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A Descriptive Test Bank for Introduction to Java Programming, Comprehensive

Version, 9/E By Y. Daniel Liang,

Chapter 1 Introduction to Computers, Programs, and Java

Chapter 2 Elementary Programming

Chapter 3 Selections

Chapter 4 Loops

Chapter 5 Methods

Chapter 6 Single-Dimensional Arrays

Chapter 7 Multidimensional Arrays

Chapter 8 Objects and Classes

Chapter 9 Strings

Chapter 10 Thinking in Objects

Chapter 11 Inheritance and Polymorphism

Chapter 12 GUI Basics

Chapter 13 Graphics

Chapter 14 Exception Handling and Text I/O

Chapter 15 Abstract Classes and Interfaces

Chapter 16 Event-Driven Programming

Chapter 17 GUI Components

Chapter 18 Applets and Multimedia

Chapter 19 Binary I/O

Chapter 20 Recursion

Chapter 21 Generics

Chapter 22 Lists, Stacks, Queues, and Priority Queues

Chapter 23 Sets and Maps

Chapter 24 Developing Efficient Algorithms

Chapter 25 Sorting

Chapter 26 Implementing Lists, Stacks, Queues, and Priority Queues

Chapter 27 Binary Search Trees

Chapter 28 Hashing

Chapter 29 AVL Trees

Chapter 30 Graphs and Applications

Chapter 31 Weighted Graphs and Applications

Chapter 32 Multithreading and Parallel Programming

Chapter 33 Networking

Chapter 34 Java Database Programming

Bonus Chapters 35–50

Chapter 35 Internationalization

Chapter 36 JavaBeans

Chapter 37 Containers, Layout Managers, and Borders

Chapter 38 Menus, Toolbars, and Dialogs

Chapter 39 MVC and Swing Models

Chapter 40 JTable and JTree

Chapter 41 Advanced Database Programming

Chapter 42 Servlets

Chapter 43 JavaServer Pages

Chapter 44 JavaServer Faces

Chapter 45 Web Services

Chapter 46 Remote Method Invocation

Chapter 47 2-4 Trees and B-Trees

Chapter 48 Red-Black Trees

Chapter 49 Java 2D

Chapter 50 Testing Using JUnit

Other documents randomly have
different content
immutable speechlessness was but the cover and guard of some
great sorrow. No tears ever dimmed her eyes or relieved her
bursting heart; she lay still, absorbed in mute and terrible
retrospection. As her great weakness left her, there came upon her
features the colder darker look of her race, the look which he who
had betrayed her had always feared. She never spoke of him, nor of
the children. Her women would have ventured to bring the children
to her, unbidden, but Greswold forbade them; he knew that for the
devoted tenderness she bore them to be thus utterly still and
changed, some shock must have befallen her so great that the
instincts of maternity were momentarily quenched in her, as water
springs are dried up by earthquake.
'She never speaks of me, nor of them?' asked Sabran with agony
every day of Greswold, and the old man answered him:
'She never speaks at all. She replies to our questions as to her
health, she asks briefly for what she needs; no more.'
'The children are innocent!' he said wearily, and his heart had never
gone forth to them so much as it did now, when they were shut out
like himself from the arms of their mother.
Yet he understood how she shrank from them—might well almost
abhor them—seeing in them, as Vàsàrhely saw, the living proofs of
her surrender to a coward and a traitor.
'What can he have done?' mused Greswold. 'Infidelity, perhaps, she
would not forgive; but it would not make her thus blind and deaf to
the children.'
He passed his days in utter wretchedness; he wandered in the
wintry woods for hours, or sat in weary waiting outside her door. He
cared nothing what his household thought or guessed. He had
forgotten every living creature save herself. When he saw his young
sons in the distance he avoided them; he dreaded their guileless
questions, the stab of their unconscious words. Again and again he
was tempted to blow out his brains, or fling himself from the ice
walls that towered above him; but the sense that it would seem to
her the last cowardice—the last shame—restrained him.
Sometimes it seemed to him that the tie between them was so
strong, the memories of their past passion so sweet, that even his
crime could not part them. Then he remembered of what race she
came, of what honour she was the representative and guardian, and
his heart sank within him, and he knew that his offence was one
beyond all pardon.
The whole household dimly felt that some great grief had fallen on
their master. His attitude, his absence from his wife's room, the
arrival of Prince Vàsàrhely, the abrupt departure of the Countess
Brancka, all told them that some calamity had come, though they
were loyally silent one to the other, their service having been always
one of devotion and veneration for their mistress, since they were all
Tauern-born people, bred up by their fathers in loyalty to
Hohenszalras.
'The first who speaks of aught he suspects goes for ever,' old Hubert
had said to his numerous dienerschaft in the hearing of them all,
when one of the pages—he who had borne the note to his master in
Olga Brancka's rooms—ventured to hint that he thought some evil
was abroad, and would part their lord and lady. But all the faithful
silence of their attendants could not wholly conceal from the elder
children that something wrong, some greater sorrow even than their
mother's illness, was hanging over the old house. They were dull
and vaguely alarmed. They had not even the kindly presence of the
Princess, who, if she sometimes wearied them with admonitions,
treated them with tenderness, and atoned for her homilies by
unending gifts. They were very unhappy, though they said little, and
wandered like little ghosts among the wintry woods and in their
spacious play-rooms. They were tended, amused, provided for in all
the same ways as usual. There were all their pastimes and
playthings; all their comforts and habits were unaltered; but from
the background of their sports and studies the stately figure of their
mother was missing, with her serene smile and her happy power of
checking all dispute or turbulence with a mere word or a mere
glance.
The winter had come at a stroke, as it does without warning
oftentimes in the old Archduchy; the snow falling fast and thick, the
waters freezing in a night, the hills and valleys growing white and
silent between a sunset and a sunset.
Their sledges carried them like lightning over the frozen roads, and
their little skates bore them swift as circling swallows over the ice. It
was the season Bela loved so well; but he had no joy in anything.
There was no twilight hour in the white-room at their mothers feet,
whilst she told them legends and stories: there was no moment in
the mornings when she came into their study and found their little
puzzled brains weary over a Latin declension or a crabbed page of
history, and made all clear to them by a few lucid graphic sentences;
there was no possible hope that, when the day was broad and bright
over the wintry land, she would call to them to bring the dogs and
go with her and her black horses through the glittering forests,
where every bough was heavy with the diamonds of the frost. To the
little boys it seemed as if the whole world had grown suddenly
silent, and they were left all alone in it.
Their troops of attendants were no more consolation to them than
his crowd of courtiers is to a bereaved sovereign.
Then, again, when Egon Vàsàrhely had by chance met them he had
looked at them strangely, and had always turned away without a
greeting. 'And when I was quite little he was so kind,' thought Bela,
whose pride seemed falling from him like a useless ragged garment.
'It's all since Madame Olga came,' he said once to his brother. 'She is
a bad, bad woman. She was rude to our mother.'
'I thought ladies were always good?' said Gela.
'They are much wickeder than men,' said Bela, with premature
wisdom. 'At least, when they are wicked. I heard a gentleman say so
in Paris.'
'What could she do when she was here, do you think?' asked Gela,
with a tremor.
'I do not know,' said Bela, gravely and sadly. 'But I am sure that she
hated our mother.'
He was sure that all the evil had come from her; he had heard of
evil spirits, the people believed in them, and had charms against
them. She was one of them. Had she not tempted him to
disobedience and revolt, with her pictures of the grand gaiety, the
magnificent gatherings, the heart-rousing 'Halali!' of the Chantilly
hunt?
Bela did not forget.
He would have cut off his little right hand, now, never to have vexed
his mother.
He was yet more sorrowful still for his father. Though they were not
allowed to approach their mother's apartments, he had disobeyed
the injunction more than once, and had seen Sabran walking to and
fro that long gallery, or seated with bent head and folded arms on
one of the oaken benches. With all his boldness Bela had not dared
to approach that melancholy figure; but it had haunted his dreams,
and troubled him sorely as he rode and drove, and played and did
his lessons. The snow had come on the second week of his mother's
illness, and when he visited his riding-pony in its loose box on these
frosted days on which he could not use it, he buried his face in its
abundant mane, and wept bitterly, though he boasted that he never
cried.
Eight weeks passed by after the departure of Olga Brancka before
his mother could leave her bed; and all that while, save for a brief
question now and again as to their health, put to her physician, she
had never mentioned the children once. 'She does not want us any
more,' said Bela, with the great tears dimming his bold eyes.
In the ninth week she was lifted on to a great chair, placed beside
one of the windows, and she turned her weary gaze on to the snow
world without. What use was life? Why had it returned to her? All
emotion of maternity, all memory of love, were for the time killed in
her. She was only conscious of an intolerable indignity, for which
neither God nor man could give her consolation.
She would have gone barefoot all the world over sooner than be
again in his presence, had not the imperious courage which was the
strongest instinct of her nature refused to confess itself unable to
meet the man who had wronged her. In the long dark night which
these past two months had seemed to her, she had brought herself
to face the inevitable end. She had nerved herself to be her own
judge and his. Weaker women would have made the world their
judge; she did not. She did not even seek the counsel of that Church
of which she was a reverent daughter. Her priest had no access to
her.
'God must see my torture, but no other shall,' she said in her heart,
nor should the world ever have her fate to make an hour's jesting
wonder of, as is its way with all calamity. It would be her lifelong
companion; a rusted iron for ever piercing deeper, and deeper into
her flesh; but she would dwell alone with it—unpitied. The men of
her race had always been their own lawgivers, their own avengers;
she would be hers.
Once she bade them bring her pens and ink, and she began to use
them. Then she laid them down, and tore in two an unfinished letter.
'Only cowards write to save themselves from pain,' she thought, and
on the tenth day after she had risen from her bed she said to
Greswold:
'Tell the women to leave me alone, and ask—my husband—to come
here.'
She said the last words as if they choked her in their utterance. Her
husband he was; nothing could change the past.
The old man hesitated, and ventured to suggest that any exertion
was dangerous; would it be wise, he asked, to speak of what might
agitate her? And thereon he paused and stammered, knowing that it
was not his place to have observed that there was any estrangement
between them.
She looked at him with suspicion.
'Have I spoken in my sleep or in my unconsciousness?' she thought.
Aloud she said only:
'Be so good as to go to him at once.'
He bowed and went, and to himself mused:
'Since she loves him, her heart will melt when she meets his eyes.
His sin after all cannot be beyond those which women have forgiven
a million times over since first creation began.'
Yet in himself he was not sure of that. The Szalras had had many
great and many generous qualities, but forgiveness of offence had
never been among them.
She remained still, her hands folded on her knees, her face set as
though it were cast in bronze. The great bedchamber, with its
hangings of pale blue plush and its silver-mounted furniture, was
dim and shadowy in the greyness of a midwinter afternoon. Doors
opened, here to the bath and dressing chambers, there to the
oratory, yonder to the apartments of Sabran. She looked across to
the last, and a shudder passed over her; a sense of sickness and
revulsion came on her.
She sat still and waited; she was too weak to go further than this
room. She was wrapped in a long loose gown of white satin, lined
and trimmed with sable. There were black bearskins beneath her
feet; the atmosphere was warmed by hot air, and fragrant with,
some bowls full of forced roses, which her women had placed, there
at noon. The grey light of the fading afternoon touched the silver
scroll-work of the bed, and the silver frame of one large mirror, and
fell on her folded hands and on the glister of their rings. Her head
leaned backward against the high carved ebony of her chair. Her
face was stern and bitterly cold, as that of Maria Theresa when she
signed the loss of Silesia.
He approached from his own apartments, and came timidly and with
a slow step forward. He did not dare to salute her, or go near to her;
he stood like a banished man, disgraced, a few yards from her seat.
Two months had gone by since he had seen her. When he entered
he read on her features that he must leave all hope behind.
Her whole frame shrank within her as she saw him there, but she
gave no sign of what she felt. Without looking at him she spoke, in a
voice quite firm though it was faint from feebleness.
'I have but little to say to you, but that little is best said, not written.'
He did not reply; his eyes were watching her with a terrible appeal,
a very agony of longing. They had not rested on her for two months.
She had been near the gates of the grave, within the shadow of
death. He would have given his life for a word of pity, a touch, a
regard—and he dared not approach her!
She did not look at him. After that first glance, in which there had
been so much of horror, of revulsion, she did not once look towards
him. Her face had the immutability of a mask of stone; so many
wretched days and haunted nights had she spent nerving herself for
this inevitable moment that no emotion was visible in her; into her
agony she had poured her pride, and it sustained her, as the plaster
poured into the dry bones at Pompeii makes the skeleton stand
erect, the ashes speak.
'After that which you have told me,' she said, after a moment's
silence in which he fancied she must hear the throbbing of his heart,
'you must know that my life cannot be lived out beside yours. The
law gives you many, rights, no doubt, but I believe you will not be so
base as to enforce them.'
'I have no rights!' he muttered. 'I am a criminal before the law. The
law will free you from me, if you choose.'
'I do not choose,' she said coldly; 'you understand me ill. I do not
carry my wrongs or my woes to others. What you have told me is
known only to Prince Vàsàrhely and to the Countess Brancka. He will
be silent; he has the power to make her so. The world need know
nothing. Can you think that I shall be its informant?'
'If you divorce me——' he murmured.
A quiver of bitter anger passed over her features, but she retained
her self-control.
'Divorce? What could divorce do for me? Could it destroy the past?
Neither Church nor Law can undo what you have done. Divorce
would make me feel that in the past I had been your mistress, not
your wife, that is all.'
She breathed heavily, and again pressed her hand on her breast.
'Divorce!' she repeated. 'Neither priest nor judge can efface a past
as you clean a slate with a sponge! No power, human or divine, can
free me, purify me, wash your dishonoured blood from your
children's veins.'
She almost lost her self-control; her lips trembled, her eyes were full
of flame, her brow was black with passion. With a violent effort she
restrained herself; invective or reproach seemed to her low and
coarse and vile.
He was silent; his greatest fear, the torture of which had harassed
him sleeping and waking ever since he had placed his secret in her
hands, was banished at her words. She would seek no divorce—the
children would not be disgraced—the world of men would not learn
his shame; and yet as he heard a deeper despair than any he had
ever known came over him. She was but as those sovereigns of old
who scorned the poor tribunals of man's justice because they held in
their own might the power of so much heavier chastisement.
'I shall not seek for a legal separation,' she resumed; 'that is to say, I
shall not, unless you force me to do so to protect myself from you. If
you fail to abide by the conditions I shall prescribe, then you will
compel me to resort to any means that may shelter me from your
demands. But I do not think you will endeavour to force on me
conjugal rights which you obtained over me by a fraud.'
All that she desired was to end quickly the torture of this interview,
from which her courage had not permitted her to shrink. She had to
defend herself because she would not be defended by others, and
she only sought to strike swiftly and unerringly so as to spare herself
and him all needless or lingering throes. Her speech was brief, for it
seemed to her that no human language held expression deep and
vast enough to measure the wrong done to her, could she seek to
give it utterance.
She would not have made a sound had any murderer stabbed her
body; she would not now show the death-wound of her soul and
honour to this man who had stabbed both to the quick. Other
women would have made their moan aloud, and cursed him. The
daughter of the Szalras choked down her heart in silence, and spoke
as a judge speaks to one condemned by man and God.
'I wish no words between us,' she said, with renewed calmness. 'You
know your sin; all your life has been a lie. I will keep me and mine
back from vengeance; but do not mistake—God may pardon you, I
never! What I desired to say to you is that henceforth you shall
wholly abandon the name you stole; you shall assign the land of
Romaris to the people; you shall be known only as you have been
known here of late, as the Count von Idrac. The title was mine to
give, I gave it you; no wrong is done save to my fathers, who were
brave men.'
He remained silent; all excuse he might have offered seemed as if
from him to her it would be but added outrage. He was her betrayer,
and she had the power to avenge betrayal; naught that she could
say or do could seem unjust or undeserved beside the enormity of
her irreparable wrongs.
'The children?' he muttered faintly, in an unuttered supplication.
'They are mine,' she said, always with the same unchanging calm
that was cold as the frozen earth without. 'You will not, I believe,
seek to enforce your title to dispute them with me?'
He gave a gesture of denial.
He, the wrong-doer, could not realise the gulf which his betrayal had
opened betwixt himself and her. On him all the ties of their past
passion were sweet, precious, unchanged in their dominion. He
could not realise that to her all these memories were abhorred,
poisoned, stamped with ineffable shame; he could not believe that
she who had loved the dust that his feet had brushed could now
regard him as one leprous and accursed. He was slow to understand
that his sin had driven him out of her life for evermore.
Commonly it is the woman on whom the remembrance of love has
an enthralling power when love itself is traitor; commonly it is the
man on whom the past has little influence, and to whom its appeal is
vainly made; but here the position was reversed. He would have
pleaded by it: she refused to acknowledge it, and remained as
adamant before it. His nerve was too broken, his conscience was too
heavily weighted for him to attempt to rebel against her decisions or
sway her judgment. If she had bidden him go out and slay himself
he would gladly have obeyed.
'Once you said,' he murmured timidly, 'that repentance washes out
all crimes. Will you count my remorse as nothing?'
'You would have known no remorse had your secret never been
discovered!'
He shrank as from a blow.
'That is not true,' he said wearily. 'But how can I hope you will
believe me?'
She answered nothing.
'Once you told me that there was no sin you would not pardon me!'
he muttered.
She replied:
'We pardon sin; we do not pardon baseness.'
She paused and put her hand to her heart; then she spoke again in
that cold, forced, measured voice, which seemed on his ear as hard
and pitiless as the strokes of an iron hammer, beating life out
beneath it.
'You will leave Hohenszalras; you will go where you will; you have
the revenues of Idrac. Any other financial arrangements that you
may wish to make I will direct my lawyers to carry out. If the
revenues of Idrac be insufficient to maintain you——'
'Do not insult me—so,' he murmured, with a suffocated sound in his
voice, as though some hand were clutching at his throat.
'Insult you!' she echoed, with a terrible scorn.
She resumed, with the same inflexible calmness:
'You must live as becomes the rank due to my husband. The world
need suspect nothing. There is no obligation to make it your
confidante. If anyone were wronged by the usurpation of the name
you took it would be otherwise, but as it is you will lose nothing in
the eyes of men; society will not flatter you the less. The world will
only believe that we are tired of one another, like so many. The
blame will be placed on me. You are a brilliant comedian, and can
please and humour it. I am known to be a cold, grave, eccentric
woman, a recluse, of whom it will deem it natural that you are
weary. Since you allow that I have the right to separate from you—
to deal with you as with a criminal—you will not seek to recall your
existence to me. You will meet my abstinence by the only amends
you can make to me. Let me forget—as far as I am able—let me
forget that ever you have lived!'
He staggered slightly, as if under some sword-stroke from an unseen
hand. A great faintness came upon him. He had been prepared for
rage, for reproach, for bitter tears, for passionate vengeance; but
this chill, passionless, disdainful severance from him for all eternity
he had never dreamed of: it crept like the cold of frost into his very
marrow; he was speechless and mute with shame. If she had
dragged him through all the tribunals of the world she would have
hurt him and humiliated him far less. Better all the hooting gibes of
the whole earth than this one voice, so cold, so inflexible, so full of
utter scorn!
Despite her bodily weakness she rose to her full height, and for the
first time looked at him.
'You have heard me,' she said; 'now go!'
But instead, blindly, not knowing what he did, he fell at her feet.
'But you loved me,' he cried, 'you loved me so well!'
The tears were coursing down his cheeks.
She drew the sables of her robe from his touch.
'Do not recall that,' she said, with a bitter smile. 'Women of my race
have killed men before now for less outrage than yours has been to
me.'
'Kill me!' he cried to her. 'I will kiss your hand.'
She was mute.
He clung to her gown with an almost convulsive supplication.
'Believe, at least, that I loved you!' he cried, beside himself in his
misery and impotence. 'Believe that, at the least!—--'
She turned from him.
'Sir, I have been your dupe for ten long years; I can be so no more!'
Under that intolerable insult he rose slowly, and his eyes grew blind,
and his limbs trembled, but he walked from her, and sought not
again either her pity or her pardon.
On the threshold he looked back once. She stood erect, one hand
resting upon the carved work of her high oak chair; cold, stalely,
motionless, the furred velvets falling to her feet like a queen's robes.
He looked, then passed the threshold and closed the door behind
him. He walked down the corridors blindly, not knowing whither he
went.
They were dusky, for the twilight of the winter's day had come. He
did not see a little figure which was coming towards him until the
child had stopped him with a timid outstretched hand.
'Shall we never see her again?' said Bela, in a hushed voice. 'It is so
long!—so long! Oh, please do tell me!'
Sabran paused, and looked down on the boy with blood-shot
burning eyes. For a moment or so he did not answer; then, with a
sudden movement, he drew his son to him, lifted him in his arms
and kissed him passionately.
'You will see her, not I—not I!' he said with a sob like a woman's.
'Bela, listen! Be obedient to her, adore her, have no will but hers; be
loyal, be truthful, be noble in all your words and all your thoughts,
and then in time perhaps—perhaps—she will pardon you for being
also mine!'
The child, terrified, clung to him with all his force, dimly conscious of
some great agony near him, but far beyond his comprehension or
consolation.
'I love you, I will always love you!' he said, with his hands clasped
around his father's throat.
'Love your mother!' said Sabran, as he kissed the boy's soft cheeks,
made wet by his own tears; then he released the little frightened
form, and went himself away into the darkness.
In a little time, with no word to any living soul there, he had
harnessed some horses with his own hands, and in the fast falling
gloom of the night had driven from Hohenszalras.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

Bela heard the galloping hoofs of the horses, and ran with his fleet
feet, quick as a fawn's, down the grand staircase and out on to the
terrace, where the winds of the north were driving with icy cold and
furious force over a world of snow. With his golden hair streaming in
the blast, he strained his eyes into the gloom of the avenues below,
but the animals had vanished from sight. He turned sadly and went
into the Rittersaal.
'Is that my father who has gone?' he said in a low voice to Hubert,
who was there. The old servant, with the tears in his eyes, told him
that it was. A groom had come to him to say that their lord had
made ready a sledge and driven away without a word to any one of
them, while the night was falling apace.
Bela heard and said nothing; he had his mother's power of silence in
sorrow. He climbed the staircase silently, and went and listened in
the corridor where his father had waited and watched so long. His
heart was heavy, and ached with an indefinable dread. He did not
seek Gela. It seemed to him that this sorrow was his alone. He alone
had heard his father's farewell words; he alone had seen his father
weep.
All the selfishness and vanity of his little soul were broken up and
vanished, and the first grief he had ever known filled up their empty
place. He had adored his father with an unreasoning blind devotion,
like a dog's; and this intense affection had been increased rather
than repressed by the indifference with which he had been treated.
His father was gone; he felt sure that it was for ever: if he could not
see his mother he thought he could not live. To the mind of a child
such gigantic and unutterable terrors rise up under the visitation of a
vague alarm. Abroad in the woods, or under any bodily pain or fear,
he was as brave as a lion whelp, but he had enough of the German
mystic in his blood to be imaginative and visionary when trouble
touched him. The sight of his father's grief had shaken his nerves,
and filled him with the first passionate pity he had ever known. A
man so great, so strong, so wonderful in prowess, so far aloof from
himself as Sabran had always seemed to his little son, to be so
overwhelmed in such helpless sorrow, appeared to Bela so terrible a
thing that an intense fear took for the first time possession of his
little valiant soul. His father could slay all the great beasts of the
forests; could break in the horse fresh from the freedom of the
plains; could breast the stormy waters like a petrel; could scale the
highest heights of the mountains. And yet someone—something—
had had power to break down all his strength, and make him flee in
wretchedness.
It could not be his mother who had done this thing? No, no! never,
never! It had been done because she was lying ill, helpless, perhaps
was dead.
As that last dread came over him he lost all control over himself. He
knew what death was. A little girl he had been fond of in Paris had
died whilst he was her playmate, and he had seen her lying, so
waxen, so cold, so unresponsive, when he had laid his lilies on her
little breast. A great despair came over him, and made him reckless
what he did. In the desperation of terror blent with love, he started
up and ran to the door of his mother's apartments. It yielded to his
pressure; he ran across the ante chamber and the dressing-rooms,
and pulled aside the tapestry.
Then he saw her; seated at the further side of the great
bedchamber. There was a feeble grey light from the western sky, to
which the casements of the chamber turned. It was very pale and
dim, but by it he saw her lying back, rigid and colourless, the white
satin, the dusky fur, the deep shadows gathered around her. There
was that in her look and in her attitude which made the child's heart
grow cold, as his father's had done.
She was alone; for she had bade her women not come unless she
summoned them. Bela stood and gazed, his pulses beating loud and
hard; then with a cry he ran forward and sprang to her, and threw
his arms about her.
'Oh, mother, mother, you are not dead!' he cried. 'Oh, speak to me;
do speak to me! He is gone away for ever and ever, and if we cannot
see you we shall all die. Oh, do not look at me so! Pray, pray, do not.
Shall I fetch Lili?—-'
In his vague terror he thought to disarm her by his little sister's
name. She had thrust him away from her, and was looking with cold
and cruel eyes on his face, that was so like the face of his father.
She was thinking:
'You are the son of a serf, of a traitor, of a liar, of a bastard, and yet
you are mine! I bore you, and yet you are his. You are shame
incarnate. You are the living sign of my dishonour. You bear my
name—my untainted name—and yet you were begotten by him.'
Bela dropped down at her feet as his father had done.
'Oh, do not look at me so,' he sobbed. 'Oh, mother, what have I
done? I have tried to be good all this while. He is gone away, and he
is so unhappy, and he bade me never vex or disobey you, and I
never will.'
His voice was broken in his sobs, and he leaned his head upon her
knees, and clasped them with both his arms. She looked down on
him, and drew a deep shuddering breath. The holiest joy of a
woman's life was, for her, poisoned at the springs.
Then, at the child's clinging embrace, at his piteous and innocent
grief, the motherhood in her welled up under the frost of her heart,
and all its long-suffering and infinite tenderness revived, and
overcame the horror that wrestled with it. She raised him up and
strained him to her breast.
'You are mine, you are mine!' she murmured over him. 'I must forget
all else.'

CHAPTER XXXIX.

He spring dawned once more on Hohenszalras, and the summer

followed it. The waters leapt, the woods rejoiced, the gardens
blossomed, and the children played; but the house was silent as a
house in which the dead are tying. There was indeed a corpse there
—the corpse of buried joy, of murdered love, of ruined honour.
The household resumed its calm order, the routine of the days was
unbroken, the quiet yet stately life had been taken up in its course
as though it had never been altered; and wherever young children
are there will always be some shout of mirth, some sound of happy
laughter somewhere; the children laugh as the birds sing, though
those amidst them bury their dead.
But the house was as a house of mourning, and the sense of death
was there as utterly as though he who was gone had been laid in his
grave amidst the silver figures and the marble tombs in the Chapel
of the Knights. No one ever heard a sigh from her lips, or ever saw
the tears beneath her eyelids; but the sense of her bereavement, as
one terrible, inconsolable, eternal, weighed like a pall on all those
who were about her; the lowliest peasant on her estates understood
that the sanctity of some untold woe had built up a wall of granite
between her and all the living world.
She had always been grateful to fate for her old home set amidst the
silence of the mountains, but she had never been so thankful for it
as now. It shielded her from all the observation and interrogation of
the world; no one came thither unbidden, unless she chose, no
visitant would ever break that absolute solitude which was the sole
approach to peace that she would ever know. Even her relatives
could not pass the icy barrier of her cold denial. They wearied her
for a while with written importunities and suggestions, hinted
wonder, delicately expressed questions. But they made no way into
her confidence; they soon left her to herself and to her children.
They said angrily to themselves that she had been always whimsical
and a solitary; they had been certain that soon or late that ill-
advised union would be dissolved in some way, private or public.
They were all people haughty, sensitive, abhorrent of scandal; they
were content that the separation should be by mutual consent and
noiseless.
She had had letters from Egon Vàsàrhely full of delicate tenderness;
in the last he had asked with humility if he might visit Hohenszalras.
She had written in return to him:
'You have my gratitude and my affection, but until we are quite old
we will not meet. Leave me alone; you can do naught for me.'
He obeyed; he understood the loyalty to one disloyal which made
her refuse to meet him, of whose loyalty she was so sure.
He sent a magnificent present to the child who was his namesake,
and wrote to her no more save upon formal anniversaries.
The screen of her dark forests protected her from all the cruel
comment and examination of the men and women of her world. She
knew them well enough to know that when she ceased to appear
amidst them, when she ceased to contribute to their entertainment,
when she ceased to bid them to her houses, she would soon cease
also to be remembered by them; even their wonder would live but
for a day. If they blamed her in their ignorance, their blame would
be as indifferent as their praise had been.
She had been told by her lawyers that her husband had refused to
touch a coin of the revenues of Idrac, and had once visited them to
sign a power of procuration, whereby they could receive those
revenues and set them aside in accumulation for his son Gela. That
was all she heard. Whither he had gone she was ignorant. She did
not make any effort to learn. On the night following his departure a
peasant had been sent with the sleigh and horses home to
Hohenszalras. The solicitors of Salzburg had seen him a week or two
later at their ancient offices under the Calvarienburg: that was all.
She had bade him let it be forgotten that he had ever lived beside
her. He had obeyed her.
The days, and weeks, and months went on, and his place knew him
no more. The jägers, seated round their fires in their forest-huts,
spoke longingly and wonderingly of his absence. The hunters, when
they brought down a steinbock with unusual effort or skill, said that
it had been a shot that would have been worthy of his praise. His old
friend wept for him with the slow sad tears of age, and the child
Bela prayed for his return every night that he knelt down before his
crucifix. But his name never passed his wife's lips, and was never
written by her hand. She had given her all with the superb
generosity of a sovereign; she had in her wrongs the intense abiding
unutterable disgust of a sovereign betrayed and outraged. When she
let grief have its way, it was when no eyes beheld her, when the
night was down and solitude sheltered her.
She had never spoken of what had befallen her to any human ear;
not even to her priest's. The horror of it was buried in her own
breast; its sepulchre all the waste and ashes of her perished joys.
When the Princess Ottilie, weeping, entreated to be told the worst,
she answered briefly:
'He betrayed me. How, matters nothing.'
More than that she never said. The Princess supposed that she
spoke of the disloyalty of the passions, and dared not urge her to
more confidence. 'I warned him that she would never forgive if he
were faithless,' she thought, and wept for hours at her orisons, her
gentle soul resenting the inflexibility of this mute immutable
bitterness of offended love.
Too proud and too delicate to intrude undesired into any confidence,
and too tenderhearted to utter censure aloud to one she loved, the
Princess showed in a thousand ways without speech that she
considered there were cruelty and egotism in her unexplained
separation from her husband. Believing as she did that his offence
was that conjugal infidelity which, however blameable, is one of
those injuries which all women who love forgive, and which those
who do not love endure in silence from patience and dignity, herself
offended at her exclusion from all knowledge of the facts, she said
but little; but her whole attitude was one of restrained reproach.
'With time she will change,' she said to herself. But time passed on,
and she could see no change, nor any hope of it.
The grave severe beauty of their mother had a vague terror for her
children. She never now smiled at their mirth, laughed at their
sports, or joined in their pastimes. She was almost always silent.
Bela longed to throw his arms about her knees, and cry out to her:
'Mother, mother, where is he?' But he did not venture to do so.
Without his reasoning upon it, the child instinctively felt that her
frozen calm covered depths of suffering which he did not dare
disturb. He had been so completely terrified once, that the
remembrance of that hour lay like ice upon his bright courage. Even
the younger ones felt something of the same fear. Their mother
remembered them, cared for them, was heedful that their needs of
body and of brain were perfectly supplied. But they felt, as young
children feel what they cannot explain, that they were outside her
life, insufficient for her, even fraught with intense pain to her. Often
when she stooped to kiss them a shudder passed over her; often
when they came into her presence she looked away from them, as
though the sight of them stung and blinded her. They never heard
an angry word from her lips, but even repeated anger would have
kept them at less distance from her than did that mute majesty of a
grief they could not comprehend.
She was more severe to all her dependants; she never became
unjust, but she was often stern; the children at the schools saw her
smile no more. Santa Claus still filled their stockings on Christmas
Eve; but of the stately figure which moved amidst them, robed in
black, they grew afraid. She seldom went to them or to her
peasantry. Bela and Gela were sent with her winter gifts. In the
summer the sennerins never now saw her enter their high huts and
drink a cup of milk, talking with them of their herds and flocks.
She was tranquil as of old. She fulfilled the duties of her properties,
and attended to all the demands made upon her by her people; her
liberalities were unchanged, her justice was unwarped, her mind was
clear and keen. But she never smiled, even on her young daughter;
and the little Lili said once to her brothers: