by Mór Jókai
CHAPTER VIII.
A WOMAN'S REVENGE.
"Aranka, my dear girl, if you are looking for your father, you willlook in vain; he won't come back. My husband has just received aletter from Pest. He says your dear father's affair is going badly.The consistory forbids his appearing in the pulpit, and he has beensummoned to Vienna. He will be sentenced to ten years, at least, andsent to Kufstein. Yes, my dear, there's no help for it. But youmustn't weep so. There is a good Father in heaven, and he will carefor the forsaken. God be with you, my dear!"
With this cheerful morning greeting the wife of Michael SzalmAis, thenotary, saluted the pastor's daughter, as the latter came to the doorof the little parsonage for the hundredth time and looked up thestreet along which she had seen her father drive away two weeksbefore.
The young girl went back into the house, sat down at her work-table,and resumed her sewing. She had hardly done so, however, when acarriage drove up and stopped in front of the parsonage. She sprangto her feet and hastened joyfully to the door. Was it really herfather come back to her? Upon opening the door she started back insurprise. Not her father, but the widowed Baroness Baradlay, dressedin deep mourning, which accentuated her pallor, stood before Aranka.
The girl bowed and kissed with deep respect the offered hand of thehigh-born lady.
"Good morning, my child," said the visitor. "I have come to have atalk with you on certain matters that must be settled between us."
Aranka offered the lady a seat on the sofa. The widow motioned to thegirl to be seated opposite her.
"First," she began, "I must inform you, to my great regret, that yourfather has got into trouble on account of his prayer at my husband'sfuneral. I am sorry, but it can't be helped. He will probably lose hispastorate, and that is not the worst of it."
"Then the rumours that we hear are true," sighed the girl.
"Even his personal liberty is in danger," continued the lady. "He maybe imprisoned, and if so, you will not see him for a long time."
Aranka bowed in silence.
"What will you do when you are left alone and thrown upon your ownresources?"
"I am prepared for the worst," was the calm reply.
"Pray look upon me as your well-wisher and would-be benefactress,"said the widow. "My bereavement is the indirect cause of yourmisfortune, which I should like to make as light for you as possible.Speak to me unreservedly, my child. Whither will you go, and what doyou intend to do? I will help you all I can."
"I shall stay here, madam," returned the other, straightening herselfwith dignity and calmly meeting her visitor's look.
"But you cannot remain here, my dear, for the parsonage will be handedover to another."
"My father owns a small house in the village; I will move into it."
"And how will you support yourself?"
"I will work and earn money."
"But your work will command only a mere pittance."
"I shall be content with little."
"And when your father is held in confinement in a strange city, shallyou not wish to be near him? You may count on my aid; I will providefor your support."
"I thank you, madam, but if I must be alone I can endure my lonelinessbetter here than in a strange place; and if I am to be separated frommy father, it is all one whether a wall three feet thick parts us, ora distance of thirty miles."
"But I wish to make amends, as far as possible, for the misfortunewhich my bereavement has indirectly brought upon you. I will make suchprovision for you as to render you independent. Being afellow-sufferer in my loss, you shall also share a portion of mywealth. Put your trust in me."
The girl only shook her head, without speaking.
"But pray remember," pursued the baroness, "that good friends forsakeus in misfortune, and all are but too prone to censure theunfortunate, if only as an excuse for withholding their aid. You areyoung and beautiful now, but sorrow ages a person very rapidly. In anew environment you would meet with new people, while here every wordand look is sure to injure and distress you. Accept my profferedassistance, and you shall at all times find a friend and protectressin me."
At this the girl rose to her feet. "I thank you, madam," said she,"for your kindness; but I shall remain here, even if I have to go intoservice in some peasant's family in order to earn my bread. You knowthe history of this ring,"--showing the ring which she wore on thelittle finger of her left hand. "This ring holds me here, immovable.He who placed it on my finger said to me, as he did so: 'I am goingout now into the world as a wandering pilgrim; I am driven forth; butwhithersoever fate may lead me, I shall circle around this spot as aplanet about its sun. Do you, however, stay here. I shall come back toyou some day. Therefore, madam, you will understand that I cannot goaway; that no promises, no threats can move me. I will suffer want, ifI must, but I will remain here."
Baroness Baradlay now rose from her seat also, and took in her own thegirl's hand on which was the ring. "Do you, then, love my son?" sheasked; "and don't you believe that I love him too? One of us must givehim up. Which shall it be?"
Aranka, in despair, sought to free her hand; but the other held itfast. "Oh, dear madam," she cried, "why do you ask me that question?Whichever one of us dies first will give him up. Do you wish to makeme take my own life?"
The widow released Aranka's hand and stood looking into her eyes witha kindly smile. "No," she replied, "I wish him to belong to both ofus. He shall be yours, and you shall be mine. You shall be mydaughter. Come home with me and keep me company until my son returns;then you shall love each other, while I will content myself with whatcrumbs of love you may have to spare."
The young girl could not believe her ears; she thought she must bedreaming. "Oh, madam," she cried, "what you say is too beautiful tobe true. I cannot understand it."
The baroness sighed. "Is my face then so cold," she asked, "and myvoice so chill, that you cannot think me capable of wishing yourhappiness? But I will convince you." So saying, she drew the girl toher side on the sofa and took a letter from her bosom. "Look here,"said she, "I have just received a letter from Russia, from my son,whom I have called home from St. Petersburg. I restrained my desire toopen this letter, and brought it to you, that you might open it andread it to me. Are you aware what that means in a mother?"
Aranka bowed her head and touched the other's hand with her lips.
"There, take the letter," said the baroness, "and read it aloud. Youknow the writing?"
Aranka received the letter, but had no sooner looked at the addressthan the glad smile vanished from her face. She shook her head andturned her large eyes with surprised inquiry upon the baroness.
"What is the matter?" asked the latter.
"That is not his writing," stammered the girl.
"What do you say?" demanded the other. "Let me look again; I ought toknow my son's handwriting. That is his _B_; that strong downwardstroke, the manly firmness in every letter--"
"Are very cleverly imitated," interrupted Aranka, completing thesentence.
"But look again," urged the baroness; "the very words of theaddress--_A ma trA"s-adorable mA"re_--can only have been written by myson. Open the letter and you will be convinced."
A look of joy lighted up the young girl's face when the beginning ofthe letter met her eyes. "That is really his writing,--'My dearmother.'"
"There, didn't I tell, you so!" declared the other in triumph.
But, as when a cloud suddenly passes over the sun, Aranka's brightface lost its radiance the next moment.
"What is it this time?" asked the baroness.
"Only those first three words are in his hand; the rest is written bysome one else, and in French."
"By some one else? Oh, read quickly!"
The letter trembled in the girl's hands. "'Dear madam,'" she read;"'forgive the well-meant deception committed by me on the cover ofthis letter. To spare you unnecessary alarm, I have imitated myfriend's handwriting--for which I must go to the galleys if you betrayme. A-dA?n wished
to write himself, but after the first three words thepen fell from his hand. He is still very weak. Don't be alarmed,however. He was in great danger, but is now happily on the road torecovery. In two weeks more he will be able to resume his journey.'"
"He was in great danger!" exclaimed the anxious mother. "Oh, read on,read on!" Despite her own agitation, she did not fail to note howdeeply the girl was affected. Aranka was forced to use the utmostself-command in order to go on with the letter.
"'I will write you everything without reserve, just as it occurred.When A-dA?n received your letter calling him home, he dropped everythingand hastened to set out. I resolved to accompany him as far as theborder, but would that I had not! Then he would have stopped over atSmolensk, and would not have been overtaken by a snow-storm; we shouldnot have been chased by wolves and compelled to save our lives byskating for two hours down the Dnieper.
"'Your son A-dA?n, my dear madam, is a son to be proud of. When one ofmy skates came off in the course of our headlong flight, and I wasleft helpless by the accident, he turned, single-handed, against ourpursuers, and, with dagger and pistols, warded them off while Ibuckled on my skate again. He killed four of the pack, and I owe it tohim that I am now alive.'"
This praise of her son brought a flush of pride to the mother's cheek;but she saw that the maiden's colour left her face entirely as sheread on, and that her agitation nearly made her drop the letter. Thegirl's love was not that of the Spartan mother, and the heroic deed ofdaring dismayed her while it delighted the other.
"'Then we resumed our flight, and it was a race for life, with a packof two hundred wolves at our heels.'"
"Heavens!" exclaimed the mother, herself now greatly alarmed. Arankaread on with halting accents.
"'We were nearing a place of refuge,--a military guard-house,--when wecame to a dangerous spot, where some fishermen had cut a hole in theice. Not noticing the place, as it was frozen over with a thin sheetof ice, we broke through and sank.'"
"Merciful God!" cried the baroness, losing her self-control. Arankasank back in a faint and was with difficulty restored to consciousnessby the ministrations of her companion. At length the two, holding theletter before them both, read on in silence.
"My amulet saved my life. It was a parting gift from my mother, and Ihad tried to induce my friend to wear it, but he would not. 'My starsare my protection,' said he, and confessed that his stars were lovingwomen's eyes. When we had been rescued from our cold bath by thefishermen, I remained constantly by A-dA?n's side until he was able toanswer my question, 'Do your stars still shine upon you?' 'All four ofthem,' said he."
At this each of the readers felt the electric thrill that ran throughthe other.
"A-dA?n was taken with a fever as a result of this mishap, but he is now happily over the worst of it. I am at his side night and day. This morning he was determined to write a letter, but it was too much for him, as you see. I was obliged to take the pen and write for him. He is entirely out of danger, and in two weeks we shall resume our journey. Until then I beg A-dA?n's stars not to weep on his account; for under Russian skies star-tears turn to snow, and of snow we have already more than enough.
"LEONIN RAMIROFF."
The two pairs of stars looked at each other and beamed with heavenlyjoy. Baroness Baradlay drew Aranka to her and kissed her on theforehead, whispering tenderly: "My daughter!"