Part 37 (1/2)

Elsa had said nothing at the time. That same imagined blow on the head had also deprived her of the power of speech. Fortunately Irma talked so loudly and so long that she paid no attention to her daughter's silence, and presently ran out into the village to gather more news.

And Elsa remained alone in the house, save for the helpless invalid in the next room. She washed and dressed herself quickly and mechanically, then sat down on her favourite low chair, close beside her crippled father's knee, cowering there like some little field mouse, attentive, alert, rigidly still, for very fear of what was to come.

Irma did not come back for two or three hours: when she did it was to bring the exciting news that Leopold Hirsch had been found hanging to a beam in his back shop, with the knife wherewith he had killed Eros Bela lying conspicuously on a table close by.

Elsa felt as if the weight of the world had been lifted from off her brain. All through these hours the thought of Andor having committed such an abominable crime never once entered her mind, but nevertheless when her mother told the news about Leopold Hirsch, and that the police officers had already left the village, she was conscious of an overwhelming sense of relief.

Fortunately her mother was busy all day gossiping with her cronies and Elsa was allowed the luxury of sitting alone most of the day, silent and absorbed, doing the usual work of the house in the morning and in the afternoon busying herself with carefully putting away the wedding dress, the veil, the wreath which would not be wanted now.

Late in the evening, when there was a chance of finding the street deserted, she ran out as far as the presbytery. Fortunately the night was dark: a thin drizzle was falling, and it spread a misty veil all down the village street. Elsa had tied one of her mother's dark-coloured handkerchiefs over her head and put her darkest-coloured petticoat on the top of all the others. She had also wrapped her mother's dark shawl round her shoulders, and thus m.u.f.fled up she was able to flit unperceived down the street, a swift little dark figure undistinguishable from the surrounding darkness of the night.

Fortunately the Pater was at home and ready to see her. She heaved a sigh of relief as she entered the bare narrow little hall which led on the right to the Pater's parlour.

She had been able to tell Pater Bonifacius exactly what was troubling her--that sense of peace, almost of relief, which had descended into her soul when she heard that she never, never need be Eros Bela's wife.

Since this morning, when first she had heard the terrible news, she had not thought of his death--that awful fate which had so unexpectedly overtaken him--she had only thought of her own freedom, the peace which henceforth would be hers.

That was very wrong of course--a grievous sin no doubt the Pater would call it. She shed many tears of contrition, listened eagerly to a kind homily from the old priest on the subject of unnecessary and unprofitable searchings of conscience, and went away satisfied.

Strangely enough, after this confession she felt far more sorry for poor Bela than she had done before, and she cried her eyes out both before and after the funeral because, do what she would, she always saw him before her as he was that last day of his life--quarrelsome, dictatorial, tyrannical--and she remembered how she had almost hated him for his bullying ways and compared him in her mind with Andor's kindness and chivalry.

And now she cried with remorse because she had hated him during the last hours of his life; she cried because he had gone to his death unloved, and lay now in his coffin unregretted; she cried because her heart was full and heavy and because in the past week--before her wedding day--she had swallowed so many unshed tears.

And while she felt miserable and not a little forlorn she didn't want to see anybody, least of all Andor. Whenever she thought of Andor, the same remorse about Bela gnawed again at her heart, for when she thought of him she not only felt at peace, but it seemed as if a ray of happiness illumined the past darkness of her life.

Once or twice during the last day or two, when she had sat st.i.tching, she caught herself singing softly to herself, and once she knew for certain that she had smiled.

Then the day came when Andor called at the house. Irma fortunately was out, having coffee and gossip with a friend. No doubt he had watched until he was sure that she was well out of the way. Then he knocked at the door and entered.

Elsa was sitting as usual on the low chair close by the sick man. She looked up when he entered and all at once the blood rushed to her pale cheeks.

”May I come in?” he asked diffidently.

”If you like, Andor,” she replied.

He threw down his hat and then came to sit on the corner of the table in his favorite att.i.tude and as close to Elsa as he dared. The eyes of the paralytic had faintly lit up at his approach.

”Are you quite well, Elsa?” he asked after a long pause, during which the girl thought that she could hear the beating of her own heart.

”Yes. Quite well thank you, Andor,” she replied softly.

”No one has seen you in the village this past week,” he remarked.

”No,” she said, ”I am not very fond of gossip, and there was a deal too much of it in Marosfalva this past week to please me.”

”You are right there, Elsa,” he rejoined, ”but there were others in the village, you know, those who did not gossip--but whose heart would have been gladdened by a sight of you.”

”Yes, Andor,” she murmured.

We may take it that the young man found these laconic answers distinctly encouraging, for presently he said abruptly:

”Perhaps, Elsa, it isn't right for me to begin talking to you . . .