The Village Notary Part 5

"Perhaps some poor fellow from the village," said Akosh, caressing the dog.

"The fellow has heard our conversation. I am positive he came to listen!" said Lady Rety, greatly excited, and to the signal annoyance of Mr. Catspaw.

"I cannot think he did," said Etelka. "Mr. Catspaw is indeed known to be the worthiest person alive, but I cannot believe that anybody will creep up in the darkness to listen to him, and in October too."

The attorney frowned. "My dear Miss," returned he, "you do not understand these things. We were discussing matters of great moment--there are several suits now pending----"

"Ah! I understand!" cried Akosh, laughing. "You mean to say that the counsel for the other side has lurked among the trees to find out the plans of our crafty attorney. But why not arrest the culprit? Gallant Mr. Catspaw, I understand, does not shrink from any odds."

"I!" said the little man, trembling, "I should----"

"Of course. Why should you not? Come along with me. If there's any one hidden in these bushes, we will have him out in no time!"

"I really beg your pardon, _domine spectabilis_!" cried Mr. Catspaw, in great distress, while Akosh pulled him along; "but, _domine spectabilis_, we are quite defenceless, and the night is very dark--and--and--shall I call for help?"

"Nonsense! The fellow will be gone long before anybody can come to a.s.sist us. Come along, dear sir! Let my mother and Etelka go home, while you and I, heroes both, brave all dangers. Let us conquer or die, or run away. Is it not so, most intrepid of fee-taking counsel?"

Mr. Catspaw was by far too much engrossed with fear for his personal safety to care for the jokes of his companion; nevertheless he protested that it might be advisable to send for the servant. But Lady Rety entreated him to accompany Akosh; and, after some further delay (for he wisely thought his best plan would be to give the listener a good start), the little attorney at length b.u.t.toned his coat with great deliberation, and loudly protesting that he had no fear, as far as his own safety was concerned, he followed Akosh into the thicket, while Lady Rety and Etelka directed their steps to the house: the dog, thinking perhaps that one beating was enough for one evening, accompanied them.

Young Rety and his reluctant companion were meanwhile beating the bushes in search of the mysterious stranger. Mr. Catspaw was vastly comforted by the darkness, which his instinct taught him would defeat the plans of any a.s.sa.s.sin who might fire at them; and, besides, if by ill-luck they should fall in with a stranger, he was firmly resolved to run away and call for a.s.sistance. But there was little chance of any unpleasant _rencontre_, for, what with the darkness and the brushwood, and the time which had been lost by Mr. Catspaw's prudent delay, Akosh could not expect to do any thing, except to annoy his mother's man of business.

And annoy him he did, by madly rus.h.i.+ng into the thickest part of the wood, and causing the branches of the trees to strike Mr. Catspaw's face, until at length they arrived at the furthest border of the plantation. Here Akosh stopped, and, turning to Catspaw, who stood breathless by his side, he said, "I'll take my oath there is no one in the wood; will you now confess that you were mistaken, or frightened by a hare or partridge, or some such formidable animal?"

"It was a sound of human footsteps; Lady Rety is my witness, and I----"

"Of course, if that is the case, let us go back and beat through another part of the plantation, until the fellow is caught."

"Don't, don't!" sighed Mr. Catspaw. "I am sure no one is there; goodness knows our search was minute enough. I can scarcely stand on my feet,"

added the little attorney, wiping his forehead.

"Very well, sir, if you are satisfied that n.o.body is hid here, I am so too. But let us cross the ditch; there is some chance of finding him on the other side." Saying which, Akosh leaped over the ditch, while Mr.

Catspaw descended into the depth of the cutting, from whence a few bold gymnastic evolutions brought him to the other side. Having joined his companion, the two men walked silently on, and disappeared at length round the corner of the garden-wall.

All around was hushed. The night was as dark and comfortless as October nights usually are. The brilliant setting of the sun was followed by a looming and cloudy sky. The wind sighed over the boundless heath, shaking the yellow leaves from the trees. Here and there a solitary star, or the watch-fire on the far pasture-land, threw a faint and melancholy light on the scene. The footsteps of the two men were lost in the distance, and the stillness of night was at intervals interrupted only by the distant barking of a dog, or a shepherd's song floating on the breeze, when a man rose from the ditch close to the place where Akosh and Catspaw had crossed. His broad-brimmed hat, and the rough sheep-skin which hung over his shoulders, were enough to hide his features and stature, even if the night had been clearer. The man listened to the song as it rung through the stilly night, and, after looking cautiously round to satisfy himself that no one was near, he stepped out of the ditch and hastened towards the fire.

But it is time we should return to Tengelyi, whom we left just when, accompanied by his daughter, he crossed the threshold of his humble dwelling.

Reader, did you ever know domestic happiness? did you merely see it in others, or are you among the blessed whose homes are heavens of peace and love? If sacred family love is known to you; if you are convinced that this, the most precious gift of heaven, can only fall to the share of a pure heart; if you feel that all the distinctions, all the glory we struggle for, all the wealth we covet, are an nothing to the joy and love of the domestic hearth; then you will enter the notary's house with a feeling of reverence, and you will pray that happiness and peace may continue to dwell there.

After Tengelyi sat down, he said to his daughter, "Now tell me the great secret, for you must know," added he, addressing his wife, "that Vilma would not allow me to enter the house until I consented to pa.s.s a bill of indemnity in her behalf.'

"I know," said Mrs. Ershebet; "and I consented only to please my daughter. Speak, Vilma!"

But Vilma did not speak. She looked vainly for a form of words in which to prefer her suit.

"Am I to be informed of the matter or not?" said Tengelyi, impatiently.

"She cannot have committed a crime!"

"Of course not, dear father. But you promised me not to be angry."

"To be angry? do I look like a tyrant? Tell me girl, where have you learned to fear your father?"

"No, father, I am not afraid of you," said Vilma. "If I did wrong, I know you will tell me that it was wrong, and I shall have your pardon for it. But I do not think I did wrong. You know there was an execution in the village, and you went away with Vandory, for you said you could be of no use to the poor people, and their sorrow grieved you too much.

Mother and I remained at home, and saw all the horror. They took our neighbour's cows, and from John Farkash they took the pillows and blankets of his bed, and Peter's widow (you know she used to sell eggs, and do jobs in the town,) has lost her donkey. The son of the woman Farkash would not allow them to take his mother's bed away, and they beat him and bound him with cords, and took him to the justice's. They say he is going to prison to-morrow. We saw and heard all this,"

continued Vilma, wiping her eyes, "and we wept bitterly. Mother said it must be so, for the taxes are put on by law, and these poor people were not able to pay their dues. But I prayed that you might come home soon, for you read so often in your law-books, and I should say there _must_ be some little law in those books providing that something at least ought to be left to the poor who cannot pay their taxes, hard though they may work."

"You are wrong, dearest child," said Tengelyi, "you would vainly look for such a law in my books. The nation have been so busy for the last 800 years, that they have not found time to make such a law."

"Have they not? Then I am afraid their laws will do little good, for they want G.o.d's blessing!" said Vilma, with a deep sigh. "But though the law may not, our Creed a.s.suredly does command us to pity our neighbour's sufferings, and therefore I went to Mrs. Farkash to see whether I could not help them in some way. We are not rich, but we can do something for an honest man, and the Farkashes were always good neighbours."

"You did right, my daughter," said Tengelyi, whose eyes filled with tears. "You did right; may G.o.d bless you! I, too, have eaten the bread of poverty; and I will not shut my door against my neighbour."

"I thought so, too," said Mrs. Tengelyi, pressing her husband's hand.

"When I came to the house," continued Vilma, "I found them all in despair. Old Farkash sat on the floor, leaning his head on his hands, and looking at the empty stable; his wife was bewailing the loss of her son. The lesser children sat by the stove: they could not understand what had happened, but they wept with their mother. In the room were a few broken chairs; and the straw from the bed was spread about the floor, just as if the German soldiers had sacked the house. And the neighbours were there, comforting the poor family, and cursing the officers;--my heart bleeds to think of it! I did my best to console Mother Farkash. I promised her that the curate should talk to the sheriff, and that her son should not go to prison; for she was most afraid of that, saying, that all men who were sent to prison, were sure to come back robbers. She thanked me for my promise, but declined our a.s.sistance; for she said, if her son were free, they could manage to go on. 'We poor people,' said she, 'stand by each other; one of my neighbours gives me some bedding, another gives me bread, and a third, a few pence; and so, mayhap, the Lord will help us on. If Mr. Kenihazy had paid for the two horses which my husband sold him at Whitsuntide, we would never have come to this. But there's the misfortune. We are distrained for the taxes, and yet we are not allowed to claim our own.

But at the Restauration[5], I mean to go and speak to the Lord-Lieutenant. At the last Restauration, he helped several of our neighbours, who had claims on Mr. Skinner, the justice.'

[Footnote 5: General elections.]

"'Oh, you are well off, you are!' said old Mother Liptaka. 'You have got a husband, and Missie tells us that John shall not go to prison, and he will work for you. Besides, you are an honest woman; but what is to become of Viola's wife? She is dying,--she, and her baby, and the little lad, and she has got a sentinel in the room, for the justice has ordered them to arrest every one that comes near the house--let alone entering it; for he says they are Viola's pals, every man of them. And that same Susi was a pretty girl and a good girl, when a child; it is not her fault, is it, that her husband is a robber? Missie, if you could help poor Susi, 'twere a good deed!'

"I inquired after Susi," continued Vilma, "and understood that Viola, formerly a wealthy peasant, had become very poor, for that he, as a robber, could not attend to his husbandry. His cattle and his ploughs were taken away, his fields are untilled, and his poor wife is left alone with two children. She is ill, almost dying. I told them to show me to the house, for I knew they would not suspect me of being an accomplice of Viola."

"You were right," said the notary; "pray go on." Thus encouraged, Vilma continued,--"The misery of the Farkash family was indeed as nothing to the wretchedness which I saw at Viola's. On approaching the house, I was struck by a fearful noise. The justice has been informed that Viola intends to see his family this very night; he has put three haiduks into the house, ordering them to lie there and to catch Viola in case he should enter. The haiduks were drunk, and would not allow anybody to leave the house, lest Viola might be informed of the snare that was laid for him,--although their drunken noise rendered this precaution perfectly superfluous. The house was quite empty; nothing was left but a heap of ashes on the hearth, and the seat by the stove, which is of clay, and which could not be taken away; every other particle of furniture that might have been there had fallen into the clutches of the justice. When I entered the kitchen the corporal recognised me at once, for he has often brought letters to our house. He came up to me, and asked me what I wanted; and on my telling him that I had come to look after the sick woman, he said it was scarcely worth while, and that the woman might be dead, for all he knew to the contrary; but if she lived till to-morrow, she would be a widow by the hangman's grace. His comrades laughed at this rude joke, but when I insisted on seeing the woman Viola, the corporal took me to the room where she lay. I asked them to remain quiet, though only for a little while, and entered the apartment, which was so dark that it was a good while before I could discern any thing. The poor thing lay in a corner on a heap of musty straw. The baby and the little boy lay by her side. They did not speak.

The noise of the revellers outside contrasted painfully with the silence in the room. The woman was asleep, and so was the baby, but the little boy knew me, and creeping up to me and nestling in my arms, he told me the history of their misfortunes. Three days ago his mother had fallen sick. She had a bed to lie on; but early this morning the justice came, and ordered her to pay one hundred and fifty florins. She had no money, and could not pay; the justice cursed her, and told the haiduks to take everything away. His mother was driven from her bed, and old Liptaka was kicked out of doors by the justice, who told the haiduks to sit and drink in the kitchen. 'After this the justice went away; and mother has been in a sad state ever since,' added the poor boy, weeping; 'and I have made her a bed of the straw which they tore from our good bed. It was all that mother could do to creep up and lie on the straw, and she has been wandering in her mind ever since. The justice and the soldiers said terrible things. They said father would come in the night, and they would hang him. Mother has gone on about that. I was quite frightened.

After that, my little brother fell a-weeping, and it struck me that he had not had anything to eat. As for me, I was very hungry,--so I stole out to ask our neighbours to give me some bread; but they would not, for the justice has said that no one should give us any thing, and that we are to die like dogs! I brought nothing but some water, and a few flowers which I broke from the hedge for my little brother to play with, for I would not come back empty-handed.' That is the boy's story. He wept bitterly while he told it."

"Poor little fellow!" said Tengelyi, "his is indeed an early knowledge of life's bitterness;" and, turning to Mrs. Ershebet, he added, "I trust you sent some relief to those wretched people. I'll go at once and see what can be done for them."

"Do not trouble yourself, father, dear," interposed Vilma. "We did not send them any thing; we have brought them to this house."

"To my house!" exclaimed Tengelyi. "Did you consider the consequences?"

"I did. I considered that they were sure to perish if they remained where they were; and I entreated the corporal, and implored him, and vowed that I would bear the blame, until he gave me his permission to remove the woman to this house. Nay, more, he helped me to carry her."

"You were right in taking them away," said Tengelyi, walking to and fro, evidently distressed; "I only wish you had taken them to some other place. I would willingly pay for any thing they want. But here! the robber's family in the house of the notary of Tissaret! What will my enemies say to that?"

"But, father, you often told me that we need not care for the judgment of mankind, if we know and feel that we do that which is good and right."

"Of course, if we are quite convinced of that. But they tell me Viola is pa.s.sionately fond of his wife. She is ill, and he will brave all dangers to come and see her. What am I to do? My duty, as a public functionary, forces me to arrest him, while my feelings revolt at the idea."

"I know you will not arrest him, dearest father," said Vilma, softly.

"You cannot do it."

"And suppose I allow him to escape, what then? I shall lose my place. I bear the stigma of being the accomplice of a robber, and nothing is left to us but to beg our bread in the streets."

"No, father, that will never be!" said Vilma, confidingly, though her eyes filled with tears. "G.o.d cannot punish you for a good action."

"G.o.d may not, but men will sometimes. But do not weep," added Tengelyi, seeing his daughter's tears, "we cannot now undo what you have done, and perhaps my fears are worse than the reality."