"The gentlemen are waiting, sir," said the governor, or seneschal, of the castle, a dignified-looking man clad in a black gown, and wearing at his girdle a huge bunch of keys; for the governor of such a castle as that of the Szirmays, was keeper, steward, seneschal, as well as captain of the men-at-arms.
"In a moment," replied Paul, and as soon as the old man's back was turned, he whispered hurriedly, "If anyone should happen to ask what I came to your room for, you can say that I wanted a letter written."
Paul stayed yet a few days longer, and was so well entertained with hunting, horse-races, foot-races, feats of arms, and banquets that he could hardly tear himself away from the cordial hospitality of his hosts. He and Libor met but once again in private; but when he was gone Libor held his head higher than he had ever done before. Up to this time he had been the least well off of the pages, and had been deferential to his companions, but now all this was changed. To the Szirmays, on the other hand, and especially to Master Peter, he was more deferential, more attentive, than ever before.
Weeks, months passed, and if Master Peter was somewhat surprised that his old friend's son had not yet declared himself, he was much too proud to show it. And he was far too proud also to show how much hurt he was when he presently learnt that Paul was a suitor for the hand of his niece, and had been accepted by her father and herself.
Master Peter was deeply hurt indeed, and he felt too that his brother had not behaved well to him, knowing, as he did, the arrangement between himself and his friend.
Stephen also felt guilty; and the end of it was, that, though the brothers were sincerely attached to one another, and though no word on the subject passed between them, both felt a sort of constraint. The old happy intercourse was impossible; and for this reason Master Peter came reluctantly to the conclusion that he should be wiser to set up a home of his own again, and leave his brother in possession of the family-dwelling.
Paul had had considerable trouble with his parents, however. They would not hear a word in depreciation of Dora, and at the first insinuation of anything to her actual discredit, Héderváry had flown into a rage, denounced it as idle, shameless gossip, and declared hotly that Paul ought to be ashamed of himself for giving a moment's heed to such lying rumours.
When Paul went a step further and obstinately asserted his belief that Dora was carrying on a secret flirtation with Libor the page, the old warrior's fury was great, and he vowed that he would ride off instantly and tell his friend everything.
Yet, after all, he did nothing of the sort! (Paul and Libor perhaps could have told why.) So far from taking any step of the kind, he held his peace altogether, and finally acquiesced in his son's choice. He gave his consent, very unwillingly, it is true, but he gave it!
Master Peter came to him on a visit not long after, and was so far from betraying any annoyance that he joked and congratulated his friend on having a rich daughter-in-law instead of a poor one, and was full of praise of Jolánta, whom he declared to be a dear girl whom no one could help loving. If Dora's father did not care, why should Paul's?