Tengelyi had but one friend, viz. Balthasar Vandory, the whole tenour of whose mind was in the strangest contrast with his own. Where Tengelyi condemned, Vandory was sure to excuse; and whenever the perpetration of some great wrong turned all Tengelyi's blood to gall, his strictures upon the cruelty and injustice of mankind failed to move Vandory to any more determined sentiment than deep grief. The notary was at war with the world; the curate was reconciled to it.
Little was known of Vandory's previous history. He never made any allusion to his family, but his accent gave unmistakeable proof of his Magyar origin. His parishioners adored him, and even the Retys made no exception to the general rule.
My readers are now informed of all that can be said of the character and the history of the notary and his friend. I will therefore leave them alone to improve their acquaintance with Tengelyi, who, after parting with the curate, proceeded to the gate of his house, which he was prevented from entering by his daughter Vilma.
"I cannot let you go in," said she; "I want to ask something, and you must grant it."
"Well, what is it?" said Tengelyi, smiling at her earnestness.
"I want you not to be angry."
"Why should I be angry?"
"Because we have done something without your knowledge."
"Very well then," said Tengelyi, laughing, "I pledge my word I will not be angry."
"But you must also approve of it."
"That is a different thing altogether; but if you did it, I think I can promise as much." With these words the notary followed his daughter into the house.
CHAP. III
The village of Tissaret was peaceful and quiet when the notary returned to his house. A few workmen wending their way homewards from the meadows, with their scythes on their shoulders, walked slowly along, stopping every now and then to say good night to the people in the houses. The evening-bell swang slowly to and fro, sending its drowsy tones over the country. The very tavern was all but deserted; and Itzig, the Jew, who usually sold his liquors at high prices because he was in the habit of giving credit on the security of next year's harvest, lounged in the hall, listless and sullen. The manor-house, and the surrounding fields and gardens, were not less quiet, which is saying a great deal, for a Hungarian manor-house is usually the noisiest place in the village. But we know that the son of the house, accompanied by all the dogs, was out hare-hunting; and as for the sheriff, he was closeted with the chief bailiff and the recorder. The conversation of the three dignitaries would doubtless have touched upon very weighty matters, had it not been for the sultriness of the day, which set them "All a-nodding," as the old song has it. And the sheriff's lady's voice, which usually filled the house as the song of the nightingale does the woods, with the sole difference that Lady Rety's voice waxed louder in tone, and more frequent in use, as she advanced in the summer of her years; Lady Rety's voice, too, was silent in the hall, for that lady walked in the garden. That garden was a splendid place! It contained a hermitage, an oven to dry plums in, a pigeon-house built like a temple, a fishpond, with a fisherman's hut, a grotto, a cottage, and a variety of other things, bearing witness to the inventive genius of the Retys, and astonishing the travellers who were favoured with a view of its marvels, its stout Bacchuses, thin Pomonas, artificial ruins, and Chinese arbours. Its furthest end merged in a poplar wood—a real wood of real poplars, and which, but for the unaccountable fancy which the lord lieutenant had taken to it, would long ago have been compelled to make room for a batch of new wonders which the sheriff Rety longed to establish in his garden. For truly that poplar wood was quite a savage place; there was no trace of modern civilisation and refinement in its luxuriant foliage and the sturdy generation of brushwood which surrounded the massive trees. A single path wound through it, or, rather, round about in it. In this path we see Lady Rety engaged in an important and interesting discussion with her most humble and obedient servant and solicitor, Mr. Catspaw.
Lady Rety is of a certain age—I cannot possibly say more on so delicate a point—she is tall and full-grown. Her hair—though we have none of us a right to judge of her hair until we see her without a cap, an event which is very unlikely to happen—is most probably dark, unless, indeed, we are deceived by the colour of her thick eyebrows, and of that slight but treacherous shade on her upper lip. Lady Rety's face is full of majesty, but at certain times (and these times are very certain, for they embrace a regular period of six months out of thirty) that face is beyond all measure condescending and kind, though its usual expression is one of scornful pride, which, by the agency of two warts on her upper lip and chin, becomes so strongly marked that it merges into something like an habitual sneer. The lucky possessor of that sneer is as high-bred a lady as any in the country; her household is on a grand scale; none of her dinners was ever shorter than two hours, and her courts and outhouses are full of poultry and guests, of which the latter, if of high rank, are waited upon with the kindest consideration. Lady Rety's voice is of an easy flow, like a generous fountain, and sweeping, for it would shake even stronger walls than those of Jericho, besides causing the servants to quake. Her discourse is admirable, for it is a verbal repetition of the sayings of her liege lord. This rare instance of conjugal harmony alone would entitle Lady Rety to our respect; but we are free to confess that we venerate her for that sound knowledge of common and statute law, which her conversation betrays, and which marks her as a practical woman, besides giving to her words, as such knowledge never fails to do, a peculiar grace and amiability. There was not a lawyer in the kingdom fonder of arguing a point of law; and so great was her discernment and readiness of mind, that Mr. Catspaw would often confess that he purloined the substance of his best pleadings from the conversations of the most noble, the Lady Rety.
Mr. Catspaw himself is a small spare man of more than fifty years of age, with a pale face, a pointed nose, and a pair of small restless eyes, whose look, though piercing, it is difficult to catch. His back is bent, more from habit than from age. Add to this his high bald forehead, and his scanty hair of bristling grey, and you will have a tolerable idea of Mr. Catspaw's outward man. He was most devoted to the Rety family, in whose service he had passed the last thirty years, and with whom he had at length come to identify himself. This last assertion of his was of course contradicted by his enemies, who protested that his attachment to the Retys sprang from motives of the most sordid selfishness. But however this may be, certain it is that on the evening in question the worthy solicitor was by no means identified, either with the Rety family in general, or with Lady Rety in particular; for while that majestic lady stalked through the poplar wood, with Mr. Catspaw following at her heels, she favoured him with a very violent oration; nor would she condescend to listen to the humble remonstrance, by means of which the lawyer sought to assuage her anger. For, shaking her head with great impatience, she gave that learned gentleman to understand that it was easy to talk,—that every body was aware that Mr. Catspaw would not allow any one to speak,—and that real devotion showed itself by deeds. "I will candidly tell you," said Lady Rety, stopping short, and thumping her parasol on the ground, "what you told me drives me to despair!"
"But, my lady, allow me to observe, that there is no reason why you should despair, for I am sure——"
"Oh! I dare say! You don't despair—not you! What do you care for our troubles? You do not mind what becomes of us!—you have your profession, and who knows but——"
Here