These sounds, familiar to his ear; Martha’s tread, which he would have recognised among a thousand; the hum of the little town, the song of the men and women haymakers returning merrily home, the small windows in which lights were appearing one by one—all this once more affected the good man; he dared not stir from his seat; with joined hands and head bent down, he listened to these intermingled sounds. “Listen to these beloved sounds,” he said to himself, “for perhaps you may never hear them again!—never!”
Suddenly Martha opened the room-door. She could not see her master, and called out—
“Are you there, Doctor?”
“Yes, Martha, I am here,” answered Mathéus, in a trembling voice.
“Bless us! why do you sit in the dark like that? I’ll run and get a light.”
“There is no need. I would rather speak to you so. I would rather tell you—— Come—come here and listen to me.”
Mathéus could not articulate another word; his heart beat violently, and he thought: “If I were to see her face when I tell her what I must tell her—it would be more than I could bear.”
Martha felt by the Doctor’s tone of voice that she was going to hear distressing news, and her knees bent under her.
“What is the matter with you, Doctor?” she said; “your voice trembles!”
“It is nothing—it is nothing, my good, my dear Martha!—it is nothing. Sit down—here, near me; I have something to tell you——”