CHAPTER XXII
A DREAM
The rest of the day, András spent upon the plain; not even to his mother could he have spoken of this interview, of that fragile vision, of the tiny hand, on which, in his temerity he had dared to imprint a kiss. He left Csillag to roam about at will, and, spreading his mantle upon the ground, he allowed his mind to dwell at leisure on the wonderful thing that had happened.
The feeling of unreality still clung to it; and, dreamily he gazed at his rough brown hands, which had held another, imprisoned—so tiny, and, oh! so cold! Now that he was away from her, András cursed himself for his clumsiness, his silence. There were so many things, he might have said to her! if only those great blue eyes had been once turned to his, if only she had not been so strange, so distant! … and was not that slight tremble, a shudder which went through her young body, when his kiss, glowing and scorching with his wild passion, had dared to touch her tiny ice-cold hand?
He might have said to her: “I love you, Ilonka! my Ilonka! mine! mine! mine!” but then, how infinitely great was that love, and how desecrated it would seem, if words tried to express it!
His! His! She really one day would be his! … One day soon … the Countess had spoken of one day in May, … When the sun was hot, and the roses would begin to bloom … one day … she would come home with him … her white figure, tall and lithe, would fill the lowly farmhouse with a radiance, which would be almost divine. … She would stand with the last rays of the setting sun, which always crept in through the tiny windows, playing upon her golden curls. … There would be silence in the house, for Etelka will have gone to her own room to pray or to spin, leaving her son and his bride alone. … His bride! … With the sun upon her golden curls … and András would watch every hair of that dainty head, and, with the exquisite self-inflicted torture of suspense, touch with reverent finger, every curl, ere he dared clasp the queenly form wholly in his arms, drinking, with insatiable eyes that loveliness fashioned by God for him, the lowly peasant, prouder than any king.
Oh! the joy of this dream! the agony of the fairy vision, the pain that was a happiness to bear, the joy that was inexpressible torture! Alone upon the vast plain, away from human eyes, András dared to conjure up this vision, and found mad delight in torturing himself with those Fata Morgana-like dreams of great blue eyes, large and wondering, growing soft and misty, moist and tender with responsive passion, of that exquisite tiny mouth, perfumed and chaste, as the petals of a rosebud, of the soft red lips, parting with a smile, preparing for a kiss, of the warmth of her breath, the tears in her eyes, the quickly drawn breath through her delicate nostrils. … And she, in his arms! his bride! his wife! András closed his eyes! the vision faded away, and, in its place he saw another, the reality of a few hours ago: tall and stately, and oh! so cold! with a far-off look in those blue eyes, large and tearless; and a curious tremble—was it a shudder?—which left the tiny hand colder, icier, still.
But no! no! this vision should not stay! that coldness, his ardour would melt! that absent look, his glowing eyes would imprison! that shudder, his love would soothe. He would strew roses at her feet; wealth, joys, pleasures, all that could bring a smile on those lips, a tender look in those eyes; and if all he had and could do or give her was not enough, he would lay his life in her tiny hands, and let her crush it, if she will.
Long after the darkness had covered the plain with gloom, András still lay upon the earth, wrapped in his mantle, his eyes following the swiftly travelling clouds, dwelling dreamily on each twinkling star.
Etelka knew she would not see him that night. And yet she could not go to rest. Her hands lying idly in her lap, she sat beside the window, looking out anxiously towards the plain. Only when the first streak of gold broke the darkness of the sky, did she hear the well-known sound of Csillag’s hoofs. Then, she put out all the lights, content that her son was safe, knowing full well that he would wish to be alone. She listened for his tread, which was light and free; she watched him in the yard as he tethered Csillag, and she saw that he walked erect. Then, as he crossed the garden, he again paused beside his favourite rose-tree: one small bud showed a tiny streak of pink between its green sepals. Etelka remembered how, earlier in the day, she had noticed this first sign of the opening bloom,—now, with a quick, triumphant gesture, András plucked the opening blossom, and carried it with him to his home.