Timar's Two Worlds Part 61

"From that day I shall begin to live again."

"Let us set apart for it my own _fete_-day, which every one knows."

"Oh, but that is so far off."

"Don't be alarmed, there is a St. Susanna in the summer; we will keep her day."

"But that is distant too."

"It is not an eternity to wait till then. Have you not learned patience?

Remember, I want time to get used to happiness--it does not come all at once; and we can see each other every day till then--at first for a minute, and then for two, and then forever. Is it agreed?"

The major could not refuse, she begged so sweetly.

"And now the banquet is over," whispered Timea; "the other guests are going to sleep, and you must go home too. But wait a moment--I will give you back a word from your last birthday congratulations." She took from the fresh rose-bouquet one bud, touched it hardly perceptibly with her lips, and placed it in the major's b.u.t.ton-hole; but he pressed the rose, this "one word," to his lips and kissed it. . . .

When the major had gone, and looked up from the street at the windows of the Levetinczy house, all was dark. He was the last to leave.

Timea learned gradually the art of growing used to hope and happiness--she had a good teacher. Thenceforward, Herr Katschuka came every day to the house; but the major did not keep to the prescribed arithmetical progression--first one minute, then two. The wedding was fixed for the day of St. Susanna, in August. Athalie too, it appeared, had resigned herself to her fate. Herr Fabula's wife was dead, and she accepted his hand; it is not unusual for a pretty girl to give herself to a rich widower--one knows how he treats his wife, and one runs less risk in taking him than some young dandy who has not yet sown his wild oats. Heaven bless their union!

Timea proposed to give Athalie, as a dowry, the sum which Michael had offered her, and which she had refused. Every one thought she was trying to become a suitable wife for Herr Fabula. But Katschuka was not deceived; he saw through her black heart. He knew what he had done to Athalie, and the reckoning she had against Timea, and destiny never leaves such a score unsettled. Have you forgotten, you lovely white woman, that this other girl was mistress here when you came; that she was a rich and honored bride, wooed by men and envied by women? And from the moment when the water cast you on these sh.o.r.es, misfortune followed her--she was made a beggar, brought to shame, spurned by her betrothed.

It was not your fault, but it was owing to you--you brought bad luck; it sat on your forehead, between your meeting eyebrows, and brought the s.h.i.+p to destruction, and the house in which you set foot; it ruins those who injure you, as well as those who set you free. And you are not afraid to sleep under the same roof with Athalie--this roof!

Since Katschuka came to the house, Athalie had controlled herself, and treated even her mother kindly. She made tea for her which Frau Sophie liked, especially with plenty of rum in it--she made it herself; and was very good to the servants too, treating them also to tea, which, for the men-servants, almost might have been called punch; they could not say enough for her. Frau Sophie guessed the reason of all this kindness--those servile natures always look for a reason if they receive a favor, and repay it with suspicion.

"My daughter is currying favor with me, that I may go with her when she marries; she knows nothing of housekeeping--she can't even make milk-soup. That's why I am 'Dear mamma' all over the place, and get tea every night; as if I did not know what is in my daughter Athalie's mind!" She will soon know even more.

Athalie carried her submissiveness to servility, in the presence of Timea and the major. Neither by look nor manner did she betray her former claims. When he came, she opened the door with a smile, showed him in to Timea, politely took part in the conversation, and, when she left the room, she might be heard singing next door. She had adopted the manners of a maid-servant.

Once Timea asked her to play a duet, on which Athalie said, modestly, that she had forgotten her music--the only instrument she could play on now was the chopping-board. Since the great catastrophe, Athalie only played the piano when she knew no one could hear.

Do not your nerves shudder when this woman looks you in the face? does not your blood run cold when she stoops to kiss your hand? when she laces your boots, is it not as if a snake wound round your foot? and when she fills your gla.s.s, does it not occur to you to look what may be in it? No, no. Timea has no suspicions; she is so kind, she treats Athalie like a sister; she has prepared a dowry of a hundred thousand gulden, and told Athalie so. She wished to make her happy, and thought she could console her for the loss of her first betrothed. And why should she not think so? Athalie herself refused him. When Timar offered her the money she said, "I will never have anything to do with the man again, either in this world or the next." Timea did not know of the visit Athalie had paid by night to her betrothed, when she was sent away by him alone and rejected; and Timea did not know that a woman will give up the man she hates to another woman, even less willingly than the one she loves; that a woman's hate is only love turned to poison, but still remains love. Katschuka, however, well remembered that nocturnal meeting; and therefore he trembled for Timea, but dared not tell her so.

Only one day was wanting to the _fete_ of St. Susanna. Timea had gradually laid aside her mourning, as if it was hard to separate from it entirely, and as if she wished to learn gladness slowly. First she allowed white lace at her neck; then she changed black for dark gray, and silk for wool; then white stripes appeared in the gray; and at last only the cap remained of the mourning for Michael Levetinczy. This also will disappear on the _fete_-day; the beautiful Valenciennes cap of the young wife is already made, and must be tried on.

An unlucky fit of vanity induced Timea to wait to do this till the major arrived. For a young widow the lace cap is what the orange-blossoms are to a girl. But the major was late because the white-rose bouquet was late in arriving from Vienna: this was the second _fete_-day bouquet in one year. A whole shoal of letters and notes of congratulation had arrived for Timea, who had many acquaintances far and near. Timea had not opened a single one; they lay in a heap in a silver basket on the table, many of them directed by children, for Timea had a hundred and forty G.o.d-children in the town among the orphan boys and girls. She would have enjoyed these nave letters, but her thoughts were otherwise occupied.

"Look what a comical one this is!" said Athalie, taking up one of the letters; "instead of a seal, there is a beetle stuck on the wax."

"And what curious ink it is!" remarked Timea. "Put it with the others--we will read it to-morrow."

Some secret voice whispered to Timea that she had better read it to-day.

It was Dodi's letter which was put aside.

But see, here comes the major; then all the hundred and forty G.o.d-children and their letters were forgotten, and Timea ran to meet him. Nine years ago the fortunate bridegroom had brought a splendid red-rose bouquet to another bride.

And she too was present; and possibly the great mirror into which Athalie had cast her last glance on her bridal dress was the same which now stood there.

Timea took the lovely white bouquet from the major's hand, put it in a splendid Sevres vase, and whispered to him, "Now I will give you something: it will never be yours, but always mine, and yet it is a present for you." The pretty enigma issued from its box--it was the lace cap.

"Oh, how charming!" cried the major, taking it in his hand. "Shall I try it on you?" The major's words died on his lips--he looked at Athalie.

Timea stood before the gla.s.s with childish pleasure, and took off her widow's cap; then she grew grave, put it to her lips and kissed it, while she said low and brokenly, "Poor Michael!"--and so she laid aside the last token of her widowhood.

Herr Katschuka was holding the white cap.

"Give it me that I may try it on."

"Can I help you?"

The hair was then dressed very high, so that Timea required a.s.sistance.

"You don't know how; Athalie will be so good."

Timea spoke quite simply, but the major shuddered at the pallor which overflowed Athalie's face at the words: he remembered how Athalie had once said to Timea, "Come and put on my bridal veil!" And perhaps even she had not then thought what venom lay in the words. Athalie came to Timea to help her with the cap, which required to be fastened with pins on both sides. Athalie's hand trembled--and she p.r.i.c.ked Timea's head with one of the pins.

"Oh, you stupid creature!" cried Timea, jerking her head aside.

The same words, before the same man!

Timea did not notice, but Herr Katschuka saw what a flash flew over Athalie's face--a volcanic outburst of diabolical rage, a glow of flaming spite, a dark cloud of purple shame; the muscles quivered as if the face was a nest of snakes stirred up by a rod. What murderous eyes!

What compressed lips! What a bottomless depth of pa.s.sion in that single look. Timea regretted her hasty word almost before it had pa.s.sed her lips, and hastened to atone for it. "Don't be angry, dear 'Thaly; I forgot myself," she said, turning to kiss her. "You'll forgive me--you are not angry?"

The next moment Athalie was as humble as a maid who has done some damage, and began in a flattering tone, "Oh, my dear pretty Timea, don't _you_ be angry; I would not hurt your dear little head for the world.

How sweet you look in your cap, just like a fairy!" And she kissed Timea's shoulder.

A shudder ran through the major's nerves.

CHAPTER X.

ATHALIE.

The eve of the _fete_-day was also the eve of the wedding--a night of excitement. The bride and bridegroom were sitting together in Timea's room--they had so much to talk about.

What do they say? Flowers only can understand flower-speech, the stars the language of the spheres, one pillar of Memnon answers another, the dead comprehend the Walkyrie, sleep-walkers the speech of the moon--lovers only the language of love. And he who has ever known this sacred emotion will not profane it, but guard it like a secret of the confessional. Neither the wise king in his marvelous song, nor Ovid in his love elegies, nor Hafiz in his ardent lays, nor Heine in his poems, nor Petofi in his "Pearls of Love," can describe it--it remains one of the secrets of eternity.

At the back of the house was a noisy company--all the household. This had been a busy day with preparations for the morrow's feast--a culinary campaign; the press of work had lasted till late at night: then, when all had been roasted and iced according to orders, Frau Sophie found time to show herself liberal. She called together her staff, and bestowed upon them all the good things which had suffered during the heat of the fray--for this was unavoidable: what ought to have risen had sunk into a pancake; what ought to have jellied had melted into soup; here a cake had stuck to the mold and would not turn out whole; there a sc.r.a.p, a cutting, a ham-bone, a piece of hare, a drumstick of pheasant remained over. All which could not be sent up to table was left as a rare tidbit for the servants, and they could boast of having tasted everything before the gentry were served.

But where was Athalie?

The whispering lovers thought she was with her mother, amusing herself in the kitchen. There, they thought she was of course with the bridal pair, and enjoying the bliss of being a silent witness of their happiness--or perhaps no one thought of her at all. And yet it might have been well if some one had interrupted themselves to ask, "Where is Athalie?"

She sat alone in the room where she had seen Timea for the first time.

The old furniture had long been replaced by new; only one embroidered stool remained as a remembrance. Athalie was sitting on it when Timar entered, in company with the pale maiden. There sat Katschuka, at work on Athalie's portrait, over which, while he gazed at Timea, his pencil drew a long line. Athalie sat alone there now. The portrait had long ago gone to the lumber-room; but Athalie seems to see it still, and the young lieutenant who begged her with his flattering tongue to smile a little and not to look so haughty.