A Hungarian Nabob Part 37

And indeed he was in evil case, cooped up on that level ground, where there was neither stream nor hiding-place which might shelter him from his pursuers. Sideways, indeed, lay an arm of the river Berettyo, well-known to crayfish catchers and summer-bathers as a broad and deep stream, and well would it be for him now to have that water between him and the hounds, for the foxhound will not swim if he can help it, but it looked very much as if they would surround him, and tear his skin off his back before he could reach it.

And now it was easy to perceive that his pace was diminis.h.i.+ng, as he ran in and out among the hayc.o.c.ks; soon he must be completely surrounded.

"Seize him, Fecske! seize him, Rajko! seize him, Armida!" resounded from all sides.

The dogs rushed after him with all their might.

The two white dogs were nearest to him; like the wind they rushed after him, their long slender necks straining forward as if to let the fox know that a few more minutes and they, would be upon him.

Suddenly the fox stood still. Sweeping his tail beneath him, and gnas.h.i.+ng his teeth, he faced round upon the hounds, who, taken unawares, stopped in front of him, snarling viciously, and wagging their upturned tails. The hunted beast took advantage of this momentary respite, and with a side spring slipped between the two white dogs, and tried to find a refuge more to the right.

Again they were all after him.

Now Count Gregory's Armida got nearest to him.

"Bravo Armida! The victory is yours."

Another leap. The fox suddenly crouched down, and Armida bounded over him, only perceiving when she had run twenty paces further that the fox had remained behind.

And now they all suddenly turned to the right.

"Seize him, Fecske!" cried Mike Kis.

And Fecske really did seize the fox; but the fox in his turn seized Fecske, and bit his ear so savagely that the dog immediately let go again: so that was all poor Fecske got.

And now the fox, with all his might, made straight for the Berettyo. The crafty old fellow had succeeded in checkmating all his pursuers and reaching his lurking-place. The hounds were now far behind him.

But now old Matyi, the wolf-grey, solitary foxhound, came to the front, and showed what he could do. Hitherto he had not very much exerted himself, but had let the others do what they could. He knew very well that a single dog would never catch this fox--nay, two and even three would be no match for him. It was an old fox, and they knew each other, for they had often come across each other here and there. Now then, let him show his enemy what he was made of.

Again the fox practised his old wiles, darting aside, crouching down, gnas.h.i.+ng his teeth: all in vain--he had now to do with a practised foe.

If only Squire John could now have seen it all! Ask an enthusiastic fox-hunter how much he would have given for such a sight?

And now the fox stopped short again in mid career, and crouched down; but Matyi did not leap over him as the flighty Armida had done, but, as the fox turned towards him with gnas.h.i.+ng teeth, he snapped suddenly at him from the opposite side like lightning, and in that instant all that one could see was the fox turning a somersault in the air. Matyi, seizing him by the neck had, in fact, tossed him up, and scarcely had he reached the ground again when he was seized again by the skin of his back, well shaken, and then released. Let him run a little bit longer, if he likes!

"Bravo, Matyi! bravo!" shouted everybody present.

This exclamation encouraged Matyi to show the spectators fresh specimens of his skill. By a series of masterly manuvres he turned the fox back towards the hunters, in order that they might the better see him mount head over heels into the air again. He never held the dangerous beast in his jaws for more than one moment, for he knew that in the next the fox could seize him, and dogs have their own peculiar ideas of a fox's grip, for it is the bite of all other bites they like the least. He contented himself therefore with harrying and worrying him as much as possible without coming to too close quarters till he should have succeeded in wearing him out. The fox no longer defended himself, but simply ran straight on, limping and stumbling on three legs. Every one fancied that it was now all up with him, when, suddenly, he made another dart sideways, and perceiving a herd of oxen on the high-road, made straight towards them.

Here a pretty high fence confronted the hunters, which they were obliged to take, and which gave both the ladies another opportunity of showing their agility; both of them successfully cleared it. At that moment they perceived a horseman coming towards them on the high-road, whom, owing partly to the high bushes and partly to their attention being directed elsewhere, they had not observed before.

"'Tis he!"

Flora's face that instant grew redder than ever, while f.a.n.n.y's turned as pale as death.

"'Tis he!"

Both of them recognized him at the same time. 'Tis he, the loving husband of the one, the beloved ideal of the other.

Flora rushed towards him with a cry of joy. "Rudolf! Rudolf!" she cried.

f.a.n.n.y, in dumb despair, turned her horse's head, and began to gallop back again.

"Good G.o.d!" cried Rudolf, whose face still burned with the kisses of his loving wife, "that lady's horse has run away with her!"

"That is Madame Karpathy!" cried Flora in alarm; and she whipped up her horse in the hope of overtaking her friend.

The lady was galloping helter-skelter across the plain. Every one fancied that her stallion had run away with her. Flora, old Palko, Mike Kis, and Count Gregory vainly sped after her; they could not get near her: only Rudolf was beginning to catch her up.

And now the stallion had reached the narrow d.y.k.e, and was galloping along it; on the other side of it, six fathoms in depth, were the waters of the Berettyo. A single stumble, and all would be over. But now Rudolf was catching her up, and he was the best horseman of them all. And now he was level with her. It was the first time in his life that he had seen this woman. He had no idea that he had met her many and many a time before, for he had never noticed her. The stallion, with foaming mouth, rushed on, with the lady clinging to him. Her face was pale and her bosom heaved. It was just at this moment that the young man came abreast of her; her flying locks flapped his face: and she had a hundredfold more reasons now than ever for wis.h.i.+ng to die at that moment. This youth, this ideal of her romantic dreams, was the husband of her dearest, her n.o.blest, her loveliest friend.

Rudolf was obliged to give up all idea of stopping the maddened steed.

Instead of that, and, just as f.a.n.n.y fell back half-swooning from her saddle, he swiftly seized her in his muscular grip, and pulled her right on to his own saddle. The lady fainted away over his shoulder, and the horse dashed wildly onwards.

CHAPTER XIV.

MARTYRDOM.

After this event Lady Karpathy was very seriously ill; for a long time her life was even despaired of. Karpathy summoned the most famous doctors in the world to attend to her, and they consulted and prescribed for her, but none of them could tell what was the matter. It is a great pity that n.o.body knows how to prescribe for the heart.

For a long time she was delirious, and talked a lot of nonsense, as sick people generally do whose fevered brains are full of phantoms.

A soft smooth hand stroked her burning forehead from time to time. It was the hand of Flora, who watched by the sick-bed night and day, denying herself sleep, denying herself even the sight of her husband, despite the terrifying suggestions of Dame Marion, who maintained that Madame Karpathy was sickening for small-pox.

If that had been all the poor woman was suffering from, how little it would have been!

At last Nature triumphed. A young const.i.tution usually struggles more severely with Death than an old one, and throws him off more quickly.

f.a.n.n.y was delivered from death. When first she was able to look around her with an unclouded mind, she perceived two persons sitting by her side; one was Flora, the other--Teresa.

Though nothing in the world would have induced Teresa to call upon f.a.n.n.y as a visitor, the very first rumour of her severe illness brought her to her side. She arrived on the very day when a change for the better had set in, and relieved Flora by taking her turn in the nursing.

Nevertheless, Lady Szentirmay would not depart till she knew for certain that her friend was out of danger, and therefore resolved to wait a few days longer.

So f.a.n.n.y regained life and consciousness; she no longer chattered oddly and unintelligibly, but lay very still and quiet. She was cured, the doctors said.

And now she could coldly review the whole course of her life. What was he, what had she become now, and what would become of her in the future?

She was the scion of a wretched and shameful family, from whose fate she had only been s.n.a.t.c.hed by hands which, wont to lift themselves in prayer to G.o.d, had s.h.i.+elded and defended her against every danger, and prepared for her a peaceful and quiet refuge, where she might have lived like a bird of the forest in its hidden nest.

This refuge she had been forced to quit, in order to take her place in the great world--that great world which had so much in it that was terrifying to her.

Then she had sought a woman's heart that could understand her, and a manly face that might serve her for an ideal.

And she had found them both--the n.o.ble-hearted friend, who had been so good, so kind to her, far better and kinder than she had dared to hope; and the idolized youth, of whose heart and mind the world itself had even grander and finer things to say than she herself had ever lavished upon him. And this woman, and this idol of a man were spouses--and he happiest of spouses too!

What must her portion be now?