When, finally, he told her of the awful night in which the adventurer appeared at his lonely castle, of how despair had led him to the brink of the grave, and how, as he looked down into the waves, instead of his own face mirrored in the water, the dead face of his enemy emerged from the depths, and G.o.d's hand suddenly closed before his eyes the opening of the icy tomb--oh! how pa.s.sionately Noemi pressed him to her breast, as if to hold him back from falling into the grave.

"Now you know what I have left behind in the world, and what I have found here. Can you forgive me for what you have suffered and for all my offenses against you?" Noemi's tears and kisses replied.

The confession had lasted long: the short summer's night was over, and it was daylight when Michael concluded the story of his life.

He was forgiven. "My guilt is obliterated," said Michael. "Timea had recovered her freedom and her wealth. The vagabond had on my clothes and carried my pocket-book away with him: they will bury his body as if it were mine, and Timea is a widow. I have given you my soul, and you have accepted it. Now all is equal."

Noemi took Michael's arm and led him into the room where the boy was asleep. He awoke under their kisses, opened his eyes, and when he saw that it was morning, he knelt up in his little bed, and with folded hands offered his morning prayer: "Dear Lord, bless my good father and my dear mother!"

"All is forgiven, Michael! . . . One angel prays for you beside your bed, the other at your grave, that you may be happy."

Noemi dressed little Dodi, and then her eyes rested thoughtfully on Michael. She wanted time to realize all she had heard from him, but women have quick perceptions.

Suddenly Noemi said to her husband, "Michael, you have still one duty to fulfill in the world."

"What duty, and to whom?"

"You owe Timea the secret that other woman revealed to you."

"What secret?"

"About the door which leads into her room from the secret pa.s.sage. You must tell her of it. Some one might get in to her when she is asleep and alone."

"But no one knows of this secret pa.s.sage except Athalie."

"Is that not enough?"

"What do you mean?"

"Michael, you little know us women. You don't know what Athalie is, but I can guess. My tears flowed for Timea, because she is so wretched, because she does not love you, and you are mine; but if she felt for you what she feels for that other man, and if you spurned me for her sake, as that man did Athalie, then may G.o.d keep me from ever seeing her asleep and in my power!"

"Noemi, you frighten me."

"That is what women are. Did you never know it. Hasten to reveal this secret to Timea. I want her to be happy."

Michael kissed Noemi on the brow. "You darling child! I dare not write to Timea, for she would recognize my writing; and then she could not be my widow, nor I your husband returned from the dead, and ascended into the paradise of your love."

"Then I will write to her."

"No, no, no! I won't allow it. I have heaped gold and diamonds upon her, but she shall not have a word from you; that is one of my own treasures.

I brought Noemi nothing of Timea's, and I will not give Timea anything of Noemi's. You shall not write her a word."

"Well, then," said Noemi, smiling, "I know another who can write to Timea. Dodi shall write the letter."

Timar burst out laughing. There was a world of humor, of child-like simplicity, happy pride, and deep emotion in the idea. Little Dodi will write to warn Timea of her danger. Dodi to Timea! . . . Timar smiled with tears in his eyes. But Noemi was in earnest; she wrote the copy, and Dodi wrote the important lines on ruled paper, without a mistake. Of course he had no idea what he was writing. Noemi gave him a lovely violet ink, a decoction of marsh-mallow, and sealed the letter with white wax; and as there was no seal in the house, nor even a coin which could serve for one, Dodi caught a pretty golden-green beetle, and stuck it on the wax, instead of a coat of arms. The letter was given to the fruit-dealer to take to the post.

Little Dodi's letter went off to Timea.

CHAPTER IX.

"YOU STUPID CREATURE!"

The lovely widow was in the deepest mourning. She went nowhere, and received no visitors.

More than a year had pa.s.sed since her husband's burial.

Timea had another name in the calendar--Susanna. Her first name came from her mother, who was a Greek; but the second she had received at her baptism. This she used when she had to sign doc.u.ments, and St. Susanna's day was considered her _fete_.

In provincial towns the _fete_-days are scrupulously kept. Relations and friends come without invitation, as a matter of course, to visit the person whose _fete_ it is, and meet with a hospitable reception. Some n.o.ble families, however, have adopted the custom of sending invitations to these family-parties, by which it is made evident that those who do not receive cards may keep their congratulations to themselves.

There are two St. Susannas in the year. Timea chose the one whose _fete_ fell in winter, because then her husband used to be at home, and invitations were sent out a week beforehand. Of the other name no notice was taken. Timea was not in the calendar of Komorn, nor even in the national Pesth calendar, and at that time there were no others in the province; so he who wanted to know Timea's own _fete_-day must search far and wide.

It fell in the merry month of May. At that season Herr Timar would have been long away on his journeys; nevertheless, Timea received every May a lovely bouquet of white roses on the day of St. Timea. Who sent it was not stated; it came by post, packed in a box.

As long as Timar lived, Herr Katschuka had invariably received invitations to the Sunday receptions, which he as regularly answered by depositing his card at the door: he never came to the parties. This year the _fete_-day party had been omitted, as the faithful Susanna was in mourning. On the morning of the lovely May day on which Timea's beautiful white-rose bouquet usually arrived, a servant in mourning livery brought a letter to Katschuka. On opening the envelope the major found a printed invitation-card inside, which bore the name, not of Susanna, but of Timea Levetinczy, and had reference to that very day.

Herr Katschuka was puzzled. What a curious notion of Timea! To draw the attention of all Komorn to the fact that Susanna, a good Calvinist, was keeping the day of the Greek saint Timea, and the more because she only sent out her invitations the same morning! It was an outrageous breach of etiquette. Herr Katschuka felt that this time he must accept. In the evening he took care not to be among the earliest arrivals. The time named was half past eight; he waited till half past nine, and then went.

As he laid aside his cloak and sword in the anteroom, he asked the servant whether many visitors had arrived. The servant said no one had come yet. The major was startled. Probably the other guests had taken the shortness of the invitation badly, and decided not to appear; and he was confirmed in this idea when, on entering the saloon, he found the chandeliers lighted and all the rooms brilliantly illuminated--a sign that a large a.s.sembly was expected. The servant informed him that his mistress was in the inner room.

"Who is with her?"

"She is alone. Fraulein Athalie has gone with her mamma to Herr Fabula's house--there is a great fish-dinner there."

Herr Katschuka did not know what to think: not only were there no other guests, but even the people of the house had left the mistress alone.

Timea awaited him in her own sitting-room.

And for this grand party, amid all this splendor, Timea was dressed entirely in black. She celebrated her _fete_-day in mourning: amid the radiance of the golden l.u.s.ters and the silver candelabra a black mourning-dress, which, however, was not suited to the face of its wearer. On her lips hovered a charming smile, and a soft color lay on her cheeks. She received her single guest most cordially. "Oh, how late you are," she said, as she gave him her hand.

The major pressed upon it a respectful kiss. "On the contrary, I fear I am the first."

"Not at all. All I invited have already arrived."

"Where?" asked the major, in astonishment.

"In the dining-room--they are at table, and only waiting for you." With these words she took the arm of the wondering man, led him to the folding-doors, and threw them open; and then, indeed, the major knew not what to think. The dining-room was brilliantly lighted with wax candles; a long table was spread with places for eleven, and the same number of chairs were placed round it, but no one was there--not a single creature. But as the major threw a glance round he began to comprehend, and the clearer the riddle grew, the more his eyes were dimmed with tears. Before each of nine of the places stood a white-rose bouquet under a gla.s.s shade--the last of freshly gathered flowers; the roses of the others were dry, faded, and yellow.

"Look, they are all there which greeted me on Timea's _fete_-day year after year--these are my birthday guests. There are nine of them. Will you be the tenth? Then all whom I have invited will have a.s.sembled."

The major, in speechless delight, pressed the lovely hand to his lips.

"My poor roses--"

Timea did not refuse him that privilege--possibly she would have allowed even more; but the widow's cap stood in the way, and Timea felt it.

"Do you want me to exchange this cap for another?"