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. Chéron'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. Chéron 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 Cochère in the Rue de Mont Parnasse,
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. Chéron 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 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 you
must meet like a man, with fortitude--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. Chéron 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. Chéron 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."
Once written, I dared not read the letter over. I thrust it under her
door, and in less than five minutes was on my way to the station.
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