Chapter I (5)

The old woman tarried; nor was it until the lady had repeated her command, that she left the room, muttering and discontented. When she was gone. Lady Rety approached the bed and spoke to the Jew.

He made no reply. His breath came thick and irregular. His limbs moved convulsively. The shadows of death were thickening over him.

Again and again she spoke to him. At length he raised his weary head, and stared vacantly at the Lady Rety.

"You do not know me," said she. "Look up, man! Tell me, do you know who I am?"

"Leave me alone," gasped Jantshi. "I've told you all I know. I've nothing more to say. Let me rest."

"Look up, and see to whom you are speaking. It is I, the Lady Rety!"

"The Lady Rety?" said the Jew, while a ray of returning consciousness darted over his features.

"Who else would come to you? Who else cares for what becomes of you?"

"Begone!" screamed the dying man. "Begone! What can you want of me? I'm not strong enough to steal or murder!"

"You are mad!" cried she. "How _can_ you talk in this manner? Suppose some one were to hear you?"

"I do not care," replied he. "I have no fear of anybody."

"Do not let them impose upon you," said she. "I know they tell you there is no hope for you. They've told you so to make you confess; but I have it from the doctor that you are in no danger whatever. You're weak, that's all. Keep your own counsel, I entreat you! They tell me Mr. Vandory called upon you; did he?"

The Jew groaned and laughed at the same time. He stretched his trembling arms and seized Lady Rety's hands.

"Ah!" said be, "that's what you come for? You want to know what I have said of the crimes which we have committed. Set your mind at rest. I've told them all--all--all! Do you understand me? I've told them every circumstance, from the first day that the attorney hired me to steal the papers, to the night you promised me your cursed money if I would kill the attorney. You said----"

"Silence, miscreant!" cried Lady Rety, striving to disengage her hands from the grasp of the Jew.

"Miscreant! Ay, indeed, miscreant!" retorted the Jew; "but how will they call _you_ who bribed me to these enormities?"

"Rascal of a Jew! who will believe you?"

"They are sure to believe me. Viola has said what I say, and nobody can doubt it!"

"You must revoke all you have said. I'll bring other witnesses to whom you must say that they bribed you to give false testimony."

"I will not revoke a word of what I have said--not a single word----"

"How dare you, Jew----"

"Don't threaten me! Your promises and threats cannot affect me now. This very night will remove me from your jurisdiction. But you," added he, with a convulsive effort--"You who seduced me and abandoned me to my despair--you, Lady Rety, will find your judge. I've dreamed of it. I see it now! I see you standing by the side of the executioner. He has a large glittering sword. Tzifra, too, is there, and Catspaw, and a crowd of people. They tie you down upon the chair----"

His voice sunk down to an indistinct murmur, and his hand, which still clasped Lady Rety's fingers, held them with a cold and clammy grasp. She tore it away, and, rushing past the nurse, she hastened to her apartments.

She rang for her maid.

"Give me a glass of water!" said she.

Julia, the maid, was astonished and shocked to see her mistress look so pale.

"Are you ill, my lady?" asked she. "Shall I go for Dr. Letemdy?"

"No! Hold your tongue! Mind your own business!" said Lady Rety. "Give me a glass of water, and be off!"

Julia obeyed. Lady Rety locked the door after her.

It is easier to defeat the sympathy of mankind than to baffle their curiosity. Lady's maids in particular are always most eager to mind other people's business when they are told to go about their own. Julia had left the room, but she returned to the door and listened.

What she heard served still more to excite her curiosity. Lady Rety walked up and down. She sat down, arranged her papers and wrote. Again she got up, and tore some papers. Again she paced the room. She opened a drawer. Again she sat down, and Julia overheard a deep, deep sigh. Then again there was a sound as of something being stirred in a glass.

"She is ill!" thought Julia. "She's taking her medicine! I ought to call the doctor!"

She listened again, and heard the rattling of the glass as it was violently put down upon the table. This, it struck her, was a sign that her mistress was fearfully ill-tempered. She thought it more prudent not to go for the doctor. After a short time she heard deep groans. She knocked at the door, but she received no answer. This circumstance, and the moaning inside, which became more violent every moment, caused her to forget Lady Rety's ill-temper, and to hasten to the sheriff, whom she found closeted with Vandory.

Julia told them all she had heard when listening at her mistress's door.

"She has done the worst!" cried Vandory. "Let us make haste. Perhaps there is time to save her!"

They hurried to the room. They tried the lock. It resisted. A low moaning was heard from within.

"Break it open!" cried Vandory.

As the two men rushed against the door, it gave way. They entered.

It was too late.

The glass,--the poison,--the livid and distorted face of the wretched woman, showed them that there was no hope.

She looked at her husband, and made a violent effort to speak; but when he knelt down, and seized her hand, he felt it stiff and cold.

She heaved a long deep sigh.

"May God have mercy upon her soul!" said Vandory. "She is dead!"

CHAP. IX.

Even the humblest among us excites the interest of at least some of his fellow men, at the very time when he is removed beyond its sphere. The church bells toll for the poorest man, and, however lonely he may have been throughout life, people will assemble round his coffin. Whatever may have been the obstacles that blocked up a man's path when alive, there are no impediments to the progress of his funeral procession; and the very beggar, who never had a crust or a rag which he could really call his own, comes into possession of a small freehold, which is given to him to hold, and to enjoy, till the day of judgment. A dead body is an object of interest and of awe. And why? Is it because respect is due to him who acts sensibly, and because the majority of mankind cannot do a more sensible thing than to die? Or is it because the dead have passed through that arduous ordeal in which all of us are equally interested? Death is indeed a capital teacher. Any one who has his doubts about the value of earthly things, and who would wish to know whether the objects he strives for are worth his trouble, can easily set his mind at rest by watching the death of any of his fellow-citizens. A funeral procession, a coat of arms, or a name on the coffin, and on the grave or mausoleum a marble column or a wooden cross; an after-dinner conversation, a score of mourning letters, a paragraph in the provincial papers, or at best a column in "The Times" or "La Presse," that is the _gloria mundi_! A crape hatband, and a suit of mourning; quarrels about the expense of the funeral, or the "cash he left behind him," is all that reminds us of the love and devotion of family life. And as for friendship--we all know its value and its duration!

We do not mean to plead in defence of the cynical views which we have just expressed. Bitter thoughts _will_ press to the surface of our heart when we ponder on the pride, pomp, and circumstance of life, and the utter oblivion to which we fall a prey after our surviving friends have paid us what they significantly call "the last honours." But still, as there is an exception to every rule, we must admit that the people of Dustbury were neither unmindful of Lady Rety's death, nor forgetful of it; at least not in the first fortnight after the event. The most noble the Lady Rety was a person of great importance. Her decease would have attracted attention under any circumstances. That a lady of rank and property, the head of an excellent table, and the owner of a splendid wardrobe, should depart this life, is shocking, even if she takes that step with all due formality, and with the assistance and advice of half-a-dozen physicians. But Lady Rety's case was far worse. Dr. Letemdy had indeed been called in, but at a time when his help and co-operation was quite out of the question; and his professional learning was of no avail, except in enabling him to protest that the most noble lady might have been saved, if greater despatch had been employed in soliciting his presence. Mr. Sherer, who was likewise on the spot, asserted his conviction that the draught of which Lady Rety died must have been any thing but sugar water, and that almond milk might have saved her life, if she had not died before he could offer that miraculous medicine. But the fact remained unaltered. Lady Rety had taken poison. The medical men in the county of Takshony had a just title to complain of this encroachment upon their legal sphere of action, and the people of Dustbury were equally justified in their laudable and charitable endeavours to discover the secret causes of this shocking occurrence.

Rety's family and friends would have it that the accident was occasioned by a mistake. Lady Rety, they said, was in the habit of taking magnesia, which she kept in a drawer where she had some time previously placed a bottle of arsenic for the purpose of killing rats. In the twilight of evening she had taken the poison instead of the drug; and this--the Retys protested--was the cause of the terrible catastrophe. But explanations of this kind are by no means palatable to the understanding of the crowd. The Dustbury gentry would not, and could not, credit any thing like a simple story. They all and each launched into the boundless realms of surmise and speculation, and in their praiseworthy endeavours to make out a substantial and shocking account of Lady Rety's death, they were eagerly assisted by Julia, who had been all but an eye-witness of the decease of her mistress. Julia gave so interesting an account of the sadness and despondency to which her lady had of late been a victim, and of her extraordinary behaviour on the last day of her life, that all her hearers relinquished any doubts which they might have entertained, for the firm and (under the circumstances) comfortable conviction of Lady Rety's suicide. But as for the cause of that step, it remained a secret and a mystery to the gossips of the town of Dustbury.

The sheriff made no allusion to the cause of his wife's death. The most watchful sympathy or curiosity could not trace home to him any word or action that could have strengthened or confirmed any of the various surmises and rumours which were afloat on the subject. The cause of Lady Rety's suicide remained an open question. Perhaps it was attributable to temporary insanity; perhaps she had been urged to that desperate step by the conviction of her inability to prevent her son's union with Vilma Tengelyi, and she preferred death to certain shame; or perhaps the sheriff had driven his wife to despair (the ladies of Dustbury were very eloquent on this last hypothesis) by a concentration of matrimonial brutalities; for what woman is a stranger to martyrdom? Certain it is that none of Mr. Rety's words or looks could be adduced as an authority for all or any of the above surmises. Still, those who knew him became aware of the deep impression which the death of his wife had made on his mind.

His sorrow was not indeed caused by a return to the old love of days long gone by. The flowers of love have indeed been known to luxuriate in the soil of a churchyard, especially in the case of couples whose matrimonial doings did not present that edifying spectacle of love, honour, and obedience, which is inculcated by, and which is so rarely to be met with out of, the catechism. Mr. Rety had had too deep an insight into his wife's character to lament his loss. His grief was the growth, not of affection, but of remorse. He accused himself for being the cause of the misfortunes he saw around him. A letter was found on her table, which the miserable woman had addressed to him; and in which she reproached him as the cause of her unfortunate life and wretched end. And was not this accusation well-founded? Could Rety look back upon the past without feeling that the events to which his wife fell a victim, were brought about by his own culpable weakness. If he had candidly told her of his relationship to Vandory, she would perhaps have refused to marry him; or if she had, she would have been resigned to the idea that the curate was her husband's brother, but she never would have thought of committing the crime to which her evil spirit had urged her. Rety's weakness and indulgence had made her the woman she was; his dislike and aversion drove her to that desperate step which she would never have taken, if she could have hoped for the sympathy and protection of her husband. Thoughts like these filled Rety's mind with bitter grief, which not even Vandory's gentle words could assuage.

The Jew's confession, which was the cause of Lady Rety's death, remained without any of those favourable results which it was expected to have. It had no influence on Tengelyi's fate. Even before the Jew made his confession, there were few who doubted of Mr. Catspaw's having been implicated in the robbery of the documents; but this very fact, when once established, strengthened the suspicions which were entertained against Tengelyi. If the documents were in Mr. Catspaw's possession (and Jantshi's evidence proved that they were), that fact alone was reason enough to induce Tengelyi to commit the crime of murder. The Jew's assertion, that it was Viola who killed Mr. Catspaw, was unsupported by the second witness, and inadmissible as evidence against the numerous and grave circumstantial evidence which was adduced against the notary. His only hope of safety lay in the contingency of Viola's capture and confession of the murder. That hope was a vague one. It was now more than a fortnight since Janosh and Gatzi the Vagabond had left Dustbury in quest of Viola, and no news of their whereabouts and their chances of success had reached Vandory. It was scarcely reasonable to suppose that the old hussar should succeed in an undertaking, which had hitherto foiled the endeavours of Akosh, Kalman, and Völgyeshy, and, indeed, of all those who took an interest in Tengelyi's fate.

Peti, the gipsy, was indeed strongly suspected of being privy to the secret of Viola's retreat; but neither entreaties nor promises could induce him to answer young Rety's questions. As for the Gulyash of Kishlak, who was known to have received Viola's family, after the flight of the latter, into his tanya, and who had afterwards taken them away in his cart, he, too, gave none but unsatisfactory intelligence. He protested that he had taken Susi and her children to a Tsharda, at the distance of about three miles from Kishlak, where he had left her. He had not the least idea what could have become of her. Curses and entreaties, threats and promises, were alike in vain; it was evident that even the rack could not induce him to say more. The old woman, Liptaka, though devoted to the Tengelyi family, and especially to Vilma, was inexhaustible in excuses of her ignorance of Viola's whereabouts; until at last, wearied and perplexed by young Rety's questions, she protested that she would not betray Viola's confidence, even if she could; and when Akosh attempted to move her by his entreaties, she exclaimed:--

"No! no! Master Akosh! You know I'm as fond of you as ever a nurse was of her own child; but do not--do not compel me to hate you! I'd lay down my life for Mr. Tengelyi; but I won't be a Judas, no! not even for _his_ sake! He has no end of friends; they'll liberate him, sooner or later; and even if he were to remain in prison, I know they keep him decently and comfortably, and his family is well provided for. But Viola can expect no mercy at the hands of the magistrates! To give him up to his enemies is to murder him and his family; and even if Susi were not my near relative, I'd rather tear my tongue out than betray her husband!"

What could Akosh do? Viola's friends were resolved to keep the secret; and, after a search of two weeks, old Janosh was still as much as ever in the dark as to the direction which the fugitive had taken.

Both Janosh and Gatzi the Vagabond were convinced that Viola was not hidden in any of the neighbouring counties. It was not indeed likely that he had left the kingdom of Hungary, as Gatzi was fond of asserting; but even this reflection was but cold comfort to the two adventurers. In which of the fifty-two counties of Hungary were they to seek him? was indeed a question which sadly puzzled the tactics and the military experience of old Janosh.

"Viola is a devil of a fellow!" said he to his comrade. "He has retreated, and so cunningly too, that Satan's self would be at a loss to find him. Ej! what a general he would have been!"

"What does '_to retreat_' mean?" asked Gatzi, who listened to the tales of his companion with the greatest interest.

"Did I ever!" cried the hussar. "Do you mean to say you don't know what it is to retreat? But, after all, it's but natural," added he, after a few moments' consideration. "You have not been in the wars, where they would have taught you. Now, mark me! to retreat is when they order you to fall back."

"Ah! I understand! It's when the enemy drives you."

"You're a fool!" said Janosh, angrily. "A good soldier won't run away, nor will he be driven. I have never been in a battle in which we did not beat the enemy, and yet we retreated!"

The old hussar, like many soldiers in the Austrian army, was firmly convinced that the Emperor's troops had never been defeated.

"To retreat," added he, "means to fall back, after you've given your enemy a drubbing. Do you understand me?"

"Oh yes! I understand!" replied Gatzi; "but I can't make out why you should fall back after a victory."

"Donkey!" said Janosh, with a compassionate smile; "you retreat because you're ordered to fall back; and a soldier who doesn't obey orders is shot. That's all!"

"But why do they order you back?"

"Why, indeed? That's not our business!" replied the old trooper, angrily; for it was the very question which had puzzled him all his life. "Why, indeed? A good soldier obeys his officers, and the rest doesn't concern him. Why they order you back? A stupid question that! Perhaps it is to make you advance, for if you fall back you've got room to go forward. Perhaps they do it to give the enemy time to rally their men, and to prepare for another battle. I say, Gatzi, if you were a soldier, and if you were to ask such questions, they'd shoot you on the spot!"

Such conversations were instructive to the Vagabond Gatzi, and entertaining for Janosh, who gloried in the reminiscences of his campaigns; but they did not promote the ends of the two travellers. The Gulyash of Kishlak was as little communicative to Janosh as he was to his young master, nor was the hussar more lucky in his inquiries in other quarters.

"It strikes me they've agreed upon it!" murmured he. "They have but one answer to all my questions, and that answer is the worst they can give. Every one says, 'I don't know; you'd better inquire somewhere else!' and so we go from one tanya to another, without being any the wiser for it!"

They had, indeed, by this time, made the round of three counties; and though Gatzi became gradually accustomed to their roving life, and though Janosh, riding, as he did, through forests and over moors, felt almost happy to live again the life of a trooper, they came at length to be fairly tired of their fruitless search. The season, too, was by no means favourable. The month of April has a general reputation for changeableness; but in the year in which Janosh and Gatzi rode in search of Viola, that month was by no means changeable. On the contrary, it rained from the first day to the last. Janosh had seen a deal of hardship in the course of his long and eventful life; but still his temper was not proof against the provoking sameness of this extraordinary April weather. At length he fairly lost his patience.

They were just traversing the third county, at a distance of about eighty miles from Dustbury. They had been on horseback from an early hour in the morning, and now the sun was setting, when Gatzi confessed to his older comrade that he could not find the tanya to which he had promised to conduct him. The old man had hitherto borne all disappointments with great fortitude, still hoping to get news of Viola; for Gatzi had told him that the Gulyash to whom they were going knew all the herdsmen of the district. What was to be done? They were in the heart of the forest; they had lost their way; and, although Janosh swore that it was a shame for an old man to follow at the heels of a mere boy like Gatzi, he could not but wrap himself up in his bunda, and follow his companion, who was looking for marks on the trees, and for cross branches on the road, these being the signs by which men of doubtful honesty are in the habit of marking their track for the benefit of their comrades. It was quite dark when the two wanderers were at length attracted by the glare of a fire. They struck from the path which they had hitherto pursued, and reached the tanya which they sought. The pleasure which Janosh felt as he stretched his limbs by the fire could not be greater than the rapture of the Gulyash when he recognised Gatzi. The old herdsman, it seems, had been Gatzi's partner in more than one affair of which they did not care to inform the county magistrates.

When the old Gulyash had had his chat with his young companion, Janosh stepped in and asked for Viola. The first answer which he received was a profession of utter ignorance on the part of the Gulyash; when Gatzi too showed his desire for information, the herdsman told them to stay the night.

"To-morrow morning," said he, "I'll conduct you to somebody who is likely to answer your questions. There is a Gulyash in this neighbourhood who came last autumn from your part of the country. He is a good-for-nothing fellow, who does not associate with any one. He doesn't sell cattle, and there is no talking to him. But, after all, it is very likely that he can give you the information you require."

"Who can he be?" said Gatzi, astonished. "I don't know of any herdsman from our parts who has gone to this county."

"It's the brother of the Gulyash of Kishlak," replied the old man. "His brother is a trump of a fellow; but this chap is a blockhead. He won't speak to a body."

"It can't be the brother of the Gulyash of Kishlak. Old Ishtvan had but one brother, who died last autumn."

"Nonsense! I tell you, man, I have seen him. He is a handsome fellow, and darkish. He brought his wife and two children. Don't tell me he's dead."

"I say, the brother of the Gulyash of Kishlak is dead, though the man, whom you take to be his brother, may be alive, for all I know: but I am sure he is no relation to Ishtvan the herdsman!"

"But I tell you he is! Don't teach me to know Ishtvan the herdsman! It's true I haven't seen him for many years: but formerly we were much together; and last year, when he brought his brother's family to this place, they all slept in my hut. One of the children is not at all likely to live; but the other boy is a fine fellow. I am sure he'll be a better sort of a man than his father. There! now don't you believe that I am going to take you to the brother of the Gulyash of Kishlak?"

In the course of this conversation, Gatzi cast significant looks at the old hussar; and when their host had retired for the night, he said, "I'll lose my head if the fellow he speaks of isn't Viola!"

"I am sure it's he," whispered Janosh. "Let us keep our own counsel, lest he refuse to show us to the place."

"How he'll stare, when he hears that his neighbour, of whom he thinks so little, is no other than Viola, the great robber! What a treat!" said Gatzi, as he lay down by the fire. "But I'm as sleepy as a dog! Good night!"

"Good night!" responded Janosh, turning round, and arranging his bunda for the night. The day had been one of extraordinary fatigue. His lair in the hut was comfortable, and the fire burnt bright and cheerful at his side; but still the old hussar could not sleep. He turned and tossed about, a prey to restlessness and harassing thought. Now that Viola was all but found, Janosh began to doubt whether he was justified in disturbing the poor man's quiet life, and whether it was not better to leave him where he was.

"He's come to be an honest man," thought he; "why should I remind him of his former misfortune? I dare say they won't hang Mr. Tengelyi; but as for Viola, I'm not at all sure whether they'll stick to their word when they have him in their power. His wife will despair, and his children come to be little vagabonds; and who will be the cause of all this misery but I, who am now trying to entrap him, for all the world like one of those d--d spies whom we used to hang in France!"

Old Janosh had but one comfort amidst these distressing reflections. He might indeed find Viola; but there was no necessity which forced him to give him up to the county magistrates: and, after all, was it not possible, in conversing with Viola, that they might find out a means of liberating the notary without any prejudice to the late robber's life and liberty?

"For," said Janosh, "God knows he has suffered enough! and his children, bless them! they are such fine creatures, and so loving. I wouldn't harm them; no, not for the world!"

As for the object of old Janosh's search, it was he who, under the assumed name of a brother to Ishtvan, the herdsman of Kishlak, inhabited the tanya to which Gatzi's friend had promised to conduct the two adventurers. The outlaw's place of refuge was not quite so large and commodious as his farm-house at Tissaret; but it was as favourable a specimen of a tanya as a man of Viola's character and habits might wish to see. The roof was made of reeds, and afforded a shelter against the rain; the walls were newly washed, and shone hospitably over the dun and desolate heath. The tanya was built on a slope of the mountains, which, forest-crowned, extended in the rear; and in front lay the immense plain, dotted with flocks and herds of cattle and horses, with here and there a steeple rising on the far horizon. Near the house was a stable and some haystacks; and close to the threshold lay a couple of large fierce wolf-hounds, basking in the rays of the sun.

Viola might have been happy. He had found a place of refuge: he was removed from all social intercourse; and this is, in itself, a blessing for the persecuted and maligned. He might have been happy, if our happiness or misery were not at least quite as much depending on the past as it is on the present. Viola's recollections were most gloomy. His mind was saddened by the thought that he was compelled to leave the scenes of his former life. An exile from the place of his birth, he languished and grieved quite as much as men of better education do, when fate compels them to fly from their own country. The lower classes cling, not only to their country, but also to the place of their birth. Their lives lie within a narrower circle; and, however great his patriotism, a peasant's love for his _home_ is still greater. With some it is a predominant feeling; with others it is a madness. His real country, his real fatherland, is the village in which he saw the light,--the narrow spot of earth on which he passed his earliest years. If you remove him from that place, he finds little consolation in the thought that his new abode is still on Hungarian soil, that his country's language is still spoken around him. He sighs for his birth-place, for the humble roof of his parents, for the fields in which he used to work, for the trees in the shade of which he took his rest. His reminiscences are not national, but local; his sphere of interest and action is limited to the confines of his parish. And even if this were not the case, is not our life a totality? Can we separate the past from the present, or the present from the future? Are not our joys bound up in remembrance and hope? And what was there in Viola's past, what was there in his future, to cheer him up, and to nerve him amidst the sorrows of life?

Could he ever forget the injustice and cruelty of mankind? Could he forget that they had hunted him like a beast of the forest? And, worse than all, could he forget his own deeds? the blood he had shed,--the blood which still clung to his trembling hands? How could he hope for happiness? The future lowered over him like a pall. His name was, indeed, unknown in that part of the country. His master, and the people with whom he had dealings, took him for a brother of the Gulyash of Kishlak; but what guarantee had he for his safety? The arrival of any of his former associates, the discovery of his having come to the county with a false passport, was sure to divulge his real name, and deliver him into the hands of justice. Every stranger who approached the tanya made him tremble. He trembled to think that his own boy might betray the secret of his father's guilt. But still, he could have borne all this. He might have inured his heart to sorrow and anxiety if his wife had been happy, if the love of his children had withdrawn his mind from the remorse and fear in which it lay shrouded.

Fate willed it otherwise!

Susi wanted but little for happiness. To love, was her vocation. She had no wish but to live with her husband and her children, to devote herself to them, to care, labour, and pray for them. Her heart was made to resist the blows of fate, if they failed to strike at that one tender point. When she knew of her husband's liberation,--when she took her children to their new home, she felt as if there was nothing to wish for, or to hope; and all her past sufferings were lost in the feeling of happiness which pervaded her mind. To live far away from mankind, removed from the scene of her former sufferings,--to live a new life, lonely and unknown,--had been her wish for many years; and that wish was now realised. She knelt down at the threshold of her new tanya, and wept and prayed with a grateful heart. She had nothing to ask for, nothing to desire!

But her happiness was of short duration. Her younger child was weak and sickly. Its little face had that expression of sadness which, in children, is a sure sign of suffering and disease.

"How could it be otherwise?" said Susi; "sorrow was its first food. My tears have effaced its smiles, and ever since it opened its soft blue eyes it has seen nothing but grief and sorrow. The poor child cannot help being sad!"

The unsettled life which Susi had latterly been compelled to lead, and which the infant had shared with her; the cold autumnal air to which it was exposed; and last, not least, the fatigue and exposure of the journey to their place of refuge, had a fatal effect upon the tender health of the child. So long as the excitement continued, and while she had to tremble for the safety of her husband, Susi took no heed of its altered appearance; but a few days after their meeting in the tanya, she became alive to the danger which threatened the infant's life. To see and despair of all hope was one and the same thing. After some days of maddening anxiety, the child died, and a little grave near the tanya was all that remained of so much sorrow and so much love.

The child's death struck a deeper blow to Susi's heart, from the circumstance of its occurring in the very first week of her new-found repose; but when she remarked her husband's sadness, who, still depressed by the late events, considered the death of his youngest born as a harbinger of the approach of avenging fate, she felt that Viola wanted to be cheered and comforted, and her love for him conquered the grief of her mother's heart.

"Who knows," said she, "whether the child is not all the better off for leaving this world of sorrow; and perhaps this misfortune has been sent to us, to prevent our becoming too presumptuous in our happiness? And, after all, have we not Pishta, and does he not grow up to be a fine bold fellow, like his father?"

But in January little Pishta was seized with the fever. His mother's anxiety, her watchfulness, her care, the smiles of comfort from her breaking heart, and her secret tears and wailings,--all,--all could not prevail against the stern decree of fate; and after three long weeks, Pishta was buried by the side of his little brother, and Susi felt that there was nothing in the world that could make her happy.

She complained not; she spoke not of her misfortune; she strove to hide her grief from her husband: but the forced smile on her pale face, the rebellious sigh which _would_ break forth, the trembling of her voice, when an accident, when

"The wind, a flower, a tone of music"

reminded her of her children, and her turning away to hide the tears which _would_ bedew her cheeks, spoke more plainly than any wailing and mourning by which the wretched woman might have given vent to her grief. Viola loved his wife too warmly to be deceived by her seeming calmness; his keen eye found the traces of secret tears upon her face; he understood her wordless woe, and his heart was a prey to the bitterness of sorrow. To love, to see the loved one suffering, and to feel that we cannot do any thing to lessen her grief, is a bitter feeling indeed; and Viola felt as if fate had saved his life, only for him to drain the cup of misfortune to the very dregs.

"Wretched man that I am!" cried he, as he stood alone on the heath; "after all my sufferings, must I live to see this day? If I had suffered for my crimes, God would perhaps have pitied my children; but now His hand strikes me in them! There is blood on my hands,--but is it Susi's fault? Are my little ones guilty? Father in heaven! what have they done, that Thy wrath should pursue them?"

Thus lost in the bitterness of his grief, he sat on the hill near his house, when his attention was attracted by the violent barking of his dogs, and as he looked in the direction of the tanya, he beheld a stranger approaching him. Viola lived in solitude; the Gulyash of Kishlak had only called on him once since he dwelled in the tanya, and the herdsmen and outlaws of the county were by no means inclined to cultivate the acquaintance of their new neighbour, for a few unsuccessful attempts had convinced them of his reluctance to join them in their illicit doings. No wonder, then, that the approach of a stranger attracted Viola's attention. But his astonishment passed all bounds when he recognised the sheriff's hussar, and when the latter called him by his real name, a name which he had not heard for many months.

At some distance from the tanya, Janosh had thanked his guide for his trouble, and sent him and Gatzi back, for he wished to speak to Viola freely and without being interrupted. The latter could hardly trust his own eyes, when he saw the old soldier, who used to be a pattern of neatness, attired in a peasant's dress, travel-stained, and with his hair and beard neglected.

"Is it you, Janosh?" said he, addressing the new comer. "What does this dress mean?"

"It's strange, isn't it? We are naked when we are born, and naked do we go to the grave, or at best they give us a gatya to sleep in. A soldier was a peasant at one time, and to a peasant's estate he returns; that's how the world goes. After all, my present dress is none of the worst, only I felt queer in it at first, accustomed as I am, you know, to be buttoned up in a tight hussar jacket. For some days I fancied I was not dressed at all!"

"But where did you come from, and what has brought you all this way from home?"

The old soldier, who had some secret misgivings about the honesty of his errand, felt uncomfortable at this question.

"Why," said he, scratching his head, "I wanted to call on you,--that is to say, I wanted to find you. I've some important matters to talk to you about. But don't be frightened, man!" added he, on seeing Viola's astonishment; "I have indeed promised to find you, but I have not promised to tell them where you are. I'll have my palaver with you, that's all, and you may afterwards do as you please. As for the worshipful magistrates, they shall never get any thing out of me; no! not even if they'd skin me alive! I'm not the man to blow upon a deserter! Bless you! I never did that sort of a thing!"

Viola's curiosity was heightened by the words and the manner of Janosh; and his desire for an account of the sudden and mysterious appearance of the latter was at length gratified by a circumstantial statement of all the events which had taken place at Dustbury and Tissaret, since the assassination of Mr. Catspaw. The impression which this news produced upon Viola was fearful.

When Janosh told him of Tengelyi's situation, he cast a despairing look to heaven, and cried:--

"I am a cursed being! I am born to destroy all who come near me, no matter whether they are my friends or my foes!"

And covering his eyes with his hands, he gave himself up to a transport of grief.

His distress moved the old hussar, who endeavoured to comfort him in his own rough manner.

"Don't you think," said Janosh, "that Mr. Tengelyi is very badly off! Nonsense, man! he isn't even in gaol."

"But where is he?"

"Why he is not exactly in gaol; but he's in a room of his own in the prison. He has plenty to eat and to drink, for it's I who wait upon him; and you might have known that I am not a man who would give Master Akosh's father-in-law cause to complain. He's all right and comfortable, and there's no reason why he should not walk away, if they had not got that accursed criminal process (for that's the name they give it, I believe,) against him. But there's the rub! Unless his innocence is proved, they'll sentence him--Heaven knows to what! And you see----"

"Did I not wish to serve him?" cried Viola, in a violent burst of grief. "I'm in gratitude bound to serve him! He gave shelter to my wife and children. I would have given my life to make him happy. I killed the attorney because I thought to do him good, and what has come of all my gratitude?"

"Well?"

"Why, this has come of it! He's the honestest man on the face of the earth, and they accuse him of _my_ crime! and it's I who have got him into prison,--oh! and if you had not come and told me all, they would execute him in my place!"

"Viola! my boy," said the hussar, "you're wrong. The case is not half so bad as you make it out, I assure you."

"Oh, Janosh! why, when I was sentenced at Tissaret, did you come to my assistance? Why did you save my life? You see what I have come to! I'm ready to bless the day of my death. When a mad dog feels the distemper, he will run away from the house of his master, in order not to harm his benefactor! That's what a mad dog does,--but I, I am worse than a dog, for I am dangerous to those whom I love best!"

Janosh, who was deeply moved by Viola's remorse, endeavoured to comfort him, by protesting he was sure there must be some means of extricating the notary from his present dangerous position.

His words, rude and awkward as they were, had their effect upon Viola. He became more composed, and said--

"As for the notary, he is safe. It will take us three days to go to Dustbury. The papers which I took from the attorney are in my hands; they are covered with blood, and when I tell them how the thing was brought about, they cannot possibly suspect Tengelyi."

The old hussar shook his head.

"I don't think," said he, "you can do it in that way. You're not in a fit state to take a resolution. You are in despair, and what you intend to do ought to be well considered. Nothing is more easy than to go to Dustbury. 'Here I am! I'm Viola! I've killed that rascal, Catspaw!' Why it's mere child's-play to say the words. But the worst is behind. When they've once got you into gaol, I don't see how you can get out of it."

"I don't care!"

"But you ought to care! Why, man! it's the very first thing you ought to think of! They have indeed promised not to take your life, and even the sheriff has pledged his word for your safety! But who can tell? I wouldn't advise you to rely on the promises of the gentry, and it's far more prudent to manage the business otherwise."

"Have you any idea how it can be done?" said Viola, sullenly.

"Of course I have! Give me the papers! I'll take them to Dustbury, and tell the gentlemen that I have spoken to you, that you gave me the papers, and that you made no denial of your having murdered the attorney."

"They'll never believe you!"

"If they don't, I'll call in another witness--Gatzi the Vagabond, who is a good fellow. He's come along with me, and he's now at your neighbour's, the Gulyash. Two honest witnesses can prove any thing; but as Gatzi is not, perhaps, quite honest, because he's in the habit of stealing now and then, we'll have the Gulyash as a third witness. While we are telling our story at Dustbury, you and your wife and children leave this place, and when they come to arrest you they'll find an empty house. That's _my_ plan!"

"I have no children!" said Viola, with a deep sigh; "our last--our little Pishta--was buried two months ago!"

"Pishta!" cried Janosh; "my little Pishta! Why, that's a dreadful misfortune!"

"The two little ones are dead! I am childless! My poor Susi is not likely to survive her sweet children long. She is sinking fast; poor woman, she won't see the next snow!"

The two men sat in silence. Viola was lost in gloomy thought, and old Janosh's eyes were full of tears. At length he said,--

"Truly, God alone knows why fate deals harshly with some people! They tell me we're all going to the same place in the end, and that God, who is a great general, commands us to march straight through this world into another. But I must say, the men of the rear-guard have the worst of it. The advanced guard have it all to themselves--grub, and glory, and all; and those that remain behind are in for short commons and kicks. I've known that sort of thing, my boy! When an army retreats, the best men are ordered to the rear; and in the wars I've been dealt with as you are on this earth. 'Devil take the hindmost!' is a true proverb. Bless me! you can't fancy what hard blows we got, and how we were starved! but, after all, it was then I learnt that a man ought never to despair. For when you've come to the camp, a good general is sure to praise and reward the last man of the regiment; and I'm sure our Father in Heaven will do the same when you march into quarters. And besides, who knows but the tide will turn? Susi is left you, and that's a great blessing. Why shouldn't she have half a dozen children? You won't have another Pishta, I'm afraid; for there is not another such a child on the earth, nor will there ever be; but you'll have plenty of children. And, I say, no one knows what a deal of good luck such a child may bring you; and all I say to you is, you're a fool if you put your neck into the keeping of the Dustbury gentry. Bless you, man, it's the worst you can do! and there's time enough for the worst, I should hope!"

Viola listened to the old hussar's advice, without showing his dissent either by words or gestures; but when Janosh ceased speaking, and looked at him, waiting for a reply, he shook his head sadly, hopelessly, and said,--

"You would not advise me as you do if you could but know what I have suffered. You warn me not to surrender to my judges and you counsel me to fly from punishment. But do you really think, my poor Janosh, that my present and past sufferings are not a hundred times more painful than any punishment which they can award to me? You say they will sentence me to death. It's no more than what I deserve. And what is even the most painful death, compared to the unceasing fear which has weighed upon my heart ever since I came to this place? I am eighty miles from home; but what, after all, are eighty miles? _You_ have found me, and others may!"

"There you are out! It's not every man has been in the wars, and----"

"You found me by accident! Oh, I tell you, I've played the coward! I've crouched among the ferns and the brushwood, when I saw a stranger approaching my house! When my master asked me about my former pursuits, I felt the hot blood rush into my face, and I trembled for all the world as if I stood before my Judge. No, Janosh! my life is a hell! it's not the life of a human being, and the sooner I've got rid of it the better for me, for Susi, for all!"

"They won't hang you!" said Janosh. "The sheriff has come to quarrel with his wife, and he has been an altered man ever since. He has promised to spare your life, and I'm sure he'll stick to his word, that is to say, if he _can_; for, after all, who knows but the other gentleman may get the better of him? and it's always my opinion one ought never----"

"Stop!" cried Viola. "I'm sure you mean well; but I've made up my mind. Believe me, ever since my children died I've often thought whether to surrender is not the best thing I can do. Even if you had not come and told me of the notary's danger, I think I should have given myself up to the police, to rid myself of the torments which now prey upon my mind. A few days before my poor Pishta died, the child was so thin and worn out you would not have known him if you had seen him at the time. Nothing was left of him but his sweet soft voice; methinks I hear it now; and he----What were we saying?" continued Viola, wiping his eyes; "to think of him makes me forget all and everything. What was it, Janosh?"

"You spoke of Pishta's death. Don't go on, pray!"

"I must! I must tell you, that shortly before he died, and, indeed, all the time he was ill, he entreated me not to go on being a robber: 'Won't you, father, dear! you won't be a robber any more?' were the last words I ever heard him say. Now, tell me, is it in my power to obey my dying child's request if I remain here? Let the meanest thief come to this house who has seen me in former times; is he not my master, because he has my secret? Can he not force me to join him in any crime he may choose to perpetrate? I'm lost! My very honesty depends upon an accident; and chance alone can protect me from falling back into my old ways."

Janosh sighed; for he felt the truth of Viola's remarks.

"There's blood on my hands, and I must die! It's but common justice! I've thought the matter over, and I see no other way to get out of it. And, after all, there is neither peace nor comfort in this world after such a deed! When they have pronounced my sentence, my conscience will cease from accusing me. I have not, indeed, ever had the _intention_ of killing any body! Accident has made me what I am--a murderer! and fate has decreed that I am to suffer for my crime. What man can prevail against his destiny?"

"This is all very well; but what's to become of Susi, I'd like to know?" said Janosh, with a deep sigh.

Viola made no reply. His features were violently contracted; his hands clung with a tremulous grasp to the staff which lay by his side; his chest heaved as if it were bursting. At length he said, with a trembling voice,--