Part 7 (1/2)

While she was sipping her coffee, out of a cup not much larger than a nut-sh.e.l.l, all at once she heard a noise of barking and running in the kitchen, as if some person was hunting her little greyhound.

She immediately jumped up, and ran into the kitchen. ”Who is teasing my little dog?” she asked, in a voice of dove-like anger.

The servants all laughed, and the footman, trying to compose his features, replied, ”It was Feeske, who was leaping up on the fireplace.”

”Well, and must you strike the poor dog for that!--he feels it just as much as you would.”

”n.o.body beat him, Miss; only he put his head into the milk-ewer, and could not get it out again.”

”Yes, because you are all so disorderly.--Come here, little Feeske!

You should not have left the milk-ewer on the fireplace--come here, my poor little dog; did these bad people hurt you?”

She was obliged to break the ewer to free the little dog's head.

”Sure it's the pretty ewer that's to be pitied,” said one of the servants, laughing.

”Well, I would not let the dog suffer for the sake of a ewer;” and then she returned to her father with a beaming countenance. ”Have I not scolded them all well!”

Towards the end of breakfast, the footman entered with the letters and newspapers, which the messenger brought weekly from town.

Uncle Gabor opened the Jelenkor newspaper, and followed Espartero and Zummalacarreguy with great attention, while Linka glanced over the peaceful columns of the Regelo--for it was only in the evening that she had time to read it through. As she opened the last page, her eyes fell on a sonnet, ent.i.tled, ”To Lina B----ssy.” She started as if she had looked into a book of incantations, and closed the paper so suddenly, that the old gentleman, who was just standing before the cannons of a naval engagement, cried out, ”What's the matter, my child?”

”Nothing at all, papa,” replied Linka, changing colour, ”only the paper nearly fell out of my hand.”

So far was true. Uncle Gabor hastened back to the engagement, lest anything should have taken place in the mean time.

Lina folded the paper quite small, and thrust it into the pocket of her ap.r.o.n; then, taking up her watering-pot, she glided noiselessly out of the room, and ran into the garden. She was determined not to read the paper. She would either burn it, or put it away where n.o.body should find it. With this firm intention, she began to water her carnations and violets, all the time turning in her mind where she could most conveniently hide the sonnet--for, after all, it would be very hard-hearted to burn it.

At last she remembered the gla.s.s-house, and hastened thither with the intention of putting the paper under one of the great cactus pots. She looked round on entering, to see that she was quite alone. Loneliness is the G.o.dmother of every weakness, and when she took the paper out of her pocket she could not withstand the temptation of looking once more into it--n.o.body would see if she blushed--and, with trembling hands, as if she were committing something very scandalous, she unfolded the paper, and read with a beating heart the lines addressed to her.

The verses were of that kind which our young literature produced about twenty years ago--for we have always had a _young_ literature, which never attained maturity--whose constrained inspirations, insipid taste, and high-sounding problems, had at least this one advantage, that, possessing no feeling at all, they were incapable of exciting any. Lina, blus.h.i.+ng deeply, was forced to recognise herself in ”the rosebud whose perfume is intoxicating bliss;” as ”Heaven's loveliest angel, the night of whose glossy ringlets might form a pall beneath which it were ecstasy to expire, while the sunny radiance of her dark eyes would wake to life again.” The sonnet was signed, ”Kalman S--s.”

Lina knew the youth. She had frequently met him in Sz----, at the county meetings, and having read the lines, she did not think them so very dreadful after all, except of course in a poetical point of view.

As she was still holding the open paper in her hand, a voice called from the garden door, ”Miss Lina!”

Starting up, she once more thrust the paper into the pocket of her ap.r.o.n, and, turning very pale, ran to the door.

”Guests have arrived, Miss Lina! make haste home,” said the servant, who had been sent for her.

An ancestral conveyance, with three unhappy horses, was standing at the door!

Our readers will guess to whom it belonged.

Lina took the handkerchief from her head, smoothed her hair with her hands, and hastened into the room, where numerous voices were to be heard all talking together with exclamations of joy.

It was just themselves, dear reader; the good-natured country gentleman, the dictatorial lady, our nephew Sandor, and his amiable little brother, Peterke.

They had pa.s.sed the night in the neighbouring village, for a variety of excellent reasons; of which the princ.i.p.al were, first, that the horses might rest, so as to be able to gallop into Uncle Gabor's court next morning; and, secondly, that the family might equip _en gala_ for the occasion.