What a brute he would look without a change of shirt, or anything to shave with! He saw himself with horror, all bristly, and in soiled linen.People would think him mad.'I've given myself away,'
flashed across him, 'what the devil can I say to them?' and he stared sullenly at the driver's back.He read Rozsi's letter again; it had a scent of her.And in the growing darkness, jolted by the swinging of the carriage, he suffered tortures from his prudence, tortures from his passion.
It grew colder and dark.He turned the collar of his coat up to his ears.He had visions of Piccadilly.This wild-goose chase appeared suddenly a dangerous, unfathomable business.Lights, fellowship, security! 'Never again!' he brooded; 'why won't they let me alone?'
But it was not clear whether by 'they' he meant the conventions, the Boleskeys, his passions, or those haunting memories of Rozsi.If he had only had a bag with him! What was he going to say? What was he going to get by this? He received no answer to these questions.The darkness itself was less obscure than his sensations.From time to time he took out his watch.At each village the driver made inquiries.It was past ten when he stopped the carriage with a jerk.
The stars were bright as steel, and by the side of the road a reedy lake showed in the moonlight.Swithin shivered.A man on a horse had halted in the centre of the road."Drive on!" called Swithin, with a stolid face.It turned out to be Boleskey, who, on a gaunt white horse, looked like some winged creature.He stood where he could bar the progress of the carriage, holding out a pistol.
'Theatrical beggar!' thought Swithin, with a nervous smile.He made no sign of recognition.Slowly Boleskey brought his lean horse up to the carriage.When he saw who was within he showed astonishment and joy.
"You?" he cried, slapping his hand on his attenuated thigh, and leaning over till his beard touched Swithin."You have come? You followed us?""It seems so," Swithin grunted out.
"You throw in your lot with us.Is it possible? You--you are a knight-errant then!""Good God!" said Swithin.Boleskey, flogging his dejected steed, cantered forward in the moonlight.He came back, bringing an old cloak, which he insisted on wrapping round Swithin's shoulders.He handed him, too, a capacious flask.
"How cold you look!" he said."Wonderful! Wonderful! you English!"His grateful eyes never left Swithin for a moment.They had come up to the heels of the other carriage now, but Swithin, hunched in the cloak, did not try to see what was in front of him.To the bottom of his soul he resented the Hungarian's gratitude.He remarked at last, with wasted irony:
"You're in a hurry, it seems!"
"If we had wings," Boleskey answered, "we would use them.""Wings!" muttered Swithin thickly; "legs are good enough for me."X
Arrived at the inn where they were to pass the night, Swithin waited, hoping to get into the house without a "scene," but when at last he alighted the girls were in the doorway, and Margit greeted him with an admiring murmur, in which, however, he seemed to detect irony.
Rozsi, pale and tremulous, with a half-scared look, gave him her hand, and, quickly withdrawing it, shrank behind her sister.When they had gone up to their room Swithin sought Boleskey.His spirits had risen remarkably."Tell the landlord to get us supper," he said;"we'll crack a bottle to our luck." He hurried on the landlord's preparations.The window of the, room faced a wood, so near that he could almost touch the trees.The scent from the pines blew in on him.He turned away from that scented darkness, and began to draw the corks of winebottles.The sound seemed to conjure up Boleskey.
He came in, splashed all over, smelling slightly of stables; soon after, Margit appeared, fresh and serene, but Rozsi did not come.
"Where is your sister?" Swithin said.Rozsi, it seemed, was tired.
"It will do her good to eat," said Swithin.And Boleskey, murmuring, "She must drink to our country," went out to summon her, Margit followed him, while Swithin cut up a chicken.They came back without her.She had "a megrim of the spirit."Swithin's face fell."Look here!" he said, "I'll go and try.Don't wait for me.""Yes," answered Boleskey, sinking mournfully into a chair; "try, brother, try-by all means, try."Swithin walked down the corridor with an odd, sweet, sinking sensation in his chest; and tapped on Rozsi's door.In a minute, she peeped forth, with her hair loose, and wondering eyes.
"Rozsi," he stammered, "what makes you afraid of me, now?"She stared at him, but did not answer.
"Why won't you come?"
Still she did not speak, but suddenly stretched out to him her bare arm.Swithin pressed his face to it.With a shiver, she whispered above him, "I will come," and gently shut the door.
Swithin stealthily retraced his steps, and paused a minute outside the sitting-room to regain his self-control.
The sight of Boleskey with a bottle in his hand steadied him.
"She is coming," he said.And very soon she did come, her thick hair roughly twisted in a plait.
Swithin sat between the girls; but did not talk, for he was really hungry.Boleskey too was silent, plunged in gloom; Rozsi was dumb;Margit alone chattered.
"You will come to our Father-town? We shall have things to show you.
Rozsi, what things we will show him!" Rozsi, with a little appealing movement of her hands, repeated, "What things we will show you!" She seemed suddenly to find her voice, and with glowing cheeks, mouths full, and eyes bright as squirrels', they chattered reminiscences of the "dear Father-town," of "dear friends," of the "dear home."'A poor place!' Swithin could not help thinking.This enthusiasm seemed to him common; but he was careful to assume a look of interest, feeding on the glances flashed at him from Rozsi's restless eyes.
As the wine waned Boleskey grew more and more gloomy, but now and then a sort of gleaming flicker passed over his face.He rose to his feet at last.
