CHAPTER XXII. THE LETTER.

Whenallwasstillinthehousewhendinnerwasoverandthenoisyrecreation-hourpastwhendarknesshadsetin,andthequietlampofstudywaslitintherefectorywhentheexternesweregonehome,theclashingdoorandclamorousbellhushedfortheeveningwhenMadamewassafelysettledinthesalle-à-mangerincompanywithhermotherandsomefriendsIthenglidedtothekitchen,beggedabougieforonehalf-hourforaparticularoccasion,foundacceptanceofmypetitionatthehandsofmyfriendGoton,whoanswered,“Maiscertainement,chou-chou,vousenaurezdeux,sivousvoulez”and,lightinhand,Imountednoiselesstothedormitory. Greatwasmychagrintofindinthatapartmentapupilgonetobedindisposed,—greaterwhenIrecognised,amidthemuslinnightcapborders,the“figurechiffonnée”ofMistressGinevraFanshawesupineatthismoment,itistrue—butcertaintowakeandoverwhelmmewithchatterwhentheinterruptionwouldbeleastacceptable:indeed,asIwatchedher,aslighttwinklingoftheeyelidswarnedmethatthepresentappearanceofreposemightbebutaruse,assumedtocoverslyvigilanceover“Timon’s”movementsshewasnottobetrusted.AndIhadsowishedtobealone,justtoreadmypreciousletterinpeace. Well,Imustgototheclasses.Havingsoughtandfoundmyprizeinitscasket,Idescended.Ill-luckpursuedme.Theclasseswereundergoingsweepingandpurificationbycandle-light,accordingtohebdomadalcustom:bencheswerepiledondesks,theairwasdimwithdust,dampcoffee-grounds(usedbyLabassecourienhousemaidsinsteadoftea-leaves)darkenedthefloorallwashopelessconfusion.Baffled,butnotbeaten,Iwithdrew,bentasresolutelyaseveronfindingsolitudesomewhere. TakingakeywhereofIknewtherepository,Imountedthreestaircasesinsuccession,reachedadark,narrow,silentlanding,openedaworm-eatendoor,anddivedintothedeep,black,coldgarret.Herenonewouldfollowme—noneinterrupt—notMadameherself.Ishutthegarret-doorIplacedmylightonadodderedandmouldychestofdrawersIputonashawl,fortheairwasice-coldItookmylettertremblingwithsweetimpatience,Ibrokeitsseal. “Willitbelong—willitbeshort?”thoughtI,passingmyhandacrossmyeyestodissipatethesilverydimnessofasuave,south-windshower. Itwaslong. “Willitbecool?—willitbekind?” Itwaskind. Tomychecked,bridled,disciplinedexpectation,itseemedverykind:tomylongingandfamishedthoughtitseemed,perhaps,kinderthanitwas. SolittlehadIhoped,somuchhadIfearedtherewasafulnessofdelightinthistasteoffruition—such,perhaps,asmanyahumanbeingpassesthroughlifewithouteverknowing.ThepoorEnglishteacherinthefrostygarret,readingbyadimcandlegutteringinthewintryair,alettersimplygood-natured—nothingmorethoughthatgood-naturethenseemedtomegodlike—washappierthanmostqueensinpalaces. Ofcourse,happinessofsuchshalloworigincouldbebutbriefyet,whileitlasteditwasgenuineandexquisite:abubble—butasweetbubble—ofrealhoney-dew.Dr.Johnhadwrittentomeatlengthhehadwrittentomewithpleasurehehadwrittenwithbenignantmood,dwellingwithsunnysatisfactiononscenesthathadpassedbeforehiseyesandmine,—onplaceswehadvisitedtogether—onconversationswehadheld—onallthelittlesubject-matter,inshort,ofthelastfewhalcyonweeks.Butthecordialcoreofthedelightwas,aconvictiontheblithe,geniallanguagegenerouslyimparted,thatithadbeenpouredoutnotmerelytocontentme—buttogratifyhimself.Agratificationhemightnevermoredesire,nevermoreseek—anhypothesisineverypointofviewapproachingthecertainbutthatconcernedthefuture.Thispresentmomenthadnopain,noblot,nowantfull,pure,perfect,itdeeplyblessedme.Apassingseraphseemedtohaverestedbesideme,leanedtowardsmyheart,andreposedonitsthrobasoftening,cooling,healing,hallowingwing.Dr.J