# A Son of the People/Chapter 27
### CHAPTER XXVII
#### THE IRREPARABLE

The sun was sinking low down in the west, and its golden rays stole in, by the little windows of the living room and adorned each object in it with a narrow edge of gold, like a halo.
Etelka had laid aside her spinning. The midday meal had been left untasted, and she had thought out some dainty dishes, to prepare for supper, with her own hands, since Sári and Kati were too full of the wedding and all they had seen, to be trusted with the cooking of the first meal the young wife, would take in her new home.
She had seemingly not yet stirred. Etelka had peeped into the room, and seen her lying peacefully, with a faint colour in her cheeks, regular breathing coming through her half-opened mouth. Reassured she had left András to watch in the parlour, and had hurried to her kitchen.
Dreamily he sat beside the open window gazing out across the plain towards the setting sun. … Thus his mind had always pictured this day of all days. The house still and solitary. He alone with her, she with him. They two together, for ever henceforth, as one; loving and loved; sharing sorrows and joys; all in all to each other. He remembered his lonely childhood, his early years, when tired with hard slavish toil, his young shoulders bruised and aching from unjust and heavy blows from his father's stick, he used to wander out on the lonely plain, lonelier even than he, and alone betwixt earth and sky, alone with the moon and stars, he had asked beautiful loving Nature to tell him some of her secrets: to teach him why, the stork called always for its mate, why the swallow toiled to build a nest, why even the little lizards had their homes beneath the great leaves of the melons, and why he in spite of all the great love he bore his mother, felt lonely and homeless. Now he knew. He understood Nature’s great all-pervading lesson, of a dual existence which is as one, a lesson which neither father nor mother could teach him, but which he had learnt, when first he saw the fairy vision that had become his dream, and first heard the voice which had been angel’s music in his ear. Like the stork, he too called for his mate; like the swallow he longed for a home wherein to love her, to cherish her, of which she would be queen.
A faint noise behind him, made him turn his head. It was she, all in white, dimly outlined in the gathering gloom. She had laid aside her veil, but was still in her wedding-dress.
“Ilonka!”
Evidently, she had not expected to find him here, for she started, stopped short, and her hand sought the support of the table near her as if she were afraid to fall.
“Ilonka!” he said again, and came close to where she stood.
She drew back a step or two.
“I thought … I … I did not know you were here.”
“My mother was here, till just now,” he said very gently; “seeing that you were fast asleep, she has gone to her kitchen, and left me here, to watch if you stirred.”
He tried to take her hand, and to draw her to him, but she snatched it away and said hurriedly:
“Where is the kitchen? I will go and find her.”
“The kitchen is in an outhouse, sweet, over there in the garden. The house is solitary and still, and we are alone, you and I.”
Again he tried to take her hand, but she evaded him, and turned nervously to the door.
“Oh! I can find my way, she will want me I know. She …”
But swiftly András had placed himself in her way, and with a sudden, passionate movement, his arms closed round her.
“She does not need your help, sweet,” he whispered earnestly, “and you cannot go … see! you are a prisoner in my arms. … Oh! do not struggle … for I hold you tight How pale you look, and how scared! … Are you frightened? … Not now surely when you are in my arms! … I can protect you, sweet, from every sorrow and every ill. … Bend down and let your tiny ear touch my mouth … for I want to whisper something into it … something, Ilonka, which has so filled my heart for many weary months, that it has well nigh-broken it, for striving to be told. … Ilonka … my own … my sweet wife … I love you!”
His voice sounded hoarse and strange. His arms held her, as in a vice. He was drawing her closer, faster to him, till his face was near to her own. Ilonka fought to free herself. She was surprised and terrified. She did not understand. Never had she heard a voice so strange, nor met a look which frightened her so. Her mother should have warned, told her she would have to listen, would have to allow this odious peasant to put his arms round her, as he no doubt did, to the village girls at the inn. She felt humiliated, horrified, her sharp nails were dug into his hands, in a frantic effort to force him to let her go.
“I forbid you … I forbid you! …” was all that she could gasp, for her throat was choked with terror. But he seemed not to heed. He repeated, in a curious way, “Ilonka … I love you! …” as if the words almost choked him. And those words, in his mouth, sent a thrill of revolt through her; they were the self-same words, which, in those happy times a gentle voice had murmured with respectful tenderness in her ear, and had caused her then, such divine happiness.
“I forbid you!” she repeated mechanically.
His grasp relaxed slightly, and she could see that he smiled.
“Forbid me, sweet! what will you forbid? Do you then, not wish to hear me tell you of the great love I bear you? … Remember, that for all these weeks, I hardly dared approach you. Someone was always there, who seemed to chase away all words of love from my mouth. … For weeks now, I have hardly dared to look at you. It would be cruel to forbid me to speak … now … that, at last we are alone … now … that you are … my wife!”
With a swift and sudden movement, she had succeeded in freeing herself from his grasp. Erect, and defiant, she stood before him, all the arrogance, the pride of the aristocrat in revolt against the daring of this presumptuous peasant. He looked so tall and so powerful in all his bearing, in his look, there was such an air of indomitable will, of almost tyrannical masterfulness, that Ilonka unconsciously remembered the oath she swore: to honour and to obey; and also the silent compact with her heart, to give full obedience, since she could give no love.
“Yes! Yes, I know,” she said slowly, with a certain defiant humility. “I understand, and will try not to forget. I am your wife; and this morning, at the altar, I swore an oath that I would obey you. My mother and father commanded, and I did, as they desired. I swore that I would obey, and I will keep that oath, never fear! I will be a dutiful wife. I will work for you, as no peasant woman could ever work. I will spin, and I will dig; walk to church with you, and distribute to the labourers their measures of wine or corn. You must teach me my duties; command me and I will obey. … You need have no fear. … I know … I am your wife!”
András was gazing at her, half bewildered. He did not quite understand what she said. She looked very beautiful, save for the strange look in her eyes. He could not read what that look meant. It certainly had nothing of terror in it; and her voice too was clear and distinct, and each word she said, seemed to strike at his heart, making it throb with pain. The shades of evening were closing in. He could not see her very distinctly. Her slim form looked quite ghost-like, in the gathering gloom.
She had paused a moment, while he murmured, “Ilonka!” as if in a tender appeal. He would have spoken, and tried to draw near to her again, but, with an imperious gesture, she put up her hand.
“Do not speak,” she said haughtily, “just now I could not stop you. You held me tightly. I tried to protest. But you had your say. It is my turn now. You said there were many things you wished to tell me. Things, which, when you said them, made my cheeks burn with shame. I did not know,—I am an ignorant girl,—and my mother did not tell me,—that it was part of this hideous bargain, that you should speak to me of love, and that I should have to listen to words, which in your mouth, must be a sacrilege!”
“Ilonka!”
One great and mighty cry, heart-rending in its intensity. The cry of the wounded beast, struck unto death, and sending forth in the air, its last piteous appeal.
Was she in her senses? Did she know what she was saying? Was it consciously that she had struck this terrible blow? so deadly, that for a moment, he almost staggered beneath it; he looked at the outline of her young figure, dimly discernible in the darkness. So slender, white and fragile did it look, that, in the midst of his great pain, an infinite pity for her seized him. No! No! she could not understand. She was ill and excited. Her brain was in a fever. Terror, in the midst of the strange surroundings, the lonely farmhouse, the small low room, had blinded her. He had been hot-headed and impetuous. Poor tender little thing, what could she know of a man’s passion? how could she understand the overmastering intensity of a rough peasant’s love? he was rough! All Pater Ambrosius’ education, had not quite eradicated the hot, impatient temperament, of the son of the soil; and she, refined, aristocratic, hitherto surrounded by the calm devotion of her parents, the deference of her servants, the respectful courtship of high-born suitors had been frightened by it all. No wonder she shrank from his sudden, brutal, clumsy ways.
“Ilonka,” he began very gently, forcing his voice not to tremble so as to reassure her, “many things have frightened you to-day. … You are still weak and ill, and I do not think that you are able to realise the cruelty of your last words to me. … Let me take you to your room now. … My mother said that you would require a great deal of rest … and perhaps I was rough and clumsy with you … just now. … I am but a peasant as you know … but I can be gentle. … And oh! I would sooner cut off my right hand than offend or frighten you in any way. … Will you forgive me? See … it is this great love that overwhelms me … that almost obscures my brain … and, perhaps … I lose control of my arms, when they close round you … and of my voice, when I speak to you. … I am quite calm now, my sweet, will you let me take your hand?”
“Is it necessary?” she asked.
“Necessary, Ilonka? do you not wish to place your hand in mine? Will you not try to give me one gentle word? … I do not ask for very much … I will wait … oh! with infinite patience, for a word of love from you … You are exquisitely beautiful. My love for you sprung in my heart, the day, on which I first beheld your loveliness. I am a common peasant … it will take time, I know, to win your love for me. … But I will win it, with such infinite gentleness, that your heart will open to the poor peasant, who so humbly worships you. But until then, my sweet, I will not complain. … I will be content if you will place your tiny hand in mine … just for one moment, of your own accord …”
He held out his hand towards her.
“You will not do this, Ilonka? Have I then offended you so deeply, that you have devised this terrible punishment for me? If so, believe me, dear, the punishment has been enough; for the fault I committed, was in the intensity of my love, and that love you have wounded so deeply, that it now lies bruised and sore at your feet. … You will not stretch out your hand towards me? … You will not say that you forgive? … even if I … pray for that forgiveness on my knees …?”
He had knelt down at her feet; and in the darkness his burning lips had sought and found the small, ice-cold hand. She snatched it away, as if she had been stung, with a sudden cry of horror and loathing.
In a moment András was on his feet again. That sudden gesture, that cry of horror were not the outcome of girlish coyness, or childish fear. There was something more, hidden within the heart of the woman before him, something that was not calm and icy as her words, and as her look; and, in the gloom he tried to see more of her face, than its bare outline. But it was too dark; her head was entirely in shadow, and he could not read what was passing within. With sudden, fierce masterfulness, he seized both her wrists.
“You do not hate me, Ilonka?”
There was dead silence in the room. The moon had just crept round over the lonely farmhouse, and her slanting rays found their way through the low casement windows. Outside, the leaves of the poplar trees trembled in the evening breeze, giving forth a melancholy sound like a long drawn-out sigh. She was silent: and, suddenly, he remembered, how it was thus that he had always pictured the evening of this glorious day. The house solitary and still; his mother gone to her room, leaving him alone with her. He remembered, how he had pictured her: coy, frightened at first, then, listening to his love, her blue eyes getting gradually moist with pity and responsive passion, her lips parting in a happy smile. Oh, the bitter irony of it all! the cruelty of this awakening, from the long, beautiful dream!
“Ilonka, will you answer me,” he pleaded.
She did not try to free her wrists, but drew herself to her full height, and stepped quite close to him, letting each word sound distinctly in his ear:
“Hate you, Kemény András?” she began slowly, and earnestly, “hatred is a big word, as great a one as love; I am a very young girl and have seen nothing of the world, beyond the walls of my fathers castle of Bideskút, and therefore perhaps I know nothing of either. But this I do know; that in order to hate, one must be able to love. And I could never love you. You, with your great wealth, your fields, your lands and your gold, had little else, in the world to desire. But, in your ambitious heart, there remained one arrogant thought. You were not content to see one of your own kind, low-born and sordid as yourself, sharing with you that wealth, which all peasants hold so dear. Since your money could not place you above your station, you longed at least that, at the head of your table there should be seated one, whom your labourers would call ‘my lady’ and that, in one castle at least in the lowlands, you should be welcomed, almost as an equal. With what machinations, what treachery, what usury, you ensnared my weak father, I shall probably never know. I do not care to ask. I may be young, but I am not blind, and one thing was clear to me, from the very first day on which you entered my father’s house, as some triumphant conqueror, and stooped to kiss my hand. It was clear to me from the moment when you, the grandson of a serf, first sat at my mother’s table, and that is, that you have bought me with your gold, Kemény András. You paid so many bank-notes, such measures of wheat or wine in order to call me your wife, to brag of me, before your companions at the inn, to boast of me to the village girls, with whom you used to flirt and dance, to see me keep your house in order, to give me your commands, to beat me, like the peasants do their wives. I! a noble girl! your wife! Well! you have bought me! you have paid for me, as you do for your cattle and your sheep, upon the puszta. The bargain is concluded. The daughter of those who once held your kindred in bondage is your slave. Be content, Kemény András! Command her to obey, if you will, but do not ask her if she hate you!”
Gradually she had spoken more and more quickly; each word, every insult which she uttered, seemed to strike him in the face, as once her father’s blow had done, which still remained unavenged. She was quite calm and self-possessed, now, and, though her voice was hardly above a whisper, it was clear and without a tremor.
He had allowed her to speak, without making the slightest effort to stop her. Perhaps he had not the strength to do so. His blood coursed through his veins like fire, his temples throbbed as if they would break; and yet he listened, as if longing to endure this torture to the full, as if he longed to know what an infinity of hatred, there lurked in that young girl’s heart, and what amount of pain, his own bruised heart could bear.
What a fool he had been, to think of her as a child, coy and frightened with the newness of the life before her! What a fool, to offer her silent adoration, pity or patience. He could not see her, but he could feel her, quivering with all the pent-up passions of womanhood, with bitter hatred, and with deadly revenge. He could feel the frail arms writhing in his clutch; and, on his cheek, her breath warm and panting, hissing out words of insult, and of contempt called from the bitterness of an injured woman’s—not a girl’s—heart. Oh! if there was so much hatred, so much passion within her, she still was a woman exquisitely beautiful, and adorable beyond all other women; if her passions were strong, he would conquer them, if she hated him now, he would turn that hatred into love. Since she had, with cold and callous words, with insult and defiance, bruised and trampled on that great love he bore her, if she would not bend to his deep affection, accept and cherish his reverence, he would break her to his will, and there would be pleasure still, pleasure born of hell, perhaps, but as great as the tortures he endured, to make her suffer, as he had suffered.
Forgotten were Pater Ambrosius’ teachings, his striving after higher things, the lessons of love and compassion, the refinement born of a great heart, and the accomplishment of noble deeds. She had said it truly: he was a peasant, born of serfs; years of education had kept his passions in check, but they were all there, subject to the influence of this one woman, whom he had worshipped with all the strength of his self-contained nature. She had insulted him, derided him, returned loathing for his love, that love lay maimed and bruised by her hatred and his desire.
He would have beaten her, as the herdsmen out on the plains beat their wives, if they disobey, or make them jealous, for very love, because that love is uncontrolled. He could see the outline of her white shoulders in the moonlight, and all, that once had been low, in the peasant’s nature, which the kind Pater’s teaching, his own kindly heart had held in check, rose again, masterful, passionate, to the fore.
“Ilonka,” he said, while swiftly his trembling arms once more closed round her, “God knows I have worshipped you as only good Catholics worship their Lord, that I have honoured every piece of land, every blade of grass, which your foot has ever trodden. This you do not choose to believe. In exchange for all that love, which I was ready to pour forth, humbly at your feet, you have given me cruelty beyond compare, insults more terrible than blows. You have with your own hands dispelled the fairy vision, I had of a sweet and lovely girl, frail and tender, who would nestle in my arms, and allow me to keep all sorrows and ills from her path, in exchange for one sweet smile of love. The fairy vision has flitted away, but instead of this you have shown me the living reality; an exquisitely beautiful woman, full of passions, of deadly hatred, which speaks of some love, which if born, will be well worth the conquering. That reality I cannot worship; it is far too removed from the pictures of the Saints or of the Virgin, but, perhaps, it comes nearer to my own self, my own nature, low, sordid, vulgar—a peasant you know, the grandson of a serf. That reality, my beautiful wife, is my own; your obedience I can compel; you are in my arms, and, though my love is changed, it is as great, as ardent as before.”
But, as he lost his self-control, so she gradually regained hers. She did not struggle. She stood up, listless and passive, in his arms, only turning her head away, so that she might not see him.
“My obedience is yours. I have said it. You need have no fear. It will be as absolute, as is my contempt.”
“And as your love, when I have conquered it,” he said proudly.
If she was afraid, she did not show it. She paused a moment, before she wielded her last, her deadliest weapon.
“My love,” she said slowly, “that Kemény András, even if you were different to what you are, could never become yours, for I have given it to another.”
Was it a sob? was it a cry? so heart-rending a sound was it, that the very wind seemed to pause as if to listen, in pity.
“Woman,” he whispered hoarsely, “may God have mercy on your soul, for you have gone too far.”
His torture had turned to madness, before his eyes the gloom had suddenly changed to a dark red mist, which was like blood. The wounded beast was at last at bay. With savage fury he threw the white figure down on the floor at his feet, while his hand found the heavy clasp-knife from his belt; and, in the moonlight there glittered, cold and blue, the polished steel, which he held high over her head.
“András! in the name of the Virgin Mary! what dost thou with that knife?”
A flood of light came streaming in through the door. Etelka had heard the fearful cry, even in the kitchen, and she stood there, with a lamp in her hand, with blanched face, gazing at the terrible scene before her.
For one moment,—an eternity—there was silence. Then András slowly dropped his arm: the knife fell with a dull, metallic sound on the floor. He stood, with head bent, looking down at the figure at his feet. With superhuman effort he was endeavouring to collect his scattered senses. She had not stirred, but half lay, half knelt before him, her head erect, and her eyes, cold and blue as the metal, meeting his own, in a defiant gaze.
“Ilonka,” said András at last very slowly, his voice shaken and hoarse, “for the last hour, my reason has been flying from me, bit by bit: the last shred flew away just now. The darkness, the moonlight,—I know not—helped to scatter it away. But my mother’s voice has suddenly brought it back, and I stand here, shamed before you—worse still, shamed before myself. Put down the lamp, mother dear,” he said, turning to Etelka, “and help this lady to a chair. She is ill and I have frightened her. But when she is alone with you, she will recover. I, myself have much business to see to, in Zárda, and Csillag is ready to carry me there to-night. I do not know when I shall return, but in the meanwhile this lady will stay with you as your guest, until she wishes to return to her home. I know you have prepared a good supper, and I hope you will eat it in peace, for you know Csillag is sure-footed, and I shall be in Zárda, before the night birds begin to croak.”
He picked up his heavy mantle which was lying on the floor, and fastened it round his shoulders.
Ilonka had sunk into a chair, and her eyes followed the tall, picturesque figure of her husband, as with absolute calm, he stood a moment to give his mother several directions, as to the work to-morrow on the fields. Then he came close to where she sat.
“Before my mother, I would like to say to you, Ilonka, that, whenever you wish it you are free to return to your parents, who have so well taught you the lessons of truth, of honour and obedience. And, as from my childhood she has known all my thoughts, heard my every prayer, it is my desire that she should hear this my oath. As I swore this morning before the altar, so do I swear now, by a most solemn oath, both as a Christian upon the crucifix and, as a man, upon that which I held dearer, more sacred than all, my love for a girlish vision, young and pure as the angels, vanished from me for ever. Upon the memory of that dead love I swear to you, that never while you live will I offend your ears, by speaking to you of that love; never will I, by word or deed, remind you, that the low-born son of serfs is your lord and husband. You may command the shelter of my roof or seek again that of your parents, as you will. You are as free as you were before the presumptuous peasant dared to ask that you should place your hand in his.”
Before the last echo of his quivering voice had died away, before Ilonka had found the strength to look up at the tall figure, so noble, so dignified in its pathos, he had gone, and, the hoofs of Csillag were heard galloping away towards the puszta.
Then Ilonka buried her head in her hands, and sobbed as if her heart would break.