EPILOGUE
Ah! that loveliest of all the days in the year! that merriest of all the festivals in June! the feast of our Lord Himself, when glad with the beauty, the brilliancy of the Hungarian sky, He leaves His dwelling, within the village church, and spends twenty-four hours beneath His own blue vault, safe and snug, in a sweet-scented bower of roses, built for Him, by rough, yet reverent hands, outside, in the tiny churchyard.
Roses and jessamine, honeysuckle and rosemary, in gorgeous plenty, form a fragrant altar, for this brief dwelling of Our Lord, right in the very midst of His children upon the lowlands, and there He sits, in a sweet nest of white roses, surrounded by the bevy of gaily-decked worshippers, the merry peasants of the tiny village, assembled at His feet, to-day, not only to worship, but, also, to see the most gladsome sight, it has ever been the good fortune of Árokszállás to witness.
Pater Ambrosius, having read the open-air Mass, and having safely housed his Divine Master among the flowers, is filling a large vessel, with Holy Water. A merry smile plays round the corners of his kindly, old mouth. There is eager expectancy, on the faces of all, when, hark! a tiny cry proceeds from the vestry beyond. This is answered by a vociferous shout of “Long live!” as the door of the church opens, and there appears, beneath the porch, my lord Bideskúty Gyuri, in all the gorgeousness of his national attire, carrying in his arms, somewhat nervously, a tiny bundle, all encased, in lace and fine linen. Behind him, Kemény András' kindly face, beaming with happiness and pride, smiles radiantly, at the crowd of peasants, who have shouted themselves hoarse with “Eljen, our András! Eljen our Ilonka!” Close to him the noble Countess, impassive, slightly contemptuous, tries not to look towards the tiny bundle, which, in spite of herself, she constantly does, with an anxious, maternal eye.
Which of the two men, is the prouder to-day? the papa,—or the godpapa? The latter, though decidedly nervous with the unwonted burden in his arms, looks triumphantly on, as Pater Ambrosius, in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, pours a deluge of Holy Water on the lace bundle, which contains the heir to Bideskút, Kisfalu, and Zárda. Gyuri, András, and a host of other names, does the little bundle get, and, finally a good kiss from the kind Pater, whose throat is so choked that he cannot say anything, but grasps András’ hand and that of my lord, and finally takes out his handkerchief, and blows his nose vigorously.
Then, when the ceremony is over, and the heir to all the wealth and all the lands is richer by the promise of the heavenly heritage, there is more cheering, more shouting. Every one talks at once, every one wants to see the son of András, their own András, and of the gentle lady, who has been their good angel through sad times, and who has brought the happy laugh to András’ throat once more, and caused his cheering voice to be heard again, from one end of the village to the other. Presently, there is a loud jingle of bells, a sound of wheels, and the gorgeous turn-out, with its bright red leather harness and silver bosses and drawn by five milk-white thoroughbreds draws up, before the church porch, to convey the heir of Bideskút, Kisfalu, and Zárda, back to his farmhouse home.
András, proudly carrying the precious burden, tries to thank them all for their welcome. He is longing to be home again, in the small, lonely house, by the plain, where the proud descendant of a hundred chieftains, awaits her peasant lord, with a smile of infinite love.
And, when he comes home, and places the tiny bundle close to her, when he kneels beside her and folds her tenderly in his arms, when, through a mist of happy tears his eyes tell her, more clearly than words: “I love you, Ilonka!” then there is before her, such a golden vision,—which is a reality,—that before it, the Fairy Morgana’s pictures appear but pale and cold.
THE END