Part 47 (2/2)
”Our best plan is to do nothing at all--at least for the present,” said Etelka. ”All we can do is to watch him. He'll not destroy the papers immediately, or employ them for any bad purpose; and though it is against my principles, I mean, for once, to yield to a woman's curiosity, and listen to all that happens in his room. There's always time for extreme measures.”
”I am fond of seeing my way clearly,” replied her brother. ”We ought not to listen or play the spy. These people are too deep for us, and I'll promise you he will take good care that you hear nothing. Indeed, all you heard that night was owing to his not being aware of your presence.
Our best plan is to speak to our father.”
”And spoil all! It's the surest way to destroy the papers. Whether he is privy to the affair or not, it's all the same; the papers, will disappear the moment he or anybody suspects _us_ of being in the secret.”
”You are right,” said Akosh; ”we are compelled to be patient and to dissemble.”
”Now be careful!” replied Etelka, preparing to leave the room. ”I hear my father's footsteps in the hall. He is sure to talk of Vilma; therefore pray keep your temper and your counsel!”
And, kissing her father's hands (whom she met at the door), Miss Rety withdrew.
Father and son met as antagonists, and their instincts taught them an increase of that polite reserve which usually characterised their intercourse. After the necessary inquiries after his son's health, both were for a while silent, till at length the sheriff, with a violent effort, launched into the debate.
”My son,” said he, with a smile, which in him meant only that he was at a loss what expression to give to his features; ”I ought to scold you for your late adventures, not only because they induced you to withdraw your influence at the election (thank goodness! we managed to do without you), but also for endangering your life. Consider what a father's feelings must be when his son behaves like you.”
”My dear father,” replied Akosh, his voice trembling with emotion, ”I am happy you have broached the affair. That matter must be settled, and the sooner the better.”
The sheriff was by no means pleased with the eagerness with which Akosh s.n.a.t.c.hed at his words.
”I am at your service,” he said; ”but I would advise you to wait before we come to an _eclairciss.e.m.e.nt_. Leave it till another day. You are excited, and perhaps suffering.”
”No, father,” replied Akosh, ”I cannot wait when my honour is concerned.
You know I love Vilma.”
The sheriff smiled, and Akosh continued, with a blush:--
”You need not fear my giving you a homily on my love and Vilma's virtues. I intend nothing of the kind; but you are aware of the imprudent step which Tengelyi's obstinacy induced me to take. He would not allow me to visit his house and see his daughter.”
”Tengelyi is a sensible man; at least, in a great many respects.”
”That may be. I, for one, will not contradict you, nor do I mean to argue the question whether it is reasonable to ask a man to do impossible things, or whether it shows good sense to oppose a strong and honourable feeling, and to drive it, by that very opposition, to secrecy and other steps of a questionable nature. I say I will not argue that point. You know all that has happened. You know that Vilma's reputation is at stake, and that I owe her satisfaction----”
”I know nothing of the kind!” said the sheriff. ”My dear son, you make mountains of mole-hills. I must confess, how Vilma's reputation can have suffered is a thing which pa.s.ses my comprehension. I grant that the business does not reflect much credit on the Tengelyi family, nor, indeed, on Mrs. Tengelyi; but as for the young woman, why, she is turned seventeen!”
Akosh sickened at these words, and the tone in which they were spoken; but he conquered his feelings, and went on:--
”This is no laughing matter, father. Vilma's reputation cannot but suffer; and if I could have doubted it, I'm sure what my mother said of her in this very room would have enlightened my mind on the subject.
There is but one remedy for this, and as I have long intended to marry Vilma, I am now resolved to do so without delay. What I ask for is your consent, my father.”
Mr. Rety was one of those men who abhor plain questions, because they require plain answers. The manner in which his son put to him one of these objectionable questions, and in so important a matter, too, overwhelmed him with confusion. He muttered something about the dangers of brusquing any business, and that it was impossible for him to make up his mind in a moment, or to give a decision on a subject of the bearings of which he knew so little.
”As for me,” replied Akosh, ”my resolution is firmly fixed. But if you wish to examine the bearings of the question, I trust you will not forget that Vilma cannot possibly make her appearance any where, unless it be as my betrothed; and that it is cruel in us to prolong, though only for a day, the painful position into which I have brought her family.”
”My son,” said Rety, with a show of great sympathy, ”no one can admire your delicacy more than I do! I promise you that you may rely on my effectual co-operation in any thing we can do to indemnify the Tengelyis for your inconsiderate rashness.”
”Which means that you give your consent!” cried Akosh, seizing his father's hand.
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