ADIEU, SWEET FRANCE!
"And so you received the message from M. Albert?" said I to
Monte-Christo, as we walked together to the Hotel de Ville.
"I did; and to say the truth, I was rather apprehensive about you.
Revolutions are all very well; but it is a frightful thing when the
dregs of the population get the upper hand."
"I am glad to hear you acknowledge so much. For my part, Marquis, having
seen one revolution, I never wish to witness another."
"We could not possibly avoid it," said Monte-Christo. "It was a mere
question of time. No one doubts that a revolutionary spirit may be
carried too far."
"Can't you contrive to write it down?" said I.
"Unfortunately, the majority of gentlemen with whom you have lately been
associating, are not strongly addicted to letters. I question whether M.
Destripes has even read La Tour de Nesle."
"If he had," said I, "it must have tended very greatly to his moral
improvement. But how is it with the Provisional Government?"
"Faith, I must own they are rather in a critical position. Had it not
been for Lamartine--who, I must confess, is a noble fellow, and a man of
undaunted courage--they would have been torn to pieces long ago.
Hitherto they have managed tolerably by means of the National Guard; but
the atmosphere is charged with thunder. Here we are, however, at the
Hotel de Ville."
Not the least curious of the revolutionary scenes of Paris was the
aspect of the seat of government. At the moment I reached it, many
thousands of the lower orders were assembled in front, and one of the
Provisional Government, I believe Louis Blanc, was haranguing them from
a window. Immense crowds were likewise gathered round the entrance.
These consisted of the deputations, who were doing their very best to
exhaust the physical energies, and distract the mental powers, of the
men who had undertaken the perilous task of government.
Under conduct of my friend, I made my way to the room where the
mysterious _ouvrier_ was performing his part of the onerous duty. He
greeted me with a brief nod and a grim smile, but did not pretermit his
paternal functions.
The body which occupied his attention at this crisis of the
commonwealth, was a musical deputation, which craved sweet counsel
regarding some matter of crotchets or of bars. It is not the first time
that music has been heard in the midst of stirring events. Nero took a
fancy to fiddle when Rome was blazing around him.
I could not but admire the gravity with which Albert listened to the
somewhat elaborate address, and the dexterity with which he contrived to
blend the subjects of pipes and patriotism.
"Citizens!" he said, "the Provisional Government are deeply impressed
with the importance of the views which you advocate. Republican
institutions cannot hope to exist without music, for to the sound of
music even the spheres themselves revolve in the mighty and illimitable
expanse of ether.
"At this crisis your suggestions become doubly valuable. I have listened
to them with emotions which I would struggle in vain to express. Oh,
that we may see the day when, with a glorious nation as an orchestra,
the psalm of universal freedom may rise in a swell of triumphant
jubilee!
"And it will come! Rely upon us. Return to your homes. Cherish
fraternity and music. Meantime we shall work without intermission for
your sake. Harmony is our sole object: believe me that, in reconstituted
France, there shall be nothing but perfect harmony."
The deputation withdrew in tears; and another entered to state certain
grievances touching the manufacture of steel beads. I need not say that
in this, as in several other instances, the _ouvrier_ comported himself
like an eminent member of the Society of Universal Knowledge.
"That's the last of them, praise be to Mumbo Jumbo!" said he, as the
representatives of the shoe-blacks departed. "Faith, this is work hard
enough to kill a horse. So, Mr Dunshunner! you have been getting up a
counter-revolution at the Tuileries, I see. How are Monsieur Potard and
all the rest of your colleagues?"
"I am afraid they are finally expelled from paradise," said I.
"Serve them right! a parcel of democratic scum. And what has become of
Citizen Bagsby?"
"I have sent him to my hotel. He was in reality very near becoming an
actual child of France." And I told the story of the nuptials, at which
the _ouvrier_ nearly split himself with laughter.
"And now, Mr Dunshunner," said he, "may I ask the nature of your plans?"
"These may depend a good deal upon your advice," said I.
"I never give advice," replied the _ouvrier_ with a nasal twitch.
"Sometimes it is rather dangerous. But tell me--what would you think of
the state of the British government, if Earl Grey at a cabinet-council
were to threaten to call in the mob, and if Lord Johnny Russell
prevented him by clapping a pistol to his ear."
"I should think very badly of it indeed," said I.
"Or if Incapability Wood should threaten, in the event of the populace
appearing, to produce from the Earl's pocket a surreptitious order on
the Treasury for something like twelve thousand pounds?"
"Worse still."
"Well, then; I don't think you'll find _that_ sort of thing going on in
London, at all events."
"Have you any commands for the other side of the Channel?"
"Oh, then, you are determined to leave? Well, perhaps upon the whole it
is your wisest plan. But do not you regret having evacuated the
Tuileries?"
"Indeed, I do not. Nevertheless, Monsieur Albert, it may yet be occupied
by one of my family."
"_C'est bien possible._ You are a clever race. What began with a
Clovis, may well end with a Dunshunner."
And so, with a cordial pressure of the hand, we parted.
"Monte-Christo," I said, as that very evening I bundled Bagsby into a
_fiacre_ on our way to the railroad station--"Monte-Christo, my good
fellow, let me give you a slight piece of advice, which it would be well
if all of our craft and calling would keep in memory, 'THINK TWICE
BEFORE YOU WRITE UP ANOTHER REVOLUTION.'"
CAPTAIN PATON'S LAMENT.
BY JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART.
[_MAGA._ SEPTEMBER 1819.]
1.
Touch once more a sober measure,
And let punch and tears be shed,
For a prince of good old fellows,
That, alack-a-day! is dead;
For a prince of worthy fellows,
And a pretty man also,
That has left the Saltmarket
In sorrow, grief, and woe.
Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo!
2.
His waistcoat, coat, and breeches,
Were all cut off the same web,
Of a beautiful snuff-colour,
Or a modest genty drab;
The blue stripe in his stocking
Round his neat slim leg did go,
And his ruffles of the cambric fine
They were whiter than the snow.
Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo!
3.
His hair was curled in order,
At the rising of the sun,
In comely rows and buckles smart
That about his ears did run;
And before there was a toupee
That some inches up did grow,
And behind there was a long queue
That did o'er his shoulders flow.
Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo!
4.
And whenever we forgathered,
He took off his wee three-cockit,
And he proffered you his snuff-box,
Which he drew from his side pocket,
And on Burdett or Buonaparte,
He would make a remark or so,
And then along the plainstones
Like a provost he would go.
Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo!
5.
In dirty days he picked well
His footsteps with his rattan,
Oh! you ne'er could see the least speck
On the shoes of Captain Paton;
And on entering the Coffee-room
About _two_, all men did know,
They would see him with his Courier
In the middle of the row.
Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo!
6.
Now and then upon a Sunday
He invited me to dine,
On a herring and a mutton-chop
Which his maid dressed very fine;
There was also a little Malmsey,
And a bottle of Bordeaux,
Which between me and the Captain
Passed nimbly to and fro.
Oh! I ne'er shall take pot-luck with Captain Paton no mo!
7.
Or if a bowl was mentioned,
The Captain he would ring,
And bid Nelly run to the West-port.
And a stoup of water bring;
Then would he mix the genuine stuff,
As they made it long ago,
With limes that on his property
In Trinidad did grow.
Oh! we ne'er shall taste the like of Captain Paton's punch no mo!
8.
And then all the time he would discourse
So sensible and courteous,
Perhaps talking of last sermon
He had heard from Dr Porteous,
Or some little bit of scandal
About Mrs so and so,
Which he scarce could credit, having heard
The _con_ but not the _pro_.
Oh! we ne'er shall hear the like of Captain Paton no mo!
9.
Or when the candles were brought forth,
And the night was fairly setting in,
He would tell some fine old stories
About Minden-field or Dettingen--
How he fought with a French major,
And despatched him at a blow,
While his blood ran out like water
On the soft grass below.
Oh! we ne'er shall hear the like of Captain Paton no mo!
10.
But at last the Captain sickened
And grew worse from day to day.
And all missed him in the Coffee-room
From which now he stayed away;
On Sabbaths, too, the Wee Kirk
Made a melancholy show,
All for wanting of the presence
Of our venerable beau.
Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo!
11.
And in spite of all that Cleghorn
And Corkindale could do,
It was plain from twenty symptoms
That death was in his view;
So the Captain made his test'ment,
And submitted to his foe,
And we layed him by the Rams-horn Kirk--
'Tis the way we all must go.
Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo!
12.
Join all in chorus, jolly boys,
And let punch and tears be shed,
For this prince of good old fellows,
That, alack-a-day! is dead;
For this prince of worthy fellows,
And a pretty man also,
That has left the Saltmarket
In sorrow, grief, and woe!
For it ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo!
THE VILLAGE DOCTOR.
BY THE LATE COUNTESS D'ARBOUVILLE.
[_MAGA._ MAY 1849.]
"What is that?" exclaimed several persons assembled in the dining-room
of the chateau of Burcy.
The Countess of Moncar had just inherited, from a distant and slightly
regretted relation, an ancient chateau which she had never seen,
although it was at barely fifteen leagues from her habitual summer
residence. One of the most elegant and admired women in Paris, Madame de
Moncar was but moderately attached to the country. Quitting the capital
at the end of June, to return thither early in October, she usually took
with her some of the companions of her winter gaieties, and a few young
men, selected amongst her most assiduous partners. Madame de Moncar was
married to a man much older than herself, who did not always protect her
by his presence. Without abusing the great liberty she enjoyed, she was
gracefully coquettish, elegantly frivolous, pleased with trifles--with
a compliment, an amiable word, an hour's triumph--loving a ball for
the pleasure of adorning herself, fond of admiration, and not
sorry to inspire love. When some grave old aunt ventured a sage
remonstrance--"_Mon Dieu!_" she replied; "do let me laugh and take
life gaily. It is far less dangerous than to listen in solitude to the
beating of one's heart. For my part, I do not know if I even have a
heart!" She spoke the truth, and really was uncertain upon that point.
Desirous to remain so, she thought it prudent to leave herself no time
for reflection.
One fine morning in September, the countess and her guests set out for
the unknown chateau, intending to pass the day there. A cross road,
reputed practicable, was to reduce the journey to twelve leagues. The
cross road proved execrable: the travellers lost their way in the
forest; a carriage broke down; in short, it was not till mid-day that
the party, much fatigued, and but moderately gratified by the
picturesque beauties of the scenery, reached the chateau of Burcy, whose
aspect was scarcely such as to console them for the annoyances of the
journey. It was a large sombre building with dingy walls. In its front a
garden, then out of cultivation, descended from terrace to terrace; for
the chateau, built upon the slope of a wooded hill, had no level ground
in its vicinity. On all sides it was hemmed in by mountains, the trees
upon which sprang up amidst rocks, and had a dark and gloomy foliage
that saddened the eyesight. Man's neglect added to the natural wild
disorder of the scene. Madame de Moncar stood motionless and
disconcerted upon the threshold of her newly-acquired mansion.
"This is very unlike a party of pleasure," said she; "I could weep at
sight of this dismal abode. Nevertheless here are noble trees, lofty
rocks, a roaring cataract; doubtless, there is a certain beauty in all
that; but it is of too grave an order for my humour," added she with a
smile. "Let us go in and view the interior."
The hungry guests, eager to see if the cook, who had been sent forward
upon the previous day, as an advanced guard, had safely arrived,
willingly assented. Having obtained the agreeable certainty that
breakfast would soon be upon the table, they rambled through the
chateau. The old-fashioned furniture with tattered coverings, the
arm-chairs with three legs, the tottering tables, the discordant sounds
of a piano, which for a good score of years had not felt a finger,
afforded abundant food for jest and merriment. Gaiety returned. Instead
of grumbling at the inconveniences of this uncomfortable mansion, it
was agreed to laugh at everything. Moreover, for these young and
idle persons, the expedition was a sort of event, an almost perilous
campaign, whose originality appealed to the imagination. A faggot
was lighted beneath the wide chimney of the drawing-room; but
clouds of smoke were the result, and the company took refuge in the
pleasure-grounds. The aspect of the gardens was strange enough: the
stone-benches were covered with moss; the walls of the terraces,
crumbling in many places, left space between their ill-joined stones for
the growth of numerous wild plants, which sprung out erect and lofty, or
trailed with flexible grace towards the earth. The walks were overgrown
and obliterated by grass; the parterres, reserved for garden-flowers,
were invaded by wild ones, which grow wherever the heavens afford a drop
of water and a ray of sun; the insipid bear-bine enveloped and stifled
in its envious embrace the beauteous rose of Provence; the blackberry
mingled its acrid fruits with the red clusters of the currant-bush;
ferns, wild mint with its faint perfume, thistles with their thorny
crowns, grew beside a few forgotten lilies. When the company entered the
enclosure, numbers of the smaller animals, alarmed at the unaccustomed
intrusion, darted into the long grass, and the startled birds flew
chirping from branch to branch. Silence, for many years the undisturbed
tenant of this peaceful spot, fled at the sound of human voices and
of joyous laughter. The solitude was appreciated by none--none grew
pensive under its influence; it was recklessly broken and profaned.
The conversation ran upon the gay evenings of the past season, and
was interspersed with amiable allusions, expressive looks, covert
compliments, with all the thousand nothings, in short, resorted to by
persons desirous to please each other, but who have not yet acquired
the right to be serious.
The steward, after long search for a breakfast-bell along the
dilapidated walls of the chateau, at last made up his mind to shout
from the steps that the meal was ready--the half-smile with which
he accompanied the announcement, proving that, like his betters, he
resigned himself for one day to a deviation from his habits of etiquette
and propriety. Soon a merry party surrounded the board. The gloom of the
chateau, its desert site and uncheery aspect, were all forgotten; the
conversation was general and well sustained; the health of the lady of
the castle--the fairy whose presence converted the crazy old edifice
into an enchanted palace, was drunk by all present. Suddenly all eyes
were turned to the windows of the dining-room.
"What is that?" exclaimed several of the guests.
A small carriage of green wicker-work, with great wheels as high as the
body of the vehicle, passed before the windows, and stopped at the door.
It was drawn by a grey horse, short and punchy, whose eyes seemed in
danger from the shafts, which, from their point of junction with the
carriage, sloped obliquely upwards. The hood of the little cabriolet
was brought forward, concealing its contents, with the exception of two
arms covered with the sleeves of a blue _blouse_, and of a whip which
fluttered about the ears of the grey horse.
"_Mon Dieu!_" exclaimed Madame de Moncar, "I forgot to tell you I was
obliged to invite the village doctor to breakfast. The old man was
formerly of some service to my uncle's family, and I have seen him
once or twice. Be not alarmed at the addition to our party: he is very
taciturn. After a few civil words, we may forget his presence; besides,
I do not suppose he will remain very long."
At this moment the dining-room door opened, and Dr Barnaby entered.
He was a little old man, feeble and insignificant-looking, of calm
and gentle countenance. His grey hairs were collected into a queue,
according to a bygone fashion; a dash of powder whitened his temples,
and extended to his furrowed brow. He wore a black coat, and steel
buckles to his breeches. Over one arm hung a riding-coat of brown
taffety. In the opposite hand he carried his hat and a thick cane. His
whole appearance proved that he had taken unusual pains with his toilet;
but his black stockings and coat were stained with mud, as if the poor
old man had fallen into a ditch. He paused at the door, astonished at
the presence of so many persons. For an instant a tinge of embarrassment
appeared upon his face; but recovering himself, he silently saluted the
company. The strange manner of his entrance gave the guests a violent
inclination to laugh, which they repressed more or less successfully.
Madame de Moncar alone, in her character of mistress of the house, and
incapable of failing in politeness, perfectly preserved her gravity.
"Dear me, doctor! have you had an overturn?" was her first inquiry.
Before replying, Dr Barnaby glanced at all these young people in the
midst of whom he found himself, and, simple and artless though his
physiognomy was, he could not but guess the cause of their hilarity.
He replied quietly:
"I have not been overturned. A poor carter fell under the wheels of his
vehicle; I was passing, and I helped him up." And the doctor took
possession of a chair left vacant for him at the table. Unfolding his
napkin, he passed a corner through the button-hole of his coat, and
spread out the rest over his waistcoat and knees. At these preparations,
smiles hovered upon the lips of many of the guests, and a whisper or two
broke the silence; but this time the doctor did not raise his eyes.
Perhaps he observed nothing.
"Is there much sickness in the village?" inquired Madame de Moncar,
whilst they were helping the new-comer.
"Yes, madam, a good deal."
"This is an unhealthy neighbourhood?"
"No, madam."
"But the sickness. What causes it?"
"The heat of the sun in harvest time and the cold and wet of winter."
One of the guests, affecting great gravity, joined in the conversation.
"So that in this healthy district, sir, people are ill all the year
round?"
The doctor raised his little grey eyes to the speaker's face, looked at
him, hesitated, and seemed either to check or to seek a reply. Madame de
Moncar kindly came to his relief.
"I know," she said, "that you are here the guardian genius of all who
suffer."
"Oh, you are too good," replied the old man, apparently much engrossed
with the slice of pasty upon his plate. Then the gay party left Dr
Barnaby to himself, and the conversation flowed in its previous channel.
If any notice was taken of the peaceable old man, it was in the form of
some slight sarcasm, which, mingled with other discourse, would pass,
it was thought, unperceived by its object. Not that these young men and
women were generally otherwise than polite and kind-hearted; but upon
that day the journey, the breakfast, the merriment and slight excitement
that had attended all the events of the morning, had brought on a sort
of heedless gaiety and communicative mockery, which rendered them
pitiless to the victim whom chance had thrown in their way. The doctor
continued quietly to eat, without looking up, or uttering a word, or
seeming to hear one; they voted him deaf and dumb, and he was no
restraint upon the conversation.
When the guests rose from table, Dr Barnaby took a step or two
backwards, and allowed each man to select the lady he wished to take
into the drawing-room. One of Madame de Moncar's friends remaining
without a cavalier, the village doctor timidly advanced, and offered
her his hand--not his arm. His fingers scarcely touched hers as he
proceeded, his body slightly bent in sign of respect, with measured
steps towards the drawing-room. Fresh smiles greeted his entrance, but
not a cloud appeared upon the placid countenance of the old man, who was
now declared blind, as well as deaf and dumb. Quitting his companion,
Dr Barnaby selected the smallest, humblest-looking chair in the room,
placed it in a corner, at some distance from everybody else, put his
stick between his knees, crossed his hands upon the knob, and rested his
chin upon his hands. In this meditative attitude he remained silent, and
from time to time his eyes closed, as if a gentle slumber, which he
neither invoked nor repelled, were stealing over him.
"Madame de Moncar!" cried one of the guests, "I presume it is not your
intention to inhabit this ruin in a desert?"
"Certainly I have no such project. But here are lofty trees and wild
woods. M. de Moncar may very likely be tempted to pass a few weeks here
in the shooting season."
"In that case you must pull down and rebuild; clear, alter, and
improve!"
"Let us make a plan!" cried the young countess. "Let us mark out the
future garden of my domains."
It was decreed that this party of pleasure should be unsuccessful. At
that moment a heavy cloud burst, and a close fine rain began to fall.
Impossible to leave the house.
"How very vexatious!" cried Madame de Moncar. "What shall we do with
ourselves? The horses require several hours' rest. It will evidently
be a wet afternoon. For a week to come, the grass, which overgrows
everything, will not be dry enough to walk upon; all the strings of the
piano are broken; there is not a book within ten leagues. This room is
wretchedly dismal. What can we do with ourselves?"
The party, lately so joyous, was gradually losing its gaiety. The blithe
laugh and arch whisper were succeeded by dull silence. The guests
sauntered to the windows and examined the sky, but the sky remained
dark and cloud-laden. Their hopes of a walk were completely blighted.
They established themselves as comfortably as they could upon the old
chairs and settees, and tried to revive the conversation; but there are
thoughts which, like flowers, require a little sun, and which will not
flourish under a bleak sky. All these young heads appeared to droop,
oppressed by the storm, like the poplars in the garden, which bowed
their tops at the will of the wind. A tedious hour dragged by.
The lady of the castle, a little disheartened by the failure of her
party of pleasure, leaned languidly upon a window-sill, and gazed
vaguely at the prospect without.
"There," said she--"yonder, upon the hill, is a white cottage that must
come down: it hides the view."
"The white cottage!" cried the doctor. For upwards of an hour Dr Barnaby
had been mute and motionless upon his chair. Mirth and weariness, sun
and rain, had succeeded each other without eliciting a syllable from his
lips. His presence was forgotten by everybody: every eye turned quickly
upon him when he uttered these three words--"The white cottage!"
"What interest do you take in it, doctor?" asked the countess.
"_Mon Dieu, madame!_ Pray forget that I spoke. The cottage will come
down, undoubtedly, since such is your good pleasure."
"But why should you regret the old shed?"
"I--_Mon Dieu!_ it was inhabited by persons I loved--and--"
"And they think of returning to it, doctor?"
"They are long since dead, madam; they died when I was young!" And the
old man gazed mournfully at the white cottage, which rose amongst the
trees upon the hill-side, like a daisy in a green field. There was a
brief silence.
"Madam," said one of the guests in a low voice to Madame de Moncar,
"there is mystery here. Observe the melancholy of our Esculapius. Some
pathetic drama has been enacted in yonder house; a tale of love,
perhaps. Ask the doctor to tell it us."
"Yes, yes!" was murmured on all sides, "a tale, a story! And should it
prove of little interest, at any rate the narrator will divert us."
"Not so, gentlemen," replied Madame de Moncar, in the same suppressed
voice. "If I ask Dr Barnaby to tell us the history of the white cottage,
it is on the express condition that no one laughs." All having promised
to be serious and well-behaved, Madame de Moncar approached the old
man. "Doctor," said she, seating herself beside him, "that house, I
plainly see, is connected with some reminiscence of former days, stored
preciously in your memory. Will you tell it us? I should be grieved to
cause you a regret which it is in my power to spare you; the house shall
remain, if you tell me why you love it."
Dr Barnaby seemed surprised, and remained silent. The countess drew
still nearer to him. "Dear doctor!" said she, "see what wretched
weather; how dreary everything looks. You are the senior of us all;
tell us a tale. Make us forget rain, and fog, and cold."
Dr Barnaby looked at the countess with great astonishment.
"There is no tale," he said. "What occurred in the cottage is very
simple, and has no interest but for me, who loved the young people;
strangers would not call it a tale. And I am unaccustomed to speak
before many listeners. Besides, what I should tell you is sad, and you
came to amuse yourselves." And again the doctor rested his chin upon his
stick.
"Dear doctor," resumed the countess, "the white cottage shall stand, if
you say why you love it."
The old man appeared somewhat moved; he crossed and uncrossed his legs;
took out his snuff-box, returned it to his pocket without opening it;
then, looking at the countess--"You will not pull it down?" he said,
indicating with his thin and tremulous hand the habitation visible at
the horizon.
"I promise you I will not."
"Well, so be it; I will do that much for them; I will save the house in
which they were happy."
"Ladies," continued the old man, "I am but a poor speaker; but I believe
that even the least eloquent succeed in making themselves understood
when they tell what they have seen. This story, I warn you beforehand,
is not gay. To dance and to sing, people send for a musician; they call
in the physician when they suffer, and are near to death."
A circle was formed round Dr Barnaby, who, his hands still crossed upon
his cane, quietly commenced the following narrative, to an audience
prepared beforehand to smile at his discourse.
"It was a long time ago, when I was young--for, I, too, have been young!
Youth is a fortune that belongs to all the world--to the poor as well
as to the rich--but which abides with none. I had just passed my
examination; I had taken my physician's degree, and I returned to my
village to exercise my wonderful talents, well convinced that, thanks to
me, men would now cease to die.
"My village is not far from here. From the little window of my room, I
behold yonder white house upon the opposite side to that you now
discern. You certainly would not find my village handsome. In my eyes,
it was superb; I was born there, and I loved it. We all see with our own
eyes the things we love. God suffers us to be sometimes a little blind;
for He well knows that in this lower world a clear sight is not always
profitable. To me, then, this neighbourhood appeared smiling and
pleasant, and I lived happily. The white cottage alone, each morning
when I opened my shutters, impressed me disagreeably: it was always
closed, still and sad like a forsaken thing. Never had I seen its
windows open and shut, or its door ajar; never had I known its
inhospitable garden-gate give passage to human being. Your uncle, madam,
who had no occasion for a cottage so near his chateau, sought to let it;
but the rent was rather higher than anybody here was rich enough to
give. It remained empty, therefore, whilst in the hamlet every window
exhibited two or three children's faces peering through the branches of
gillyflower at the first noise in the street. But one morning, on
getting up, I was quite astonished to see a long ladder resting against
the cottage wall; a painter was painting the window-shutters green,
whilst a maid-servant polished the panes, and a gardener hoed the
flower-beds.
"'All the better,' said I to myself; 'a good roof like that, which
covers no one, is so much lost.'
"From day to day the house improved in appearance. Pots of flowers
veiled the nudity of the walls; the parterres were planted, the walks
weeded and gravelled, and muslin curtains, white as snow, shone in the
sun-rays. One day a post-chaise rattled through the village, and drove
up to the little house. Who were the strangers? None knew, and all
desired to learn. For a long time nothing transpired without of what
passed within the dwelling. The rose-trees bloomed, and the fresh-laid
lawn grew verdant; still nothing was known. Many were the commentaries
upon the mystery. They were adventurers concealing themselves--they were
a young man and his mistress--in short, everything was guessed except
the truth. The truth is so simple, that one does not always think of it;
once the mind is in movement, it seeks to the right and to the left, and
often forgets to look straight before it. The mystery gave me little
concern. No matter who is there, thought I; they are human, therefore
they will not be long without suffering, and then they will send for me.
I waited patiently.
"At last one morning a messenger came from Mr William Meredith, to
request me to call upon him. I put on my best coat, and, endeavouring to
assume a gravity suitable to my profession, I traversed the village, not
without some little pride at my importance. That day many envied me. The
villagers stood at their doors to see me pass. 'He is going to the white
cottage!' they said; whilst I, avoiding all appearance of haste and
vulgar curosity, walked deliberately, nodding to my peasant neighbours.
'Good-day, my friends,' I said; 'I will see you by-and-by; this morning
I am busy.' And thus I reached the hill-side.
"On entering the sitting-room of the mysterious house, the scene I
beheld rejoiced my eyesight. Everything was so simple and elegant.
Flowers, the chief ornament of the apartment, were so tastefully
arranged, that gold would not better have embellished the modest
interior. White muslin was at the windows, white calico on the
chairs--that was all; but there were roses, and jessamine, and flowers
of all kinds, as in a garden. The light was softened by the curtains,
the atmosphere was fragrant; and a young girl or woman, fair and fresh
as all that surrounded her, reclined upon a sofa, and welcomed me with
a smile. A handsome young man, seated near her upon an ottoman, rose
when the servant announced Dr Barnaby.
"'Sir,' said he, with a strong foreign accent, 'I have heard so much of
your skill that I expected to see an old man.'
"'I have studied diligently, sir,' I replied. 'I am deeply impressed
with the importance and responsibility of my calling: you may confide
in me.'
"''Tis well," he said. 'I recommend my wife to your best care. Her
present state demands advice and precaution. She was born in a distant
land: for my sake she has quitted family and friends. I can bring but
my affection to her aid, for I am without experience. I reckon upon you,
sir. If possible, preserve her from all suffering.'
"As he spoke, the young man fixed upon his wife a look so full of love,
that the large blue eyes of the beautiful foreigner glistened with tears
of gratitude. She dropped the tiny cap she was embroidering, and her two
hands clasped the hand of her husband. I looked at them, and I ought to
have found their lot enviable, but somehow or other, the contrary was
the case. I felt sad; I could not tell why. I had often seen persons
weep, of whom I said--They are happy! I saw William Meredith and his
wife smile, and I could not help thinking they had much sorrow. I seated
myself near my charming patient. Never have I seen anything so lovely as
that sweet face, shaded by long ringlets of fair hair.
"'What is your age, madam?'
"'Seventeen.'
"'Is the climate of your native country very different from ours?'
"'I was born in America--at New Orleans. Oh! the sun is far brighter
than here.'
"Doubtless she feared she had uttered a regret, for she added--
"'But every country is beautiful when one is in one's husband's house,
with him, and awaiting his child!'
"Her gaze sought that of William Meredith: then, in a tongue I did not
understand, she spoke a few words which sounded so soft that they must
have been words of love.
"After a short visit I took my leave, promising to return. I did return,
and, at the end of two months, I was almost the friend of this young
couple. Mr and Mrs Meredith were not selfish in their happiness; they
found time to think of others. They saw that to the poor village doctor,
whose sole society was that of peasants, those days were festivals
upon which he passed an hour in hearing the language of cities. They
encouraged me to frequent them--talked to me of their travels, and soon,
with the prompt confidence characterising youth, they told me their
story. It was the girl-wife who spoke:--
"'Doctor,' she said, 'yonder, beyond the seas, I have father, sisters,
family, friends, whom I long loved, until the day when I loved William.
But then I shut my heart to those who repulsed my lover. William's
father forbade him to wed me, because he was too noble for the daughter
of an American planter. My father forbade me to love William, because he
was too proud to give his daughter to a man whose family refused her a
welcome. They tried to separate us; but we loved each other. Long did
we weep and supplicate, and implore the pity of those to whom we owed
obedience; they remained inflexible, and we loved! Doctor, did you ever
love? I would you had, that you might be indulgent to us. We were
secretly married, and we fled to France. Oh how beautiful the ocean
appeared in those early days of our affection! The sea was hospitable to
the fugitives. Wanderers upon the waves, we passed happy days in the
shadow of our vessel's sails, anticipating pardon from our friends, and
dreaming a bright future. Alas! we were too sanguine. They pursued us;
and, upon pretext of some irregularity of form in our clandestine
marriage, William's family cruelly thought to separate us. We found
concealment in the midst of these mountains and forests. Under a name
which is not ours, we live unknown. My father has not forgiven--he has
cursed me! That is the reason, doctor, why I cannot always smile, even
with my dear William by my side.'
"How those two loved each other! Never have I seen a being more
completely wrapped up in another than was Eva Meredith in her husband!
Whatever her occupation, she always so placed herself, that, on raising
her eyes, she had William before them. She never read but in the book he
was reading. Her head against his shoulder, her eyes followed the lines
on which William's eyes were fixed; she wished the same thoughts to
strike them at the same moment; and, when I crossed the garden to reach
their door, I smiled to see upon the gravel the trace of Eva's little
foot always close to the mark of William's boot. What a difference
between the deserted old house you see yonder, and the pretty dwelling
of my young friends! What sweet flowers covered the walls! What bright
nosegays decked the tables! How many charming books were there, full of
tales of love that resembled their love! How gay the birds that sang
around them! How good it was to live there, and to be loved a little by
those who loved each other so much! But those are right who say that
happy days are not long upon this earth, and that, in respect of
happiness, God gives but a little at a time.
"One morning Eva Meredith appeared to suffer. I questioned her with all
the interest I felt for her. She answered me abruptly.
"'Do not feel my pulse, doctor,' she said; 'it is my heart that beats
too quick. Think me childish if you will, but I am sad this morning.
William is going away. He is going to the town beyond the mountain, to
receive money.'
"'And when will he return?' inquired I, gently.
"She smiled, almost blushed, and then, with a look that seemed to say,
Do not laugh at me, she replied, '_This evening!_'
"Notwithstanding her imploring glance, I could not repress a smile. Just
then a servant brought Mr Meredith's horse to the door. Eva rose from
her seat, went out into the garden, approached the horse, and, whilst
stroking his mane, bowed her head upon the animal's neck, perhaps to
conceal the tear that fell from her eyes. William came out, threw
himself lightly into the saddle, and gently raised his wife's head.
"'Silly girl!' said he, with love in his eyes and voice. And he kissed
her brow.
"'William, we have never yet been so many hours apart!'
"Mr Meredith stooped his head towards that of Eva, and imprinted a
second kiss upon her beautiful golden hair; then he touched his horse's
flank with the spur, and set off at a gallop. I am convinced that he,
too, was a little moved. Nothing is so contagious as the weakness of
those we love; tears summon tears, and it is no very laudable courage
that keeps our eyes dry by the side of a weeping friend. I turned my
steps homeward, and, once more in my cottage, I set myself to meditate
on the happiness of loving. I asked myself if an Eva would ever cheer my
poor dwelling. I did not think of examining whether I were worthy to be
loved. When we behold two beings thus devoted to each other, we easily
discern that it is not for good and various reasons that they love so
well; they love because it is necessary, inevitable; they love on
account of their own hearts, not of those of others. Well, I thought
how I might seek and find a heart that had need to love, just as, in
my morning walks, I might have thought to meet, by the road-side, some
flower of sweet perfume. Thus did I muse, although it is perhaps a wrong
feeling which makes us, at sight of others' bliss, deplore the happiness
we do not ourselves possess. Is not a little envy there? and if joy
could be stolen like gold, should we not then be near a larceny?
"The day passed, and I had just completed my frugal supper, when I
received a message from Mrs Meredith, begging me to visit her. In five
minutes I was at the door of the white cottage. I found Eva, still
alone, seated on a sofa, without work or book, pale and trembling.
'Come, doctor, come,' said she, in her soft voice; 'I can remain alone
no longer; see how late it is!--he should have been home two hours ago,
and has not yet returned!'
"I was surprised at Mr Meredith's prolonged absence; but, to comfort his
wife, I replied quietly, 'How can we tell the time necessary to transact
his business? They may have made him wait; the notary was perhaps
absent. There were papers to draw up and sign.'
"'Ah, doctor, I was sure you would find words of consolation! I needed
to hear some one tell me that it is foolish to tremble thus! Gracious
heaven, how long the day has been! Doctor, are there really persons
who live alone? Do they not die immediately, as if robbed of half the
atmosphere essential to life? But there is eight o'clock!' Eight o'clock
was indeed striking. I could not imagine why William was not back. At
all hazards I said to Mrs Meredith, 'Madam, the sun is hardly set; it
is still daylight, and the evening is beautiful; come and visit your
flowers. If we walk down the road, we shall doubtless meet your
husband.'
"She took my arm, and we walked towards the gate of the little garden. I
endeavoured to turn her attention to surrounding objects. At first she
replied, as a child obeys. But I felt that her thoughts went not with
her words. Her anxious gaze was fixed upon the little green gate, which
had remained open since William's departure. Leaning upon the paling,
she suffered me to talk on, smiling from time to time, by way of thanks;
for, as the evening wore away, she lacked courage to answer me. Grey
tints succeeded the red sunset, foreshadowing the arrival of night.
Gloom gathered around us. The road, hitherto visible like a white line
winding through the forest, disappeared in the dark shade of the lofty
trees, and the village clock struck nine. Eva started. I myself felt
every stroke vibrate upon my heart. I pitied the poor woman's
uneasiness.
"'Remember, madam,' I replied (she had not spoken, but I answered the
anxiety visible in her features), 'remember that Mr Meredith must return
at a walk; the roads through the forest are not in a state to admit
fast riding.' I said this to encourage her; but the truth is, I knew not
how to explain William's absence. Knowing the distance, I also knew that
I could have gone twice to the town and back since his departure. The
evening dew began to penetrate our clothes, and especially Eva's thin
muslin dress. Again I drew her arm through mine and led her towards the
house. She followed unresistingly; her gentle nature was submissive even
in affliction. She walked slowly, her head bowed, her eyes fixed on the
tracks left by the gallop of her husband's horse. How melancholy it was,
that evening walk, still without William! In vain we listened: there
reigned around us the profound stillness of a summer night in the
country. How greatly does a feeling of uneasiness increase under such
circumstances. We entered the house. Eva seated herself on the sofa, her
hands clasped upon her knees, her head sunk upon her bosom. There was a
lamp on the chimney-piece, whose light fell full upon her face. I shall
never forget its suffering expression. She was pale, very pale--her brow
and cheeks exactly the same colour; her hair, relaxed by the night-damp,
fell in disorder upon her shoulders. Tears filled her eyes, and the
quivering of her colourless lips showed how violent was the effort by
which she avoided shedding them. She was so young that her face
resembled that of a child forbidden to cry.
"I was greatly troubled, and knew not what to say or how to look.
Suddenly I remembered (it was a doctor's thought) that Eva, engrossed
by her uneasiness, had taken nothing since morning, and her situation
rendered it imprudent to prolong this fast. At my first reference to the
subject she raised her eyes to mine with a reproachful expression, and
the motion of her eyelids caused two tears to flow down her cheeks.
"'For your child's sake, madam,' said I.
"'Ah, you are right!' she murmured, and she passed into the dining-room;
but there the little table was laid for two, and at that moment this
trifle so saddened me as to deprive me of speech and motion. My
increasing uneasiness rendered me quite awkward; I had not the wit to
say what I did not think. The silence was prolonged; 'and yet,' said I
to myself, 'I am here to console her; she sent for me for that purpose.
There must be fifty ways of explaining this delay--let me find one.' I
sought, and sought--and still I remained silent, inwardly cursing the
poverty of invention of a poor village doctor. Eva, her head resting on
her hand, forgot to eat. Suddenly she turned to me and burst out
sobbing.
"'Ah, doctor!' she exclaimed, 'I see plainly that you too are uneasy.'
"'Not so, madam--indeed not so,' replied I, speaking at random. 'Why
should I be uneasy? He has doubtless dined with the notary. The roads
are safe, and no one knows that he went for money.'
"I had inadvertently revealed one of my secret causes of uneasiness. I
knew that a band of foreign reapers had that morning passed through the
village, on their way to a neighbouring department.
"Eva uttered a cry.
"'Robbers! robbers!' she exclaimed. 'I never thought of _that_ danger.'
"'But, madam, I only mention it to tell you it does not exist.'
"'Oh! the thought struck you, doctor, because you thought the misfortune
possible! William, my own William! why did you leave me?' cried she,
weeping bitterly.
"I was in despair at my blunder, and I felt my eyes fill with tears. My
distress gave me an idea.
"'Mrs Meredith,' I said, 'I cannot see you torment yourself thus, and
remain by your side unable to console you. I will go and seek your
husband; I will follow at random one of the paths through the forest; I
will search everywhere and shout his name, and go, if necessary, to the
town itself.'
"'Oh, thanks, thanks, kind friend!' cried Eva Meredith, 'take the
gardener with you and the servant; search in all directions!'
"We hurried back into the drawing-room, and Eva rang quickly and
repeatedly. All the inhabitants of the cottage opened at the same time
the different doors of the apartment. 'Follow Dr Barnaby,' cried Mrs
Meredith.
"At that moment a horse's gallop was distinctly heard upon the gravel
of the garden. Eva uttered a cry of happiness that went home to every
heart. Never shall I forget the divine expression of joy that illumined
her face, still inundated with tears. She and I, we flew to the
house-door. The moon, passing from behind a cloud, threw her full light
upon a riderless and foam-covered horse, whose bridle dragged upon the
ground, and whose dusty flanks were galled by the empty stirrups. A
second cry, this time of intensest horror, burst from Eva's breast; then
she turned towards me, her eyes fixed, her mouth half open, her arms
hanging powerless.
"The servants were in consternation.
"'Get torches, my friends!' cried I, 'and follow me! Madam, we shall
soon return, I hope, and your husband with us. He has received some
slight hurt, a strained ankle, perhaps. Keep up your courage. We will
soon be back.'
"'I go with you!' murmured Eva Meredith in a choking voice.
"'Impossible!' I cried. 'We must go fast, perhaps far, and in your
state--it would be risking your life, and that of your child--'
"'I go with you!' repeated Eva.
"Then did I feel how cruel was this poor woman's isolation! Had a
father, a mother been there, they would have ordered her to stay, they
would have retained her by force; but she was alone upon the earth, and
to all my hurried entreaties she still replied in a hollow voice: 'I go
with you!'
"We set out. The moon was again darkened by dense clouds; there was
light neither in the heavens nor on the earth. The uncertain radiance of
our torches barely showed us the path. A servant went in front, lowering
his torch to the right and to the left, to illumine the ditches and
bushes bordering the road. Behind him Mrs Meredith, the gardener, and
myself, followed with our eyes the stream of light. From time to time
we raised our voices and called Mr Meredith. After us a stifled sob
murmured the name of William, as if a heart had reckoned on the instinct
of love to hear its tears better than our shouts. We reached the forest.
Rain began to fall, and the drops pattered upon the foliage with a
mournful noise, as if everything around us wept. Eva's thin dress was
soon soaked with the cold flood. The water streamed from her hair over
her face. She bruised her feet against the stones of the road, and
repeatedly stumbled and fell upon her knees; but she rose again with the
energy of despair, and pushed forwards. It was agonising to behold her.
I scarcely dared look at her, lest I should see her fall dead before my
eyes. At last--we were moving in silence, fatigued and discouraged--Mrs
Meredith pushed us suddenly aside, sprang forward and plunged into the
bushes. We followed her, and, upon raising the torches--alas! she was on
her knees beside the body of William, who was stretched motionless upon
the ground, his eyes glazed and his brow covered with blood which flowed
from a wound in the left temple.
"'Doctor?' said Eva to me. That one word expressed--'Does William live?'
"I stooped and felt the pulse of William Meredith; I placed my hand on
his heart and remained silent. Eva still gazed at me; but, when my
silence was prolonged, I saw her bend, waver, and then, without word or
cry, fall senseless upon her husband's corpse.
"But, ladies," said Dr Barnaby, turning to his audience, "the sun shines
again; you can go out now. Let us leave this sad story where it is."
Madame de Moncar approached the old physician. "Doctor," said she, "I
implore you to continue; only look at us, and you will not doubt the
interest with which we listen."
There were no more smiles of mockery upon the young faces that
surrounded the village doctor. In some of their eyes he might even
distinguish the glistening of tears. He resumed his narrative.
"Mrs Meredith was carried home, and remained for several hours senseless
upon her bed. I felt it at once a duty and a cruelty to use every effort
to recall her to life. I dreaded the agonising scenes that would follow
this state of immobility. I remained beside the poor woman, bathing her
temples with fresh water, and awaiting with anxiety the sad and yet
the happy moment of returning consciousness. I was mistaken in my
anticipations, for I had never witnessed great grief. Eva half opened
her eyes and immediately closed them again; no tear escaped from beneath
their lids. She remained cold, motionless, silent; and, but for the
heart which again throbbed beneath my hand, I should have deemed
her dead. Sad is it to behold a sorrow which one feels is beyond
consolation! Silence, I thought, seemed like a want of pity for this
unfortunate creature: on the other hand, verbal condolence was a mockery
of so mighty a grief. I had found no words to calm her uneasiness; could
I hope to be more eloquent in the hour of her great suffering? I took
the safest course, that of profound silence. I will remain here, I
thought, and minister to the physical sufferings, as is my duty; but I
will be mute and passive, even as a faithful dog would lie down at her
feet. My mind once made up, I felt calmer; I let her live a life which
resembled death. After a few hours, however, I put a spoonful of a
potion to her lips. Eva slowly averted her head. In a few moments I
again offered her the drug.
"'Drink, madam,' I said, gently touching her lips with the spoon. They
remained closed.
"'Madam, your child!' I persisted in a low voice.
"Eva opened her eyes, raised herself with effort upon her elbow,
swallowed the medicine, and fell back upon her pillow.
"'I must wait,' she murmured, 'till another life is detached from mine!'
"Thenceforward Mrs Meredith spoke no more, but she mechanically followed
all my prescriptions. Stretched upon her bed of suffering, she seemed
constantly to sleep; but at whatever moment I said to her, even in my
lowest whisper, 'Drink this,' she instantly obeyed; thus proving to me
that the soul kept its weary watch in that motionless body, without a
single instant of oblivion and repose.
"There were none beside myself to attend to the interment of William.
Nothing positive was ever known as to the cause of his death. The sum he
was to bring from the town was not found upon him; perhaps he had been
robbed and murdered; perhaps the money, which was in notes, had fallen
from his pocket when he was thrown from his horse, and, as it was some
time before any thought of seeking it, the heavy rain and trampled mud
might account for its disappearance. A fruitless investigation was made
and soon dropped. I endeavoured to learn from Eva Meredith if her
family, or that of her husband, should not be written to. I had
difficulty in obtaining an answer. At last she gave me to understand
that I had merely to inform their agent, who would do whatever was
needful. I hoped that, at least from England, some communication would
arrive, decisive of this poor creature's future lot. But no; day
followed day, and none seemed to know that the widow of William Meredith
lived in utter isolation, in a poor French village. To endeavour to
bring back Eva to the sense of her existence, I urged her to leave her
bed. Upon the morrow I found her up, dressed in black; but she was the
ghost of the beautiful Eva Meredith. Her hair was parted in bands upon
her pale forehead, and she sat near a window, motionless as she had lain
in bed.
"I passed long silent evenings with her, a book in my hand for apparent
occupation. Each day, on my arrival, I addressed to her a few words of
sympathy. She replied by a thankful look; then we remained silent. I
waited an opportunity to open a conversation; but my awkwardness and my
respect for her grief prevented my finding one, or suffered it to escape
when it occurred. Little by little I grew accustomed to this mute
intercourse; and, besides, what could I have said to her? My chief
object was to prevent her feeling quite alone in the world; and, obscure
as was the prop remaining, it still was something. I went to see her
merely that my presence might say, 'I am here.'
"It was a singular epoch in my life, and had a great influence on my
future existence. Had I not shown so much regret at the threatened
destruction of the white cottage, I would hurry to the conclusion of
this narrative. But you have insisted upon knowing why that building is
hallowed to me, and I must tell you therefore what I have thought and
felt beneath its humble roof. Forgive me, ladies, if my words are grave.
It is good for youth to be sometimes a little saddened; it has so much
time before it to laugh and to forget.
"The son of a rich peasant, I was sent to Paris to complete my studies.
During four years passed in that great city, I retained the awkwardness
of my manners, the simplicity of my language, but I rapidly lost the
ingenuousness of my sentiments. I returned to these mountains, almost
learned, but almost incredulous in all those points of faith which
enable a man to pass his life contentedly beneath a thatched roof, in
the society of his wife and children, without caring to look beyond the
cross above the village cemetery.
"Whilst contemplating the love of William and of Eva, I had reverted to
my former simple peasant-nature. I began to dream of a virtuous,
affectionate wife, diligent and frugal, embellishing my house by her
care and order. I saw myself proud of the gentle severity of her
features, revealing to all the chaste and faithful spouse. Very
different were these reveries from those that haunted me at Paris after
joyous evenings spent with my comrades. Suddenly, horrible calamity
descended like a thunderbolt upon Eva Meredith. This time I was slower
to appreciate the lesson I daily received. Eva sat constantly at the
window, her sad gaze fixed upon the heavens. The attitude, common in
persons of meditative mood, attracted my attention but little. Her
persistence in it at last struck me. My book open upon my knees, I
looked at Mrs Meredith; and well assured she would not detect my gaze, I
examined her attentively. She still gazed at the sky--my eyes followed
the direction of hers. 'Ah,' I said to myself with a half smile, 'she
thinks to rejoin him _there_!' Then I resumed my book, thinking how
fortunate it was for the weakness of women that such thoughts came to
the relief of their sorrows.
"I have already told you that my student's life had put evil thoughts
into my head. Every day, however, I saw Eva in the same attitude, and
every day my reflections were recalled to the same subject. Little by
little I came to think her dream a good one, and to regret I could not
credit its reality. The soul, heaven, eternal life, all that the old
priest had formerly taught me, glided through my imagination as I sat at
eventide before the open window. 'The doctrine of the old _cure_,' I
said to myself, 'was more comforting than the cold realities science has
revealed to me.' Then I looked at Eva, who still looked to heaven,
whilst the bells of the village church sounded sweetly in the distance,
and the rays of the setting sun made the steeple cross glitter against
the sky. I often returned to sit opposite the poor widow, persevering in
her grief as in her holy hopes.
"'What!' I thought, 'can so much love address itself to a few particles
of dust, already mingled with the mould; are all these sighs wasted on
empty air? William departed in the freshness of his age, his affections
yet vivid, his heart in its early bloom. She loved him but a year, one
little year--and is all over for her? Above our heads is there nothing
but void? Love--that sentiment so strong within us--is it but a flame
placed in the obscure prison of our body, where it shines, burns, and is
finally extinguished by the fall of the frail wall surrounding it? Is a
little dust all that remains of our loves, and hopes, and passions--of
all that moves, agitates, and exalts us?'
"There was deep silence in the recesses of my soul. I had ceased to
think. I was as if slumbering between what I no longer denied, and what
I did not yet believe. At last, one night, when Eva joined her hands to
pray, beneath the most beautiful starlit sky possible to behold, I know
not how it was, but I found my hands also clasped, and my lips opened to
murmur a prayer. Then, by a happy chance, and for the first time, Eva
Meredith looked round, as if a secret instinct had whispered her that my
soul harmonised with hers.
"'Thanks,' said she, holding out her hand, 'keep him in your memory, and
pray for him sometimes.'
"'Oh, madam!' I exclaimed, 'may we all meet again in a better world,
whether our lives have been long or short, happy or full of trial.'
"'His immortal soul looks down upon us!' she replied in a grave voice,
whilst her gaze, at once sad and bright, reverted to the star-spangled
heavens.
"Since that evening, when performing the duties of my profession, I have
often witnessed death; but never without speaking to the sorrowing
survivors a few consoling words on a better life than this one; and
those words were words of conviction.
"At last, a month after these incidents, Eva Meredith gave birth to a
son. When they brought her her child,--'William!' exclaimed the poor
widow; and tears, soothing tears too long denied to her grief, escaped
in torrents from her eyes. The child bore that much-loved name of
William, and a little cradle was placed close to the mother's bed. Then
Eva's gaze, long directed to heaven, returned earthwards. She looked to
her child now, as she had previously looked to her God. She bent over
him to seek his father's features. Providence had permitted an exact
resemblance between William and the son he was fated not to see. A great
change occurred around us. Eva, who had consented to live until her
child's existence was detached from hers, was now, I could plainly see,
willing to live on, because she felt that this little being needed the
protection of her love. She passed the days and evenings seated beside
his cradle; and when I went to see her, oh! then she questioned me as to
what she should do for him, she explained what he had suffered, and
asked what could be done to save him from pain. For her child she feared
the heat of a ray of sun, the chill of the lightest breeze. Bending over
him, she shielded him with her body, and warmed him with her kisses. One
day, I almost thought I saw her smile at him. But she never would sing,
whilst rocking his cradle, to lull him to sleep; she called one of her
women, and said, 'Sing to my son that he may sleep.' Then she listened,
letting her tears flow softly upon little William's brow. Poor child! he
was handsome, gentle, easy to rear. But, as if his mother's sorrow had
affected him even before his birth, the child was melancholy: he seldom
cried, but he never smiled: he was quiet; and at that age quiet seems
to denote suffering. I fancied that all the tears shed over the cradle
froze that poor little soul. I would fain have seen William's arms
twined caressingly round his mother's neck. I would have had him return
the kisses lavished upon him. 'But what am I thinking about?' I then
said to myself; 'is it reasonable to expect that a little creature, not
yet a year upon the earth, should understand that it is sent hither to
love and console this woman?'
"It was, I assure you, a touching sight to behold this young mother,
pale, feeble, and who had once renounced existence, clinging again to
life for the sake of a little child which could not even say 'Thanks,
dear mother!' What a marvel is the human heart! Of how small a thing it
makes much! Give it but a grain of sand, and it elevates a mountain; at
its latest throb show it but an atom to love, and again its pulses
revive; it stops for good only when all is void around it, and when even
the shadow of its affections has vanished from the earth!
"Time rolled on, and I received a letter from an uncle, my sole
surviving relative. My uncle, a member of the faculty of Montpellier,
summoned me to his side, to complete in that learned town my initiation
into the secrets of my art. This letter, in form an invitation, was
in fact an order. I had to set out. One morning, my heart big when I
thought of the isolation in which I left the widow and the orphan, I
repaired to the white cottage to take leave of Eva Meredith. I know not
whether an additional shade of sadness came over her features when I
told her I was about to make a long absence. Since the death of William
Meredith such profound melancholy dwelt upon her countenance that a
smile would have been the sole perceptible variation: sadness was always
there.
"'You leave us?' she exclaimed; 'your care is so useful to my child!'
"The poor lonely woman forgot to regret the departure of her last
friend; the mother lamented the loss of the physician useful to her son.
I did not complain. To be useful is the sweet recompense of the devoted.
"'Adieu!' she said, holding out her hand. 'Wherever you go, may God
bless you; and should it be His will to afflict you, may He at least
afford you the sympathy of a heart compassionate as your own.'
"I bowed over the hand of Eva Meredith; and I departed, deeply moved.
"The child was in the garden in front of the house, lying upon the
grass, in the sun. I took him in my arms and kissed him repeatedly; I
looked at him long, attentively, sadly, and a tear started to my eyes.
'Oh, no, no! I must be mistaken!' I murmured, and I hurried from the
white cottage."
"Good heavens, doctor!" simultaneously exclaimed all Dr Barnaby's
audience, "what did you apprehend?"
"Suffer me to finish my story my own way," replied the village doctor;
"everything shall be told in its turn. I relate these events in the
order in which they occurred.
"On my arrival at Montpellier, I was exceedingly well received by my
uncle; who declared, however, that he could neither lodge nor feed me,
nor lend me money, and that as a stranger, without a name, I must not
hope for a patient in a town so full of celebrated physicians.
"'Then I will return to my village, uncle,' replied I.
"'By no means!' was his answer. 'I have got you a lucrative and
respectable situation. An old Englishman, rich, gouty, and restless,
wishes to have a doctor to live with him, an intelligent young man who
will take charge of his health under the superintendence of an older
physician. I have proposed you--you have been accepted; let us go to
him.'
"We betook ourselves immediately to the residence of Lord James
Kysington, a large and handsome house, full of servants, where, after
waiting some time, first in the anteroom, and then in the parlours, we
were at last ushered into the presence of the noble invalid. Seated in
a large arm-chair was an old man of cold and severe aspect, whose white
hair contrasted oddly with his eyebrows, still of a jet black. He was
tall and thin, as far as I could judge through the folds of a large
cloth coat, made like a dressing-gown. His hands disappeared under his
cuffs, and his feet were wrapped in the skin of a white bear. A number
of medicine vials were upon a table beside him.
"'My lord, this is my nephew, Dr Barnaby.'
"Lord Kysington bowed--that is to say, he looked at me, and made a
scarcely perceptible movement with his head.
"'He is well versed in his profession, and I doubt not that his care
will be most beneficial to your lordship.'
"A second movement of the head was the sole reply vouchsafed.
"'Moreover,' continued my relation, 'having had a tolerably good
education, he can read to your lordship, or write under your dictation.'
"'I shall be obliged to him,' replied Lord Kysington, breaking silence
at last, and then closing his eyes, either from fatigue, or as a hint
that the conversation was to drop. I glanced around me. Near the window
sat a lady, very elegantly dressed, who continued her embroidery without
once raising her eyes, as if we were not worthy her notice. Upon the
carpet at her feet a little boy amused himself with toys. The lady,
although young, did not at first strike me as pretty--because she had
black hair and eyes; and to be pretty, according to my notion, was to
be fair, like Eva Meredith; and, moreover, in my inexperience, I held
beauty impossible without a certain air of goodness. It was long before
I could admit the beauty of this woman, whose brow was haughty, her look
disdainful, and her mouth unsmiling. Like Lord Kysington, she was tall,
thin, rather pale. In character they were too much alike to suit each
other well. Formal and taciturn, they lived together without affection,
almost without converse. The child, too, had been taught silence; he
walked on tiptoe, and at the least noise a severe look from his mother
or from Lord Kysington changed him into a statue.
"It was too late to return to my village; but it is never too late to
regret what one has loved and lost. My heart ached when I thought of
my cottage, my valley, my liberty.
"What I learned concerning the cheerless family I had entered was as
follows:--Lord James Kysington had come to Montpellier for his health,
deteriorated by the climate of India. Second son of the Duke of
Kysington, and a lord only by courtesy, he owed to talent and not to
inheritance his fortune and his political position in the House of
Commons. Lady Mary was the wife of his youngest brother; and Lord James,
free to dispose of his fortune, had named her son his heir.