THE disturbance of my mind had been so great, that all this while I had
forgotten the letter of which Mme. de Lalange had spoken the night
before. I had seen it when I first went to my room, but was in no mood
for village news then; I saw that it was in the large round hand of Ham
Belfort, and thought it kind in him to write, seeing that it cost him
some effort; then I forgot it, as I said. But now, going again to my
room, and with nothing much to do save wait the hour of my departure, I
took the letter up, idly enough, thinking I might as well do this as
another thing. This is what I read, Melody. No fear of my forgetting the
words.
FRIEND JAKEY:
I am sorry to have bad news to send you this first
time of my writing. Father says to prepare your
mind, but I never found it work that way myself,
always liking to know straight out how things was,
and I think you are the same. Your father has been
hearty, for him, till about a week ago. Then he
begun to act strange, and would go about looking
for your mother, as if she was about the place.
Abby kep watch on him, and I happened in once or
twice a day, just to pass the word, and he was
always just as polite, and would read me your
letters. He thought a sight of your letters,
Jakey, and they gave him more pleasure than likely
he'd have had if you'd have ben here, being new
and strange to him, so to speak. He was a perfect
gentleman; he like to read them letters, and they
done credit to him and you. Last night Abby said
to me, she guessed she would take her things over
and stay a spell at the house, till your father
was some better, he was not himself, and she owed
it to you and your mother. I said she was right,
I'd gone myself, but things wasn't so I could
leave, and a woman is better in sickness, however
it may be when a man is well. She went over early
this morning, but your father was gone. There
warn't no hide nor hair of him round the house nor
in the garding. She sent for me, and I sarched the
farm; but while I was at it, seems as if she
sensed where he was, and she went straight to the
berrin-ground, and he was layin on your mother's
grave, peaceful as if he'd just laid down a spell
to rest him. He was dead and cold, Jakes, and you
may as well know it fust as last. He hadn't had no
pain, for when I see him his face was like he was
in heaven, and Abby says it come nearer smiling
than she'd seen it sence your mother was took. So
this is what my paneful duty is to tell you, and
that the Lord will help you threw it is my prayer
and alls that is in the village. Abby is real
sick, or she would write herself. She thought a
sight of your father, as I presume likely you
know. We shall have the funeral to-morrow, and
everything good and plain, knowing how he would
wish it from remembering your mother's. So no
more, Friend Jakey; only all that's in the village
feels for you, and this news coming to you far
away; and would like you to feel that you was
coming home all the same, if he is gone, for there
aint no one but sets by you, and they all want to
see you back, and everybody says it aint the same
place with you away. So I remain your friend,
HAM BELFORT.
P.S. I'd like you to give my regards to Eavan, if
he remembers the grist-mill, as I guess likely he
doos. Remember the upper and nether millstones,
Jakey, and the Lord help you threw.
H. B.
It is sometimes the bitterest medicine, Melody, that is the most
strengthening. This was bitter indeed; yet coming at this moment, it
gave me the strength I needed. The sharp sting of this pain dulled in
some measure that other that I suffered; and I had no fear of any
weakness now. I do not count it weakness, that I wept over my poor
father, lying down so quietly to die on the grave of his dear love. In
my distraction, I even thought for a moment how well it was with them
both, to be together now, and wished that death might take me and
another to some place where no foolish things of this world should keep
us apart; but that was a boy's selfish grief, and I was now grown a man.
I read Ham's letter over and over, as well as I could for tears; and it
seemed to me a pure fruit of friendship, so that I gave thanks for him
and Abby, knowing her silent for want of strength, not want of love. I
should still go home, to the friendly place, and the friendly people who
had known my birth and all that had fallen since. I had no place here; I
was in haste to be gone.
At first I thought not to tell Yvon of what had come to me; but he
coming in and finding me as I have said, I would not have him mistake my
feeling, and so gave him the letter. And let me say that a woman could
not have been tenderer than my friend was, in his sympathy and grieving
for me. I have told you that he and my poor father were drawn to each
other from the first. He spoke of him in terms which were no more than
just, but which soothed and pleased me, coming from one who knew
nobility well, both the European sense of it, and the other. Upon this,
Yvon pressed me to stay, declaring that he would go away with me, and we
would travel together, till my hurt was somewhat healed, or at least I
had grown used to the sting of it; but this I could not hear of. He
helped me put my things together, for by this time night was coming on.
He had found his sister so suffering, he told me, that she felt unable
to leave her bed; and so he had thought it best not to tell her of my
departure till the morrow. And this was perhaps the bitterest drop I had
to drink, my dear, to leave the house like a thief, and no word to her
who had made it a palace of light to me. Indeed, when Yvon left me, to
order the horses, a thought came into my mind which I found it hard to
resist. There was a little balcony outside my window, and I knew that my
dear love's window (I call her so this once, the pain coming back sharp
upon me of that parting hour) opened near it. If I took my violin and
stepped outside, and if I played one air that she knew, then, I thought,
she would understand, at least in part. She would not think that I had
gone willingly without kissing her sweet hand, which I had counted on
doing, the custom of the country permitting it. I took the violin, and
went out into the cool night air; and I laid my bow across the strings,
yet no sound came. For honour, my dear, honour, which we bring into this
world with us, and which is the only thing, save those heavenly ones,
that we can take from this world with us, laid, as it were, her hand on
the strings, and kept them silent. A thing for which I have ever since
been humbly thankful, that I never willingly or knowingly gave any touch
of pain to that sweet lady's life. But if I had played, Melody; if it
had been permitted to me as a man of honour as well as a true lover, it
was my mother's little song that I should have played; and that, my
child, is why you have always said that you hear my heart beat in that
song.
"Il y a longtemps que je t'aime;
Jamais je ne t'oublierai!"
Before we rode away, Mme. de Lalange came out to the door, leaning on
her crutched stick; the horses being already there, and I about to
mount. She swept me a curtsey of surprising depth, considering her
infirmity.
"M. D'Arthenay," she said, "I think I have done you an injustice. I
cannot regret your departure, but I desire to say that your conduct has
been that of a gentleman, and that I shall always think of you as noble,
and the worthy descendant of a great race." With that she held out her
hand, which I took and kissed, conceiving this to be her intention; that
I did it with something the proper air her eyes assured me. It is a
graceful custom, but unsuited to our own country and race.
I could only reply that I thanked her for her present graciousness, and
that it was upon that my thought should dwell in recalling my stay here,
and not upon what was past and irrevocable; which brought the colour to
her dry cheek, I thought, but I could say nothing else. And so I bowed,
and we rode away; my few belongings having gone before by carrier, all
save my violin, which I carried on the saddle before me.
Coming to the Tour D'Arthenay, we checked our horses, with a common
thought, and looked up at the old tower. It was even as I had seen it on
first arriving, save that now a clear moonlight rested on it, instead of
the doubtful twilight. The ivy was black against the white light, the
empty doorway yawned like a toothless mouth, and the round eye above
looked blindness on us. As I gazed, a white owl came from within, and
blinked at us over the curve. Yvon started, thinking it a spirit,
perhaps; but I laughed, and taking off my hat, saluted the bird.
"_Monsieur mon locataire_," I said, "I have the honour to salute you!"
and told him that he should have the castle rent free, on condition that
he spared the little birds, and levied taxes on the rats alone.
Looking back when we had ridden a little further, the tower had turned
its back on me, and all I saw was the heaps of cut stone, lying naked in
the moonlight. That was my last sight of the home of my ancestors. I had
kept faith.