CHAPTER II
A POPULAR FAVOURITE
Hot, panting and excited, the pretty hostess ran round and round the table, under the willow tree, closely pressed by Sándor the smith, who, however, had previously drunk a little too much of the good wine for which the county of Heves is famous, to be steady enough on his legs for a successful pursuit.
She had paused on one side of the table, holding both her hands against her heart, which was beating very hard, with the madcap race, and the laughter. Sándor the smith had paused on the opposite side: both antagonists eyeing one another, ready for a spring; the young peasants were laying wagers for or against the combatants, and encouraging both to resume the fight, when, suddenly—without any warning—two strong arms closed round pretty Lotti’s waist, from behind, and two loud kisses were imprinted on both her dimpled cheeks, while a laughing voice shouted across to the giant:
“You went to work the wrong way, my friend Sándor. This is the way to do it, is it not, Lotti?”
And while she struggled, the new-comer succeeded in stealing one or two more kisses from the pretty woman, then he lifted her bodily off her feet, and carried her to her own door, and having placed her in safety within the parlour, he shut the door, and armed with a merry laugh towards the smith, who had borne his discomfiture, with a good-humoured growl:
“Have a bottle of wine with me, Sándor, to compensate you for that lost kiss. Lotti, my pigeon,” he shouted, rapping at the door, “as soon as your little heart has ceased to beat quite so fast, bring out some more wine, enough to go round. And you, czigány (gipsy), let us have the liveliest tune you can play, while we all drink to good fellowship, to pretty women, and to our beloved Magyar country, which may God bless and protect!”
There was no resisting the young peasant’s cheerful voice and contagious laugh. Very soon Lotti reappeared, pouting but tidy, with half a dozen fresh bottles which she placed on the table, taking care to give her burly antagonist a wide berth.
“Are you so very angry with Sándor, Lotti?” asked the new-comer, with a smile; “why, he only wanted to kiss you, and surely you have allowed him to do that, before now, without so much fuss.”
She shrugged her shoulders, and said with quite a touch of malice in her voice:
“Ask him, András, why it was we quarrelled; why he wanted to kiss me, and why I would not let him; and see if he will tell you.”
Then she ran back to the house, but before finally closing the door, she turned again, and added:
“It was because, they were talking a lot of nonsense about my lord and the mill, and I would not let them, for I knew they would not have done it, if you had been there.”
And with this parting shot, the triumphant little person slammed the door of her parlour to, and very soon her high-pitched voice was heard singing an accompaniment to the gipsies’ primitive instruments.
Outside, beneath the overhanging willow tree, there had been silence after the young hostess’s malicious little speech. The young herdsmen and peasants, like so many chidden children, had left their wine untasted, and were staring before them, silent and shamefaced, while the burly giant, and even Berczi the oracle, smoked away at their pipes, while stealing furtive glances at the new-comer.
“Well! and what is it all about?” asked the latter, looking round at the men, with a good-natured smile.
There was no reply.
“That infernal steam-mill again, I suppose?” he added with a sigh.
Again there was no reply, but presently there came a grunt from old Berczi:
“Did you know that it was going to be started on its godless work, on the day after to-morrow, András?” he asked.
András nodded,
“And I suppose that from the day after to-morrow we can all lie down and starve, for there will be no more work for honest hands to do, when Satan turns on his fire and his smoke, and sows, reaps, binds and grinds Gods corn on God’s earth,” added the village oracle.
“And what I was saying, when that little cat interrupted me,” said Sándor the smith, “was that …”
But very quietly András’ rough brown hand was placed on the giant's arm, and his cheery voice interrupted calmly:
“What you were saying, Sándor, and what all the others agreed with, at once, because they knew it was quite true, was that it did not matter what the devil and my lord did over there at Bideskút, for there was always Kemény András at Kisfalu, who would find work for all willing hands, and whose purse is long enough to prevent anyone for leagues around to want for anything, let alone to starve!”
Again there was dead silence, while the look of shame deepened on the faces of all. The gipsies were playing a tender appealing tune, a Hungarian folk-song, that would soften the heart of any hearer.
“You are a good sort, András,” said the village oracle, while Sándor the smith drank a mugful of wine, to get rid of an uncomfortable lump in his throat, “but …”
“There is no ‘but,’ my mates. We must stand by one another, and, believe me, that is all nonsense about the devil turning the machinery. I can’t explain it all to you, but Pater Ambrosius has promised me this evening, that to-morrow, instead of a sermon, he will make it quite clear to you, what it is that will grind the corn, in my lord’s new mill. Then you will understand all about it, just as I think I understand it, and, till then, I want you all to try and forget that accursed mill, or, at any rate not to brood over it. It is getting late, and I have a long ride home, but will you all promise me that, until to-morrow, after Mass, you will try not to think about the mill? And this is to all of you and your very good healths,” he added, raising his mug of wine. “Have I your promise?”
“We promise!”
The answer was unanimous. Evidently the rich young peasant was popular; his words had carried weight. The mugs of wine were emptied, and a sigh of relief and satisfaction escaped the lips of all. The gipsies started a livelier tune, as András uttered a soft call:
“Csillag, my beauty, where are you?”
There was the sound of hoofs on the dry, sandy earth, and a lovely black mare, sleek and graceful, emerged from out the darkness, and coming quite close to the table, where the peasants were drinking, found her way to h«r master’s side, and, there, waited quietly for him. She carried neither saddle, stirrup nor bridle, but the peasants on the Hungarian pusztas need no such accessories. Their horses seem almost a part of themselves, as they ride at breakneck speed, across the sandy plains.
In a moment, András was astride across his mare, and with a shout of “Farewell!” to his friends, a responsive “Eljen!” (Long live!) from them, he had galloped away into the darkness