There, while Jack slept, Ida wrote to D’Argenton a long letter, telling him of her son’s arrival, and seeking to arouse his sympathy for the little lonely fellow, whose gentle, regular breathing she heard at her side. She was more at her ease when two days later came a reply from her poet.
Although full of reproaches and of allusions to her maternal weakness, and to the undisciplined nature of her child, the letter was less terrible than she had anticipated. In fact, D’Argenton concluded that it was well to be relieved of the enormous expenses at the academy, and while disapproving of the escapade, he thought it no great misfortune, as the Institution was rapidly running down. “Had he not left it?” As to the child’s fixture, it should be his care, and when he returned a week later, they would consult together as to what plan to adopt.
Never did Jack, in his whole life, as child or man, pass such a week of utter happiness. His mother belonged to him alone. He had the dogs and the goat, the forest and the rabbits, and yet he did not leave his mother for many minutes at a time. He followed her wherever she went, laughed when she laughed without asking why, and was altogether content.
Another letter. “He will come to-morrow!”
Although D’Argenton had written kindly, Ida was still nervous, and wished to arrange the meeting in her own way. Consequently she refused to permit him to go with her to the station in the little carriage. She gave him several injunctions, painful to them both, as if they had each been guilty of some great fault, and to the boy inexpressibly mortifying.
“You will remain at the end of the garden,” she said, “and do not come until I call you.”
The child lingered an hour in expectation, and when he heard the grinding of the wheels, ran down the garden walk, and concealed himself behind the gooseberry bushes. He heard D’Argenton speak. His tone was harder, sterner than ever. He heard his mother’s sweet voice answer gently, “Yes, my dear—no, my dear.” Then a window in the tower opened. “Come, Jack, I want you, my child!”
The boy’s heart beat quickly as he mounted the stairs. D’Argenton was leaning back in the tall armchair, his light hair gleaming against the dark wood. Ida stood by his side, and did not even hold out her hand to the little fellow. The lecture he received was short and affectionate to a certain extent. “Jack,” he said, in conclusion, “life is not a romance; you must work in earnest. I am willing to believe in your penitence; and if you behave well, I will certainly love you, and we three may live together happily. Now listen to what I propose. I am a very busy man.—I am, nevertheless, willing to devote two hours every day to your education. If you will study faithfully, I can make of you, frivolous as you are by nature, a man like myself.”
“You hear, Jack,” said his mother, alarmed at his silence, “and you understand the sacrifice that your friend is ready to make for you—”
“Yes, mamma,” stammered Jack.