Part 18 (1/2)

To-day was the vigil of St. Michael and All Angels, there would be vespers at half-past four, and the bride and bridegroom should certainly find the time to go to church for half an hour and thank the good G.o.d for all His gifts.

The company soon made ready to go after that. Everyone there intended to go to church, and in the meanwhile the gipsies would have the remnants of the feast, after which they would instal themselves in the big barn and dancing could begin by about six.

Bride and bridegroom stood side by side, close to the door, as the guests filed out both singly and in pairs, and as they did so they shook each one by the hand, wished them good health after the repast, and begged their company for the dancing presently and the wedding feast on the morrow. Once more the invalid father, hoisted up on the shoulders of the same st.u.r.dy lads, led the procession out of the schoolhouse, then followed all the guests, helter-skelter, young men and maids, old men and matrons.

The wide petticoats got in the way, the men were over bold in squeezing the girls' waists in the general scramble, there was a deal of laughing and plenty of shouting as hot, perspiring hands were held out one by one to Elsa and to Bela, and voices, hoa.r.s.e with merriment, proffered the traditional ”_Egessegire!_” (your very good health!), and then, like so many birds let out of a cage, streamed out of the narrow door into the sunlit street.

Andor had acquitted himself of the same duty, and Elsa's cool little hand had rested for a few seconds longer than was necessary in his own brown one. She had murmured the necessary words of invitation for the ceremonies on the morrow, and he was still standing in the doorway when Klara Goldstein was about to take her leave.

Klara had stayed very ostentatiously to the last, just as if she were the most intimate friend or an actual member of the family; she had stood beside Bela during the general exodus, her small, dark head, crowned with the gorgeous picture hat, held a little on one side, her two gloved hands resting upon the handle of her parasol, her foot in its dainty shoe impatiently tapping the ground.

As the crowd pa.s.sed by, scrambling in their excitement, starched petticoats crumpled, many a white s.h.i.+rt stained with wine, hot, perspiring and panting, a contemptuous smile lingered round her thin lips, and from time to time she made a remark to Bela--always in German, so that the village folk could not understand. But Andor, who had learned more than his native Hungarian during his wanderings abroad, heard these sneering remarks, and hated the girl for speaking them, and Bela for the loud laugh with which he greeted each sally.

Now she held out her small, thin hand to Elsa.

”Your good health, my dear Elsa!” she said indifferently.

After an obvious moment of hesitation, Elsa put her toil-worn, shapely little hand into the gloved one for an instant and quickly withdrew it again. There was a second or two of silence. Klara did not move: she was obviously waiting for the invitation which had been extended to everyone else.

A little nervously she began toying with her parasol.

”The gla.s.s is going up; you will have fine weather for your wedding to-morrow,” she said more pointedly.

”I hope so,” said Elsa softly.

Another awkward pause. Andor, who stood in the doorway watching the little scene, saw that Bela was digging his teeth into his underlip, and that his one eye had a sinister gleam in it as it wandered from one girl to the other.

”May the devil! . . .” began Klara roughly, whose temper quickly got the better of her airs and graces. ”What kind of flea has bitten your bride, Bela, I should like to know?”

”Flea?” said Bela with an oath, which he did not even attempt to suppress. ”Flea? No kind of a flea, I hope. . . . Look here, my dove,”

he added, turning to Elsa suddenly, ”you seem to be forgetting your duties--have you gone to sleep these last five minutes?--or can't you see that Klara is waiting.”

”I can see that Klara is waiting,” replied Elsa calmly, ”but I don't know what she can be waiting for.”

She was as white as the linen of her s.h.i.+ft, and little beads of sweat stood out at the roots of her hair. Andor, whose love for her made him clear-sighted and keen, saw the look of obstinacy which had crept round her mouth--the sudden obstinacy of the meek, which nothing can move. He alone could see what this sudden obstinacy meant to her, whose natural instincts were those of duty and of obedience. She suffered terribly at this moment, both mentally and physically; the moisture of her forehead showed that she suffered.

But she had nerved herself up for this ordeal: the crushed worm was turning on the cruel foot that had trodden it for so long. She did not mean to give way, even though she had fully weighed in the balance all that she would have to pay in the future for this one moment of rebellion.

Parents first and husbands afterwards are masterful tyrants in this part of the world; the woman's place is to obey; the Oriental conception of man's supremacy still reigns paramount, especially in the country. Elsa knew all this, and was ready for the chastis.e.m.e.nt--either moral, mental or even physical--which would surely overtake her, if not to-day, then certainly after to-morrow.

”You don't know what Klara is waiting for?” asked Bela, with an evil sneer; ”why, my dove, you must be dreaming. Klara won't come to our church, of course, but she would like to come to the ball presently, and to-morrow to our wedding feast.”

A second or perhaps less went by while Elsa pa.s.sed her tongue over her parched lips; then she said slowly:

”Since Klara does not go to our church, Bela, I don't think that she can possibly want to come to our wedding feast.”

Bela swore a loud and angry oath, and Andor, who was closely watching each player in this moving little drama, saw that Klara's olive skin had taken on a greenish hue, and that her gloved hands fastened almost convulsively over the handle of her parasol.

”But I tell you . . .” began Bela, who was now livid with rage, and turned with a menacing gesture upon his fiancee, ”I tell you that . . .”

Already Andor had interposed; he, too, was pale and menacing, but he did not raise his voice nor did he swear, he only asked very quietly: