The Village Notary Part 22

"Never mind. I am sure it does not hurt me now. Don't fret, Janosh; and tell me what you were going to say."

"Oh, I was going to tell you, sir, that the weather is very bad."

"Indeed!" said Akosh.

"Yes, sir; and the potatoes which they are lifting to-day are done for.

They won't be good enough for the pigs to eat."

"Indeed!"

"Ay! and I hope none of the gentlemen will hunt on our fields. It will spoil the crops. But," said Janosh, brightening up as if a sudden thought had struck him, "I do beg and entreat you, sir, don't grieve at it."

"At what?" said Akosh, astonished.

"Don't be sulky at the wound. It's a mere trifle. I can't say it does one good; no, indeed, I myself had a taste of it in the battle of Leipzig, and afterwards in France. But it doesn't do harm noways. You see there are no bones broken."

"Why, you old fool! you don't think, surely, I fret about my wound?"

"What else have you to grieve for?" said the hussar. "I know that you gentlemen feel every thing worse than we do. When we were on the march, our young gentlemen were as delicate as ladies. They lamented and cried out at the least hurt, and some of them were always a-going to the hospital. But they got used to it; ay, indeed they did, sir. We are all equal in war; and bullets and sabres have no respect for gentle flesh and blood. Officers and men must do with little food or none, as the case may be; and when they get something to eat, they share it like brethren. You'd never believe it, sir, what doings there are in war."

Akosh smiled; but his face regained the whole of its former gloom as he said, "Believe me, Janosh, were it but for this trifling wound, I should not be sad. There are other sorrows to----"

"Other sorrows--ay, so there are! How could I possibly forget it?"

replied the old hussar, with a broad grin, for the purpose of making his master understand that his sorrows were known and appreciated--"isn't it about the notary's little Vilma? Oh! I know all about it. It's the same with love as with new tobacco, which makes your eyes run with tears from the mere looking at it. But do you know, sir, what I'd do if I were in your place?"

"What is that?"

"Why, to tell you the truth, I'd marry her."

"You big fool! So I would if _I_ had the last word to say in the matter."

"But who else has?" said the old man, shaking his head. "You won't be a cripple, sir, from this here little wound; and I am sure Vilma wouldn't take a man with three hands to your one. I'll be a cat, if Vilma will ever be any other man's wife than yours!" Saying which, he left the room, shaking his head and muttering.

"The old fellow has. .h.i.t the mark," said Kalman. "You are in no danger of losing Vilma's love. You have no cause for sorrow."

"Nor do I grieve on that account," replied Akosh, energetically; "Vilma's love is not so lightly lost as all that. But I am anxious in my mind because I'm uncertain about her future and mine."

"You're not accustomed to lie in bed. It makes you fanciful," said Kalman.

"No, I tell you, no! Never was man more inclined to look at the bright side of things than I am. I beat Vandory hollow; and in his own line too. But ever since that accident happened to me, I am altogether altered. My mind is filled with dark thoughts and bodings. I feel as if the hand of fate were upon me, and I would fain flee if I knew but whither."

"You've lost a precious deal of blood."

"No, it's not that!" said Akosh, shaking his head. "When I pressed Vilma to me, when I felt the beating of her heart, and when I was more happy than I ever thought it possible in my nature to be, it was then, Kalman, the thought struck me, whether this was not my last joy, as it was my greatest. Hitherto my thoughts of Vilma were all of hope; but since I was thus rudely waked from my dream of bliss, I have examined my position more narrowly. I cannot say that it gives me much comfort. A man cannot make his wife happy unless he places her in a proper position, in which she can respect herself and claim the respect of others. If he fails in that, the utmost he can do is to share her grief, and become a partner of her sorrows; but he will never come to make her happy. Now that's _my_ case. Vilma's father is at daggers-drawn with my parents."

Kalman sighed.

"Can I hope for my parents' consent? I don't mean a mere formal consent, which people give because they cannot help it, but a real, ready, hearty blessing, for it is that which I want for Vilma's happiness. Love scorns sufferance; it asks for sympathy; and if that is denied it, and from one's nearest relations too, my heart is lonely in spite of all love; though it may cling to the beloved object, it is in sorrow, not in joy.

Mutual love is enough for bliss; but for that quiet happiness which we look for in marriage, a great deal more is wanted than two mere loving hearts."

"I don't deny it," said Kalman; "but time works wonders, let me tell you. At present the old people have indeed a cordial, ay, a _fraternal_ hate against each other. Only think; when the Jew told Tengelyi that his papers were gone, the notary was at once struck with the curious coincidence (for _curious_ it was) of his n.o.ble descent being put in question at the very moment of the theft. He spoke of a deep laid plan, of a plot, the prime mover of which was----"

"Not my Father!" cried Akosh, anxiously.

"No, not exactly; besides, he is aware of my position in your family.

But he talked of our friend Mr. Catspaw, whom, as I take it, he thinks but a tool in the hands of a third person."

"My father is incapable of such a thing!"

"Perhaps the notary does not suspect him so much as he does your step-mother. He had much to say about the other robbery which they attempted at the curate's, when the thieves, it appears, were likewise after papers, for they touched none of the things in the room, but opened the drawer in which Vandory kept his papers. Those papers have since been removed to Tengelyi's house; and the notary told me over and over again he was sure the two robberies were done by one and the same hand, and planned by the same head. By the bye," said Kalman after a pause, "do you happen to know any thing of Vandory's papers?"

"Who, I? Of course not. I've often wondered what important papers Vandory must have, since it seems there _are_ people who wish to steal them."

"I understand," whispered young Kishlaki, "that his papers have something to do with your family."

"With _my_ family?"

"Ay, you know your father had an elder brother by your grandfather's first wife. His second wife, your own grandmother, made the poor boy's life miserable."

"Yes, and he ran away!" said Akosh. "They told me all about it. It strikes me second wives don't do in the Rety family. But what connection is there between all this and Vandory's papers?"

"I understand that that poor fellow, your uncle, went to Germany, probably to some university; for he was seventeen when he ran away, and a good scholar, they say. Now I am told that Vandory knew your uncle, and that he still knows of his whereabouts; and, in short, that the papers refer to your lost uncle Rety."

"This is indeed strange!" said Akosh.

"You know how people _will_ talk. Your father's friends.h.i.+p for Vandory, and the curate's power over him, which is even greater than his wife's influence, and a thousand other things, have made people believe that he must have some means of acting upon your father; yes, that he knows of something which it would not be convenient to tell to everybody; and since the attempted robbery, there is not a blockhead in the county but swears that there is something wrong somewhere."

"All I can say is, that this is a strange thing. Here we have two robberies in less than two months, evidently for the purpose of obtaining the papers; but then----"

Here the conversation was interrupted by Janosh, who entered with the surgeon of St. Vilmosh.

"There, sir! there's some ice to put on your arm, and here's the _sawbones_. h.e.l.l put things to right in no time."

The little man who was thus unceremoniously introduced as a "sawbones,"

cast an angry look at the hussar, walked up to his patient, examined the wound, and expressed his satisfaction with its appearance and condition; while Janosh, who always lost his temper when he saw anybody but himself administering to his master's comforts, gnashed his teeth, grumbling and discontented. He was wrong; for Mr. Sherer, a Magyar of German extraction, who had successively exercised and failed in the various callings of shoemaker and barber, and who had become a surgeon by dint of great boldness, and by the grace of a rich widow, who had lent him money to pay for his diploma, was deserving of any thing but indignation. On the contrary, he was a very amiable man, who, during the sixteen years he had lived at St. Vilmosh, had never given occasion for the slightest complaint to those who, like Janosh, had never been ill.

"A nice wound! very nice! Yes, on my honour, pretty indeed!" said Sherer. "On my word of honour, I never saw a prettier wound in my life."

"I wish you'd been in the wars," murmured Janosh, "you'd have seen something like wounds, I tell you!"

"What do you know about it?" replied Sherer, "you'd value a wound by its size. Now, on my word and honour, a large wound is not at all nice."

"No, indeed not. But a small wound is; one that heals without troubling the sawbones."

Doctor Sherer (for by that t.i.tle he loved to be called) turned away and asked:

"How has it pleased you to sleep, sir?"