"What could I have told her?" She did not know that another thing tortured me besides the misery of poverty that we all shared. She did not know him, nor would she have understood it all. So I suffered on, and suffered inexpressibly. Now and again I received a letter from him—cool, formal lines, containing sometimes in a light, casual way the question, "What was I going to do?"
I read these notes a thousand times, hid them away like costly treasures, and reflected in a helpless, stupid manner on the wonderful endurance and submission of a girl's love. And once in the midst of these reflections I remembered suddenly the little story called "Morgan" which he had given me first to read—remembered the man full of restless desire, the dreamer, the idealist, the conqueror, the despiser, who was by the purity and virtue of a woman brought to acknowledge "love" at last. And whilst I yet pondered over it, my heart grew strangely calm.
"Mother," I said the same evening, "would it not be far the best if I went away again? I would, of course, send home my monthly wages, so there would be no difference in the money, and one less to feed."
My mother gave me a quick, uncertain glance, and said in a singular, hesitating manner: "You want to go back to Buda-Pesth, don't you?"
I felt my heart beat to my very throat, but my eyes, as they looked into hers, did not waver. "No," I answered, "I want to go to England."
At first it seemed that she was relieved from some secret fear, then her face looked the same again.
"Yes, it would be far the best," she replied, in the tired, tormented voice of those who had given up all hope.
When everyone had gone to sleep, I sat down to write to my friend. Trembling with excitement and haste, repeating the same thing over and over again, I asked him to send me the money to go to London. His answer arrived two days later—lines so full of tenderness, readiness, and devotion, that the tears thronged into my eyes. "Would I not arrange to see him before I went away?" he asked at the end. But of that I would not think. I knew the charm, the power of his eyes, and trembled for my victory so hardly won.