Jenő's heart beat high with gratified self-esteem at the sudden prospect of both realising his proudest ambition and attaining his heart's fondest desire. He had often heard his father refer to this eminent post as the goal for which Ödön was to strive. His head fairly swam at the vision so unexpectedly presented to him. In his wildest dreams he had scarcely dared soar so high.
Meanwhile the other pretended not to note the effect he had produced on the young man. Consulting his watch, he rose hastily. "I have stayed too long," said he. "Another engagement calls me. You will have until to-morrow morning to consider my proposal. Weigh the matter well, for your decision will be of no little importance as regards your whole future career. Look at the question from all sides, and take your mother into your confidence if you wish; she may have weighty arguments to urge against your acceptance. Consider them all carefully, and then decide for yourself."
So saying, he took his leave, well knowing the impression he had made on his plastic subject, and fully confident that the young man would take good heed not to breathe a word of all this to his mother.
As soon as he had left the room, Jenő broke the seal of his letter. His monthly allowance was enclosed, and also a few lines in his mother's hand.
"My dear son," she wrote, "I have read your letter asking me to share in your happiness and to give my love to the young woman whom you wish to make your wife. Any happiness that befalls you cannot fail to rejoice me also. Rank, wealth, birth are slight matters in my eyes. If you chose a bride from the working classes,—a virtuous, industrious, pure-hearted girl,—I should give you my blessing and rejoice in your happiness; or if you should select a spoiled creature of fashion, a coquette and a spendthrift, I should still receive your bride as my daughter, and pray God to bless the union and turn evil into good; but if you marry Alfonsine Plankenhorst, it will be without the blessing of either God or your mother, and we shall be parted for ever."
That was a cruel thrust. How, he asked himself, had Alfonsine incurred his mother's displeasure? What possible offence could she have committed? He recalled her words,—"For your sake I will leave kith and kin, abjure my faith, disown the mother who bore me,"—and remembered the passionate kisses and warm embrace that had accompanied the vow. And should he be outdone by her in devotion? Was his fondness for his mother stronger than his love for Alfonsine? Was not the one feeling a weakness and the other a mark of manly strength? Surely he was no longer a child. How scornfully that other mother had told him he was a mere nobody, and bade him make a place for himself in the world if he wished to marry her daughter! What a triumph it would be to appear before that proud woman on the morrow, with a man's full right to claim his own!
He resolved to accept Rideghváry's offer and to listen to no argument or pleading by which his mother might seek to dissuade him. Bidding his servant admit unannounced the lady who had already called a number of times, he sat awaiting her coming. But he waited in vain, and at last threw himself on his bed and fell asleep. His rest was troubled, however, by a succession of bad dreams.
Filled with fears for his mother's safety, Jenő hastened the next morning, as early as propriety would allow, to call upon Rideghváry.
"Do you know anything about my mother?" were his first words after greeting his patron. "She did not come to see me yesterday."
"Yes, I know," replied the other; "she has made her escape. The market-woman, in whose house she hid, was arrested last night and acknowledged having accompanied your mother to the outskirts of the town, where a carriage was waiting for her. She must be in Pressburg by this time."