“Oh, but she will receive me. I call by appointment. Please tell her that I am here.”
“She said that she could receive no one; but if you’ll step into the parlor, I’ll speak to Mrs. Hart.”
Mrs. Hart appeared and corroborated the maid’s statement. A big lump gathered in Arthur’s throat. He had looked forward so eagerly to this moment—had hoped so much from it—and it had been such a long time coming—that now to have it slip away unused, like this—the disappointment was bitter. He felt utterly miserable and dejected. As he dragged himself down the stoop—he had sprung up it, two steps at a stride, a moment since—he noticed a group of urchins, standing on the curbstone and grinning from ear to ear. He fancied that they had guessed his secret, and were laughing at his discomfiture; if he had obeyed his impulse, he would have wrung their necks on the spot. He crossed the street, locked himself in his room, and surrendered unresistingly to the blue devils.
These vivacious sprites played fast and loose with the poor boy’s imagination. They conjured up before him a multitude of unlikely catastrophes. They persuaded him that his case was worse than hopeless. Mrs. Lehmyl cared not a fig for him. Why, forsooth, should she? Probably he had a successful rival. That a woman such as she should love an insignificant young fellow like himself—the bare idea was preposterous. He was to blame for having allowed the flower of hope to take root in his bosom. He laughed bitterly, and wondered how he had contrived to deceive himself even for a moment.
It was trebly absurd that she should love him after so brief and so superficial an acquaintance. Life wasn’t worth living; and, but for his mother and Hetzel, he would put an end to himself forthwith. Yet, the next instant he was recalling the “Yes” that she had spoken yesterday, in response to his “May I call to-morrow?” and the fearless glance with which she had met his eyes. “Ah,” he cries, “it set my blood afire. It dazzled me with visions of impossible joy. I could almost hear her murmur—oh, so softly—’I love you, Arthur!’ You may guess the effect that fancy had upon me.” It is significant that not once did he pity her for her headache. He took for granted that it was merely a subterfuge for refusing’ to receive him. But her motive for refusing to see him— There was the rub! If he could only have divined it—known it to a certainty—then his suspense would have been less of an agony, then his mind could have borrowed some repose, though perhaps the repose of despair.
Well, he got through the night after a fashion. A streak of cold, gray light lay along the eastern horizon, and the river had put off the color of ink for the color of lead, before he fell asleep. His sleep was troubled. A nightmare played frightful antics upon his breast. It was broad day when he awoke. The river sparkled gayly in the sunlight, the sky shimmered with warmth, the sparrows outside quarreled vociferously. A brief glow of cheerfulness was the result. But memory speedily asserted itself. Heartsick and weary he began his toilet. “What had I to look forward to?” he demands. He climbed the staircase, and entered the breakfast room. Hetzel sat near the window, reading a newspaper. Hetzel grunted forth a gruff good-morning, without looking up. I doubt however, whether Arthur knew that Hetzel was there at all. For, as he crossed the threshold, his eye was caught by something white lying upon his plate. He can’t tell why—but he guessed at once that it was a note from Mrs. Lehmyl. His lover’s instinct scented the truth from afar.
He snatched the letter up eagerly. But he delayed about opening it. He scrutinized the direction—written in a frank, firm, woman’s hand. The paper exhaled never so faint a perfume. Still he did not open it. He was afraid. He would wait till his agitation had subsided a little. He could hear his heart going thump, thump, thump, like a hammer against his side. He had difficulty with his breath. Then a dreadful possibility loomed up before him! What—what if it should not be from her after all! This thought endowed him with the courage of desperation. He tore the missive open.
He was standing there, one hand grasping the back of his chair, the other holding the letter to his eyes, when Hetzel, throwing his newspaper aside, got up, turned about the room, then abruptly came to a halt, facing Arthur.
“Mercy upon me, man,” cried Hetzel, “what has happened? Cheeks burning, fingers trembling! No bad news? Speak—quickly.”
But Arthur did not speak.