The Village Notary Part 67

"Why that old fellow there is fit for any thing in a small way. He's been after one of the boys in such a manner that the poor child has got the epileptics."

The notary shuddered.

"Why do they allow him to have the children in his cell?" cried he.

Gatzi the Vagabond, stretching his limbs in his bunda, replied, with great composure:--

"They say the fellow's so desperately wicked, that whenever a man was locked in his cell, he was sure to commit some horrid crime the moment he came out of prison. As for Pishta, they've put him here because the recorder says he has no chance of living. He'll lose his head to a certainty. And the children are small and weak; what harm can they do when they get out?"

"But what are they in prison for?"

"It's a queer thing altogether!" yawned Gatzi. "There were no end of fires in the village where they come from, and it was found out that half the children in the place had a hand in it; little toads, you know, of from twelve to fourteen. Mr. Volgyeshy says it's a disease; and I dare say he's right, for one of the boys has been a making fires ever since he came here. But, whether it is a disease or not, it didn't matter. The justice had the other boys and girls soundly whipped; and as for these here two, he sent them to gaol because they're orphans. Fine plants they'll come to be. Good night, sir!"

CHAP. V.

There are moments in the life of every votary of the world's splendour and ambition in which, wearied by the obstacles which obstruct his path, and hara.s.sed by the petty failures of a thousand wishes, the more ardent because they are unreasonable, he looks back with something like regret on his past career, while the future fills his soul with fear, mingled with disgust. The rewards of ambition are scanty, its labours great.

There is profuseness in the promise, there is a n.i.g.g.ardly stinginess in the performance. The hour of doubt and sorrow comes for every one; that hour which makes us feel that "the paltry prize is hardly worth the cost." But the man of real ambition, the man of high purposes, who walks the rugged paths of greatness, not because he wishes that the crowd should stare at him, but to satisfy his own ardent mind; not because he longs for command, but because his mind thirsts for freedom,--such a man, even in his darkest hours, will never look back to the past with that intensity of bitterness which the sheriff felt, when, pacing his room, and reviewing his position, he became convinced of the fact that his past career was as false as his present existence was hollow.

His was not an unfeeling heart. In his younger years he was loving, and zealous for the love of others. Moderately accomplished, with a fine property, and a good face and figure, Rety was formed to pa.s.s his life in tranquil happiness. But there was something in his character which blasted the fair hopes of his youth. He was weak and vain, and these two qualities spoilt his appet.i.te for the good things with which fortune had so amply provided him. Once removed from his natural sphere, his life was a series of bitter disappointments. His attachment to the friends of his early youth sprang from a desire of praise and friendly conversation. When he entered into practical life, he was equally influenced by the views of his family, and by their advice; and though in the outset he was rather a pa.s.sive than an active sharer of the high plans of his father, his vanity soon caused him to covet those very distinctions which he for a time pretended to disregard. His first move in that career brought him in opposition to Tengelyi, the friend of his youth. Rety was not insensible to the meanness of the transaction. He did all he could to change his father's purpose. He told him that to treat his friend in this manner would for ever undermine his self-respect. But his father protested that all the hopes of his life were bound up in this one desire; his mother added her entreaties; and the neighbours said there never was so young and so gentlemanly a justice in the county. And when they all protested that Tengelyi had not the least chance of carrying the election, Rety wanted the strength to resist, and all that the n.o.bler feelings of his mind effected was to make him ashamed of himself. He was afraid to meet his friend; and he added to his wrongs by breaking off the acquaintance.

Thus launched into public life, accustomed to the frequent glorifications and distinctions of county life, Rety's innate vanity became of gigantic growth; and when he took his father's place of sheriff, when the Cortes of the Takshony county made him the object of their devotion, he exulted in what he considered his pride of place.

Some people accused him of want of principle. They protested that his habitual dignified reserve was the result of a deep scheme, and that his ambition was of the most insatiate and the boldest kind. They were mistaken. The sheriff was satisfied with his position. All he wished was to be the first man, the beloved and exalted man of the county. His was a modest vanity. His mind did not crave for fame, or for a grand sphere of action. He was satisfied to rise gradually and peaceably, and to be surrounded by an admiring circle of friends. The county of Takshony yielded the fullest satisfaction to these wishes, and the sheriff's aspirations were confined to its borders. It never struck him that it is a disgrace for a man to be the favourite of _all_ parties. But this tranquil enjoyment of petty honours could only last while there was no one near him to disturb it. His distinctions ceased to be grateful to him when new wishes were awakened in his heart. The death of his first wife and his second marriage served to disgust him with his repose upon his laurels.

In the choice of his first wife he had followed his heart; his second alliance was caused by ambition. The woman of his choice had no property; but she was a magnate's daughter, and celebrated for her beauty and her talents. To think of the many that would envy him if he, a widower, were to marry the most beautiful woman in the county, made him happy; and that thought was a solace to him, even when he found to his cost that his wife had other qualities besides beauty and talents.

Lady Rety felt uncomfortable in her position as the wife of the sheriff of Takshony. Though her father was poor, he had rich relations, many of whom were high in office; and the uninterrupted correspondence in which she stood with some of the greatest men in Hungary, while it dissatisfied her with her present station, caused her to strain every nerve to raise her husband to a higher rank. From the moment she entered his house, she strove to urge Rety on.

And she succeeded. He had hitherto prided himself on being the first man in the county. She told him that was a small matter indeed. She told him the county of Takshony was not worth living for; that the cheers, the exultations of the crowd were caused by his cellar, and not by his merits. The affability which his office imposed upon him as a duty became perfectly odious to Rety's mind, when his wife convinced him that it was a meanness to bow and smile to the Zatonyis, Skinners, and Kishlakis. She spurred him on; she sneered at him and his county politics, until he felt utterly wretched, demoralised, and contemptible.

He yielded, and resolved to aim at higher dignities.

That resolution was the curse of his life. A vain man wants the breath to run a long race: vanity must have applause for each word, and praise for each act. Rety knew that the road to higher things is open to those only who league themselves with one party. And when he left his batlike position, when he joined a party for good, he saw to his horror that there were some people who doubted his excellence; the criticisms of his enemies made him miserable. And when he yielded to the impulse of his ruling pa.s.sion, when he returned to his undecided position between the hostile factions, their shortlived applause was poisoned by the sneers of his wife. The sheriff's conduct was vacillating and fickle. n.o.body could be more painfully conscious of this fact than he himself was.

The part which Lady Rety played in the robbery of Tengelyi's papers was divulged by Viola's confession, and eagerly commented on by the gossips of the county. Those who credited the robber's statement believed too that the sheriff had acted in concert with his wife. But this opinion was erroneous. The sheriff knew nothing of Lady Rety's plans; and, though sensible of the importance of the papers which Vandory possessed, he was too honest, and, indeed, too weak, to consent to any thing like a crime. But when the robbery had been perpetrated, and when his wife informed him of Viola's confession, he asked her with horror whether the robber had spoken the truth. "He has!" replied she, with that boldness which experience told her was wont to awe him into submission. "I have done the thing I am accused of. But why did I do it? It was for the benefit of your family, name, and interests. Will you accuse me? Can you think of producing me in a court of justice? Will you dare to cast dishonour upon your own name? If you do, you effect your own ruin, without convincing any one of your innocence. They accuse you more than me. If you turn against me they will say, it is not because you are innocent, but because you are a knave. The only thing you _can_ do is, to hush the matter up."

Rety was miserable. But there was no alternative; and he chose to become an accessory after the fact. Mr. Catspaw's a.s.sa.s.sination increased the difficulties of his position. Some papers, of which the property was traced to Tengelyi, were found in Mr. Catspaw's room. So long as Tengelyi was thought to be the murderer, the circ.u.mstance of the papers being found might be explained by a.s.serting that the notary had lost them when he committed the crime; but if he could prove his innocence, were not those papers likely to increase the suspicions which the sheriff felt were entertained against him? And was not Tengelyi likely to rest his defence on those very suspicions?

Rety, as is usually the case with weak men, was by no means fond of the person who reigned over him; the coldness of years ripened into hate. He was estranged from his old friends; scorned, and perhaps hated, by his own children; he was exposed to danger and infamy, and all for her sake.

He could not pardon his own weakness, but he hated her the more cordially; a feeling which she returned with interest. This distracting position was still heightened by the contents of a letter which the sheriff took up at times, and threw down again, to stamp the floor and ponder on certain points which seemed to move his feelings. That letter, which was in Vandory's handwriting, was to the following purpose:--

"My dear Brother,

"You know that I am not in the habit of using this name too often. I loved it once; but I have dropped it since I saw that it would hurt your interests. I am your brother, but I have never claimed other rights than those your heart gave me; and if I now remind you of the bonds which unite us, it is to recall you from the path which leads to certain ruin.

"Samuel, you are on the brink of an abyss. The very next step you take will decide your fate for ever. If you proceed in your career, you are given over to evil. Your honour, now jeopardised, is irretrievably lost. There are crimes which defy all repentance.

Consider, my brother, whether worldly honours and riches can repay you for peace on earth and for the loss of your hopes of heaven!

"There was a time in which you professed friendship for Tengelyi; but let that pa.s.s. You thought proper to sacrifice his friendship to the cravings of your ambition. I leave it to your heart to decide whether you were right or wrong. But even if Tengelyi had never been your friend, you ought to feel for his situation. You are convinced of his innocence; you know the circ.u.mstances to which he fell a victim; you know the authors of his misfortunes; and you know those who accuse him because they wish to hide their own misdeeds. Will you suffer him to fall a prey to his enemies? Will you plunge his family in misery and ruin? I never thought that I should have to raise my voice in a case in which duty speaks so clearly. I was convinced that you, who bear so great a share in Tengelyi's misfortunes, would strain every nerve to save him. I was mistaken. The entreaties of your own son could not prevail upon you even to alleviate the sorrows of this ruined family. All that is now left to me is to remind you of your promise to me; and, though reluctantly, I must also remind you of the obligations which, according to your own words, you are under to me.

"Yes, Samuel; a review of the past will convince you that I was always a faithful brother to you: that, for your sake, I sacrificed what mankind prize as most high and valuable; and that I have a claim upon your grat.i.tude.

"I was a child when my mother died, but I was old enough to become conscious of the change in my life when our father married for the second time. Your mother was the bane of my childhood. Before she was a mother she hated me, because I reminded her of what she longed for; and when you were born, she feared lest I should share our father's property with you.

Everybody pitied me, and there were some people who wished me to hate you. But I loved you. I loved to embrace you; to hear you speak, and to teach you my childish games. I was neglected, hated, and persecuted; but I had a brother, and I hoped to be happy when he came to be a man. My childhood was so utterly wretched, that my hopes had nothing but the distant future, and the older I grew, the more insupportable became my condition. You say my father loved me. He never showed it. The slightest mark of kindness from him would have prevented me from quitting his roof as I did. My departure from home was covered by a distant relation of my mother's, who found the means and the pa.s.sports for a journey to a foreign country. He supported me during the first years of my voluntary exile. At the end of three years he died. Death surprised him with such awful rapidity, that no time was left to inform his friends of my whereabouts, or to provide for me in his will, and I found myself, at the commencement of my studies at Gottingen, thrown upon my own resources, and, though not friendless on foreign soil, I felt homesick. But I had no faith in my father's affection, and I conquered that feeling. My poverty could not shake my resolution. I worked for my living, and was happy and proud that I could support myself. I lived thus for more than ten years. My longings for my country pa.s.sed away. I all but forgot my mother's language; and when I pa.s.sed my examinations and took my degrees, I felt as a native of the foreign land in which I lived. It was at this time I saw your name in the lists of the University of Heidelberg. I left Gottingen, and hastened to meet you.

"I write this, not to reproach you. If I was useful to you, your presence was a source of happiness to me.

What I wish is, to remind you of those happy days, of those days when there were no secrets between us; when it was as unlikely that I should ask for any thing that could give you pain, as that you should refuse to comply with any of my requests.

"No one knew of our consanguinity, and many people wondered at our friendship; I was so much older than you. Even Tengelyi could never suspect that we were brothers. We agreed to return together to my father's house, and to ask his pardon for my rash and injudicious step.

"Heaven would have it otherwise. You knew the woman whose love caused me to forget all other ties, and to make her country mine. I knew my father was proud. I knew that my chosen wife would be a source of annoyance and sorrow to him. He could never be reconciled to the marriage of his son with the daughter of an artisan; and you, too, advised me to take the place which at that time was offered to me, and to remain in Germany.

"My happiness was of short duration. My wife died a few months after your departure from Heidelberg. I felt very lonely. You were far away. Tengelyi had left the place before you. My soul was sorrowful, even unto death. I resolved to turn my steps homewards, but I did not inform you of my resolution.

"I wished to see my father and his house before introducing myself to him as his son. What I saw convinced me that it was better to remain unknown as long as my father lived. My name and my claims to the property were likely to inflame your mother's hate against me, and the prodigal's return would have embittered the last days of his father. We resolved to keep the secret between us; and when your recommendation caused me to be appointed to the curacy of Tissaret, I had no reason to desire a change of my position. I lived in the house as one of the family.

My father, led by instinct, loved me like a son, and I was permitted to cheer his declining age. Your mother died, and my father's death followed soon afterwards.

In his last hour I knelt by his bed, told him who I was, and asked his pardon. He wept. He embraced and blessed me as his son. You were present, he blessed you too, and entreated us to be of one mind, and to love one another.

"After my father's death there was no obstacle to my a.s.suming my real name; but while I stayed in your house a variety of circ.u.mstances had come to my knowledge which prevented my taking that step. Our father was in debt, and you and your wife had, for some years, lived on your expectations. To claim my share of the property was to condemn you to a life of privations and regret; and to a.s.sume my name and resign my heritage was ungenerous. It was burdening you with an obligation in the eyes of the world.

Besides, I was fond of my new vocation, and I felt that the position my name would give me was likely to interfere with my duties as a clergyman. I entreated you not to reveal the secret of my birth to the world.

As it was, I could live with you, and love you as a brother, and that was all I wanted.

"The world would say that I sacrificed much to you. I sacrificed a name of which you yourself are proud, a fine property, and an enviable position; for though I am not eager for honours, I have often felt that my power of doing good to my fellow creatures would be greater if I had not resigned the advantages of my birth. Do not force me to believe that I made that sacrifice for one who is unworthy of it!

"Tengelyi's fate is in your hands. It is in your power to save him, and to restore his honour and reputation to their pristine purity. I need not tell you how you can do it. But, my brother, if you ever loved me, if our father's last prayer is indeed sacred to you, and unless you wish me to curse the moment in which my love for you induced me to sacrifice my interests for your sake,--do, for your children's sake, for the sake of your hopes of heaven, what your duty and conscience command you to do.

"BALTHASAR."

The sheriff had just read the last lines of this letter, when the door opened. His brother stood before him.

When Kalman returned from Dustbury, he went to Vandory, and gave him an account of Tengelyi's situation; on hearing which, the curate hastened to the sheriff, to intercede in behalf of his friend.

Vandory's arrival took the sheriff by surprise. He was not prepared for an interview with his brother; and, evidently confused, he held out his hand. But the curate did not seize it. His face had lost its habitually mild expression. It was solemn and severe.

"Balthasar!" said the sheriff, sadly; "will you not take the hand which I hold out to you?"

"Samuel!" replied the curate; "why should our hands meet, since our hearts are far asunder?"

The sheriff threw himself back in his chair.

"Alas!" cried he; "and you, too, repulse me! you, too, condemn me, Balthasar! you, whose heart is so full of love and pity!"

Vandory was deeply moved by the sorrow which his brother's features expressed.

"I condemn no one," said he. "Believe me, I would not have come to you if I were not convinced that your good natural disposition would triumph over these guilty pa.s.sions. But the least delay is fatal. Tengelyi is in prison----"