CHAPTER XX
THE ANSWER
Four days later the answer came. For four weary days, had the suspense lasted, during which time András’ iron constitution almost gave way, under the strain of wearing uncertainty. No one heard his voice during that time. Silently he toiled like a very slave, upon the beloved land, which now, at last, was his. With almost savage fury he tried to tire out his strong body by day, for the sake of earning a few hours heavy, dreamless sleep by night. Of his hopes, his fears, his love he would not, dared not allow himself to think; and when the early evening shadows had closed in upon the land, he would mount on Csillag’s back, and roam restlessly with her upon the plain. There in solitude, silence and peace, his weary mind found rest, his aching nerves, solace and comfort. The distant roar of the flood lulled him to forgetfulness, and, musingly, he would watch for hours, the wandering storks overhead, or the swallows in their flight. He had told everything to Etelka. It would have been useless to try and deceive her; her fond, anxious, motherly eyes, read deeply within the loved son’s soul; long ago, she had guessed his secret, had seen wild joy alternate with mad grief and hope arise, but to give birth to despair. And, silently, she had wept and prayed: prayed to God and to the Virgin Mary to avert the catastrophe, which threatened her András’ happiness. Her shrewd mind, rendered doubly acute by earnest love for her boy, showed her the hideous image of misery, that so preposterous, so unequal a marriage would inevitably bring, beneath the humble peasant’s home. The proud lady, nurtured from her cradle to look on every peasant with contempt, linked against her will, to save her parents’ ruin, with one of the despised race! Oh! the pity of it! the shame! the remorse! Etelka foresaw with unerring judgment, the contempt with which the dainty girl would place her soft white hand into András’ rough brown palm, the blush of horror and anger with which she would respond to his strange masterful passion, the passion of an unlettered, half-educated son of the soil, born and bred in the free life of the plain, with warm breathing, living nature, to teach him the lessons of life, and the years of petty tyranny behind him, during which every feeling, every emotion was held in constant check; ready now, that, rich and free, he had reached powerful manhood, to break through every bond, and cry out for response from one being, who should return, ardour for ardour, passion for passion kiss for kiss.
Etelka wept and prayed, as she thought of that son, eating his heart out for longing to obtain a smile from those aristocratic lips, and wearing out his manhood to smooth away the curl of contempt from the corners of the dainty mouth.
Oh! for one great crushing blow! the refusal of that careless, yet, surely loving father, to sacrifice his child to his own folly, and of that proud mother to allow her daughter to stoop so low, for the sake of the gold and the land! A blow which would be terrible when it fell: and Etelka’s heart ached, in the very midst of her prayers, when she thought of the sorrow, the despair of her boy, seeing all his fairy visions, suddenly, and irretrievably dispelled: but, though the blow would be cruel, it would be sharp and sudden, and Etelka trusted that the all-absorbing care for that beloved land, would soon teach him to forget the other love, the Fata Morgana-like vision, born but to fade away.
How infinitely better, than the daily, hourly torture of an ill-assorted union, the wrecked life, the hourly shame, the mad joy of a few hours, the grief of life-long days. And now the answer had come: a message from the noble lord of Bideskút to Kemény András, bidding him come to the castle, to present his respects to the noble Countess and to her young ladyship: the peasant was bidden to pay his court to the noble lady, the stars were descending from heaven, in order to walk upon the plains.
András was from home when the message came, brought by Jankó, who had ridden over from Bideskút, burning with curiosity, as to what my lord’s extraordinary condescension might mean. He would have stayed to ask a hundred questions, for all tongues were wagging within the kitchen of Bideskút, but Etelka seemed so sad, and looked so silent, that Jankó dared not speak; he felt as if, unconsciously, he had been the harbinger of evil tidings, and rode away, wondering why Etelka’s eyes were full of tears, when she heard of the unwonted honour done to her son.
Etelka was glad that András was away. He had ridden over to Zárda at break of day, and the mother wished to have her son, secure in her arms, when she first told him the great news,—the realisation of his maddest hopes.
She watched at the door, till Jankó was out of sight, then gazed out across the puszta, in the direction of Zárda; and, when she saw a tiny speck upon the horizon, which gradually grew and took the form of a horse and rider, idly picking their way through the muddy roads, with a heavy sigh, she went within.
She waited till her son, tired out from his ride, had knelt down beside her spinning wheel, and, placing his arms round her, had rested his hot aching head on her shoulder, then she said:
“András! for good or for evil, your wishes are fulfilled. My lord desires your presence at the castle, that you may pay your respects to the lady who is to be your wife!”
There was a dead silence, for András neither spoke nor stirred. His arms were still round Etelka’s shoulders, and his head upon her breast. She felt his grip tighten and his whole frame tremble against hers; she could not see his face, and could scarcely hear him breathe; but, suddenly a great sob, like the breaking of an overburdened heart, seemed to shake him from head to foot, and, with a wild cry, that at last betrayed all the pent-up passions, the love, the hopes, and fears so resolutely held in check, he buried his head in that dear mother’s lap, and sobbed with this joy so great, so wild, that it was almost pain.
Gently Etelka soothed him, smoothed his matted hair, spoke quaint endearing words, such as she used to whisper, when as a tiny lad, he had sought comfort in her arms, against his father’s rough words and knotty stick. Gradually the paroxysm passed away; but for quite a long while he remained at her knee, holding the dear one in his arms, his head pillowed against her breast; and she, poor soul! her eyes swimming over with tears, prayed to God not to forsake her beloved son, in this, his greatest joy.