Jack felt chilled to the heart, and the doctor’s face increased his fears, for he, though for forty years accustomed to the sight of human suffering, was as troubled as Jack.
“Cécile is here—is she not?” were the youth’s first words.
“No, my friend, I left her—at—where we have been, you know; and she will remain some time.”
“Dr. Rivals, tell me what is wrong. She does not wish to see me again? Is that it?”
The doctor could not answer. Jack seated himself for fear he should fall. They were at the foot of the garden. It was a fresh, bright November morning; hoar-frost lay on the lawn, a faint haze hung over the distant hills and reminded him of that day at Coudray, the vintage, and their first whisper of love. The doctor laid a paternal hand on his shoulder. “Jack,” he whispered, “do not be unhappy. She is very young and will perhaps change her mind. It is a mere caprice.”
“No, doctor, Cécile never has caprices. That would be horrible—to drive a knife into a man’s heart merely from caprice! I am sure she has reflected for a long time before she came to this decision. She knew that her love was my life, and that in tearing it up my life would also perish. If she has done this, then it is because she knew well that it was her duty so to do. I ought to have expected it; I should have known that so great a happiness could not be for me.”
He staggered to his feet. His friend took his hand. “Forgive me, my brave boy; I hoped to make you both happy.”
“Do not reproach yourself. Tell her that I accept her decision. Last year,” he continued, “I began the only happy season of my life. I was born on that day, and to-day I die. But these few happy months I owe to you and to Cécile;” and the youth hurried away.
“But you will breakfast with me,” said the doctor.
“No; I should be too sad a guest.”