CHAPTER XXV
THE MARRIAGE OF THE DEAD
MEANWHILE the Count had ridden on with his brain in a whirl of love, jealousy, and the rage of thwarted will. But, notwithstanding the hazardous double game he was playing, his was not a nature to admit the possibility of anything but ultimate success. His restrained fury which showed itself only in the lowering face, the set jaw and a certain savage impatience of gesture, was the result of the vexatious counterchecks and what he regarded as the temporary baffling in the plan which he had a few days before been confident of carrying through without the shadow of a difficulty. But that he had been thwarted from an unexpected quarter did not abate one jot of his fierce, ever-growing determination to gain his end. Still, whether it was policy or passion which prompted him, he told himself as he rode along that no time was to be lost, and that the sooner he resolved on a bold stroke the better it would be. Time is seldom a trusted ally to men of the gambler’s temperament; they play to win or lose on the moment; delay is no factor in their calculations.
Zarka rode on through the wild forest region at a rate in keeping with his impatience, until, having gone perhaps some half dozen miles, he slackened his pace and turned along a rough bridle-path which would bring him by a circuitous way back to Rozsnyo. He had pursued this path for about a mile when he came to a clearing in the woodlands and upon an unexpected scene. In the midst of the open space stood a half-ruined building which, from a certain peculiarity in its architecture, had clearly been, at any rate at one time or another, designed for a chapel or oratory. It was, in fact, the remains of a place of worship, built centuries before for the celebration of the superstitious rites of a semi-barbarous people. Grouped round the little building with an air of expectancy were several men and women, decked out in all the elaborate finery of their picturesque native costume. They were members of a community of forest dwellers, their homes lying in various hamlets scattered sparsely over those regions of wood and mountain. A curious fierce race of grown-up children, whose customs and superstitions seemed too hardy to be ever withered by the breath of civilization.
So intent was the group on what it was evidently awaiting that Zarka’s sudden appearance on the scene, which in an ordinary way would have caused some little commotion, passed almost unnoticed. The reason was immediately apparent. Almost simultaneously with his arrival the head of a quaint procession was seen emerging through the trees upon the open ground. The costumes of the peasants who composed the little train showed a strange mixture of sombreness and gaiety. The faces of most of them were sad, yet their manner and gestures seemed buoyant, almost joyful. All wore favours and nosegays, and the girls of the party carried wreaths of such bright flowers as were in season.
Zarka reined in his horse and stood by, watching the affair with an expression of cynical curiosity. He guessed by certain tokens what the rite was, a not infrequent ceremony in those wild parts, a strange, old Magyar custom, surviving from the Dark Ages—the Marriage of the Dead.
As the procession, followed by the onlookers, entered the chapel, Zarka, rousing himself from his scornful train of thought, touched his horse, as though with the intention of continuing his way, then suddenly seeming to change his mind, he reined up again, dismounted, and, leisurely making fast his bridle, strolled into the doorway of the chapel.
A singular spectacle was before him. The members of the procession had already taken their places and were on their knees. In front of a draped and decked-out altar, which accorded strangely with the crumbling walls, the broken windows and the general dilapidated state of the building, in two rudely-fashioned open coffins, hung by loving hands with flowers, lay a young man and a young woman, dressed in their full native costume of the gayest colours, with which the deadly ashen hue of their faces and hands made a sad contrast. Death had so refined their features that they seemed of a superior class to the assembly of their relatives and neighbours; moreover that same kindly, awful touch gave their faces a beauty which life, more churlish, had denied. They had both died on the same day, and in the minds of their simple kinsfolk it seemed fitting that in accordance with an immemorial custom, the Great Divider should join those whom life would probably have kept apart in mutual indifference. The service, or, rather, the ethnical rite, proceeded, conducted by an old, grey-bearded man, whose strongly marked features and determined yet venerable expression of fierce authority easily accounted for the high position he seemed to hold in the community. He wore a dark blue robe ornamented by symbols and mystic characters embroidered down the front of the gown and round the edges of the hanging sleeves. Below this, incongruously enough, he showed a pair of thick Hungarian buskins. He chanted with that peculiar melancholy inflection which is characteristic of the Magyar voice what seemed a rude hymn, in which at certain points the assemblage joined. Presently, amid a movement of suppressed excitement, he advanced to the bodies, and, taking a ring from the man’s rigid hand, placed it upon the girl’s cold finger. Then resuming his former place, he knelt and recited what was evidently a prayer, the whole congregation following him with a fervour which made it seem as though, even in their almost shocking ignorance and superstition, the spirit of the Divinity were not far away, nearer, indeed, to them than that lounging yet alert figure, the very incarnation of evil, standing with a cynical sneer in the porch.
When the strange rite was ended the officiating patriarch changed his tone to a more natural inflection and addressed to the relatives a few words of sympathy, paying a tribute to the simple virtues of the pair he had just wedded in death. Then the kinsfolk left their places and clustered round the bodies which were to lie there till next day, when they would be committed to the earth in one grave.
As Zarka, having satisfied his curiosity, was about to turn away, a unctuous, snuffling voice at his elbow said:
“Shocking superstition, is it not, Herr Count?”
The speaker was a man in priest’s garb, who had been standing unnoticed behind him during the greater part of the ceremony. A man with a fat, sensual face, whose expression of professional gravity was clearly assumed, since his nature was obviously more worldly than ascetic.
Zarka gave a significant shrug. “A pathetic ceremony, father,” he observed, with a cynical grin which completely neutralized his words. “A memento mori does one good occasionally.”
“It should be helpful,” the other assented with professional unction, contradicted somewhat by a twinkle in his eye which seemed to want but little encouragement to become a wink.
Evidently Zarka knew his man, since he was at no pains either to moralize on the function they had just witnessed or to disguise his scoffing humour. He untied his horse, and throwing the bridle over his arm was affable enough to offer to walk with the priest for a part of the way home, a proposal which the other welcomed with alacrity. Whatever his private opinion of his companion may have been, the lord of Rozsnyo and Obergespan of the district was distinctly a personage of importance, and as such was to be cultivated whenever opportunity served.
“You have my sincere pity,” Zarka said presently, “in having your lot cast among these obstinately benighted hinds. Your work must be discouraging.”
No one knew better than Zarka that whatever effect his work might have on the portly priest, discouragement could not be included in it, since the somewhat scattered duties of his office were scamped in the most flagrant way.
“It is, indeed, far from what I could wish,” the priest replied, with evasive meaning.
“Yes,” Zarka proceeded, speaking more seriously now as he drew nearer to the object he had in view, “I am sure of it. You are, if I may say so, my dear Hornthal, too good for your surroundings. You have,” he glanced at the ample figure of his companion, “you have a cathedral presence, and we find you in a barn.”
The priest acknowledged the compliment with a bow and a gratified smile. “A comfortable barn,” he smirked, “thanks to your lordship, with the chaplaincy of Rozsnyo.”
Zarka could be very pleasantly insinuating when it suited him to assume that manner. He laid his hand familiarly on the priest’s shoulder.
“Seriously, my good friend,” he continued, “are you not wasted in these wilds? Have I any right to try and keep you when I know you to be fitted for a larger sphere? Are we not both selfish, you because you are comfortable, I because I am loath to part with my only pleasant and cultivated neighbour.”
“If you, Herr Graf, should be good enough to obtain preferment for me,” Hornthal responded, with a greedy smile and twinkle, “I should not hesitate to mortify the present selfishness both of the lord of Rozsnyo and the priest of Lilienthal.”
Zarka laughed appreciatively. “Hardly an equal penance, my good father,” he said, “but that shall not deter me from serving a friend. Seriously, I have greater influence in high quarters than you perhaps suspect, and it is entirely at your service in consideration of many a dull evening you have brightened for me.”
Whether or not Hornthal believed his patron capable of assisting his advancement, there was clearly no harm in allowing him to try. “You are too good and gracious, Count, towards my poor deserts,” he said with a courtier-like demeanour. “Apropos of your most kind promises, I may mention that I hear Canon Lakner of Kulhausen has had a second stroke.”
“You would naturally step into his shoes if you cared for them,” Zarka replied, his casual tone suggesting that it was a matter of course. “They are doubtless a serviceable pair, if a little homely. But I was thinking of something smarter for you than that.”
Hornthal’s eyes glistened. “You are too good, Count. May I be worthy of your gracious opinion.” Then as, perhaps, doubting his own qualifications for still higher preferment or his patron’s ability to obtain it for him, he added: “All the same, Kuhlhausen is a snug, pleasant benefice.”
“Bah, man!” Zarka exclaimed, with an affectation of impatience; “you have no ambition. Abilities and social gifts like yours would be thrown away in a wretched commercial little place like Kulhausen. Pearls before swine, my dear Hornthal. Were I in your position with an influential friend at my elbow, I would never rest till I had exchanged that”—he tapped significantly the priest’s well-worn oak stick with his riding whip—“your parish cudgel for a pastoral staff. Or my patronage is worth nothing. Good men must be picked up when they are found, and not left to rust. You know the world; you have travelled and seen men and cities. You are simply mislaid among these superstitious boors.”
Doubtless the sanguine tone he assumed was infectious, for the priest exclaimed with an expression of genuine delight: “Count, you take my breath away!”
Zarka had produced the effect he had aimed at, and could dismiss the subject for the time with an appreciatory nod. “Come and dine to-night,” he said, as he prepared to mount his horse. “I am quite alone, and we can discuss over a bottle of Imperial Tokay how far my intention of serving you fits in with your ambition. Only, do not let the idea of preferment take away your appetite as well as your breath,” he added, with a half sneer which his smile did not disguise. “You Church dignitaries, my good father, must show us you know how to live, or how shall we believe you when you take upon yourselves to teach us how to die? At seven then, to-night.”
So, with a laugh which had more meaning in it than the priest comprehended, he rode on.