Grosse was the third, and last, person from whom I
might hope to obtain information. But--shall I confess it?--I did not
know what Lucilla might have told him of the estrangement between us, and
my pride (remember, if you please, that I am a poverty-stricken
foreigner) revolted at the idea of exposing myself to a possible repulse.
However, by the eleventh of the month, I began to feel my suspense so
keenly, and to suffer under such painful doubts of what Nugent might be
doing in my absence, that I resolved at all hazards on writing to Grosse.
It was at least possible, as I calculated--and the Journal will show you
I calculated right--that Lucilla had only told him of my melancholy
errand at Marseilles, and had mentioned nothing more. I had just opened
my desk--when our doctor in attendance entered the room, and announced
the joyful intelligence that he could answer at last for the recovery of
good Papa.
"Can I go back to England?" I asked eagerly.
"Not immediately. You are his favorite nurse--you must gradually accustom
him to the idea of your going away. If you do anything sudden you may
cause a relapse."
"I will do nothing sudden. Only tell me, when it will be safe--absolutely
safe--for me to go?"
"Say, in a week."
"On the eighteenth?"
"On the eighteenth."
I shut up my writing-desk. Within a few days, I might now hope to be in
England as soon as I could receive Grosse's answer at Marseilles.
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