In the Days of My Youth: A Novel
Page 45
CHAPTER LII.
NEWS FROM ENGLAND.
It was a glorious morning--first morning of the first week in the merrymonth of June--as I took my customary way to Dr. Cheron's house in theFaubourg St. Germain. I had seen Dalrymple off by the night train theevening previous, and, refreshed by a good night's rest, had startedsomewhat earlier than usual, for the purpose of taking a turn in theLuxembourg Gardens before beginning my day's work.
There the blossoming parterres, the lavish perfume from geranium-bed andacacia-blossom, and the mad singing of the little birds up among theboughs, set me longing for a holiday. I thought of Saxonholme, and thesweet English woodlands round about. I thought how pleasant it would beto go home to dear Old England, if only for ten days, and surprise myfather in his quiet study. What if I asked Dr. Cheron to spare me for afortnight?
Turning these things over in my mind, I left the gardens, and, arrivingpresently at the well-known Porte Cochere in the Rue de Mont Parnasse,rang the great bell, crossed the dull courtyard, and took my usual seatat my usual desk, not nearly so well disposed for work as usual.
"If you please, Monsieur," said the solemn servant, making hisappearance at the door, "Monsieur le Docteur requests your presence inhis private room."
I went. Dr. Cheron was standing on the hearth-rug, with his back to thefire, and his arms folded over his breast. An open letter, borderedbroadly with black, lay upon his desk. Although distant some two yardsfrom the table, his eyes were fixed upon this paper. When I came in helooked up, pointed to a seat, but himself remained standing and silent.
"Basil Arbuthnot," he said, after a pause of some minutes, "I have thismorning received a letter from England, by the early post."
"From my father, sir?"
"No. From a stranger,"
He looked straight at me as he said this, and hesitated.
"But it contains news," he added, "that--that much concerns you."
There was a fixed gravity about the lines of his handsome mouth, and anunwonted embarrassment in his manner, that struck me with apprehension.
"Good news, I--I hope, sir," I faltered.
"Bad news, my young friend," said he, compassionately. "News that youmust meet like a man, with fortitude--with resignation. Yourfather--your excellent father--my honored friend--"
He pointed to the letter and turned away.
I rose up, sat down, rose up again, reached out a trembling hand for theletter, and read the loss that my heart had already presaged.
My father was dead.
Well as ever in the morning, he had been struck with apoplexy in theafternoon, and died in a few hours, apparently without pain.
The letter was written by our old family lawyer, and concluded with therequest that Dr. Cheron would "break the melancholy news to Mr. BasilArbuthnot, who would doubtless return to England for the funeral."
My tears fell one by one upon the open letter. I had loved my fathertenderly in my heart. His very roughnesses and eccentricities were dearto me. I could not believe that he was gone. I could not believe that Ishould never hear his voice again!
Dr. Cheron came over, and laid his hand upon my shoulder.
"Come," he said, "you have much to do, and must soon be on your way. Theexpress leaves at midday. It is now ten, you have only two hours left."
"My poor father!"
"Brunet," continued the Doctor, "shall go back with you to your lodgingsand help you to pack. As for money--"
He took out his pocket-book and offered me a couple of notes; but Ishook my head and put them from me.
"I have enough money, thank you," I said. "Good-bye."
"Good-bye," he replied, and, for the first time in all these months,shook me by the hand. "You will write to me?"
I bowed my head in silence, and we parted. I found a cab at the door,and Brunet on the box. I was soon at home again. Home! I felt as if Ihad no home now, either in France or England--as if all my Paris lifewere a brief, bright dream, and this the dreary waking. Hortense wasout. It was one of her busy mornings, and she would not be back till theafternoon. It was very bitter to leave without one last look--one lastword. I seized pen and paper, and yielding for the first time to all theimpulses of my love, wrote, without weighing my words, these few briefsentences:--
"I have had a heavy loss, Hortense, and by the time you open this letterI shall be far away. My father--my dear, good father--is no more. Mymother died when I was a little child. I have no brothers--nosisters--no close family ties. I am alone in the world now--quite alone.My last thought here is of you. If it seems strange to speak of love atsuch a moment, forgive me, for that love is now my only hope. Oh, thatyou were here, that I might kiss your hand at parting, and know thatsome of your thoughts went with me! I cannot believe that you are quiteindifferent to me. It seems impossible that, loving you as I love, sodeeply, so earnestly, I should love in vain. When I come back I shallseek you here, where I have loved you so long. I shall look into youreyes for my answer, and read in them all the joy, or all the despair, ofthe life that lies before me. I had intended to get that portrait copiedagain for you, because you saw in it some likeness to your mother; butthere has been no time, and ere you receive this letter I shall be gone.I therefore send the picture to you by the _concierge_. It is my partinggift to you. I can offer no greater proof of my love. Farewell."
Once written, I dared not read the letter over. I thrust it under herdoor, and in less than five minutes was on my way to the station.
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