A Hungarian Nabob Part 27

"What nonsense you are talking, my worthy woman!" blurted out honest Boltay, awkwardly. "I've servants enough of my own, so there's no need for my ward to do manual labour. In half an hour we will set out together, and just leave the rest to me."

Mrs. Meyer would thereupon have kissed Mr. Boltay's boots again, but the worthy man escaped from the sentimental creature in time, and employed the half-hour during which he was absent from her in scouring about the slop-shops and collecting all sorts of ready-made garments, and returned home with a complete suit, which Mrs. Meyer, despite her lady-like squeamishness, was obliged to put on instead of her disgraceful rags.

And here I may mention, lest any of my readers should be blessed with as strong a credulity as Mr. Boltay, that there was not one word of truth in the tragic monologue above described. Mrs. Meyer had _not_ fallen out with her daughters; they had _not_ turned her adrift; there was no need for her to leap into the Danube. The matter stood simply thus: Abellino, since his late rebuffs, had, full of pa.s.sionate frenzy, plunged deeper and deeper into his unsuccessful enterprise. He had just demanded from Monsieur Griffard the last hundred thousand florins of the second million promised to him. Abellino was constantly attended by a spy in the service of the genial banker, who had immediately hastened to acquaint his princ.i.p.als in Paris with the latest tidings from Karpatfalva, notably of what had happened on the night of Squire John's birthday. Monsieur Griffard, learning that Squire John was at the last gasp, had sent Abellino not one, but two hundred thousand florins, for which, of course, he was naturally expected to pay back as much again at the proper time. A few days later, he learnt, from a second letter, that the uncle was still alive, and likely to live; but, by that time, the money was well on its way, and reached Abellino punctually, to his great delight.

So now he had a hundred thousand more florins than he had reckoned upon, and at such times a man is apt to feel confident. He therefore concocted a little scheme whereby Mrs. Meyer (the girl's own mother!) should artfully worm her way into the Boltay family, so as to get at her last daughter, and--we know the rest!

She was to have sixty thousand florins down if the plan succeeded. "Is it possible!" you will cry. Yes, quite possible. Say not that I paint monsters; it is life that I describe.

Mrs. Meyer, no doubt, reflected that sixty thousand florins was a nice little sum, and she meant to deposit thirty thousand of it in the savings bank on her own account, and thirty thousand on f.a.n.n.y's, and thus the pair of them would be amply provided for for life. And what was to be given in exchange for this nice sum of money? Why, nothing at all, so to speak--a mere chimera, which is no good to anybody while they have it, and only becomes profitable when it is parted with--a woman's virtue.

An hour later, the carriage stood before the door.

Master Boltay did not take his seat beside Mrs. Meyer, but went and sat by the coachman, and, taking the reins and the whip, galloped at full speed from the town, as if it were a question of some great mortal disaster which he wished to prevent.

When they reached the outskirts of the village, he dismounted from the waggon, and, with downcast eyes and much stammering, informed Mrs. Meyer that he had a little job to see to; he had to say a few words to a Jew--he meant a Greek. Would she go on to the house? He would go a quicker way among the gardens, and would be at home as soon as the waggon.

To tell a simple lie was almost more than the worthy man could manage.

No doubt it was the first time he had ever told a lie in his life, and only urgent necessity drove him to it now. It was true, however, that he did want to get to the house through the gardens a little beforehand, in order to tell Teresa and f.a.n.n.y of Mrs. Meyer's arrival, and beg them to treat her as kindly as possible, and not appear alarmed when they saw her. At the same time, he told them the cause of Mrs. Meyer's flight, and all this he explained with such brevity that he had quite finished by the time the coach was heard rumbling along the road outside, and was already standing outside in the gate to receive his guest.

The two women were by this time in the pa.s.sage. f.a.n.n.y had just come from the garden, and had taken off her straw hat, which might have impeded her mother's embraces. Teresa, too, had put aside for once that _perpetuum mobile_ which women call knitting, lest she might poke out her kinswoman's eye with it.

On perceiving her daughter, Mrs. Meyer would not descend from the coach.

Master Boltay and the coachman had to pull her down by main force, and when she did touch _terra firma_ it was only to grovel at the feet of Teresa and f.a.n.n.y till Boltay, who had no desire that she should make a scene in his courtyard for the benefit of the village loafers, raised her to her feet again.

The worthy artisan did his very utmost to keep Mrs. Meyer in an upright position, but all to no purpose, for by the time she had reached f.a.n.n.y, down she plumped on her knees again, and tried to discover f.a.n.n.y's tiny feet that she might kiss them. This greatly alarmed f.a.n.n.y, for, having been engaged in gardening from an early hour, she had put nothing on her tiny feet but two little old house-slippers, and consequently Mrs.

Meyer's strenuous endeavours threatened to reveal to the world, the disgraceful circ.u.mstance, that--she had no stockings on. Blushing at the thought of such a scandal, she stooped hastily and raised Mrs. Meyer up in her arms, whereupon the sensitive mother hid her face in her daughter's bosom, wept, sobbed, and kissed and embraced her with all her might. f.a.n.n.y simply stood still and held her, without being able to make up her mind whether she should return these tears, sobs, and embraces.

At length the united efforts of the whole family succeeded in dragging Mrs. Meyer from the hall into the parlour, where they compelled her to sit down, and made her understand, at last, that she was to live there.

At first she insisted upon sleeping on the floor; then, in the kitchen among the servants; finally, she begged and prayed that, if they were determined she should have a room of her own, it must be the tiniest of attics in which she could only squeeze by huddling all her limbs together, a room no larger than a coal-cellar, from which she might now and then get a peep at her daughter. Unfortunately, in Mr. Boltay's house there was no room of that size, except a granary.

So, at last, she had to let them be hospitable to her in their own way, and Teresa and f.a.n.n.y got ready for her a cabinet next to f.a.n.n.y's music-room. When all was ready, Teresa took f.a.n.n.y's two hands in hers, and, looking tenderly into her eyes, said in a confidential tone: "f.a.n.n.y, be kind, tender, and affectionate towards your mother! So far from avoiding, do your utmost to antic.i.p.ate, her wishes. You see that she loves you dearly, you love her too. One thing, however, I beg of you: say nothing, before her, of your approaching wedding. Keep it a secret for a time--to please me."

And f.a.n.n.y promised to keep it secret.

On the appointed day, old Karpathy--if it be right to call our intending bridegroom old--sent Palko to Boltay's, and with great delight received the message that he was to come for the ring himself.

He flew--nay, that would be saying too much for him; but he hastened to the house as fast as a pair of legs could carry him. On reaching it, he must needs embrace Mr. Boltay himself w.i.l.l.y-nilly, and insisted on being conducted to the bride at once. The thought that this wondrously beautiful damsel was ready to take him for a husband, made him positively love her. Mr. Boltay was obliged to call his attention to the fact that the marriage must be preceded by sundry legal and other formalities, which the magnate, despite the fact of his being a member of the legislature, had clean forgotten, though this only shows how completely he was carried away by the idea of his own wedding. Karpathy, therefore, had to content himself with requesting his future father-in-law--who, by the way, was a good score of years younger than himself--to keep the whole affair a profound secret in the meantime, as he had his own peculiar reasons for so doing. Boltay promised, and only after the magnate's departure, did he recollect that Teresa and f.a.n.n.y had demanded a similar promise of secrecy, so he told Teresa of the coincidence.

This circ.u.mstance confirmed Teresa's suspicions. If it was for the interest of both parties to keep the matter secret till the wedding-day, Mrs. Meyer could not possibly know anything about it, and therefore she must have another reason for coming here, for that she had a reason Teresa felt quite certain.

It was only natural too, under the circ.u.mstances, that a certain estrangement should gradually arise between Teresa and f.a.n.n.y. Teresa could not forget that f.a.n.n.y was now the bride of a millionaire, and f.a.n.n.y felt ashamed to be as familiar with her aunt and guardian as she used to be. "What will they think of me?" she thought. "They will put it all down to vaingloriousness and affectation." Thus it came about that a sort of cold reserve was observable among the members of the family.

Everybody seemed to be upon his guard; and they might have been deaf and dumb for all that they said to each other at meals.

The person who observed this atmosphere of reserve and suspicion with the liveliest attention was undoubtedly Mrs. Meyer. "The girl is not happy," she thought. "They are too severe with her. Teresa is cold and unsympathetic. The girl is bored, and feels wretched, plunged as she is up to the neck in this overbearing rural felicity. All day long she never sees any suitable young fellow of her own age, and the desires of her heart are all the stronger in consequence. Yes, something will come of this, I'm sure."

One day Teresa went to Pressburg to see how the wedding-garments were getting on--all the preparations for the marriage were being made outside the house--and as they were not ready, she felt obliged to remain in town all night, and sent Boltay back to guard the house.

Hitherto, f.a.n.n.y had never lain alone in her room. Her aunt had always slept in the cabinet, and the door between the two rooms had been left open; and on very stormy nights, when the rain beat against the window-panes, when the wind slammed the doors, and the dogs were howling in the yard below, it was nice to reflect that near her was resting a good faithful soul who, next to G.o.d, was her most watchful guardian.

This particular night, too, was very stormy. The rain poured, the tempest shook the trees, the roaming dogs barked and howled as if they were hunting down some one, and the wind shook the doors as if some one was repeatedly trying to open them from the outside. So f.a.n.n.y invited her mother to come and spend the night with her.

Mrs. Meyer came, of course, and watched her daughter undress. Why should she not? she was her own mother! She looked at her often, and she looked at her long, in fact, she could scarce take her eyes off her. The girl seemed to fill her with equal astonishment and rapture. At each moment the contours of her virginal figure revealed fresh charms. Ah! in the eyes of real connoisseurs sixty thousand florins were but a bagatelle for such a matchless creature!

At night, in the dark, when the candles are extinguished, old women can chatter their best, especially when they light upon some one who does not easily doze off and is prepared to patiently listen to all they have to say, and even to spur them on from time to time with expressions of amazement, horror, approbation, or other stimulating interjections. Such occasions are the most convenient time for recounting all that has happened ten, twenty, even fifty years ago, beginning from births and christenings, and going right on through engagements and marriages to deaths and burials, till at last a half-snore from one quarter or another puts an end to the discourse. Mrs. Meyer, too, was inclined to be talkative, and she could not have had a better opportunity than when they were both lying in bed.

"Oh, oh! my darling girl!" she began; "my sweet, pretty girl, never did I think I should be so fortunate as to sleep in the same room with you.

How oddly things come about, to be sure! Here am I with four foolish girls, each one madder than the other; for if they were not mad, they would not behave as they have behaved. Each one of them had an honourable attachment, and well for them had they stopped there! but no, they were not content, they would have the whole world at their feet, and so they lost their opportunity."

This was the first a.s.sault.

f.a.n.n.y, however, never answered a word. Mrs. Meyer, therefore, left well alone. She had made a move in the right direction, as she thought, so she now pa.s.sed on to something else.

"How happy you are in this house! I see that every one loves you.

They're a little strict, perhaps, but what good honest people! A thousand times fortunate you are to have found your way hither, where you have everything you can desire. Here you can live in perfect contentment so long as old Boltay lives. G.o.d preserve him for many years to come! And yet I fear that he may one day die suddenly, for his blood is very thick, and his father and his two brothers all died of apoplexy much about the same time of life. I know very well that he would not leave you in want--he would provide for you, of course, if he had not got a nephew who is an advocate, to whom, perhaps, he will leave everything. That is family pride, and very natural, after all. Blood, you know, is thicker than water."

This was the second a.s.sault. Frighten the girl with the thought of what will become of her if Boltay dies! "Waste your precious youth while Boltay is alive, and then it will be too late to sigh and groan over the reflection, 'How much better it would have been to have sold it for so much!'"

And the horror of it was that f.a.n.n.y understood everything quite well.

She knew what her mother was talking about, what she was aiming at, how she was tampering with and tempting her, and she fancied that, through the darkness, she could see her cunning face, and through that cunning face right into that cunning soul, and she closed her eyes and stopped up her ears that she might not either see or hear, and yet she saw and heard all the same.

"Ay, ay!" sighed Mrs. Meyer, by way of announcing that she was about to begin again.

"Are you asleep, f.a.n.n.y?"

"No," stammered the girl. She was not even sly enough to leave the question unanswered, in which case Mrs. Meyer would, perhaps, have fancied she had dozed off, and not said anything more.

"Are you angry with me for talking? If you don't like it, say so."

f.a.n.n.y, involuntarily trembling, uttered, with an effort, a scarcely audible "Go on!"

"I should scarcely have recognized you if I had seen you. If I had met you in the street, I should certainly have pa.s.sed you by without speaking. Yes, it is quite true. What a tiny little girl you were when they took you away from me! Ah! why did not all my girls remain little!

Ay, ay! how poor people's daughters do grow up to be sure! Every time a poor man's daughters grow up he has more cause for sorrow than for joy.

What will become of them? who will bring them up? Nowadays n.o.body cares about marrying. Trade brings in less and less, the expenses of housekeeping increase every day, and if a girl here and there does marry after all, what does she gain by it? Why, a worthless sot of a husband, and a life of misery, care, and anxiety. She'll go from bad to worse, have to slave like a maid-of-all-work, be saddled with a lot of wicked children, and when she gets old they'll pitch her into the street. Ay, ay! the best thing a mother could do for her daughter when it is born would be to bury it!"

Thus she emphasized, for the girl's benefit, all the difficulties of marriage, and laid stress upon the more disagreeable features of domestic life. And the girl knew quite well why she spoke to her in this way, for that one word, "How beautiful you are!" had suddenly enlightened her mind, and she also began to entertain the suspicion which, by the way, Teresa had never dared to communicate, that her mother had come to her as a tempter.

"Are you cold, f.a.n.n.y?"

"No," stammered the girl, huddling up beneath the bed-clothes.

"I thought I heard you shiver."