Madame Bousse, in the meantime, had gone into my bedchamber, where she was sweeping and singing to herself with the door three parts closed, believing, no doubt, that she was affording me the opportunity to make a formal declaration.
"Alas! mademoiselle," I said, hesitatingly, "I little thought..."
She rose, dashed the tears aside, and, holding out her hand to me, said, kindly--
"It is no fault of yours, fellow-student, if I remind you of the portrait, or if the portrait reminds me of one whom it resembles still more nearly. I am sorry to have troubled your kind heart with my griefs.
It is not often that they rise to the surface."
I raised her hand reverently to my lips.
"But you are looking worn and ill yourself," she added. "Is anything the matter?"
"Not now," I replied. "But I have been up all night, and--and I am very tired."
"Was this in your professional capacity?"
"Not exactly--and yet partly so. I have been more a looker-on than an active agent--and I have witnessed a frightful death-scene."
She sighed, and shook her head.
"You are not of the stuff that surgeons are made of, fellow-student,"
she said, kindly. "Instead of prescribing for others, you need some one to prescribe for you. Why, your hand is quite feverish. You should go to bed, and keep quiet for the next twelve hours."
"I will lie down for a couple of hours when Madame Bousse is gone; but I must be up and out again at six."
"Nay, that is in three hours."
"I cannot help it. It is my duty."
"Then I have no more to say. Would you drink some lemonade, if I made it for you?"
"I would drink poison, if you made it for me!"
"A decidedly misplaced enthusiasm!" laughed she, and left the room.
CHAPTER LII.
NEWS FROM ENGLAND.
It was a glorious morning--first morning of the first week in the merry month of June--as I took my customary way to Dr. Cheron"s house in the Faubourg St. Germain. I had seen Dalrymple off by the night train the evening previous, and, refreshed by a good night"s rest, had started somewhat earlier than usual, for the purpose of taking a turn in the Luxembourg Gardens before beginning my day"s work.
There the blossoming parterres, the lavish perfume from geranium-bed and acacia-blossom, and the mad singing of the little birds up among the boughs, set me longing for a holiday. I thought of Saxonholme, and the sweet English woodlands round about. I thought how pleasant it would be to go home to dear Old England, if only for ten days, and surprise my father in his quiet study. What if I asked Dr. Cheron to spare me for a fortnight?
Turning these things over in my mind, I left the gardens, and, arriving presently at the well-known Porte Cochere in the Rue de Mont Parna.s.se, rang the great bell, crossed the dull courtyard, and took my usual seat at my usual desk, not nearly so well disposed for work as usual.
"If you please, Monsieur," said the solemn servant, making his appearance at the door, "Monsieur le Docteur requests your presence in his private room."
I went. Dr. Cheron was standing on the hearth-rug, with his back to the fire, and his arms folded over his breast. An open letter, bordered broadly with black, lay upon his desk. Although distant some two yards from the table, his eyes were fixed upon this paper. When I came in he looked up, pointed to a seat, but himself remained standing and silent.
"Basil Arbuthnot," he said, after a pause of some minutes, "I have this morning 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 an unwonted embarra.s.sment in his manner, that struck me with apprehension.
"Good news, I--I hope, sir," I faltered.
"Bad news, my young friend," said he, compa.s.sionately. "News that you must meet like a man, with fort.i.tude--with resignation. Your father--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 the letter, 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 the afternoon, and died in a few hours, apparently without pain.
The letter was written by our old family lawyer, and concluded with the request that Dr. Cheron would "break the melancholy news to Mr. Basil Arbuthnot, who would doubtless return to England for the funeral."
My tears fell one by one upon the open letter. I had loved my father tenderly in my heart. His very roughnesses and eccentricities were dear to me. I could not believe that he was gone. I could not believe that I should 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. The express 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 lodgings and help you to pack. As for money--"
He took out his pocket-book and offered me a couple of notes; but I shook 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 I had no home now, either in France or England--as if all my Paris life were a brief, bright dream, and this the dreary waking. Hortense was out. It was one of her busy mornings, and she would not be back till the afternoon. It was very bitter to leave without one last look--one last word. I seized pen and paper, and yielding for the first time to all the impulses of my love, wrote, without weighing my words, these few brief sentences:--
"I have had a heavy loss, Hortense, and by the time you open this letter I shall be far away. My father--my dear, good father--is no more. My mother died when I was a little child. I have no brothers--no sisters--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 at such a moment, forgive me, for that love is now my only hope. Oh, that you were here, that I might kiss your hand at parting, and know that some of your thoughts went with me! I cannot believe that you are quite indifferent to me. It seems impossible that, loving you as I love, so deeply, so earnestly, I should love in vain. When I come back I shall seek you here, where I have loved you so long. I shall look into your eyes for my answer, and read in them all the joy, or all the despair, of the life that lies before me. I had intended to get that portrait copied again for you, because you saw in it some likeness to your mother; but there 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 parting gift to you. I can offer no greater proof of my love. Farewell."