Chapter I (2)

"I thought so too, sir," said the Liptaka: "that was my opinion, when the justice told Mrs. Tengelyi that the notary was accused of a heinous crime, and that he came to examine him. I fancied the villain was merely joking; but when they called the maid, and the man, and the neighbours, and examined them severally,--when they did that, sir, I understood that the rascal pretended to believe in what he said. And he would have questioned Mrs. Tengelyi; but she told him she was a nobleman's wife, and was not bound to answer questions. Oh! and the justice,--don't be shocked, sirs!--he said the notary was not a nobleman; and, if she wouldn't reply, he'd make her! Oh! but when he said that, I ran away to call the notary; for it's he that is learned in the law, and he'll make the justice repent his impertinence!"

"You see, the affair is beautifully got up," said Tengelyi, with a bitter smile. "They have robbed me of my proofs of noble descent, and now they are at liberty to do with me as they please."

"But----" said Vandory.

"Come along!" cried the Liptaka. "The sheriff, too, is there! He came when I ran away!"

"Come," said Tengelyi, with increased bitterness. "Come; we are safe now. You know my dear friend Rety has come to protect me in my hour of trouble."

Matters were indeed in a sad state in the notary's house. Mrs. Ershebet insisted on her privilege; and nothing could induce her to reply to the questions which the justice put to her; but the whole of the other evidence, which was taken down, went against the notary. The neighbours proved the quarrel, and the forcible expulsion of Mr. Catspaw from his house; and one of them quoted Tengelyi's words, that the fellow (viz., Mr. Catspaw) should die from his hands. The maid deposed that her master had left the house late at night; the stick was at once identified as the notary's property: in short, all the circumstances of the case were so suspicious, that the sheriff, who assisted in the proceedings, and who sought to modify Mr. Skinner's violence, though convinced of Tengelyi's innocence, could not but admit that there was a strong case against the notary.

When Tengelyi entered the room, Mrs. Ershebet rushed up, and embraced him, with sobs and tears.

"Be comforted," said the notary. "This is not our first persecution, nor is it the last. If God be with us, who can prevail against us!"

His grave and dignified manner affected the sheriff; who, walking up, addressed his former friend, and assured him that no persecution was intended by the justice's proceedings.

"Circumstances," said he, "will, at times, force the best of us to clear themselves of suspicion by an explanation of their conduct; and in the present instance, I am sure, nothing can be easier to Mr. Tengelyi."

"I thank you, sir," said the notary, dryly, "and I am sure, if your will had been done, these people would have treated me as they would wish to be treated in a similar case, and, indeed, as any honest man has a right to be treated. Allow me now to ask Mr. Skinner what the circumstances are that have created a suspicion of my having murdered Mr. Catspaw, for I understand that is the charge which they bring against me?"

"We'll satisfy you to your heart's content, sir!" cried the justice, who was in the habit of speaking in the name of the firm. All his professional sayings were delivered under the authority of Skinner and Co. He then proceeded at once to give a clear, and, strange to say, comprehensive summary of the evidence, which he concluded by repeating the chief points of the charge.

"Considering," said he, "that the said Mr. Catspaw was murdered by some person or persons unknown;--considering that no robbery was committed, and that no feasible grounds can be found why anybody should have committed that murder;--considering that the said Tengelyi's hate against the said Catspaw is a matter of vulgar talk and notoriety, in evidence of which we need but adduce the yesterday's scene, in which the said Tengelyi is proved to have threatened to kill the said Catspaw;--considering that the said Catspaw was unjustly and maliciously accused of having possessed himself of certain papers and documents the alleged property of the said Tengelyi, the which circumstance goes far to establish the presumption of an interested motive in the case of the said Tengelyi;--considering that the crime was committed at midnight, at a time when the said Tengelyi, against his usual habits and custom, was from home, and considering that sundry persons who went in pursuit of the robber came to the house of the said Tengelyi, where they found him (_i. e._ the said Tengelyi) in a dress spotted with mud;--and, lastly, considering that certain articles which were found in the room where the crime was committed, and a stick which was picked up on the road which the alleged murderer took, have been identified as belonging to the said Tengelyi, there can be no doubt that there are grave reasons to suspect the said Tengelyi of being guilty of the said murder."

"Well, sir!" continued Mr. Skinner, after delivering this address, which bore a striking resemblance to the preamble of a sentence of a Hungarian court, "Well, sir! what have you to say to this?"

The notary was silent.

"Don't be confused, sir!" said Mr. Skinner; "please to speak the truth, sir. You see our questions are put with the utmost politeness."

"Don't give him an answer!" cried Mrs. Ershebet, passionately. "Thank God, no one has as yet proved that we are not noble! They cannot force you to answer!"

"I _will_ speak!" cried the notary; "I'd reply to the basest of mortals if he were to charge me with so foul a deed!"

"You see, madam, your husband does think us worthy of a reply," said the justice: "don't be afraid; let him speak! I'm sure he'll give us the most satisfactory explanations."

"I can indeed give you the most satisfactory explanations, sir," replied the notary, who, after adverting to the fact that his late suspicions of Mr. Catspaw were now proved to be well founded, proceeded to state the contents of Viola's letter, and the steps which it induced him to take.

Mr. Skinner listened with a sly and incredulous smile.

"But, sir," said he, "how could you endanger your precious life by doing the robber's will? Mind, you say you were unarmed; and we know but too well that you were alone, and at night too! Would any man of sense wish to meet the greatest robber in the county under such circumstances?"

"I never did Viola any harm, and I had not therefore any reason to fear him, when I learnt from his letter that he regarded me with feelings of gratitude; after all, what could I do? I wished to have my papers, and I availed myself of the only opportunity that offered."

"Will you have the goodness to show us that letter?" asked the justice; "I'd like to see the robber's autograph."

"The writer of the letter intreated me to burn it," replied Tengelyi, "and I have burnt it."

"That's a pity! Perhaps you've shown the letter to some one. We want two witnesses, you know!"

"I informed my friend Vandory early this morning."

"Oh! ah! I understand,--yes, early this morning!--about the time when I came to the village and commenced examining the witnesses, eh? Is that all you have to say?"

"No!"

"From your hesitating manner I take it that you knew of the murderer's intentions."

"You have no right, sir," cried Tengelyi, "to construe any of my words in that sense!"

"Sir!" retorted the justice, "it's mere folly to deny the fact. You admit that you had reason to suppose that Mr. Catspaw was possessed of your papers; and, supposing there ever existed a letter of Viola's to you, you must have known that the robber intended to obtain the papers by means of a crime."

"Is this all?--no! more is behind!" continued Mr. Skinner, after a pause. "Your own confession proves that you were not only privy to the murder, but that you acted the part of one who stimulates and instigates the murderer. It is quite clear that Viola had no interest in the papers, nor would he have risked his life for them unless an artificial interest was created in his mind. And whose advantage did that artificial interest tend to? whose interests did it serve to promote?--Yours, and only yours!"

Tengelyi would have answered; but Mr. Skinner continued, with great pathos:

"And who is it that is guilty of so heinous a crime?--a notary! a man whose duty it is to prosecute the breakers of the law, and who imposes upon the county and the sheriff by making his house a den for thieves and robbers! This case," added Mr. Skinner, turning to Kenihazy, "is beyond our jurisdiction. It is our duty to send the prisoner to the county gaol, to prevent his being liberated by Viola and his other comrades."

The sheriff, who watched the case with great interest, interposed, and offered to be bail for the notary's appearance; but Mr. Skinner thought he had shown his respect to Mr. Rety more than sufficiently by eschewing the low abuse and the curses with which it was his habit to give vent to his feelings on similar occasions. He refused to accept bail; "For," said he, "I would not accept it even if Mr. Tengelyi's nobility had never been doubted; the privilege of nobility cannot protect a man in the present case. The associates of robbers----"

"How dare you call _me_ an associate of robbers?" exclaimed Tengelyi, his fury getting the better of his discretion; "How dare you, sir? You, of whom it is known that you are a receiver of stolen goods!"

What the notary said was, more than any thing else, calculated to wound the feelings of the worthy Mr. Skinner, and a sharper sting was given to the reproach by the fact of its being thrown at the magistrate's head in the presence of the sheriff and of a numerous audience. There certainly had been cases in which the owners of stolen cattle had accidentally found their property in Mr. Skinner's stables; but when, after leaving the place in confusion and dismay, they returned with a witness, the cattle, somehow or other, had disappeared. Accidents of this kind are not the less disagreeable from their not being unheard of; and Mr. Skinner's rage, in the present instance, passed all bounds.

"Do you ask me how I dare to call you an associate of robbers?" cried he. "You'll find, to your cost, that I dare more than that. I'll _treat_ you as an associate of robbers. I'll have you put in irons, sir; for everybody knows that some time ago, when we hunted Viola in the village, the robber found an asylum in your house! Ay, you may stare! And when I wished to search it, your wife had the impertinence to put in a protest!"

"How dare you utter this calumny?" said the notary, with increasing violence. "I sheltered Viola's family because they were in distress; but I never saw the robber. Come, Ershebet; was Viola ever in our house?"

Mrs. Ershebet, who was equally ignorant of what Vilma and the Liptaka did on that occasion, affirmed that Viola had never entered the house; but the justice sneered, and forced the old woman, Liptaka, to repeat the statement which she had made before the court-martial.

"It's but too true, sir," said she. "While they were hunting after Viola in the village, he was hid in the house. I hid him in the back room behind the casks; but neither the notary nor Mrs. Tengelyi was aware of it. And I told the gentlemen of the court that I was too frightened to tell the notary what Viola desired me to tell him, namely, that he ought to look to his papers. Heaven knows but a great misfortune might have been prevented, if I had done as I was bid!"

"I'd be a fool to believe you!" said the justice. "How could you take the robber to the back room unless some one knew of it?"

"Some one did know of it, but neither the notary knew of it, nor his wife, for she was in bed at the time. Miss Vilma and I were sitting up when Viola came to the house. We were sitting up with Susi, when we heard the noise in the street. I went out and found Viola. The place was surrounded, and there was no escape. I knew they'd hang him if they could take him, so I entreated Miss Vilma to allow me to take him in. She was moved to pity, and gave her permission. That's the long and the short of it. If it was wrong to hide him--very well! You may do with me as you please. I am an old woman, and I'm the only criminal in this business."

"Never mind, you old beldame!" cried Mr. Skinner, angrily. "We'll clear our accounts with you one of these fine days. We must now examine Miss Vilma, since it appears that all the inmates of this house are leagued against the law!" and, turning to Mrs. Ershebet, he said, "Call your daughter!"

"Never!" said Mrs. Tengelyi. "My daughter is the betrothed bride of Akosh Rety; who will dare to offend her? To think that my own Vilma should be examined for all the world like a common culprit!" said the good woman: but Tengelyi asked her to fetch her daughter.

"But, my dear Jonas, how can you think----"

"Go to your room and call your daughter!" repeated Tengelyi. "I am convinced that the Liptaka tells an untruth. My daughter has never kept any thing secret from me."

Mrs. Ershebet left the room, and returned with Vilma. The power of beauty is irresistible; even Mr. Skinner, in spite of his innate vulgarity, lost half of his impertinence when Miss Tengelyi appeared before him. He said it was necessary that a few questions should be put to her, but that he was ready to wait, if she thought it inconvenient to answer them now.

"Go on!" said Tengelyi, dryly. "Speak, Vilma. Tell us, is it true that Viola was hid in our house at the time they pursued him through the village?"

"Father!" cried Vilma; and her pale face became suddenly flushed.

"Fear nothing, my love! You've always been my good, my dear child. You were always open and candid. Tell us, now, is it true that Viola was in our house, and with your permission, too?"

Vilma stood silent and trembling. Mr. Skinner pitied her, when he saw the effect the question produced on the poor girl.

"Dearest Vilma, I intreat you to have no fear!" continued Tengelyi. "I know very well it's a vile calumny. I know you would never have done such a thing without my consent, or, at least, without informing me of it after it was done. You see, Vilma, dear, this woman--God knows I do not deserve it at her hands!--tries to clear herself by saying that it was with your permission she hid Viola in my house."

Vilma's fear yielded to the impression that a confession on her part was necessary to justify her old friend. She wept, and confirmed the statements of the Liptaka.

"Pardon me, dearest father!" added she; "I am the cause of this misfortune. I asked the Liptaka to hide Viola in this house, and I asked her to keep the matter secret from you, for I knew you would be angry with us, because they say Viola is a great criminal; though it is but natural that I did my best to save the wretched man from certain death."

"Gammon!" muttered Mr. Skinner. Kenihazy fetched sundry deep sighs; and Rety remarked that he thought Vilma's evidence consistent and credible.

Tengelyi stood lost in speechless agony. Vilma was silent, but the looks which she cast upon her father expressed unutterable despair. Vandory alone broke through the solemn silence; and, seizing the hand of his friend, he entreated him not to yield to his grief.

"Fear nothing!" said Tengelyi, gloomily. "Since I have come to this--since my own daughter tells me the truth only when examined by a judge--since it is so--there is nothing to startle; nothing is left to amaze me! It is enough!" continued he, with a deep sigh, turning to the justice. "Let us make an end of it. You know all you can wish to know. You know that everything speaks against me. I see no reason why you should trouble yourself any more with me. Give me two hours' time to arrange my affairs, and, if you please, have my house watched in the meantime."

"Of course, if _you_ have said all you have to say, there is no reason for further ceremony. I'll have the carriage ready in two hours. You had better take all the things you want for your stay in Dustbury, which, I am afraid, will be longer than you seem to anticipate."

"I will accompany him!" cried Mrs. Ershebet, weeping; "I will not leave my husband in his trouble."

"My dear Ershebet," said the notary, "I must insist on your remaining where you are. I am accused, and I must prepare my defence, and for that purpose I ought to be alone."

Mrs. Ershebet wept still more; but Mr. Skinner remarked that he was not sure whether the regulations of the prison would allow the prisoner to communicate with his family. Having said this, he left the room with Kenihazy, thereby conferring a substantial benefit, not only on the notary and his family, but also upon himself, for he had scarcely left the house when Akosh Rety arrived in a state of fearful excitement.

"For God's sake, tell me what _has_ happened?" cried he, as he rushed into the room.

"My dear Akosh!" cried Mrs. Ershebet, taking his hand, "we are lost. Our name is dishonoured. My husband is accused of murder. They are going to take him to the county gaol."

"And I am the cause of my father's ruin!" cried Vilma. "Save him, Akosh; if you ever loved me, save him!" And the wretched girl fell fainting to the ground.

They took her away. The notary looked after them in silence; and, turning to Vandory, said: "Be a father to them when I am gone!"

Rety, the sheriff, though deeply moved, was a silent spectator of this scene; for the cold politeness with which Tengelyi deprecated his interference whenever he attempted to advocate his cause, prevented him from expressing his sympathy. He now came up to the notary and assured him, with a trembling voice, that, come what might, he would use the whole of his influence to extricate his former friend from his present painful position.

"I thank you, sir," said Tengelyi, coldly, as he turned to the speaker. "I must confess I was not aware that we were still honoured by your presence under my roof. I thought you had accompanied Mr. Skinner; for, as I take it, the transaction which excited your interest is now over. Everything is in the best order, and the crime, it appears, is fully brought home to me."

"Tengelyi," said the sheriff, with deep emotion, "do not treat me unjustly. What brought me to this house, was my wish to assist you by my presence, and to induce Skinner to treat you with kindness and moderation."

"If that was your intention," retorted Tengelyi, "it would have been wise not to have used your influence for the election to that post of a man whom the presence of his chief does not prevent from abusing the powers of his office."

The sheriff was confused.

"I will not argue that point with you," said he; "but what I wish to assure you of is, that, however circumstances may speak against you, I still am convinced of your innocence. I assure you, you can rely upon me!"

"Sir!" said the notary, "there was a time when I did place my trust in my friends; but they have since been kind enough to convince me that friendship is far too pure and lofty to descend to this poor world of ours, I shall shortly be called upon to appear before my judges; and if you, sir, think you have strength enough to forget the friendship which you have hitherto shown me, it will give me pleasure to see you on the bench. Pardon me, if I leave you, I have but two hours to myself, and I wish to spend them with my wife and daughter."

And, bowing low to the sheriff, Tengelyi seized Vandory's hand and led him from the room. Rety sighed, and left the house.

CHAP. III.

The notary's position was critical, his future doubtful, and his separation from his family painful in proportion. Tengelyi wanted all his strength of mind to speak words of consolation and hope to his weeping family. The despair of his daughter in particular filled his heart with the deepest, bitterest grief.

"Do not weep, dear girl!" said he, embracing poor Vilma, whose pallid face showed more than her tears what agonies she felt. "You know your father is innocent. Things will clear up, and I shall be allowed to return to you. Won't you be my good, happy girl, when I come back!"

"Oh, father!" cried Vilma, "to think that you should go to prison, to be confined with those wicked people though but for a day, though but for an hour! And to think that I am the cause of it, dear father, it drives me mad!"

"You, my daughter? What makes you think that your confession of Viola having been hid in the house can do any thing to make my case worse than it is?"

"Father!" said she, sadly, "don't talk to me in that way! I am undeserving of your love. Will they not say you were aware of Viola's being in the house, and that you wished to deny it? And even if this were not so, are not all our misfortunes owing to our having taken in Susi and her children? And that was _my_ doing!"

"And since _that_ is the cause of your misfortune," interposed Vandory, "I am sure God will not abandon you in your trials. His ways are indeed unaccountable; but I never heard of a good action having led a man to utter ruin!"

Tengelyi sighed, but Vilma felt comforted; and even Mrs. Ershebet's sobs ceased when the curate told her that this unjust accusation was possibly the means to defeat their enemies, and to lead to the recovery of the documents. The notary added to the comfort of his wife by assuring her that his incarceration was not likely to continue for any length of time, and that Vandory would be their friend and adviser during his absence.

Again Mrs. Ershebet entreated him to allow her and Vilma to accompany him to Dustbury; but the notary felt that he wanted all his strength for the moment in which he must cross the threshold of the prison; and, with Vandory's assistance, he prevailed upon his wife to desist, at least for the present.

"If my captivity were indeed to be of long duration," said he, "I would of course send for you. But in the first days I must devote myself exclusively to an examination of my position, and of my means of defence. Völgyeshy is an honest man. I intend to retain him as my counsel; and Akosh, I know, will find means of informing me how you are going on. Where is Akosh?"

Mrs. Ershebet replied, that he had left the room with the sheriff; and Tengelyi turned to arrange his papers and books, when the young man entered. He looked excited, and his eyes showed traces of tears.

"Have you spoken to your father?" cried Mrs. Ershebet.

"I have!" replied young Rety, with a trembling voice.

"And what does he say?" asked Ershebet and Vandory at once.

"Nothing but what is beautiful and edifying, I assure you!" said Akosh. "He wept; indeed he did! He embraced me! He called me his dear son! He told me he was convinced of Tengelyi's innocence; and his heart bled to think that so honest a man, and his old friend too, should be in such an awkward position; and Heaven knows what he said besides! He pleaded Tengelyi's cause admirably; but the end of it was that he refused to comply with my request. He said that fellow Skinner would not take bail, and he could not force him. In short, he said there was nothing to be done. But then, you know, he told us his _heart_ was bleeding; can we ask for more?"

"I could have told you so!" said Tengelyi, quietly.

"No! no! You could not!" cried Akosh, passionately. "If an angel from heaven had told me that my father would reply to my entreaties in _this_ manner, by Heaven I would not have believed it! Oh! you cannot know how I implored him. I wept! I knelt to him! I reminded him of my poor mother! I told him, if he had ever loved me, if ever he wished to call me his son, if he would not make me curse fate for having made him my father, he should grant me this one, this poor request! And he refused to grant it!"

Vandory felt hurt at the manner in which Akosh spoke of his father. He said:--

"Who knows whether he was not justified in saying that he _could_ not comply with your request?"

But Akosh replied with increased bitterness:--

"Do you really think Skinner would have dared to resist my father if he had insisted on putting in bail for Tengelyi, or, at least, on having him confined in our own house? Oh, indeed, and what was His Excellency, the lord-lieutenant, likely to say to such an infraction of the rules? And perhaps the illustrious Cortes would not be pleased with his protecting the notary! Such are the reasons which induced my father to stifle his better feelings, and to spurn me, his only son, who wept at his feet!"

"Who knows," said Vandory, "how painfully he felt it that he was compelled to refuse you?"

"No matter!" said Akosh. "When I left the house, I saw Kenihazy busy with the carriage. We have not much time left; it were a shame to lose that time in a dispute about my father's character." And, turning to Tengelyi, he added, "Will you allow me to accompany you to Dustbury?"

The notary repeated to him what he had already stated to the other members of his family. He entreated him to bring him news of Mrs. Ershebet and Vilma; "and," added he, with a smile, "to recommend them to your protection is unnecessary!"

"All I wish is, I had a better right to protect them. I wish Vilma were my wife. What my father would not do for his son, he might perhaps be induced to do for the honour of his name."

"I understand you!" said Tengelyi; "but, thank God! I want no protection to prove my innocence. I have nothing I can leave my daughter but an honest name; and until the honour of that name is restored, I cannot consent to your marriage."

Akosh would have replied; but the carriage, which drove up that moment, diverted his thoughts into another channel. Tengelyi embraced his wife and daughter, seized his bunda, and stepped into the carriage, which Rety had sent, to the great vexation of Mr. Skinner, who intended to convey the notary in a peasant's cart. Mr. Kenihazy seated himself beside the prisoner, two haiduks occupied the rumble, and the unfortunate notary thanked heaven when the carriage drove off, and withdrew him from the gaze of his despairing family.

The county gaol at Dustbury was, in those days, free from the prevailing epidemic of philanthropical innovations, which a certain set of political empirics are so zealous in spreading. The ancient national system of Austrio-Hungarian prison discipline was still in full glory; but as coming events cast their shadows before, so this venerable and time-honoured system was every now and then attacked by the maudlin and squeamish sentimentality of modern reformers. Nay more, a committee was appointed to inquire into the condition of the prisons and their inmates in the county of Takshony; and though the keeper of Dustbury gaol allowed each prisoner on the day of the inquest full two pints of brandy; though they were ordered to play at cards, and be merry, the gentlemen of the committee insisted on giving a libellous account of Captain Karvay's mode of treating his prisoners. The established prison discipline suffered a still ruder shock, when, in the gaol of a neighbouring county, no fewer than six prisoners were dull enough to permit their feet to be frozen by the cold; and though the county magistrates gave them the full benefit of their attention, though their feet were amputated with a handsaw, though only one of the patients survived, and though such things were known to have frequently happened without any one being the worse for it, yet (so great is human perversity) a cry of indignation was got up against the worshipful magistrates of the said county, for all the world as if those honourable gentlemen had _made_ the cold.

And besides, at the very time that the prisoners' feet were frozen in the lower gaol, there were no fewer than eighty prisoners confined in one room in the upper part of the building; and these eighty men, though they disagreed and fought on the slightest provocation, were still unanimous in their complaints of excessive heat. This circumstance shows that malicious persons will complain of any thing, if they can but hope to bring their betters into trouble. But the committee of inquiry could not continue for ever, and the cry of indignation became hoarse from its very excess. The new instructions, which government was weak enough to publish during this crisis, were put on the shelf, and Mr. Karvay returned to his Austrio-Hungarian management, of which the excellence was clearly proved by the yearly increasing number of its _pupils_--pupils, we say, for what is a prison but an academy for grown-up boys and girls?

The council-houses in Hungary serve likewise the purposes of county gaols. The council-chambers, the court, and the prison are under one roof. This system has its merits on account of its compactness. The council-houses, which, though not exactly _built_ by the nobility, are built for their exclusive _use_ (always excepting the prisons, of which the nobility leave a small part to the peasantry,) are not only used for quarter sessions and the like; no, they are also made to serve purposes of a more social nature.

The hall, for example, with its green table, resounds in the morning with the shrill tones of Hungarian eloquence, or it is hushed by the gravity (it is well known that this inestimable quality is greatly aided by the smoking of strong tobacco) with which sentences of death are passed, and criminals sent off to instant execution. But whatever want of measure and order a man may detect in the debate of the morning, he will find it brought to its level in the ball of the evening, when a hundred couples move to the sounds of harps and violins. Among the miscellaneous uses to which the county-house is put, one of the most important is that it serves as a place of rendezvous for the assessors and other officials. They meet in every room, and show a wonderful activity in conversation, and a no less wonderful energy in smoking their pipes, which pursuits are notoriously conducive to despatch and accuracy in business. The Hungarian nobility resemble the Romans in more than one respect. That classic people had an innate desire to pass their time in the forum; the Hungarian assessor exults in his council-house. In it he passes his life. It is here he works, eats, smokes, sleeps, and gambles. In the county of Takshony, this laudable custom was of course in a high state of perfection. It is therefore but natural that Mr. Skinner should have left Tengelyi's house only to proceed to the council-house at Dustbury, where he spread the news and surrounded himself with a chosen body of his friends, who, with him, were eagerly looking for the arrival of the prisoner. We find them in the recorder's office, where Mr. Shaskay condoled with the assessor Zatonyi about the depravity of the world; while James Bantornyi, holding the recorder by the button, informed that worthy magistrate of all the forms and observances of the English trial by jury; and an Austrian captain, who spent his half-pay at Dustbury, held forth at the further end of the room, assuring some of the older assessors that this shocking increase of crime was solely owing to the flagitious mildness of the penal laws, a proposition to which his hearers gave their unconditional assent by sundry deep sighs and significant exclamations against the scandalous scarcity of capital executions and the jeopardy into which this ill-advised leniency put the lives and limbs of the well-clad and bean-fed among the Takshony population. Völgyeshy, though generally averse to large assemblies, had joined and indeed scandalised the party, by protesting his conviction of Tengelyi's innocence.

Mr. Kenihazy's arrival, and the news that he had safely conveyed the prisoner to Dustbury, drew the attention of the several groups in the room to the worthy clerk, who gloried in the excitement which his presence produced.

"Heavy roads," said he, wiping the perspiration from his forehead. "Heavy roads, I assure you, gentlemen! I'd never have thought that we should have had so much trouble."

"So he did trouble you!" said Mr. Skinner. "Very well. I thought as much. You are so late, I am sure something came in your way."

"Came in my way with a vengeance!" said Mr. Kenihazy. "Luckily, I had the two haiduks. I could never have done without them."

"What the devil! Did the notary fight? Did they endeavour to rescue him?"

"No! not exactly!" said Mr. Kenihazy, reluctantly; for the general interest these questions excited made him loth to disappoint his audience, "we fell asleep on the road. They are doing something to the bridges. We were forced to leave the dyke. The carriage was almost swamped in the mud; and, as I told you, if the haiduks had not been with me, and if I and the notary had not put our shoulders to the wheels, bless me, we shouldn't have been here till to-morrow morning; in which case the brigand would have attempted to rob me of my prisoner. But I'd like to have seen them, that's all!" added he, shaking his fist; "I'd have taught them manners, dirty knaves as they are!"

This explanation of Mr. Kenihazy's late arrival was far too commonplace to satisfy the worshipful gentlemen; but still the principal interest remained concentrated on Tengelyi, and half-a-dozen voices asked at once:

"How did the notary behave?"

"What did he say?"

"Did he make any ill-natured remarks?"

"He did not do any thing," replied Mr. Kenihazy; "how could he? since the sheriff ordered me to treat him with the greatest leniency!"

Everybody was astonished, and the recorder exclaimed:

"Are you sure that the sheriff gave such an order?"

"Of course he did. I never saw him more energetic in my life than when he told me that he was convinced of Mr. Tengelyi's innocence--yes, innocence was the word!--and that we ought to avoid any thing which could possibly make his position more painful."

"Strange!" cried Shaskay, shaking his head.

"_I_ thought it strange; but as the sheriff told me that to offend the prisoner was as much as an offence to himself----"

"It's quite natural! quite! you know," cried Mr. Skinner, when he saw and cursed his clerk for the effect which those words had on the company, but particularly on the recorder. "It's quite natural, you know. His son is in love with the notary's daughter; and now that Tengelyi has got himself into trouble, the sheriff must do something in the way of taking his part, for there is no saying what that hot-headed fellow Akosh would not do. But _I_ am the man who knows the sheriff's real sentiments. Lady Rety told me to use all due diligence and severity in the trial of the offender, who has murdered her most faithful servant; and we know, gentlemen, that the sheriff never differs in opinion with his lady."

"If that is the case, I have been wrong in what I did," said Mr. Kenihazy, scratching his head; "after what the sheriff told me, I did not even offer to bind his hands and feet--indeed, I have treated him with great politeness. I wanted to converse with him, but he made no reply to what I said."

"Conscience! it's all conscience!" groaned Mr. Shaskay.

"That's what I thought when he refused to smoke a pipe, though I offered it over and over again."

"You might have let it alone, sir," said Mr. Zatonyi, with great severity. "In your relations with prisoners, your behaviour ought to be dignified, grave, and majestic: to show them that there is some difference between you and a vagabond."

"Never mind, Bandi," said Mr. Skinner, when he saw that his clerk smarted under the reproof, "never mind; you're over polite, you know. Tell them to send the prisoner up. We'll be grave enough, I warrant you!"

Mr. Kenihazy left the room; and a few minutes afterwards Tengelyi entered with an escort of four haiduks. Völgyeshy accompanied him. That gentleman had left the company, when he heard of the notary's arrival: he had gone to confer with him. The notary's face was serious, and his behaviour had that dignity, gravity, and majesty which the assessor advised Kenihazy to practise in his relations with culprits.

"How devilishly proud the fellow is!" whispered Mr. Skinner to Mr. Zatonyi: "but never mind; we'll get it out of him in no time."

"So we would if the sheriff did not protect him!" sighed Zatonyi.

The formal surrender of the prisoner was made, and Tengelyi expected every moment that they would take him to his prison; when Captain Karvay asked the recorder what kind of a chain the notary was to have.

Simple as this question was, it seemed to puzzle the magistrate, who was at length heard to say, that it would be better to wait for the sheriff's arrival, before any thing was decided on the point.

"Nonsense!" cried Mr. Skinner; "give him a chain of eight or ten pounds, and have done with it."

Before the recorder could make an answer, Völgyeshy interfered, saying, "that to chain the prisoner was useless and therefore illegal. No attempt had been made to escape."

"It strikes me," said Zatonyi, "that Mr. Völgyeshy is the advocate of every criminal."

"No, not of every one," replied Völgyeshy; "but I am proud to plead the cause of those of whose innocence I am convinced; and it is for this reason I have asked Mr. Tengelyi to put his case into my hands."

"Have we then the honour of seeing in you the advocate of Tengelyi?" said Mr. Skinner, with a sneer.

"_Desperatarum causarum advocatus!_" whispered Zatonyi. "If Viola had not escaped, you might have seen a practical illustration of the results of your defence."

"Whatever result my pleadings may have, does not depend upon me," retorted Völgyeshy. "All I say is, that I mean to do my duty to my client, and I know that our respected sheriff will take my part against you."

These last words told upon the recorder; and, after a short consultation, it was resolved to lock the notary up without chaining him.

Messrs. Karvay and Skinner were utterly disgusted with this resolution. The gallant captain complained of the unfairness of the court, who made him responsible for the safe keeping of the prisoner, and who yet refused to sanction the necessary measures of precaution. But a sheriff's influence is great, particularly immediately after the election; and all Mr. Karvay gained by his demurrer was a hint from Shaskay, to the effect that it was far easier to keep a prisoner in gaol than to confine certain people to the field of battle; and the homeric laughter which followed this sally drowned his voice, when he rejoined that great caution ought to be used with any deposits in a council-house, since certain monies, though wanting feet and though kept in irons, had been known to vanish under the hands of certain people. This brilliant repartee was utterly lost, and nothing was left to the gallant gentleman but to protest that it was not his fault, if he was unable to obey the sheriff's orders respecting the treatment of the prisoner; for since they would not allow him to chain the notary, his only way was to put him into the vaults.

This proposal filled the mind of Völgyeshy with horror, not indeed because the vaults of the Dustbury prison have any resemblance to those mediæval chambers of horror which the managers of provincial theatres expose to the horrified gaze of a sentimental public. No! The cellars of the Dustbury prison, though by no means eligible residences, were not half so bad as the most comfortable of the lath and canvass dungeons to which we have alluded. The door of these vaults, which opened into the yard, led you to twelve steps, and by means of these into a passage, lined with a score or so of barred doors. The whole arrangement was simple, safe, and useful. There are none of the paraphernalia of a romantic keep, no iron hooks, no trap-doors, no water-jars; on the contrary, if the prisoners have any money, they can get wine and brandy, and as much as they like, too. The Dustbury prisons are strangers to the nervous tread of pale and haggard men. It is true that the number of prisoners prevents walking; but there is a deal of merry society; there is smoking, idleness, swearing, singing, in short, there is all a Hungarian can desire. This shows that the lower prisons of Dustbury are very satisfactory places, at least for those for whom they were built. There were, indeed, some witnesses and a few culprits, who, though uninured to prison life and averse to its gaieties, were compelled to a protracted stay in these places, and who had the presumption to complain. But of what? Of nothing at all! there was no reason to fear that the gaoler would let them die of thirst, for on rainy days there was an abundant supply of water, which came in by the windows, and which was retained in its own reservoir on the floor of the prison. But they complained of the badness of the air, (and indeed the air _was_ bad, at least it seemed so to those who were not used to it), which might perhaps have been the cause of the prevalence of scurvy and typhus fever.

Such places are unquestionably very disagreeable, for the prevailing prejudice forces magistrates and guardians to dispense medicines to each of the sick prisoners. And medicines are fearfully expensive! But this motive was scarcely powerful enough to induce the Cortes of the county of Takshony to build new prisons; for the gentlemen of the sessions adopted certain remedial measures against long druggists' bills. The prisoners were treated by a homoeopathic practitioner, and this measure reduced the charge for medicines to a very low figure indeed. The construction of a new prison cannot therefore be ascribed to pecuniary motives. No! it was simply owing to the impossibility of confining more than a certain number of people within a prison of certain dimensions; and though one half of the culprits were always allowed to go at large on bail, yet the county was at length compelled to provide for the accommodation of a greater number of its erring sons. The new prison was built on the best plan, and fitted with all modern improvements. It contained eight good-sized rooms and a hall. Each of the eight rooms was inhabited by from twenty-five to forty, and the hall by from fifty to eighty prisoners. But, strange to say, the sanitary condition of the inmates of the new prison was as bad as that of the sojourners in the old vaults, and this extraordinary circumstance fully justified the opinion of some of the older assessors, that the frequency and virulence of disease had nothing whatever to do with the locality.

Such was the state of the gaol in which the people of Takshony confined above five hundred prisoners; and it is therefore but natural that Völgyeshy should shudder at the thought of Tengelyi being confined in the same room with the other criminals. Four small rooms were set apart for the reception of prisoners of a better class; and Völgyeshy insisted on his client's right to have one of those rooms.

"What next?" cried Zatonyi, laughing. "Did I ever! A village notary and a private room in a prison! It's too good, you know!"

"I say!" cried Mr. James Bantornyi; "Mr. Völgyeshy is right! Every prisoner ought to be locked up by himself, that's what the English call solitary confinement: each cell has got a bed, a wooden chair, a table to do your work on, and a Bible, or a crucifix if you are a Catholic. It's the best plan I ever heard of! I've seen it in England. Did any of you ever read the second report? I mean the Second Report on Prison Discipline?"

"Nonsense! I wish you'd hold your peace with your English tom-fooleries!" said Zatonyi. "We are in Hungary, sir!"

"But I say," rejoined James, "there is not a severer punishment than solitary confinement. Auburni's system, of which I saw the working at Bridewell, is nothing compared to it!"

"Of course! of course!" laughed Zatonyi; "you'll come to advise us to give our prisoners coffee, and sugar, and rice, as I understand people do in America. But now tell me, how can you confine each prisoner by himself, when there are five hundred prisoners and thirty-three wards? There's no room, my dear fellow; that's all."

"And why is there no room?" cried the Austrian captain, passionately. "Because, instead of hanging people, as our fathers did before us, we go to the expense of locking them up for so many months or years. If I had my way, I'd make room for you! Fifty stripes and the gallows! There's a cure for you; and all the rest is d--d nonsense!"

"I should have no objection to Tengelyi's having a separate room," said the recorder; "but really there is none. The four cells which are set apart for solitary confinement are taken."

"Then there _are_ some rooms devoted to that purpose, are there?" cried Mr. James Bantornyi, eagerly. "Oh, very well! Did I not always tell you we'd come to imitate England? Solitary confinement is introduced for four prisoners! A beginning being once made, I have no doubt but the rest will follow."

"You are right!" said the recorder, in a mortal fear lest it should be his lot to have a description of the Milbank prison. "But, after all, who can help that we have but four rooms, and that they are all taken?"

"Taken? By whom are they taken?" inquired Mr. James, who took a praiseworthy interest in prisons and their inmates.

"One of them is retained by the baron," said Captain Karvay. "It's now three years since the poor gentleman was sent to prison, and I'll swear to it he's innocent."

"Is he indeed?"

"Nothing more certain!" said the gallant captain. "He's a capital fellow, but a little violent, you know: and it may have happened that he has ordered his servant to beat a man; indeed, I don't know, but perhaps he did it himself. It's what everybody does, you know, and nobody minds it. But the baron had ill luck. Thirty years ago, he knocked one of his servants on the head, and the fellow died in consequence of the blow. A prosecution was commenced and carried on, and while it was being carried on it was all but forgotten; when, as ill luck would have it, the poor baron chanced to get himself into a fresh scrape. He is fond of his garden. The peasants stole his fruit and flowers. So he swore the first whom he could lay his hand on should have forty stripes. It was a vow, you know. And what happened? The very next morning a young chap was caught stealing cherries. Of course the baron could not think of breaking his vow. The young fellow was not quite ten years of age; he could not stand forty blows, and he died before the thing was fairly over. There was another row, and the county magistrates could not but sentence the baron to be confined for six months; the upper court cancelled the judgment, and gave the poor man four years! Only fancy! and he's seventy years old. It's an atrocious cruelty, you know, to send such a man to prison, and for four years too!"

"Yes, I remember," said James Bantornyi. "I heard it talked about when I returned from England. But I thought he had got over it. Some time ago I saw him on his estate."

"Why," replied the recorder, "if we were not to give him a run now and then, his manager would play the devil with his crops and cattle."

"The second room," continued the captain, "is inhabited by an attorney: he was sent here for forgery. And in the third room lives an engineer, who is likewise accused of forging bank-notes."

"And did it ever strike you," asked Mr. James, with great anxiety; "did it ever strike you that solitary confinement exerts a salutary influence on the prisoners?"

"It certainly does. Ever since the baron has lived with us, he's grown fat; he never complains of any thing except of his ill luck at cards, and that he cannot get any wine which is strong enough for him. He's blunted, you know."

"Wine and cards are not fit agents to carry out the purposes of solitary confinement: but, after all, the English too have, of late, relaxed the former rigour of their system. But how do the others go on?"

"The attorney acts as middleman between the borrowers and lenders of money, and the engineer is always writing and sketching. I suppose you saw his last _quodlibet_ with the sheriff's portrait, and the autographs of all the magistrates, and with a few bank-notes mixed up with them. It was remarkably well done, especially the notes."

"Capital!" said James. "Occupation is the life of prison discipline. It improves the criminals, you know."

Völgyeshy, who had scarcely kept his impatience within bounds, interrupted this conversation.

"One of the cells is untenanted," said he; "why don't you put Tengelyi in that?"

"Impossible!" said the captain, dryly. "The worshipful magistrates have resolved that one of the rooms must be kept empty, to provide for an emergency."

"But is not this an emergency?" asked Völgyeshy.

"I don't care whether it is or not!" said the captain, twisting his moustache. "All I say is, that the worshipful magistrates have instructed me to keep that room empty. I have my orders, sir. Besides, we cannot put the notary into that room to please anybody; for Lady Rety has used it as a larder these three years, and she keeps the key."

Still Völgyeshy persisted; but the recorder interfered, saying, that the mildness which the sheriff had recommended could not, by any means, be carried to the bursting open and disarranging the larder of the sheriff's wife. And when Völgyeshy told them that, at least, an arrangement might be made by confining two of the three prisoners in one room, and assigning one of their cells to his client, his proposal excited a violent storm of indignation.

"I wish you may get it!" cried Captain Karvay. "I wonder what the baron would say if I were to force somebody upon him! And I don't know what he would say if I were to tell him it was to make room for a village notary."

But the decision of the affair was, as usual, brought about by Mr. Skinner's energy. That great lawyer protested that he could not think of fighting or squabbling for such a self-evident point; that Mr. Völgyeshy had a right to defend the notary as much as he pleased; but that the worshipful magistrates had an equal right not to care for Mr. Völgyeshy or his defence.

The matter being thus settled to the satisfaction of all but the notary's counsel, the recorder said to Karvay: "But you'll put him somewhere where the crowd is not too great!"

"Of course. I'll send him to No. 20.,--as sweet a room as you'd like to see, and with but five people in it. There's the old receiver; a murderer; a man confined for horse-stealing; and two children convicted of arson."

"Very good," said the recorder. "Whatever he wants, he must have; for the sheriff wishes us to treat him kindly."