"What are you thinking of?" cried Timea, pa.s.sionately.

"At last it is out," said the major, rising from his chair. "And now I will not go without an answer. I say openly, is it possible that there is truth in this accusation? I have not repeated all that this man said about Levetinczy: he accused him of everything that can be said against a man. Is it conceivable that Timar's life could take such a frightful course as that which the last owner of this unlucky house only escaped by death? For if that is possible, then no respect could restrain me from beseeching you in G.o.d's name, dear lady, to delay not a moment in fleeing from this doomed house. I can not leave you to ruin--I can not look on while another drags you into the abyss."

The glowing words found a response in Timea's bosom. Timar watched in trembling excitement his wife's mental conflict. Timea remained victorious; she collected all her energy, and answered quietly, "Do not be alarmed, sir. I can a.s.sure you that that man, whoever he was, and wherever he came from, told a lie, and his accusations are groundless. I know intimately the position of Herr von Levetinczy; for during his absence I managed his affairs, and am thoroughly acquainted with every detail. His finances are in order, and even if all he has now at stake were lost by some unlucky chance, no pillar of his house would be shaken. I can also tell you with a clear conscience that of all his property there is not a thaler dishonestly come by. Levetinczy is a rich man, who need not blush for his wealth."

Why did Timar's cheeks burn so there in the darkness?

The major sighed. "You have convinced me, gracious lady; I never believed anything against his financial reputation. But this man had much to say about your husband in his character as head of a family.

Allow me to ask you one thing: Are you happy?"

Timea looked at him with inexpressible pathos, and in her eyes lay the words, "You see me, and yet you ask?"

"Riches and luxury surround you," continued the major, boldly; "but if that is true--which on my honor I never asked, and which, when told me, I answered with the lie direct, and a blow in the face--if it is true that you suffer and are unhappy, I should not be a man if I had not the courage to say to you, gracious lady, there is another who suffers like you. Throw far from you these unlucky riches; make an end of this suffering of two people, who in the next world can accuse a third person in the sight of G.o.d of being the cause of it: consent to a divorce!"

Timea pressed both hands to her breast, and looked up like a martyr on her road to the stake: all her anguish was aroused at this moment.

When Timar saw her so, he struck his forehead with his fist, and turned his face from the Judas-hole through which he had been looking. For the next few moments he saw and heard no more. When torturing curiosity drew him again to the spot of light, and he cast a look into the room, he no longer saw a martyr before him. Timea's face was calm.

"Sir," she said gently to the major, "that I should have heard you to the end is a proof of my respect. Leave me this feeling, and never again ask me what you did to-day. I call the whole world to witness whether I have ever complained by word or tear. Of whom should I complain? Of my husband, who is the n.o.blest and best man in the world? Of him who saved the strange child's life? who thrice defied death in the waters' depths for my sake? When I was a despised and derided creature he protected me; for my sake he visited the house of his deadly enemy, that he might watch over me. When I had become a homeless beggar he gave me--a servant--his hand, his riches, and made me mistress of his house. And when he offered me his hand he meant it; he was not deceiving me." As she spoke, Timea went to a closet and opened the doors. "Look here, sir," she said, as she spread out before the major the train of a dress hanging within. "Do you recognize this dress? It is the one I worked.

You saw it for weeks while I worked at it. Every st.i.tch is a buried dream, a sad memory to me. They told me it was to be my wedding-gown; and when it was finished, they said, 'Take it off: it is for another bride.' Ah! sir, that was a mortal stab to my heart: I have been sore from that incurable wound all these years. And now should I separate myself from the good man who never courted me, as a child, with flatteries, to turn my head, but remained respectfully in the distance, and waited till others had trodden me under foot to raise me to himself, and has never ceased, with superhuman, angelic patience, his endeavors to cure my wound and to share my sorrow with me? I should separate from the man who has no one but me to love him, to whom I am a whole world, the only being that ties him to life, or at whose coming his gloomy face is cheered? I should leave a man whom every one honors and loves? Tell him that I hate him--I, who owe everything to him, and who brought him no dowry but a sick and loveless heart?"

The major hid his face at these words of the pa.s.sionate and excited woman. And that other man behind the picture of St. George--must he not feel like the dragon when the knight thrust his spear into him?

"But, sir," continued Timea, whose lovely face was illumined by the irresistible charm of womanly dignity, "even if Timar were the exact opposite of all that he is known to be--if he were a ruined man, a beggar--I would not leave him--then least of all. If disgrace covered his name, I would not discard that name; I would share his shame, as I have shared his success. If the whole world despised him, I should still owe him eternal grat.i.tude; if he were exiled, I would follow him into banishment, and live with him in the woods if he were a robber. If he wished to take his life, I would die with him--"

(What is that? Is it the dragon that weeps there in the picture?)

"And, sir, if even the bitterest, cruelest insult of all to a woman were inflicted on me--if I learned that my husband was unfaithful, to me--that he loved another--I would say, 'G.o.d bless her who gave him the happiness of which I have robbed him;' and I would not even then divorce him--I would not do it if he wished it. I will never separate from him, for I know what is due to my oath and the salvation of my soul!"

And the major too sobbed--he too.

Timea stopped to recover her composure. Then in a soft and gentle voice she continued: "And now leave me forever. The stab you gave my heart years ago is healed by this sword-stroke: I keep this broken blade as a remembrance. As often as my eye falls on it, I will think that you are a brave soul, and it will be balm to me. And because for years you have never spoken to me nor approached me, I will forgive your having come and spoken to me now." . . .

When Timar burst through the closet out of the hiding-place, a dark figure stood in his way. Was it a shadow, a phantom, or a spirit? It was Athalie. Timar pushed, the dark figure away, and while he pressed her with one hand against the wall, he whispered in her ear, "I curse you!

and accursed be this house and the ashes of him who built it!"

Then he rushed like a madman down the stairs.

CHAPTER II.

THE FIRST LOSS.

Escape! But where? That is the question.

The church clocks in the town struck ten: the barriers were down by now across the wooden bridge over the narrow part of the river to the island, from which the ice formed the only road across the rest of the Danube. It was impossible to get past without alarming the sentries, who had orders from the commandant of the garrison to let no one go on the ice between eight in the evening and seven in the morning--not even the pope himself. It is true that a couple of bank-notes of Herr Levetinczy's might compa.s.s what a papal bull could not procure, but then it would be reported next day all over the town that the "man of gold"

had fled in haste and alone, at dead of night, across the dangerous ice.

That would be a good sequel to the gossip which had arisen from the duel. It would at once be said, "There, you see he is already thinking of escaping to America," and Timea would hear it too.

Timea! oh, how hard it is to evade that name; it follows him everywhere.

He can do nothing but return home and wait for daylight. As cautiously as a thief he opened his door. At this hour all the other inhabitants were asleep.

When he got to his room, he lighted no lamp, and threw himself on the sofa. But the phantoms which pursued him found him quite as easily in the dark.

How that marble face blushed!

So there is life there under the ice, only the sun is wanting. Marriage is for her eternal winter--a polar winter. The wife is faithful; and the rival is a true friend. He breaks his sword over the skull of him who dared to slander the husband of the beloved woman. And Timea loves the man, and is as unhappy as he. The misery of both comes from Timar's imputation as an honest man; those who love him idealize him; no one ventures to think of deceiving or robbing or disgracing him--of breaking a splinter from the diamond of his honor: they guard it like a jewel.

Why do they all respect him? Because no one knows him.

If Timea knew, if she discovered what he really was, would she still say, "I would share the shame of his name, as I have shared its glory!"

Yes; she would still say so. Timea will never leave him: she would say, "You have made me unhappy; now suffer with me." It is an angel's cruelty, and that is Timea's nature.

But how about Noemi? What is she doing on the lonely island which she can never leave, thanks to Timea's high principle? Alone during the gloomy monotony of winter, with a helpless child at her knee! What is she thinking of? No one can take her a word of consolation. She may be trembling in that desert for fear of bad men, ghosts, wild beasts! How her heart must sink when she thinks of her absent darling, and wonders where he may be! If she knew! If both those women knew what a thorough scoundrel was the man who had caused them so much sorrow--if any one was found to tell them!

Who can the stranger be who has already said enough to deserve a blow in the face, and a cut of the major's sword? A naval officer. Who can this enemy be? It is impossible to discover; he has disappeared with his wound from the town. Something told Timar it would be wise to fly from this man. Fly! his whole mind was set upon it--there was nothing he dreaded so much as being obliged to remain in one spot. As soon as he left the ownerless island, no place was a home to him. When he stopped for dinner on a journey, he could not wait till the horses were fed, but walked on ahead. Something always drove him onward.

And sleep had fled from his eyes. The clock struck twelve; seven more long hours till morning! He determined at last to kindle a light. For mental anxiety there is a remedy more effectual than opium or digitalis--prosaic work. Whoever has plenty to do, finds no time to dwell on love troubles. Merchants seldom commit suicide for love. Cares of business are a wholesome counter-irritant to draw the blood from the n.o.bler parts.

Michael opened and read his letters in turn: all contained good news. He remembered Polycrates, with whom everything succeeded, and who began at last to be afraid of his luck.

And what was the foundation of this monstrous success? A secret unknown to all but himself. Who had seen Ali Tschorbadschi's treasure spread out in the cabin? Only himself--and the moon. But that is an accomplice, and has seen other things too. It is the "Hypomochlion" of creation, to prevent crimes from coming to light. Michael was too deeply sensitive by nature not to feel that such overwhelming good fortune, springing from so foul a root, must eventually fall into dust--for there is justice under the sun. He would joyfully have looked on at the loss of half his wealth, or even given up all, if so he could have hoped to close his account with Heaven. But he felt that his penance consisted in the fact that his riches, influence, the renown of his name, his supposed home-happiness, were only a cruel irony of fate. They buried him, and he could not extricate himself to live the only happy life, whose center was Noemi--and Dodi. When the first Dodi died, he learned what he had been to him. Now, with the second, he felt it still more; and yet he could not make them his own. He lay buried under a mountain of gold which he could not shake off. What he had seen in the delirium of fever, he now really felt. He lay buried alive in a grave full of gold. Above his head stood on the grave-stone a marble statue which never moved--Timea. A beggar-woman with a little child came to gather thyme on his tomb--Noemi. And the man buried alive vainly strove to cry out, "Give me your hand, Noemi, and pull me out of this golden tomb!"

Timar went on with his correspondence. One letter was from the Brazilian agents. His favorite scheme--the export of Hungarian flour--had been brilliantly successful. Timar had gained by it honor and wealth. As he ran through the letters, it occurred to him that when he left home in the morning he had received a registered letter with a foreign stamp. He found the letter in his coat pocket. It was from the same correspondent whose favorable report he had just read, and ran thus:

"SIR,--Since my last, a great misfortune has occurred.

Your _protege_, Theodor Krisstyan, has cheated us shamefully and brought disgrace on us. We are blameless in the matter. This man has for years past seemed so trustworthy and active, that we put the most perfect confidence in him; his salary and commission were so large that he could not only live comfortably, but could save money, which he invested in our house.

While he left his avowable savings to grow to a small capital in our hands, he robbed us frightfully--intercepted money, forged bills, and made false claims on the firm, which was easy, as he had your power of attorney--so that our loss already amounts to some ten million reis. But what makes it more serious is the discovery that during the last few years he has been mixing the imported flour with some of inferior quality from Louisiana, and by this Yankee trick has seriously impaired the credit of the Hungarian article for years to come--even if we are ever able to restore it."

"This is the first blow," thought Timar; and on the most tender point for a great financier. It touched him in what he was most proud of, and what had obtained for him the rank of a privy councilor. And so falls the brilliant fabric erected by Timea--Timea again!

Timar read on hurriedly--

"Bad company has led the young criminal astray: this is a dangerous temptation in this climate. We had him arrested at once, but none of the stolen money was found in his possession. He had lost part at the gambling-table, and got rid of the rest with the help of the Creoles; but it is quite possible that the rogue has managed to conceal considerable sums, in the hope of being able to get at them when again at liberty.

However, he must wait some time, for the court here has sentenced him to fifteen years at the galleys."

Timar could read no further. He let the letter fall on the table; then he stood up and began to pace the room restlessly.

Fifteen years at the galleys! Fifteen years chained to the bench, and nothing to look at all that time but sky and sea! Fifteen years to endure the sickening noonday heat, without hope or comfort--to endure life on the ever-restless sea, and curse unmerciful man! He will be an old man before he gets his freedom. And why? In order that Herr Michael Timar, Baron von Levetinczy, may live undisturbed in his forbidden joys on the ownerless island--that no one may betray Noemi to Timea, nor Timea to Noemi. You never thought of this when you sent Theodor to Brazil, and yet you did count on the chance of opportunity making him into a thief. You did not lay him dead on the spot with a bullet, as a man kills in a duel him who stands in the way of his love. You pretended to a paternal affection for him, and sent him on a three-thousand miles'

voyage; and now you will look on at this slow decay through fifteen horrible years--for you will see him, though all the earth and all her oceans lie between!

The stove had gone out. It was cold in the room, whose windows were covered with frost-flowers. And yet sweat dropped from Timar's brow, as he strode up and down the narrow s.p.a.ce. So, then, every one is consecrated to misfortune to whom he gives his hand--on that hand is a curse.

Oh, what an awful night this is! Will it never be day? He felt as if this room were a dungeon or a tomb.