The Village Notary: A Romance of Hungarian Life

"Aye!" said the robber; "let me see?"

"I won't!"

But Tzifra took the keys and put them into his pocket.

"So, now I don't want you. I can do it alone."

"Don't be a fool!" said the Jew; "what can you do with the keys?"

"Do?" cried Tzifra. "Go in and win! I'll have a hundred florins instead of five-and-twenty. I know that's the price which they offered."

"You're vastly clever, my friend. But do you happen to know the secret of the lock?"

"What is the secret?"

"Not so fast! You may wait a long while before I tell you."

"If you don't I – "

"Don't kick up a row. Give me the keys, and come along with me, and the five-and-twenty florins are yours. All you have to do is, to watch the house, and, in case of danger, to come to my assistance."

"But twenty-five florins! Rascal, you know you'll have a hundred, and you offer me but twenty-five!"

"But who is it that enters the house? Who got the keys? Twenty-five florins is a deal of money – it is the price of two young oxen."

"Will you give me fifty florins?"

"Impossible!" said the Jew. "The keys alone cost me no less than ten."

"Impossible? Very well. Oh! I am quite satisfied. I'll go to the election, and you may go to – "

"Give me the keys!" cried the Jew. "I'll find another man."

"Nonsense! I'll keep them. If you want another comrade, I'll leave you to find other keys."

"I'll give you forty."

"I'll be d – d if I take less than fifty."

After quarrelling for a time they struck the bargain; and the Jew, putting his hand in his pocket, paid the robber ten florins in advance.

"Now let us be off," said the Jew, "for when the leaders get up they won't let you go."

"You are right," rejoined Tzifra. "They take us to the election as they do cattle to the market."

They had scarcely left the room when the dusky face of Peti was seen to emerge from a heap of coats and cloaks. The gipsy had listened to their conversation. He left his hiding-place, stole from the room, and hastened away to St. Vilmosh.

It is now our pleasant duty to turn to a far different scene from that which we were compelled to place before our readers, any of whom, if they have ever loved, can easily guess the sensation with which Akosh mounted his horse on the eve of the election, and, leaving the streets of Dustbury, hastened to Tissaret. Night had set in, and his absence escaped observation. A dense fog covered the plain between Dustbury and Tissaret, and the horseman found it difficult to keep on the path which led through the meadow-lands. But he did not feel the searching coldness of the night air, nor was he inclined to stop by the watch-fires of the shepherds, and to dry his clothes. He hurried on, for Etelka had promised her brother that he should meet Vilma, to whose house he now directed his course.

Strange though it may appear to the less initiated into the mysteries of the human heart, Tengelyi's influence with his family, though paramount in every other respect, was eclipsed by the superior power of their feelings; Vilma and her mother knew of young Rety's visit, and expected him with great eagerness and anxiety. Mrs. Ershebet's time and attention were indeed taken up with the cares and anxieties which fill the heart of a Hungarian housewife who is expecting and preparing for the reception of a favoured guest; but when the evening wore on, when the turkey13 was on the point of over-roasting, and the pastry drying up, – and when the good woman looked at the clock and saw its hands approaching to eight, she shook her head, and, looking out at the kitchen-door into the drear and misty night, she was fairly overpowered with fear.

She went to Vilma's room, and, in order to lighten the load of anxiety which pressed upon her own heart, she commenced consoling her daughter. "I am sure he will soon be here," said she; "but the worst is, my supper will be spoilt. But do not be afraid, child. There is indeed a dense fog – you cannot see over the way – but then Akosh knows his road in the dark as well as by daylight. There are no wolves about the country now; no, indeed! and he does not care whether he rides by day or by night." And Mrs. Ershebet laughed, and appeared rather amused than otherwise by Akosh's staying away. But her words had a far different effect from what she intended. Vilma had never once thought that any misfortune could befall him she loved; and when her mother's words directed her attention to the possibility of an accident which might happen to Akosh, she became painfully alive to all sorts of dangers by which she fancied him surrounded.

"Good God!" cried she, "if any thing happens to him, it is I who am the cause!"

"Oh!" said Mrs. Ershebet, anxiously, "he is on good terms with the robbers, his horses are safe, he knows his way, and it is quite ridiculous to think that he should have strayed into the morasses of St. Vilmosh."

Vilma opened the window; and when she saw the thick fog, she shuddered to think that Akosh was alone on the heath. Half an hour passed amidst the greatest uneasiness; at length the sound of a horse's hoofs was heard in the distance. Mother and daughter listened anxiously, and their surprise was any thing but agreeable, when the door opened, and, instead of Akosh, the Liptaka entered the kitchen. Vilma, scarcely able to repress her tears, cried out: —

"Oh, mother! now I am sure he is lost!"

"Perhaps he has not been able to get away," said Mrs. Ershebet; "at least, not early enough. He'll come to-morrow."

"To-morrow!" cried the Liptaka: "do not tell the girl such a thing. Mr. Akosh would not stay away – nay, that he would not! – even if there were as many thunderbolts as there are drops of rain. Akosh too late! Is there a finer fellow in the county? I do not speak of the gentlemen, for it's easy to be a better man than any of them; but he beats us vulgar people, and in our own line, too. He is as strong as any that ever wore a gatya14, and he is as bold as any szegeny legeny15 in the world; and should he be afraid of darkness and rain? No, no, missie dear! any man will brave death for such a sweetheart as you are!"

"Don't be foolish!" said Mrs. Ershebet, highly flattered; "Vilma is no man's sweetheart."

"No matter," said the Liptaka, shaking her head; "it's what we poor people call a sweetheart. But never mind; come he must and he will, though the darkness of Egypt were on the heath."

"I am sure he will come," said Vilma, trembling. "Akosh is so bold! he knows not what danger is; but it is that which frightens me. The night is dark; and how easily can he have met with an accident!"

"The night is indeed dark," replied the Liptaka, with great earnestness; "but are not God's eyes open in the darkness? Not a sparrow falls from the roof without His will, and He protects the righteous on their paths. Fear nothing, missie sweet!" added the old woman: "young Mr. Rety is in no danger. Perhaps he will suffer from the cold; but the fire of your eyes will warm him soon enough. A sorry thing it would be, indeed, if such a fellow could not manage to ride from Dustbury to Tissaret. Ay, indeed, if he were a fine gentleman, as the others are: but no! Akosh is a jewel of a lad. I eat his soul.16 I suckled him when a child, and I ought to know what stuff he is made of."

"Oh, Liptaka, I wish he were here!" whispered Vilma, while her mother walked to the other room. "I am so afraid." And the Liptaka replied in the same tone: "I, too, should be sorry to see your mother go to the kitchen. There are others who have come from a longer journey, and who dare not enter until Mr. Rety is here."

"For God's sake!" said Vilma, "is Viola here?"

The Liptaka's reply was prevented by the appearance of Akosh. To attempt a description of Vilma's joy would be a vain endeavour. No word in any language can convey to those who never felt the like, any idea of the deep, heartfelt happiness which was expressed in her gestures and face, and in the tone with which, calling out her mother's name and that of her lover, she hurried the new comer into the next room.

The old nurse left the room by the opposite door. "Now for Viola," muttered she; "for he, too, loves his wife. Why, old fool that I am! my eyes have got full of tears in looking at the children! I can't help it; but I must think of my own Jantshy, and how I loved him, and how happy we were; and now the poor fellow is buried in France. It is written, Man shall not sever what God has brought together; but, for all that, the magistrates took Jantshy from me, and made him a soldier."

She was roused from these cogitations by a low voice, calling her name.

"Who's there?" said the old woman.

"It is I! Don't you know me?"

"Peti!" cried the Liptaka. "I thought you were at Dustbury. Where do you come from?"

"For God's sake, be quiet! Is he here?"

"Who? – Viola?"

"Yes! Whom else could I mean?"

The Liptaka was silent, for she knew that there were false brethren in Viola's gang.

"Do you suspect me?" said the gipsy, impatiently. "I have been on my legs ever since yesterday; but, if you do not know where he is, I must run until I find him, tired though I am."

"Are you coming to see him on business?"

"I must talk to Viola! I must, I tell you!"

"Very well; come with me," said the Liptaka, moved by the plaintive voice of the gipsy: and, more than half ashamed of having suspected him, she added: "One does get cautious in this sad time, since there are so many rascals even among the poor people."

The notary's house was indeed the home of happiness. They say, love spoils a man's appetite; but a ride of twenty miles goes a great way to counteract at least this symptom of the complaint. Mrs. Ershebet had cause to be pleased with her guest, who, fatigued with his ride and starved with the cold, was in that lucky temper in which a man enjoys a warm room and a hot supper.

"Take another piece of this tart," said Mrs. Ershebet, when young Rety's attention to the dishes began to flag; "it is not so good as the pastry your worship is accustomed to, but it is of the best our poor house can afford. It is, perhaps, a little too brown, – for your worship came later than we expected; but it is very soft. Take some, I pray."

Akosh – who would have done any thing to escape the peine forte et dure of the tart, protested against Mrs. Ershebet's ceremonious address. "Am I a stranger to you, that you should call me 'your worship?' Have you not a kinder name for me?"

Ershebet was confused; but the look which she cast at Akosh expressed so much affection and joy, that the latter, kissing her hand, continued: "Call me your Akosh! call me your son! for that is the title I covet most."

"My dear Akosh! – my son! – if you will have it so," said Mrs. Ershebet, with tears in her eyes. "You are good, you are generous, Akosh. No man in this world is so deserving of Vilma's love: and yet you can have no idea what a treasure the girl really is!"

Vilma embraced her mother, while Akosh kissed her hand; and his soul was moved as he thought of his own mother.

"Is it not too childish?" said Mrs. Ershebet, at length. "I weep with joy when I see you both, and feel the happiness which you might find in your love; but I forget how many obstacles there are between the present moment and that in which I may call you really and truly my son. Dearest child," continued Mrs. Ershebet, "you had better tell them to take the things away: " and, when Vilma had left the room, she pressed Rety's hand, and said, with a trembling voice: "Akosh! I implore you, make my child happy!"

Akosh was silent; but he pressed her hand, and his eyes filled with tears.

"You cannot know – you cannot think – how devotedly the girl loves you! and if she were deceived; if she – "

"Do you think me so mean, so utterly abandoned, as to make myself unworthy of Vilma's love?"

"No, my dear Akosh! not by any means!" said Mrs. Ershebet, with great composure. "If I did not respect you so much, surely there would be no need of this conversation; nor would I, for the first time in my life, disobey my husband's commands. I would not receive you in my house if I were not convinced of your noble and generous nature. But, Akosh, you are rich – you have a grand future before you; and it is this which makes me anxious. Look at all the great families whom you know, and tell me how many there are with whom real love and real happiness dwell? Your life offers a thousand enjoyments – a thousand temptations: it is full of purpose and splendour; glory and popularity surround you. Have you the strength to keep your heart undivided amidst so many objects? For to be happy, Vilma wants your whole heart. The fragments of a husband's love cannot satisfy her. And besides," continued Mrs. Ershebet, when Akosh had done his best to convince her of the immutability of his love, "have you thought of all the objections which others may raise?"

"I shall be twenty-four in a few weeks, and consequently independent. My mother's property, of which I am already possessed, is enough to keep my wife and me; and if my father were to quarrel with me, I do not care. I prefer Vilma's love to all!"

"I believe you, dear Akosh," said Mrs. Ershebet; "but what will Tengelyi say? He is good and loving; but when he takes it into his head that something is opposed to his principles, no power on earth can make him yield."

"Except the power of love," said Akosh.

"No, not even that: Jonas never loved any thing or anybody as he does me; may God bless him for it! and still I cannot obtain any thing from him that is opposed to his convictions."

"Yes; but can it be against his principles to see his daughter happy? may we not hope for his blessing? As for my father, why should we despair of his consent? Nobody knows him better than Vandory does, and he told me over and over again that my father is sure to yield."

Mrs. Ershebet's fears were dispelled. Akosh told her that he intended to take Vilma to his new residence, in a neighbouring county, where she need not come into contact with his mother-in-law. Mrs. Ershebet, to whom he explained the whole arrangement of the house, rose up as her daughter entered, and pressed her to her heart.

"So, my children," said Mrs. Ershebet, taking Akosh and Vilma by the hand, "be true and constant in your love, and God will not allow you to be separated. You see Jonas and me; we had many difficulties to contend with; but we overcame them. Come, my dears," continued the good woman, kissing Vilma's forehead, "speak to each other now, and say all you have to say, for God knows when you will meet again."

"Vilma," said Akosh, taking the blushing girl by the hand, "your eyes were filled with tears when I came. Why did you weep?"

"Oh! you will laugh at me! I am a weak, frightened girl; we were all anxious about you; and when I saw you safe – "

"My angel, how happy you make me with your love! When I look into your eyes, and see their loving gaze fixed upon me; and when I hear your sweet voice; when I press your hand to my lips, and think that this hand is to be mine – that within a short time perhaps you are to be truly, wholly mine, I feel as in a dream, or as if some misfortune must happen to us, for I cannot conceive it possible for human beings to be so thoroughly happy!"

"For God's sake take care!" cried Vilma. "You are bold and careless of danger. You shun nobody; but you ought to think of us. My mother, too, was greatly frightened to-night."

"On account of my staying away?"

"Certainly! and on account of the fog. We thought you had met with some accident in the swamps of St. Vilmosh."

"If there are no greater dangers than those of the Dustbury road, you may be easy," replied Akosh, smiling. "There is not at present water enough in the swamps of St. Vilmosh to drown a child; and my only danger to-night was one which certainly does no credit to me – I lost my way. The fog was so dense that I was hopelessly lost; and perhaps I should still be erring in the wilderness but for the sound of hoofs, which I heard at a distance. I turned my horse in the direction of the sound; but when I approached the horseman, he went off in a gallop. I followed, and we made a race of it, in which he beat me. At last I saw a light, and found myself at the entrance of the village. I presume the man, who belonged to the village, mistook me for a robber. Thank goodness I met him, for without him I had no chance of finding my way."

"But how will you return?" said Vilma, anxiously. "My mother tells me that you intend going back this very night."

"Of course I must, unless I wish my expedition to be known at Dustbury. I have tied my horse to the garden gate. At midnight I must take to the saddle, and the dawn of morning finds me in the council-house. But I promise you I will not lose my way this time; and – but really things cannot remain as they are! This state of uncertainty is unbearable. I will speak to your father."

"Beware!" cried Vilma. "We cannot hope for my father's consent until your father gives his."

"But I know my father will approve of my choice. I will open my heart to him. I will tell him how dearly I love you, and that I cannot be happy without you. I will tell him that to live with you is bliss; but that to live away from you is worse than hell. And if I tell him all this, asking for his blessing and nothing else, trust me he will not refuse it. Oh, Vilma! we are sure to be happy!"

Vilma did not withdraw her hand, which Akosh seized; nor did she speak to confirm her lover in his hopes; but there was a heaven of joy in the look which she cast upon him.

"Yes, Vilma, we are sure to be happy. I have spoken to your mother, and explained everything. I have a home not far from here – it was my mother's property; and my father gave it into my hands. I have had the garden put to rights. The rooms of the little house are comfortably furnished – it is there we will live. Of course your father and mother go with us."

"And Mother Liptaka," said the girl, smiling with gladness, "she is so fond of us."

"Yes, she shall go; and Vandory is sure to come often to see us."

"Oh, he is sure to come. We will get him a large arm-chair to sit in when he comes, and we will send for a glass of fresh water from the well. Oh, it will be so beautiful. And did you not say there was a garden?"

"There is a large garden, full of roses!"

"Oh, roses!" cried Vilma, clapping her hands, "and when you come back from the hunt, or from Dustbury or Tissaret, and when I hear your horse's hoofs I will come to meet you, with roses in my hair and in my hands. I will fill your room with them. Oh, happiness!"

"Vilma!" cried Akosh, seizing her hands, and covering them with kisses, "can you think – can you believe – can you dream how happy we shall be?"

Vilma withdrew her hands, and sighed. "Who knows whether all this is to be?" muttered she.

"To be?" cried Akosh, again pressing her hands to his lips, "God vouchsafes us the sight of such bliss; He gives us a deep conviction that without this bliss our life is a curse; how, then, can you doubt?"

Vilma trembled. "Akosh!" said she, "your hands are feverish. I am sure you are ill. Pray be calm."

"Oh, Vilma, do not withdraw your hand! do not treat me as you would a stranger! Call me your love – say you are mine!"

Vilma blushed.

"Oh, tell me that you love me! tell me that you will never leave me, whatsoever may happen! tell me that you are mine own!"

"Your own!" whispered Vilma; and Akosh caught the trembling girl in his arms, and his first kiss burned on her lips.

At that moment the sound of a heavy fall, followed by a stifled groan, came from the next room. There was a tramp of feet, and all was quiet again. Vilma screamed, and sprang from her lover's embrace. Mrs. Ershebet, who had been asleep in her arm-chair, rose; and Akosh, seizing a candle, hastened to the door of the apartment.

Tzifra and the Jew, who had planned to rob the notary's house in the course of the night, and whose conversation had been overheard by Peti, had no idea of young Rety's presence. When all was quiet in the village they made their way to the house. They found the door of the kitchen locked, and the windows dark, for the shutters of that one room in which there was a light were closed. The Jew placed Tzifra as a sentinel at the gate, and commenced his operations by opening the outer door of Tengelyi's room. Having effected an entry, he produced a small lamp, lighted it, and prepared to unlock the iron safe. He did indeed hear the conversation in the next room, but he continued his work with great equanimity, because he fancied that the speakers were Mrs. Ershebet and Vandory, and because he was resolved to use his knife if they should happen to surprise him. The safe was opened. The papers and a bag of money were in his hands, and he was on his way to the door, when he felt himself seized by the throat.

"Hands off from the papers, you thief!" whispered the man who held him. The Jew thought of Tzifra; but the dying glare of the lamp, which had fallen to the floor, displayed to him the features of Viola.

When Peti informed him of the intended robbery, the outlaw hastened to the notary's house to watch it. He had no means of preventing the execution of the theft. His own life was forfeited to the law, and if he had attacked the thief before the crime was committed, the latter might have called for help, his own life would have been endangered, and the Jew might at any other time have carried out his project. Viola waited therefore until the Jew had entered the house, and sending Peti to the gate to watch Tzifra, he crept into the room, where he seized him in the act.

"Hands off the papers!" said Viola, "you're a dead man if you keep them."

Vainly did the Jew strive to shake off the iron grasp of his assailant. He tried to stab, but a blow from Viola's fist knocked him down. His fall alarmed the family. Viola took the papers and fled. Peti followed him. The Jew, still stunned from the effects of the blow which he had received, crawled through the door; and when Akosh entered he saw nothing but the open safe, a bag of money, and Viola's bunda lying on the floor.

Akosh hastened to the door. In the yard he found the Jew lying on his back and calling for help. He stooped to raise him. At that moment a shot was fired, and Akosh fell bleeding to the ground.

Ershebet and Vilma, who had followed him, screamed out. The villagers hastened to the spot, and the smith next door saw, as he left his house, a man hastening by. He raised the shout of "Murder!" and pursued the fugitive.

CHAP. X

The late events at Tissaret had not yet transpired at Dustbury; and though Mr. Rety was any thing but pleased with his son's absence (which he ascribed to political reasons), still he looked with deep-felt satisfaction on the large crowd of his champions, who bore him to the scene of the grand national fête. Those who believe that great men are unmindful of those to whom they owe their elevation, would change their opinion if they could have seen the kind and even humble bearing of the sheriff. Nay, the wish of that enthusiastic Cortes of St. Miklosh, who held the sheriff's foot, and who repeatedly exclaimed, "What a pity that we cannot carry that dear sheriff from one year's end to another!" was not only very flattering for Mr. Rety, but, considering the position of the Cortes, it might be called a wise wish. Owing to the great number of noblemen, the scene of the election was laid in the court of the council-house. When the members of the holy crown remove their court from the hall to the yard, the arrangements of what one might call the hustings are very much the same any where, no matter whether the piece is acted on the banks of the Danube or of the Theiss. A long table of rude workmanship is usually placed before the lord-lieutenant's chair; this table is as usually covered with any odd pieces of green baize that happen to be found in the council-house. The other parts of the yard are filled with the hostile factions, and from the windows of the council-house and other high places we find the fair and tender sex looking down on the scene of the great contest, where (without the assistance of either steel or flint) the finest sparks of enthusiasm are struck from the eyes of noblemen; where the magistrates of the county are created, as the world was, out of Chaos; where the faces of so many assessors not only burn, but actually sweat for their principles; and where the patriot, in beholding the enthusiasm which causes such numbers to offer their services to the country, obtains the proud conviction that Hungary will never perish, at least not for want of functionaries.