Part 67 (2/2)
”Yes, Samuel; a review of the past will convince you that I was always a faithful brother to you: that, for your sake, I sacrificed what mankind prize as most high and valuable; and that I have a claim upon your grat.i.tude.
”I was a child when my mother died, but I was old enough to become conscious of the change in my life when our father married for the second time. Your mother was the bane of my childhood. Before she was a mother she hated me, because I reminded her of what she longed for; and when you were born, she feared lest I should share our father's property with you.
Everybody pitied me, and there were some people who wished me to hate you. But I loved you. I loved to embrace you; to hear you speak, and to teach you my childish games. I was neglected, hated, and persecuted; but I had a brother, and I hoped to be happy when he came to be a man. My childhood was so utterly wretched, that my hopes had nothing but the distant future, and the older I grew, the more insupportable became my condition. You say my father loved me. He never showed it. The slightest mark of kindness from him would have prevented me from quitting his roof as I did. My departure from home was covered by a distant relation of my mother's, who found the means and the pa.s.sports for a journey to a foreign country. He supported me during the first years of my voluntary exile. At the end of three years he died. Death surprised him with such awful rapidity, that no time was left to inform his friends of my whereabouts, or to provide for me in his will, and I found myself, at the commencement of my studies at Gottingen, thrown upon my own resources, and, though not friendless on foreign soil, I felt homesick. But I had no faith in my father's affection, and I conquered that feeling. My poverty could not shake my resolution. I worked for my living, and was happy and proud that I could support myself. I lived thus for more than ten years. My longings for my country pa.s.sed away. I all but forgot my mother's language; and when I pa.s.sed my examinations and took my degrees, I felt as a native of the foreign land in which I lived. It was at this time I saw your name in the lists of the University of Heidelberg. I left Gottingen, and hastened to meet you.
”I write this, not to reproach you. If I was useful to you, your presence was a source of happiness to me.
What I wish is, to remind you of those happy days, of those days when there were no secrets between us; when it was as unlikely that I should ask for any thing that could give you pain, as that you should refuse to comply with any of my requests.
”No one knew of our consanguinity, and many people wondered at our friends.h.i.+p; I was so much older than you. Even Tengelyi could never suspect that we were brothers. We agreed to return together to my father's house, and to ask his pardon for my rash and injudicious step.
”Heaven would have it otherwise. You knew the woman whose love caused me to forget all other ties, and to make her country mine. I knew my father was proud. I knew that my chosen wife would be a source of annoyance and sorrow to him. He could never be reconciled to the marriage of his son with the daughter of an artisan; and you, too, advised me to take the place which at that time was offered to me, and to remain in Germany.
”My happiness was of short duration. My wife died a few months after your departure from Heidelberg. I felt very lonely. You were far away. Tengelyi had left the place before you. My soul was sorrowful, even unto death. I resolved to turn my steps homewards, but I did not inform you of my resolution.
”I wished to see my father and his house before introducing myself to him as his son. What I saw convinced me that it was better to remain unknown as long as my father lived. My name and my claims to the property were likely to inflame your mother's hate against me, and the prodigal's return would have embittered the last days of his father. We resolved to keep the secret between us; and when your recommendation caused me to be appointed to the curacy of Tissaret, I had no reason to desire a change of my position. I lived in the house as one of the family.
My father, led by instinct, loved me like a son, and I was permitted to cheer his declining age. Your mother died, and my father's death followed soon afterwards.
In his last hour I knelt by his bed, told him who I was, and asked his pardon. He wept. He embraced and blessed me as his son. You were present, he blessed you too, and entreated us to be of one mind, and to love one another.
”After my father's death there was no obstacle to my a.s.suming my real name; but while I stayed in your house a variety of circ.u.mstances had come to my knowledge which prevented my taking that step. Our father was in debt, and you and your wife had, for some years, lived on your expectations. To claim my share of the property was to condemn you to a life of privations and regret; and to a.s.sume my name and resign my heritage was ungenerous. It was burdening you with an obligation in the eyes of the world.
Besides, I was fond of my new vocation, and I felt that the position my name would give me was likely to interfere with my duties as a clergyman. I entreated you not to reveal the secret of my birth to the world.
As it was, I could live with you, and love you as a brother, and that was all I wanted.
”The world would say that I sacrificed much to you. I sacrificed a name of which you yourself are proud, a fine property, and an enviable position; for though I am not eager for honours, I have often felt that my power of doing good to my fellow creatures would be greater if I had not resigned the advantages of my birth. Do not force me to believe that I made that sacrifice for one who is unworthy of it!
”Tengelyi's fate is in your hands. It is in your power to save him, and to restore his honour and reputation to their pristine purity. I need not tell you how you can do it. But, my brother, if you ever loved me, if our father's last prayer is indeed sacred to you, and unless you wish me to curse the moment in which my love for you induced me to sacrifice my interests for your sake,--do, for your children's sake, for the sake of your hopes of heaven, what your duty and conscience command you to do.
”BALTHASAR.”
The sheriff had just read the last lines of this letter, when the door opened. His brother stood before him.
When Kalman returned from Dustbury, he went to Vandory, and gave him an account of Tengelyi's situation; on hearing which, the curate hastened to the sheriff, to intercede in behalf of his friend.
Vandory's arrival took the sheriff by surprise. He was not prepared for an interview with his brother; and, evidently confused, he held out his hand. But the curate did not seize it. His face had lost its habitually mild expression. It was solemn and severe.
”Balthasar!” said the sheriff, sadly; ”will you not take the hand which I hold out to you?”
”Samuel!” replied the curate; ”why should our hands meet, since our hearts are far asunder?”
The sheriff threw himself back in his chair.
”Alas!” cried he; ”and you, too, repulse me! you, too, condemn me, Balthasar! you, whose heart is so full of love and pity!”
Vandory was deeply moved by the sorrow which his brother's features expressed.
”I condemn no one,” said he. ”Believe me, I would not have come to you if I were not convinced that your good natural disposition would triumph over these guilty pa.s.sions. But the least delay is fatal. Tengelyi is in prison----”
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