"Brother!" said Rety, sadly; "the man whose conscience accuses him, knows neither hope nor comfort."
CHAP. VI.
A few days after Tengelyi's incarceration, Mrs. Ershebet removed to Dustbury, where she hired a small house. The wretched woman was a prey to the deepest misery. She was proud of her husband. She was accustomed to hear his praises wherever she went. It was generally admitted that Tengelyi was the most honest and upright man in the county; and that man, the pride of her heart, and her idol, was in gaol! He was accused of a crime: the dangers which threatened him made her shudder. Ershebet was a strong-minded woman. She stood by Tengelyi in all the reverses and vicissitudes of his life. But the last blow was more than she could bear. Her distress made her careless of everything; even her daughter's society and conversation failed to cheer her, and her former friends were convinced that she could not survive Tengelyi's sentence.
Vilma, on the other hand, rose with the storm. She was convinced of her father's innocence, and firm in her hopes of better days. Her sorrow was of the keenest, but it was tempered by her conviction that it was her duty to cheer her mother, and by her love for Akosh, whose devotion kept pace with the unfortunate events which threatened for ever to destroy the honour and prosperity of the notary's family. The sheriff was now no longer opposed to the wishes of his son; indeed, there was nothing to prevent the perfect happiness of the young couple, except their anxiety concerning Tengelyi's fate.
The notary himself bore the blows of misfortune with his usual sturdy perseverance, but, we regret to say, with more than his usual bitterness. Neither Völgyeshy's advice, nor the entreaties of Akosh and Vandory, could induce him to see the sheriff. He refused to avail himself even of the legal remedies which were at his command, unless they agreed with his ideas of what the law ought to be; and Völgyeshy's complaints that his conduct was likely to injure the defence, he met with dogged indifference.
"I am innocent!" was his usual plea on such occasions. "My innocence will sooner or later come to light; and although I am forced to prove that I am not guilty, I will at least avoid guilty means in doing so."
This was the state of affairs during winter; nor was it changed in the beginning of spring. The prisoner passed that time surrounded by all the comforts, and even luxuries, which the ingenuity of the sheriff could devise, and which the nature of a gaol would admit of. His little room was comfortably furnished; he was not without society, and among those who visited him, no one was more assiduous or more eager to effect a formal reconciliation between the notary and the sheriff, than Völgyeshy the advocate. It is in the midst of one of their discussions on the manner and time of the defence, that we find them on a fine day in March.
"Consider, my friend," said Völgyeshy; "there can be no humiliation in your speaking a few kind words to the sheriff: nor is there any meanness in writing one or two simple lines to the lord-lieutenant, entreating him to adjourn your case."
"But I tell you it is a humiliation!" retorted the notary. "I will not condescend to beg for mercy. I am innocent. If they condemn me, it is their affair, not mine!"