When Rudolf went to bed that night, he found on a table in the antechamber of his bedroom a bouquet of flowers in a handsome china vase, in the midst of which he immediately distinguished the unique and magnificent dahlia.
And he thought he understood.
Next day the men were occupied all the morning with so-called official business, and who would think of a woman in the midst of such grave matters?
In the afternoon, rainy weather set in, whence arose the double disadvantage that Squire John was doubly as sleepy as usual, and that f.a.n.n.y was unable to seek refuge in the garden where, beneath the protection of the open air, she was better protected against the threatened danger.
She felt the fever in every limb. She knew, she felt that the man whom already she madly adored wanted to make her love him. If this was sport on his part, what a terrible sport! and if it were reality, how much more terrible still!
When there was a knock at the door she was scarce able to say, "Come in." The door opened, and Rudolf entered.
f.a.n.n.y was not pale now, but her face burned like fire when she perceived Rudolf. She immediately arose from her rec.u.mbent position and confusedly begged him to excuse her for a moment; she would be back in a short time, and in the mean time would he occupy her place, and with that she fled from the room. She wanted to speak to her lady-companion, she said.
She traversed three or four rooms without perceiving a soul. G.o.d only knew where everybody had gone. Not a domestic was near. And with this disquieting knowledge she was obliged to return.
At the very moment when she returned, Rudolf noticed that f.a.n.n.y had hastily concealed a book which she evidently had hitherto been reading, and flung a handkerchief over it in order that he might not see it.
Rudolf was interested, he felt he must take a deeper glance into the character of this woman. What book could it be that she was so anxious to hide from him? These modern women read risky books in private, and love to be rigid moralists in public at the same time.
He raised the handkerchief from the book, and he opened the book--it was a Prayer-book. And as the book opened wide of its own accord in two places, he perceived two pressed flowers between its leaves--an iris and an amaranth.
Rudolf suddenly grew grave. His heart felt heavy. Only now did he begin to reflect what sort of a game he was playing. These two flowers so fascinated him, so engrossed his attention, that he only perceived that the lady had returned when she stood feverishly trembling before him.
Each of them shrank back from the other.
The secret was revealed.
Rudolf gazed speechlessly at the woman and she at him. How beautiful, how bewitchingly beautiful she was in her dumb misery as slowly, unconsciously, she folded her hands together and pressed them against her bosom, to stifle by force the tempest of her tears!
Rudolf forgot his part, and, deeply moved, exclaimed, "My G.o.d!"
Now, for the first time, he really understood everything.
The sorrow in his voice broke down the energy with which f.a.n.n.y had hitherto restrained her tears, and they began to flow in streams down her beautiful face as she sank into an armchair.
Taking tenderly one of her pretty hands, Rudolf asked compa.s.sionately, "Why do you weep?"
But he knew well enough now why she wept.
"Why did you come here," inquired the lady in a voice trembling with emotion--she could control herself no longer--"when, day after day, I have been praying G.o.d that I might never see you again? When I avoided every place where I might chance to meet you, why did you seek me out here? I am lost, for G.o.d has abandoned me. In all my life, no man"s image has been in my heart save yours alone. Yet I had buried that away too, far out of sight. Why, why did you make it come to life again? Have you not observed that I fled every spot where you appeared? Did not your very arms prevent me from seeking death when we met together again! Ah, how much I suffered then because of you? Oh, why did you come hither to see me in my misery, in my despair?"
And she covered her face with her hands, and wept.
Rudolf was vexed to the soul at what he had done.
Presently f.a.n.n.y withdrew the handkerchief from the Prayer-book, dried her streaming eyes, and resumed, in a stronger voice--
"And now what does it profit you to know that I am a senseless creature struggling with despair when I think of you? Can you be the happier for it? I shall be all the unhappier, for now I must deny myself even the very thought of you."
What could he say to her? What words could he find wherewith to comfort her? What could he do but extend his hand to her and allow her to cover it with her tears and kisses? What could he do but allow her in her pa.s.sionate despair to fall upon his breast, and, sobbing and moaning, hold him embraced betwixt unspeakable agony and unspeakable joy?
And when she had wept herself out on his breast, the poor lady grew calmer, and ceasing her sobbing, said in a determined voice--
"And now I swear to you before that G.o.d who will one day judge me for my sins, that if ever I see you again, that same hour shall be the hour of my death. If, then, you have any compa.s.sion, avoid me! I beg of you not your love but your pity; I shall know how to get over it somehow in time."
Rudolf"s fine eyes sparkled with tears. This poor lady had deserved to be happy, and yet she had only been happy a single moment all her life, and that moment was when she had hung sobbing on his breast.
How long and weary life must be to her from henceforth!
Rudolf quitted the woman, and scarce waiting until Karpathy had awoke, he took his leave and returned to Szentirma. He was very sad and ill at ease all the way.
On reaching home, his merry, vivacious, affectionate wife flew towards him, and dried the traces of the bitter tears with her loving kisses.
"Ah, ha! so you were at Madaras, eh?" said Flora, roguishly; "a little bird whispered me that you would go a-spying. Well, what have you discovered?"
"That you are right," said Rudolf, tenderly--"women are not weak."
"Then there is peace between us. And what news of f.a.n.n.y?"
"G.o.d help the poor lady, for she is very, very unhappy!"
CHAPTER XVIII.
UNPLEASANT DISCOVERIES.
It was the winter season at Pest. The Szentirmays had also arrived there, and the beautiful countess and her worthy husband were the ideals of the highest circles, and everybody tried hard to make their acquaintance. But the greatest commotion of all was made by the arrival of Mr. Kecskerey. Without him the whole winter season would have been abominably dull. There was no mention even of b.a.l.l.s and a.s.semblies until he came back again. Some men have a peculiar talent, a special faculty, for arranging such things, and it was "our friend" Kecskerey"s speciality. The whole world of fashion called Kecskerey "our friend," so it is only proper that we should give him the same t.i.tle.
His first business was to get together a sufficient number of gentlemen to form a club where only eminent and distinguished members of society would a.s.semble. Kecskerey himself was a singularly interesting person, and when he had dressed himself for the evening, and laid himself out to be agreeable, he had such a store of piquant anecdotes to draw upon, all more or less personal experiences during his artistic ramblings, that even the tea-tables were deserted and the witty gentleman was surrounded by merry crowds of eager listeners.
Something particular was in the wind now, for there was a considerable whispering among Kecskerey"s _habitues_, and they let it be known that should he be seen conversing with Abellino, it would be as well to be within earshot, as something unusually interesting would be going on.
"Why, what great misfortune can have befallen Abellino that our friend Kecskerey can speak of him so lightly?" inquired Livius, turning towards Rudolf. "Generally speaking, he is in the habit of treating him with greater respect in view of his ultimate claims to the Karpathy estates."
Rudolf shrugged his shoulders. What did it matter to him what befell Abellino?
Look; now he is coming in! He had still that defiant, devil-may-care step, that haughty, insolent look, as if the whole world were full of his lackeys, that repellent beauty, for his features were as vacant as they were handsome.
"Ah, good evening, Bela; good evening, Bela!" screeched our friend Kecskerey, while Abellino was still some distance off; he did not move from his place, but sat there with his arms embracing his legs like the two of clubs as it is painted on old Hungarian cards.
Abellino went towards Kecskerey. He attributed the fact that he drew after him a whole group of gentlemen, who quitted the tea-tables and the whist-tables to crowd around him, to the particular respect of the present company to himself personally.
"I congratulate you," cried Kecskerey, in a shrill nasal voice, waving his hands towards Abellino.
"What for, you false club?"