish to goodness I had a child like this!"

"My children will love you as their second father," said she, with a happy and grateful look.

"Yes, as their _second_ father," said the old man, sighing; "but it must be a fine thing to be loved as a real father. I say, Susi, I've often thought why God hasn't given _me_ children. You'll say it's because I have no wife. That's true. But why haven't I got a wife? If they had not sent me to the wars, I'd be a grandfather by this time; and, believe me, I'd give my silver medal and my cross for such children as yours. I'd give them both for a single child! Well, God's will be done. Perhaps I have no children because if I had I'd not be so fond of other people's. Young children are all equally beautiful; there's no difference between them. They are fresh and lively, like river trout; but in course of time one half of them turn out to be frogs, and worse."

Janosh saw that Pishta came back with Vandory to call his mother to Viola. Imploring her not to betray the secret, he walked away, fearful lest Susi should want the strength to dissemble her thoughts. His anxiety on this head was perfectly gratuitous. The good news, which Susi communicated to her husband, filled them both with unspeakable dismay. Whoever could have seen Viola would have thought that his stout heart was at last overcome with the fear of death. Need we marvel at this? Was not life powerful within him, trembling in every nerve, throbbing in every vein? Was not his wife by his side? Could he forget his children, whom his death might drive to ruin and, possibly, to crime? Viola had long wished to change his mode of life. He was now at liberty to do so. The brother of the Gulyash was dead. The poor man died at the moment when he was preparing to take his wife and three children to another county, where a place as Gulyash was promised to him. The papers and passports which were necessary for this purpose were in the hands of old Ishtvan, who had promised to take Viola to the place. There, above a hundred miles from the scene of his misfortunes, in a lonely tanya, where nobody knew him or cared to know him, could he not hope to live happily, peacefully, and contentedly? But did not that happiness hang on a slender thread, indeed? Were there not a hundred chances between him and its attainment? A whim of the justice's, a different position of the sentinels, the noise of a falling plank, could snatch the cup of life and liberty from his lips, and cast him back into the valley of the shadow of death.

He was in this state of mind when Mr. Skinner made his appearance in the cell. He was accompanied by Mr. Catspaw and the steward, for his _umbra_, Kenihazy, was in a state which rendered him unfit to be company to any one, even to Mr. Skinner. The change in Viola's manner was too striking to escape the attention of either the attorney or the steward. The justice perambulated the cell with a show of great dignity, and a futile attempt to examine into the condition of the walls. He poked his stick into the straw which served Viola for a lair; when the steward walked up to him, and whispered that the robber had lost all his former boldness.

"Indeed!" cried Mr. Skinner, with a shrill laugh. "I say, Viola, where's your pluck? Where's your impertinence, man? Ain't you going to die game, eh, Viola?"

"Sir," said the robber, biting his lips, "the step which I am preparing to take is bitter, and, I will own it, I feel for my family. What is to become of them?"

"Your family? Oh! your wife! Never mind; _I'll_ protect her."

Viola looked daggers at the man; but he curbed his temper and was silent.

"And as for your children," continued the justice in a bantering tone, "they're very fine children, are they not?--eh? Well, they'll grow up, and come to be hanged--eh? But what's the use of this palaver? I say, Susi, be off! You've had plenty of time for your gossip; and I say, Viola, make your will and all that sort of thing."

The prisoner, deeply sensible of his precarious position, embraced his trembling wife: but Susi would not leave him; she clung to him in all the madness of sorrow.

"I say! you've had time enough to howl and lament!" cried the justice. "Make an end of it, and be off!" And suiting the action to the word, he seized Susi by her dress, and led her to the door. Mr. Catspaw and the steward followed her; but the justice stayed behind, gloating over the sufferings of the prisoner. At length he laughed, and said,--"I say, Viola, who's the man that's in at the death? Who'll swing? I said I'd do it, and you see I'm as good as my word!" And turning on his heels, he left the room, and locked the door.

Two of the soberest men were placed in the hall to watch that door; but even they, thanks to the endeavours of Janosh, were not sober enough for Mr. Catspaw, who was just in the act of lamenting that, in consequence of their host's excessive liberality, there was not a man in the house but was drunk, when he was interrupted by Mr. Skinner.

"Who is drunk? What is drunk?" said the worthy justice, turning fiercely upon the attorney. "I say, sir, nobody's drunk here--no one was drunk here--no one will be drunk--and indeed no one can be drunk! That's what _I_ say, sir! Who dares to contradict me?"

"Don't be a fool!" whispered the attorney; "who the devil said any thing of _you_? But look at these fellows! they're roaring drunk."

"D--n you, he's right!--Confound you, you _are_ roaring drunk! Blast me, I'll have you hanged! If that robber escapes, one of you shall swing in his place! I say, fellows, look sharp! It's truly disgusting," continued the sapient justice, "that men _will_ get drunk--drown their reason in wine, for all the world like so many beasts."

The sentinels vowed, as usual, that they had not had a drop ever so long, and that the prisoner should not escape though he were the very devil; but Mr. Catspaw, alike distrustful of their vigilance and sobriety, insisted on seeing the door double-locked, and on taking away the key. Mr. Skinner protested against this encroachment on the duties of his office. He knew that the attorney suspected him of being less sober than he might have been, and this suspicion rendered him the more obstinate. He pocketed the key and sought his bed-room, denouncing drink and drunkards in the true temperance meeting style.

The inmates of Kishlak manor-house followed his example. The judges, the sentinels at the gate and round the house, the steward, and all retired to rest; and although Susi watched, though Kalman paced his own room with all the impatience of his age, and though old Kishlaki himself, for the first time since many years, courted sleep in vain, yet the house and its environs were hushed and silent. Stillness reigned in the prisoner's cell; the sentinels at the door stood gaping, and waiting for the hour of their relief. The night was cold, and though they did their best to keep the cold out, or at least out of their stomachs, they shivered and complained of the chilly night air. Janosh, who seemed to like the cold and darkness, had meanwhile met Peti, who held Viola's horse at the further end of the garden. The gipsy brought a crowbar and all other tools which they wanted for their purpose; he told the hussar that the Gulyash Ishtvan had promised to bring his cart and horses to the threshing-floor, in order to take away Susi and her children. The old soldier was greatly pleased with this good news. He tied the horse to the garden gate, and told the gipsy to conceal himself somewhere near the loft. This done, he went to look after the sentinels, whom, to his great disgust, he found still awake.

"Is it not ten o'clock?" asked one of them, when Janosh came up.

"Of course it is!" said his comrade. "I'd rather do any robot service than this cold kind of work. It's too much for a soldier, and it's far too much for me. My comrade here was in the wars; he tells me they never force soldiers to play the sentinel so long as we must."

"Who can help it?" said the other man. "It's by order, you know."

"Oh, indeed! It's easy enough, I dare say, to give an order; go and come! stand still! be starved with hunger and cold!--nothing's more easy than play the devil with a poor fellow, while they are stretching their limbs in their warm beds. At least they ought to give us something to eat, or some brandy; I'm sure I was never so cold in all my born days!"

"Don't get sulky!" said Janosh. "I'll tell you what I'll do for you. Master Kalman has given me a bottle of brandy to drink his health. Suppose I go for it. It's nearly full."

He went away and told Kalman how matters stood. When he returned, he brought them a bottle of Sliwowiza and a loaf of bread.

"You see," said he, "that's the way things go on when there's no proper officer. If the judge or any of the other gentlemen had been in the army, they would have made some provision for you, and got some one to relieve you, but as it is----"

"Why, I do hope and trust they will relieve us!" cried one of the men.

"Blessed are those that put their trust in the Lord," retorted Janosh, laughing; "I'd be happy to know who is to relieve you? Why, man, they're all asleep!"

"Give me the bottle! I'm as cold as ice!" said the other man, shaking his head, while his comrade stood drowsily leaning on his musket.

Janosh handed him the bottle, and assured the two men that there was no chance of their being relieved from their duty, and that nothing was more likely than their falling asleep about daybreak, the very time when the justice would go his rounds,--in which case he (Janosh) had no ambition to be in their skins. The bottle went from hand to hand, to keep them awake, as Janosh said, until the poor fellows swore that they would not stand it any longer, and that, come what may, they must sleep.

"Very well!" said Janosh; "I've been in the wars, you know! I'm used to the service. You see I'm not at all sleepy. You may go to the shed and lie on the straw, and when I'm tired I'll wake you. A little sleep will do you good; and by the time the justice turns out you'll be all right."

His offer was readily accepted. The two men walked off, and their loud snoring soon informed Janosh that there was now no obstacle to the execution of his plans. Leaving the musket behind, he walked to the shed, where he assured himself of the firm and sound sleep of the two sentinels; and, having done this, he hastened to the loft, where Peti and Kalman waited for him. Janosh pulled off his boots, (there was no occasion for the gipsy's following his example,) and, having lighted a lamp, he crept up the stairs to the top of the house. Kalman kept watch by the lower door. Wrapped up in his cloak, he listened with a beating heart, lest something might interfere with the success of their scheme.

Something of the kind was likely to happen. Kalman was scarcely at his post when he heard the sound of steps approaching from the house in which the judges slept. The young man stepped aside to escape being discovered, and he had already begun to blame himself for failing to "settle" Mr. Skinner sufficiently, when he saw that the person who approached the place, holding a lamp in one hand and a cudgel in the other, was not Skinner, but Mr. Catspaw, the attorney. Kalman raised his hand, and was preparing to rush forward, with a view of "doing for" the lawyer by knocking him down; when, luckily for the attorney, it struck him that that delicate operation could not be performed without some noise, and, consequently, not without hazarding the success of the enterprise. Mr. Catspaw was therefore allowed to pass on, which that worthy man did with the utmost unconcern. But his peaceful and happy state of mind was changed to utter disgust, confusion, and dismay, when, on reaching the door of Viola's cell, he found that there were no sentinels to guard the prisoner.

"Confound it!" muttered he, "they're after no good in this house. That young fellow Kalman has made them all drunk--Skinner, the sentinels, the servants, and all. They would like Viola to escape. They tried it this morning, and as it was no go, they mean to do it by brute force. Confound them! I'll go back and wake some of the men,--I'll remain here and watch the door,--what the devil am I to do? That fellow must be got out of the way! If the case is tried in a common court, he'll say enough to implicate me in the matter; and goodness knows what may come of it! There are some who hate me!----" And the attorney was about to return to the lower parts of the house, when his attention was attracted by an extraordinary noise, which seemed to come from the prisoner's cell. The noise resembled that of the breaking of planks. He crept to the door and listened. There was the creaking and the sound of the raising of planks; and immediately afterwards there was a sound of some heavy object being carefully lowered into the cell.

"They are breaking through the ceiling!" cried the attorney; "d--n them! I'll stop them yet!" and, in defiance of his usual prudence, he attempted, though unsuccessfully, to open the door. He cursed Skinner for pocketing the key. Peti and Janosh, who were at work on the upper loft, had provided themselves with a ladder, which they lowered into the cell, the noise of which operation was distinctly heard by Kalman, and, indeed, by the sentinels in the shed, whom it awaked, though not sufficiently to induce them to get up, which, considering the quantity of liquor they had drunk, was by no means an easy matter. But if the noise was lost upon them, it was not lost upon the steward; on the contrary, so effectually did it tell upon him, that he fell into an agony of fear and despair.

That worthy servant of the Kishlakis had never donned his nightcap with so proud and happy a feeling as on that night. The great condescension of the members of the court, nor even excepting the Baron, for all that he was a magnate; the important duties which he had to perform, such as the guarding of the prisoner, the construction of the gallows, and other arrangements which required ability and tact, and which brought out his "_savoir faire_," gave him still stronger feelings of his own importance than those which usually pervaded his unwieldy frame. He gloried in himself, and lay awake, magnifying and exalting his own name.

"I'm born for better things," said he. "I was never meant for farming. To look after the manure, and the planting, and the ploughing and threshing,--curse it! it's slow work, and I am too good for it! I ought to be a lawyer. Providence created me expressly for that profession! Wouldn't I get on in that line! I might come to be a sheriff, and an assessor of the high court, and indeed a lord-lieutenant, and a magnate of the empire! For what place is too high for a Hungarian lawyer?"

Such were the stout man's thoughts. His imagination borrowed a glow from his cups, (for he, too, had drunk deep), and the cares of his fancied honours and dignities kept him awake, in spite of the fatigues of the day, and, indeed, in spite of his own endeavours to go to sleep. He, to whom it was an easy matter to talk a whole party to sleep, now vainly exerted his skill upon himself. He tried every means; he occupied himself with figures and accounts. But the figures danced in a wild maze, and, somehow or other, the accounts would not tally. He opened his eyes, and looked around. The dying glare of his candle threw a dim light on the objects in the room, filling it with gaunt and shadowy forms. He shuddered, and extinguished the candle; but the darkness made matters worse. His thoughts _would_ run on robberies and murders. The greatest brigand in the county, a man sentenced to death, was a prisoner in his house. Who knows what Viola's friends were about? Perhaps they were numerous. Perhaps they were formidable and fierce. Nothing was more natural than that they should attack the house, and liberate their captain. And if so, what was to become of the poor steward, who had so jealously watched lest he might escape, and who had protested, yes, and in the presence of at least a hundred people, every one of whom might have told the robbers of it, that Viola must needs be hanged? That thought made him shake in his bed. And besides, was not his door wide open? Did he not keep it open ever since he was afraid of apoplexy? What was to prevent the outlaws from entering his room, and hanging him on his bed-post? Nothing; for the haiduk, whose duty it was to sleep on the threshold, had been taken away to join the watch on Viola.

The poor steward's alarm had come to its _acmé_, when he heard the noise of steps in the loft over his head. He sat up in his bed. He heard the steps very distinctly, and immediately afterwards he heard the creaking and breaking of the planks. Yes! the most dreaded event had come to pass. The robbers were at their work of death and destruction! They were burning the house, and cutting the throats of all the inmates! "Gracious God!" groaned he, clasping his hands. What _could_ he do? He might lock the door! There was a singing in his ear, his heart beat irregularly, his breath failed him, his face was covered with sweat, and his limbs trembled,--all these were symptoms of an apoplectic fit. "If I lock the door, I am utterly lost!" thought he; "for no one can come to my assistance!" He hid his head under the blankets. But the noise grew louder, and he fancied somebody was breaking through the wall of the room next to his. Perhaps there were not less than a hundred robbers; perhaps they were bent upon torturing him! Unless the door was locked, there was no possibility of screaming for help; for he knew the first thing they intended to do was to gag him. But then, he was in a perspiration; the room was icy cold: to get up and stand on the cold floor was literally courting a fit of apoplexy. But when he heard Mr. Catspaw hallooing, his fear got the better of all other considerations. He jumped out of bed, wrapped himself up in a blanket, and ran to the door. But what can equal his horror when he heard the door of the corridor turning on its hinges, and when quick steps approached him! He dropped the blanket because it interfered with his movements, and seized the key, when the door was flung open. Before him stood a small man, wrapped in a bunda.

There is a tide in the affairs of a coward in which fear makes him a hero. Such a moment had come for the steward. Furious as a stag at bay, reckless as a man who sees certain death before him, merciless as one to whom no mercy is given, senseless, maddened, frenzied, he rushed upon the new comer, and in the very next moment Mr. Catspaw measured his length on the ground, and roared for help.

"Murder!" screamed the attorney.

"Assassin!" bawled the steward, throttling his adversary with his left hand while he punched the wretched man's head with his right.

"He is mad!" groaned Mr. Catspaw, grasping the steward's ears, and returning the blows; and thus they would have passed _un vilain quart d'heure_, had not the noise of their combat roused the watch, who rushed to the field of battle, and separated the champions. Lights were brought, and the two worthies stood bleeding from their respective noses and mouths, as they gaped and stared at one another.

"Was it you, sir, who wanted to steal my money?" said the steward.

"He's mad!" cried the attorney: "lock him up; for he's raving mad! Be quick about it; the prisoner is making his escape!"

They seized the steward, pushed him into his room, and locked the door. The poor man stood, for a moment, paralysed with an excess of fear, fury, and fatigue; but the cold reminded him of his danger, viz., of being struck with apoplexy. He crept into his bed, pondering on the deceit and cruelty of this wicked world.

Mr. Catspaw and the servants hastened to the cell. They forced the door open, and found that the robber had fled, as it is but natural to suppose, if we consider the length of time the attorney spent in the embrace or, more properly speaking, under the fists of the steward. For, when Mr. Catspaw raised his first shout, Viola had reached the upper loft, from whence he leaped down stairs, and out of the house. Kalman locked the door of the loft, and hastened to inform Susi of the success of their plan, and to conduct her to the back-door of the garden, which they had scarcely entered, when the fleet steps of a horse, at the top of its speed, informed them of Viola's safety. Susi kissed Kalman's hand, and hastened away; while he, with the happy consciousness of a good deed, hastened to the steward's house, where he found nothing but clamour and confusion. Masters, servants, Pandurs, and peasants, with torches, candles, and lamps, ran in every direction, hallooing and screaming. Every one took his turn at the cell; and everybody declared, what everybody was aware of, that the prisoner had escaped through the ceiling; and everybody gave his advice, which nobody followed, and orders, which nobody obeyed. Not one of them could be induced to go in pursuit of the robber; and all Mr. Catspaw had for his watchfulness was a battered face and the loss of a couple of teeth. Nor was it until daybreak that they all and each became aware of the fact that they had neglected to pursue the robber; and, as it was not likely that Viola would come back of his own free will, they returned to their respective beds, with the exception of Kenihazy, whom--_nec ardor civium, nec frons instantis tyranni_--neither the shaking of the haiduks nor Skinner's imprecations could induce to leave his bed, and who was not, therefore, under the necessity of returning to it.

CHAP. X.

Nothing is more painful to a man of quick and ardent feelings than to be compelled to inactivity, as was the case with young Rety while the events which we have sought to record were passing around him. His feverish anxiety, his petulance, and his obstinacy exceeded all bounds; he would certainly have left his room, and taken an active part in Viola's liberation, had not Etelka informed him of Vilma's anxiety for his safety, and her urgent entreaties that he should not leave his room without the permission either of Vandory or the doctor. Etelka felt her brother's accident more painfully than any other member of the family, not for his sake alone, but also for Vilma's; for she was aware how much the poor girl would have to suffer in consequence. It is, therefore, no wonder that Etelka was sad and dispirited when she retired to her chamber on the evening of the election-day. There was a gloom on her mind which she could not dispel. She knew too much of her step-mother to believe she would ever consent to her brother's marriage with Vilma; and as for her father, he had scarcely a will of his own. It was but natural to suppose that he would do all in his power to change his son's mind, partly in obedience to Lady Rety's behests, and partly because he hated Tengelyi. And Akosh! how could _he_ yield, when even the delay of a few days brought dishonour on the woman he loved? The least Etelka expected was a grievous domestic quarrel; the worst, a breach between father and son.

Her thoughts were bitter; but they were qualified by at least one soft and kind feeling. She admired the generous manner in which Kalman protected Tengelyi. The young man's behaviour was as intrepid as disinterested. He was aware of the grudge which the sheriff bore Tengelyi; and he must have known that his words in the notary's behalf were so many barriers between him and Etelka. He knew it all, and yet he had spoken; and Etelka, who was convinced of his love, admired him the more for his reckless daring and his generous self-denial. Wrapped up in these thoughts, she retired to rest, though restless; and, when she dropped off to sleep, she was roused by the rattling of a carriage from her dreams of the election, robbers, her brother's pale face, and Kalman's bold attitude and looks of defiance. She sat up in her bed, and listened. A quick step was heard on the stairs and in the corridor. The door of the next room opened, and shut. The new comer was Mr. Catspaw, who, after Viola's capture, returned with the notary's papers to Tissaret; and whose apartments, as has been already stated, were next to Etelka's chamber, from which nothing divided them but a thin brick wall. Etelka (as, indeed, on a former occasion, her maid) heard every one of the attorney's movements. "Where can he have come from?" thought she, as she prepared to lie down again; when her attention was attracted by the attorney's voice. To judge from the noise he made, he was arranging some papers.

"Here they are!" said he; "here are the notary's diplomas! Well, sir, who'll prove your descent? And here are the papers which Lady Rety wants. Right, quite right!--I'll put them in a drawer, and lock them up! I'll have my own price for them, won't I? that's all!"

He locked the drawer and walked about the room. Etelka had great difficulty in catching his words; but she understood that they referred to some piece of knavery, when suddenly her attention was attracted by other steps in the corridor. The door opened again, and Mr. Catspaw said, in his usual shrill voice:

"Victory! my lady! The day is ours! Viola is a prisoner. He fought to the last; but we burned his hut, and smoked him out. The papers are in my hands."

"Where are they?" said another voice, which Etelka knew as her step-mother's.

"I burned them, the moment I could lay my hands on them. They'll not give us any more trouble. They were all in a parcel, and Tengelyi's papers too, which your ladyship was so anxious to have."

"For God's sake don't speak so loud!" said Lady Rety. "Etelka returned last night with her father, and if she is awake she will hear every word." Upon which Mr. Catspaw continued the conversation in a whisper, which effectually prevented Etelka from catching the thread of their discourse. When Lady Rety left the attorney's room, Etelka made vain endeavours to sleep; at the break of day she hastened to inform her brother of the events of the night. He induced her to write to Kalman, and old Janosh received orders to take the letter to Kishlak. That day passed in a painful uncertainty, which was but partly relieved when, on the following morning, Janosh returned from his expedition. Viola was saved; but what were Akosh and Etelka to do? They felt convinced that Vandory's papers were stolen in consequence of their parents', or at least their step-mother's, commands. Could there be any truth in the statement (which Kalman communicated to Akosh) that these papers had some relation to their father's elder brother, who had left their grandfather's house when a boy, and that Vandory was the guardian of the family secrets? But why all this mystery? Why did he not--why does he not explain it? Suppose their unfortunate uncle were alive, and somebody wished to deprive him of his property, was it to be expected that Vandory would be a party to so vile a transaction? And if that supposition is false, what papers can the curate possibly possess, that should tempt Lady Rety to commit a crime to obtain them? There were mysteries and uncertainties on every side. The papers, and with them Tengelyi's diplomas, had not been destroyed. Etelka knew that the attorney had locked them up; his having told Lady Rety that they were burnt, proved that he wished to keep and to use them for his own ends. How could Akosh obtain possession of those papers? Was it judicious to speak to Mr. Catspaw? But the wily attorney was sure to deny all knowledge of them, and to destroy or remove them at the very first opportunity. And how could Akosh force him to restore the stolen property? Not by threats of exposure, unless he wished to attack his parents likewise. Akosh was a prey to the most painful indecision. "What can we do?" cried he; "are we to suffer the rascal to rob Tengelyi of his rights? Are we to stand by and let him ruin that good man; or shall we, who are Rety's children, accuse our own parents?"

"Our best plan is to do nothing at all--at least for the present," said Etelka. "All we can do is to watch him. He'll not destroy the papers immediately, or employ them for any bad purpose; and though it is against my principles, I mean, for once, to yield to a woman's curiosity, and listen to all that happens in his room. There's always time for extreme measures."

"I am fond of seeing my way clearly," replied her brother. "We ought not to listen or play the spy. These people are too deep for us, and I'll promise you he will take good care that you hear nothing. Indeed, all you heard that night was owing to his not being aware of your presence. Our best plan is to speak to our father."

"And spoil all! It's the surest way to destroy the papers. Whether he is privy to the affair or not, it's all the same; the papers, will disappear the moment he or anybody suspects _us_ of being in the secret."

"You are right," said Akosh; "we are compelled to be patient and to dissemble."

"Now be careful!" replied Etelka, preparing to leave the room. "I hear my father's footsteps in the hall. He is sure to talk of Vilma; therefore pray keep your temper and your counsel!"

And, kissing her father's hands (whom she met at the door), Miss Rety withdrew.

Father and son met as antagonists, and their instincts taught them an increase of that polite reserve which usually characterised their intercourse. After the necessary inquiries after his son's health, both were for a while silent, till at length the sheriff, with a violent effort, launched into the debate.

"My son," said he, with a smile, which in him meant only that he was at a loss what expression to give to his features; "I ought to scold you for your late adventures, not only because they induced you to withdraw your influence at the election (thank goodness! we managed to do without you), but also for endangering your life. Consider what a father's feelings must be when his son behaves like you."

"My dear father," replied Akosh, his voice trembling with emotion, "I am happy you have broached the affair. That matter must be settled, and the sooner the better."

The sheriff was by no means pleased with the eagerness with which Akosh snatched at his words.

"I am at your service," he said; "but I would advise you to wait before we come to an _éclaircissement_. Leave it till another day. You are excited, and perhaps suffering."

"No, father," replied Akosh, "I cannot wait when my honour is concerned. You know I love Vilma."

The sheriff smiled, and Akosh continued, with a blush:--

"You need not fear my giving you a homily on my love and Vilma's virtues. I intend nothing of the kind; but you are aware of the imprudent step which Tengelyi's obstinacy induced me to take. He would not allow me to visit his house and see his daughter."

"Tengelyi is a sensible man; at least, in a great many respects."

"That may be. I, for one, will not contradict you, nor do I mean to argue the question whether it is reasonable to ask a man to do impossible things, or whether it shows good sense to oppose a strong and honourable feeling, and to drive it, by that very opposition, to secrecy and other steps of a questionable nature. I say I will not argue that point. You know all that has happened. You know that Vilma's reputation is at stake, and that I owe her satisfaction----"

"I know nothing of the kind!" said the sheriff. "My dear son, you make mountains of mole-hills. I must confess, how Vilma's reputation can have suffered is a thing which passes my comprehension. I grant that the business does not reflect much credit on the Tengelyi family, nor, indeed, on Mrs. Tengelyi; but as for the young woman, why, she is turned seventeen!"

Akosh sickened at these words, and the tone in which they were spoken; but he conquered his feelings, and went on:--

"This is no laughing matter, father. Vilma's reputation cannot but suffer; and if I could have doubted it, I'm sure what my mother said of her in this very room would have enlightened my mind on the subject. There is but one remedy for this, and as I have long intended to marry Vilma, I am now resolved to do so without delay. What I ask for is your consent, my father."

Mr. Rety was one of those men who abhor plain questions, because they require plain answers. The manner in which his son put to him one of these objectionable questions, and in so important a matter, too, overwhelmed him with confusion. He muttered something about the dangers of brusquing any business, and that it was impossible for him to make up his mind in a moment, or to give a decision on a subject of the bearings of which he knew so little.

"As for me," replied Akosh, "my resolution is firmly fixed. But if you wish to examine the bearings of the question, I trust you will not forget that Vilma cannot possibly make her appearance any where, unless it be as my betrothed; and that it is cruel in us to prolong, though only for a day, the painful position into which I have brought her family."

"My son," said Rety, with a show of great sympathy, "no one can admire your delicacy more than I do! I promise you that you may rely on my effectual co-operation in any thing we can do to indemnify the Tengelyis for your inconsiderate rashness."

"Which means that you give your consent!" cried Akosh, seizing his father's hand.

Rety proceeded: "I am prepared to go any lengths to indemnify Tengelyi. We are rich, and, if you think proper, I have no objection, I assure you, not the least objection, to grant him a certain quantity of land, and to provide for Vilma in such a manner that----"

Akosh dropped his father's hand.

"Are you aware, sir," cried he, "that I love Vilma? That I love her more than any thing in this world? That she loves me? and that I'd rather die than leave her?"

The sheriff looked wretchedly confused. Akosh proceeded in a more subdued tone:--

"Do not fancy that I come to you for assistance. My late mother's property is in my hands; it will suffice to keep me and my wife. I leave you to do as you please with your property. All I ask is your blessing, which I _do_ trust you will not refuse me."

The sheriff was not without feeling, and the words of his son touched his heart. He was, however, at that time of life in which our principles (which usually emanate from and correspond with our interests) prevail against the softer feelings of humanity, which are so strong in a young and ardent heart; and even if this had not been the case, he would not have dared to grant Akosh's request. Lady Rety's influence over him precluded the mere idea of consent. His reply, therefore, consisted of a variety of those common-place phrases which men are wont to adduce in argument against passions of which they cannot fathom the depth. But his reasonings, however specious, made no impression upon Akosh, who would not even consent to delay, in spite of his father's solemn promise that he was prepared to sanction his son's choice in a year, if Akosh would but follow his advice, and go on his travels.

"You are unreasonable, indeed you are, my dear son!" said the sheriff, at length, while Akosh paced the room in a state of great excitement. "You ought to consider what you are about. You ought to consider that your passion is likely to be your ruin. You must own that I am a good father, an indulgent father. I never opposed any of your wishes, or even whims. Your politics are opposed to mine; still you see I respect them, trusting that time will at length cure you, as it does so many others. My greatest wish was, that you should contract a suitable alliance: indeed, I know several young ladies that would have pleased me, but I have not urged you. I left you to yourself. I scorned to influence your choice. I think it but just that in the present instance you should yield to _my_ will. Consider that there is no stepping back if you once step forward."

"I have left nothing unconsidered," replied Akosh. "My mind is made up. Vilma is all I care for in the world."

"The world! And do _you_ know what the world is? Do you know what you will care for when you are past thirty? At your time of life people are mad for love and a cottage. But, believe me, there are other things in this world to wish and to struggle for, and to possess. A youth is amorous, but a man is ambitious. When love has ceased to yield us happiness, we turn to the world, and would fain exult in the respect and obedience of the many."

Akosh smiled and shook his head.

"You are sceptical now, but I know your time will come. You are generous. You are free from egotism and selfishness: but, after all, you are human. The expression of our features may vary; but we are all formed of the same clay, and our feelings and instincts are very much the same, however varying their expression may be. Your time will come. There will be a day in which your soul will yearn for honours and distinctions. There will be hours in which you will regret that your talents have been left to rust in the back kitchen; and you will curse your folly, which excluded you from the only career in which a man can feel real happiness."

"I cannot believe it! But suppose such were the case; suppose that I were to wake to ambition; who tells me that, in following your advice, I can satisfy that ambition? Thousands of hands are stretched forth to grasp those apples of Tantalus, but whose thirst did they ever slake? Was there ever a man, who strove for distinction, who did not come to despise that which he had gained?"

"Some there are, indeed," said the sheriff; "but they grasp at more than they can reach."

"But who tells you that this is not to be my case? I have never wished for greatness; but if I were to enter the lists, I know that I should struggle for an object which millions have striven for in vain. To be the great man of a county; to be the master of a poor few thousands; to carry my head high like the reeds of the morass, surrounded by the rottenness to which I owe my elevation; to bow and bend like a reed, so that my weakness may not appear from my resistance: no, father, that is not an object to devote one's life to, and yet, could I possibly aspire to any thing else?"

"Why should you not?" replied the sheriff, with great eagerness, for he rejoiced in the turn of the conversation, though smarting under his son's words, which pictured his own condition in very unattractive colours. "Why should you not? A young man of your class may aspire to the highest honours. I admit that the path is thorny, and indeed you would be obliged to make it straight through the county; but you are young, and you have the means to begin where others end. At the end of three years I intend to resign my place in your favour, and when you have once obtained the shrievalty you can aspire to any thing. I trust I shall live to see you as a _judex curiæ_."

"But, my dear father," said Akosh, with a smile, "even if the career you trace out for me were to my mind, even if I would condescend to barter my opinions for office, and to come to the mountain because the mountain will not come to me--why, in the name of all that is reasonable, cannot I do all this with Vilma, as well as without her?"

The sheriff looked up with the greatest amazement expressed in his countenance.

"Are you not aware _where_ it is you live?" said he. "Don't you know that nothing is to be got in this country, unless by means of family influence? Personal merit is a cypher; it multiplies your value if your position be added to it as number one; or do you think I could ever have come to be a sheriff if I had married a woman of ignoble descent?"

"Is it not enough that _I_ am of a noble house?"

"Of course," replied Rety, with deplorable rashness; "if the wife of your choice were any other but Vilma--any other but the daughter of a village notary! I am no tufthunter. If you like, you may marry into a merchant's family--or, really I do not care, take the daughter of a proselyte from Judaism--any thing of the kind will do. I am by no means a tufthunter, my dear Akosh; I am _not_ prejudiced, whatever people may say to the contrary--no! I know too well that nobody ever saw the blood which runs in the veins of the Retys. Take any girl you like, so that she has plenty of money; it will set you upon your legs, my boy. Your sister, you know, is coheiress with you, not with _my_ will, I assure you; but if your wife is not rich, you'll have only one half of what I possess, and----"

"My dear father," cried Akosh, "do not let us pursue this subject any further. It's of no use; I have made up my mind. If my heart alone were concerned, I would sacrifice all my hopes of happiness for your sake; but my honour, and Vilma's present and future happiness, are at stake, and nothing can shake my resolution. I beg, I entreat, do not refuse me your consent! do not compel me to take the most important step of my life without your permission and your blessing!"

"Consider, my son," urged Rety, "consider what your grandfather and father did to raise our family to its present position! Are the struggles of half-a-century to be sacrificed to your passion? to a whim of the moment? Consider that you deprive my house of its peace; for, believe me, my wife and Vilma can never meet as friends; and my wife tells me that she would sooner leave the house than consent to this cursed marriage. Think of your sister, for she too is likely to be ruined by your obstinacy. What gentleman would be kin to a village notary?"

The sheriff would probably have urged a variety of other reasons upon the consideration of his son, but the door opened, and Lady Rety entered the room. Rety's arguments were not likely to have any effect upon his son; nor was it probable that Akosh could ever persuade his father, that a man who had the full enjoyment of his reasoning faculties could prefer the daughter of a poor village notary to the seductive charms of a shrievalty; but still Akosh loved his father, and the sheriff's warmth and sincerity touched his heart. But when his step-mother entered, and (as usual) took the lead in the discussion, her commanding tone and supercilious manner turned the young man's blood to gall, and his every word betrayed his scorn and disgust of the woman, whom he knew to be an accessory of a crime.

"I presume you have talked to Akosh," said Lady Rety, addressing her husband. "Pray what has he to say for himself?"

"Yes, I did mention the matter--and Akosh said he would--that is to say, just at present--that he----"

"That he will never resign Vilma," cried Akosh, "neither now nor ever; that's what he says!"

"Oh, very well!" replied Lady Rety, with an angry look at her son. "You are mistaken, if you believe, sir, that _we_ can ever be brought to consent to this marriage."

"As for your ladyship, I never reckoned on your consent; but----"

"Nor will your father give his. I am sure my husband has never given you reason to suppose----"

"Perhaps not!" said Akosh. "But since my father loves me, I have no reason to suppose that his will is unchangeable."

"It _is_ unchangeable!" cried Lady Rety, violently. "I say it _is_ unchangeable! Am I right, Rety?"

The sheriff nodded his head in token of assent.

"No, never!" continued Lady Rety. "Neither he nor I will ever sanction this folly!"