CHAPTER XXVI
THE PEASANT’S WIFE
“There! There! there! let her be, my boy. She will be all right with me. You leave her here. The sheets are warm and soft, and scented with lavender. You go down to the cellar and get me a measure of that vinegar, I put into casks last November. Put it outside the door, and bring me from the attic some cloves, and thyme, and perhaps a little burrage. Now go! I tell you she is only faint, with that madcap ride of yours. You should have done as other folks do, and brought her home in a cart, with steady oxen to pull her along!”
It was long after midday, when András came home on Csillag’s back, carrying a white burden in his arms. Etelka had been waiting to welcome the bride home, and had cooked such a meal as was fit to place before the king himself, for she wanted Sári and Kati to have the treat of putting on their best clothes, and seeing their master being wed to the noble young lady. She could not help feeling anxious, for she knew of her son’s intention of bringing his bride home in his arms, flying on Csillag’s back, and feared lest the noble young lady, unaccustomed to such summary proceedings, should become faint and ill. She had made the tiny farm-house look like a perfect garden of loveliness. Her roses, fortunately, were in full bloom, and she had been able to place great bunches of them in every room, more especially in the one, which, newly papered and ornamented with daintily embroidered curtains, had been destined for the young wife.
Ah! there, at last, the distant and well-known sound of Csillag’s hoofs, on the soft earth, outside. Excitedly, Etelka hurried out to the porch, ready to welcome her new daughter home with a loving kiss. One look in her son’s face told her that something was amiss. Gently, with the pretty trick her master had taught her, Csillag had dropped on her knees, and András, looking almost as white as the burden he was carrying, dismounted, and went within.
He laid her down on the bed, Etelka helping him to pillow the golden head, softly, on the cushions. She looked so white and inanimate. No wonder András was frightened. But Etelka understood that excitement alone had caused a dead faint, and soon reassured her son. She tried to remain cheerful, while he was in the room, but when he had gone, she shook her head sadly. Never had she seen anyone so pale and wan looking, and this strange home-coming foreboded nothing good to her mind.
András had brought the vinegar, and Etelka having placed it on the stove to warm, and throwing some aromatic herbs into it, began bathing Ilonka’s temples with it. She took off the poor child’s shoes and stockings, and rubbed her cold feet between her own rough hands. At last a faint tremulous sigh escaped the purple lips. The golden head moved restlessly on the pillow, and soon a pair of frightened blue eyes looked up at the wrinkled, kind face above them.
Terrified, puzzled they roamed round, trying—just home from the land of dreams,—to take in the immediate reality. The quaint tiny room, with its low raftered ceiling, from which hung bunches of dry sweet-scented herbs. The great stove, of glazed earthenware, brilliant and green, with the hot vessel of aromatic vinegar steaming upon it. The posies of white roses in great rough pots, and the quaint figure of the kind old woman, with the large dark eyes, which reminded Ilonka of something, she had hoped for ever to forget.
But the face looked good, and sympathetic, and Ilonka just now had sore need of comfort. Her heart felt numb and bruised, and the old, dark eyes, had two great tears in them that spoke of love and pity. All had been so strange, so bewildering. Ilonka had lived in such an atmosphere of stern duty and proud bearing for the last few weeks, that the simple peasant clothes, the kind, wrinkled face, the rough brown hands, the sympathetic tears went straight to that bruised young heart, and she put out both her arms, in an appeal for comfort and for love.
The old peasant woman’s heart, which had already gone out to the fragile, girlish figure on the bed, quite melted at this sweet appeal. Her arms closed round the delicate young girl, the golden head rested on the old motherly breast, and on it there fell such a shower of kisses and such words of love and sympathy, as Ilonka had never heard from her own mother’s lips.
“Now, my sweet one, you feel better do you not? Lie still for a while, and rest, you are tired and excited. See, I will draw the curtains across these windows, and shut out the sun which will be setting presently and you will perhaps get a good long sleep. I will be at my spinning in the room next to this. If you want anything, you must just tap the wall with your hand. I shall hear. I have aired all your beautiful linen, and hung your dresses up in that wardrobe, so when you are rested, you can slip off your white frock, and put on some of your nice new things which my lady your mother sent down with the cart yesterday. There! is that pillow just right, under your head? … Good-night, my sweet one. … Sleep well! …”
She gave Ilonka a last kiss, drew the curtains across the windows so that the rays of the sun only came in, softened and subdued, then she slipped quietly out of the room.
Ilonka was alone. At first she was only conscious of an exquisite sense of bodily well-being. The sheets were so fine, and smelt so sweetly of lavender, and rosemary, the air was deliciously fragrant with the scent of roses and lilies of the valley. She closed her eyes, her body lay rigid, in an exquisite feeling of rest. How tired she was of all the turmoil and excitement of the past few days, of the maids bustling round, sorting the new linen, and the various dresses, of the white gown which had to be tried on several times, and which always gave her a pain in her heart, whenever she felt its clinging folds round her. But above all she was infinitely weary of all the talk about wealth and lands, duties and posterity. Her cheeks had been in one perpetual flame, hearing herself spoken of, but as the mother of unborn children, who were to be rich and own all the land, and all the money.
She had fought for liberty in an earnest gentle way, had tried to appeal to her parents’ love for her, their pride in her, their contempt for the husband they had chosen for her. She cared nothing for great riches, or for broad leagues of land, she was happy at Bideskút, and would soon get over the shame of being an old maid. She could not understand why her father always looked so sad, when her future was talked about. If he did not like his daughter’s marriage with the rich peasant, why did he allow it? Surely he had lands, fields, money enough of his own. What did he want with a peasant’s wealth, be it ever so great? Ilonka could not understand. Her mother who was so proud, seemed to look on the mésalliance with content, while scorning the idea of a penniless husband, even if he have a long line of ancestry. The child had soon told her long-cherished secret, had candidly admitted the thrills of delight which one voice among all others, had called forth in her young heart. She was an only child, had been much loved and petted. It seemed terrible she should have to live in a peasant’s cottage, learn to spin and dig in the garden, become no better than one of her maids, and cut off from all her friends.
Then, one day they told her, that he did not care, that he, being poor, was about to wed a rich manufacturer’s daughter, who was willing to exchange her bags of gold for a Countess’ coronet. After that Ilonka was passive. She did not mind what they decided for her. Since he had lied to her, had talked of love, which he said would last till death, and had ended in a year, if he was false and dishonourable, she did not care what happened to her. If she could not be happy, she might as well do what her mother and father wished, and give her hand to the peasant, who was not more sordid than he, in wishing to have a noble lady as his wife.
Ilonka, with closed eyes, lying there passively on the rosemary-scented bed, recalled her first meeting with the tall, picturesque man: with him, who had been described to her, as the rich and vulgar peasant in search of noble blood, to which to ally his own common nature. She recalled his strange personality, his deep musical voice, his eyes winch rested so strangely upon her, the kiss which he always imprinted on her hand, and which used to bring a hot hush to her cheek, and a feeling that was half faint, half horrible.
She tried to recall every moment of that solemn hour in church, the vows she spoke, the prayers she repeated, kneeling beside that strange man, whom, in spite of his origin, she could not despise, for he was so tall, and so quiet in his ways, and had such a curious masterful look in his eyes.
A shudder went through her now as it did then, when she felt the cold circlet of metal being slipped on her finger, the badge of her slavery to this man, who, her mother said was infinitely beneath her.
And she had sworn to honour, to love and to obey. Oh! she would do the latter, to the utmost of her capacity, do his every bidding, work as any serf had worked in days gone by, when bitter blows were all the wage for a heavy day’s toil, and she would bear his arrogance, his masterfulness, be a willing and cheerful slave to him. Fulfil this oath! then perhaps God would remit the other, for she had sworn that which she could not fulfil: she had sworn that she would love.
Then, a last picture floated before her mind, a picture, the reality of which in itself seemed as a dream: a picture of many faces floating round her, and in front the tiny village, with its thatched cottages, under the glare of a glorious May day sun: the air hot and heavy with the fragrance of early opening blossoms, and filled with sounds of bees and birds, neighing of colts and bleating of lambs. Then, suddenly, she had felt herself lifted up off her feet, and flying through the air as if on cloud wings. She dimly remembered a long shout, which died away in the distance as she flew, then something strong and tight seemed to hold her faster, closer; the acacia trees, the cottages, the throng of moving faces, appeared a thing of the infinite past and she remembered no more.
Oh! why had consciousness come back to her! Why had she ever wakened? She had been in infinite peace, why had not that peace lasted on and on, till the cloud wings had carried her to those regions where rest is eternal?