Chapter 11

________________________________________________
_ CHAPTER XI

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. _

Read next: Chapter 12

Read previous: Chapter 10

Table of content of Rosin the Beau


GO TO TOP OF SCREEN

Post your review
Your review will be placed after the table of content of this book