me for every service I rendered him. I read aloud for hours together,
uninterrupted either by the sombre old man, whom I put to sleep, or by
the young woman, who did not listen to me, or by the child, who trembled
in his uncle's presence. I had never led so melancholy a life, and yet,
as you know, ladies, the little white cottage had long ceased to be
gay; but the silence of misfortune implies reflections that words are
insufficient to express. One feels the life of the soul under the
stillness of the body. In my new abode it was the silence of a void.
"One day that Lord James dozed and Lady Mary was engrossed with
embroidery, little Harry climbed upon my knee, as I sat apart at the
farther end of the room, and began to question me with the artless
curiosity of his age. In my turn, and without reflecting on what I
said, I questioned him concerning his family.
"'Have you any brothers or sisters?' I inquired.
"'I have a very pretty little sister.'
"'What is her name?' asked I, absently, glancing at the newspaper in
my hand.
"'She has a beautiful name. Guess it, Doctor.'
"I know not what I was thinking about. In my village I had heard none
but the names of peasants, hardly applicable to Lady Mary's daughter.
Mrs Meredith was the only lady I had known, and the child repeating,
'Guess, guess!' I replied at random,
"'Eva, perhaps?'
"We were speaking very low; but when the name of Eva escaped my lips,
Lord James opened his eyes quickly, and raised himself in his chair,
Lady Mary dropped her needle and turned sharply towards me. I was
confounded at the effect I had produced; I looked alternately at Lord
James and at Lady Mary, without daring to utter another word. Some
minutes passed: Lord James again let his head fall back and closed his
eyes, Lady Mary resumed her needle, Harry and I ceased our conversation.
I reflected for some time upon this strange incident, until at last, all
around me having sunk into the usual monotonous calm, I rose to leave
the room. Lady Mary pushed away her embroidery frame, passed before me,
and made me a sign to follow. When we were both in another room she shut
the door, and raising her head, with the imperious air which was the
most habitual expression of her features: 'Dr Barnaby,' said she, 'be so
good as never again to pronounce the name that just now escaped your
lips. It is a name Lord James Kysington must not hear.' She bowed
slightly, and re-entered her brother-in-law's apartment.
"Thoughts innumerable crowded upon my mind. This Eva, whose name was
not to be spoken, could it be Eva Meredith? Was she Lord Kysington's
daughter-in-law? Was I in the house of William's father? I hoped, but
still I doubted; for, after all, if there was but one Eva in the world
for me, in England the name was, doubtless, by no means uncommon. But
the thought that I was perhaps with the family of Eva Meredith, living
with the woman who robbed the widow and the orphan of their inheritance,
this thought was present to me by day and by night. In my dreams I
beheld the return of Eva and her son to the paternal residence, in
consequence of the pardon I had implored and obtained for them. But when
I raised my eyes, the cold impassible physiognomy of Lord Kysington
froze all the hopes of my heart. I applied myself to the examination
of that countenance as if I had never before seen it; I analysed its
features and lines to find a trace of sensibility. I sought the heart I
so gladly would have touched. Alas! I found it not. But I had so good a
cause that I was not to be discouraged. 'Pshaw!' I said to myself, 'what
matters the expression of the face? why heed the external envelope? May
not the darkest coffer contain bright gold? Must all that is within us
reveal itself at a glance? Does not every man of the world learn to
separate his mind and his thoughts from the habitual expression of his
countenance?'
"I resolved to clear up my doubts, but how to do so was the difficulty.
Impossible to question Lady Mary or Lord James; the servants
were French, and had but lately come to the house. An English
valet-de-chambre had just been despatched to London on a confidential
mission. I directed my investigations to Lord James Kysington. The
severe expression of his countenance ceased to intimidate me. I said to
myself, 'When the forester meets with a tree apparently dead, he strikes
his axe into the trunk to see whether sap does not still survive beneath
the withered bark; in like manner will I strike at the heart, and see
whether life be not somewhere hidden.' And I only waited an opportunity.
"To await an opportunity with impatience is to accelerate its coming.
Instead of depending on circumstances we subjugate them. One night Lord
James sent for me. He was in pain. After administering the necessary
remedies, I remained by his bedside, to watch their effect. The room
was dark; a single wax candle showed the outline of objects, without
illuminating them. The pale and noble head of Lord James was thrown
back upon his pillow. His eyes were shut, according to his custom when
suffering, as if he concentrated his moral energies within him. He never
complained, but lay stretched out in his bed, straight and motionless as
a king's statue upon a marble tomb. In general he got somebody to read
to him, hoping either to distract his thoughts from his pains, or to be
lulled to sleep by the monotonous sound.
"Upon that night he made sign to me with his meagre hand to take a book
and read, but I sought one in vain; books and newspapers had all been
removed to the drawing-room; the doors were locked, and unless I rang
and aroused the house, a book was not to be had. Lord James made a
gesture of impatience, then one of resignation, and beckoned me to
resume my seat by his side. We remained for some time without speaking,
almost in darkness, the silence broken only by the ticking of the clock.
Sleep came not. Suddenly Lord James opened his eyes.
"'Speak to me,' he said. 'Tell me something; whatever you like.'
"His eyes closed, and he waited. My heart beat violently. The moment had
come.
"'My lord,' said I, 'I greatly fear I know nothing that will interest
your lordship. I can speak but of myself, of the events of my life,--and
the history of the great ones of the earth were necessary to fix your
attention. What can a peasant have to say, who has lived contented with
little, in obscurity and repose? I have scarcely quitted my village, my
lord. It is a pretty mountain hamlet, where even those not born there
might well be pleased to dwell. Near it is a country house, which I have
known inhabited by rich people, who could have left it if they liked,
but who remained, because the woods were thick, the paths bordered with
flowers, the streams bright and rapid in their rocky beds. Alas! they
were two in that house--and soon a poor woman was there alone, until
the birth of her son. My lord, she is a countrywoman of yours, an
Englishwoman, of beauty such as is seldom seen either in England or in
France; good as, besides her, only the angels in heaven can be! She
had just completed her eighteenth year when I left her, fatherless,
motherless, and already widowed of an adored husband; she is feeble,
delicate, almost ill, and yet she must live;--who would protect that
little child? Oh! my lord, there are very unhappy beings in this world!
To be unhappy in middle life or old age is doubtless sad, but still you
have pleasant memories of the past to remind you that you have had your
day, your share, your happiness; but to weep before you are eighteen is
far sadder, for nothing can bring back the dead, and the future is dim
with tears. Poor creature! We see a beggar by the road-side suffering
from cold and hunger, and we give him alms, and look upon him without
pain, because it is in our power to relieve him; but this unhappy,
broken-hearted woman, the only relief to give her would be to love
her--and none are there to bestow that alms upon her!
"'Ah! my lord, if you knew what a fine young man her husband
was!--hardly three-and-twenty; a noble countenance, a lofty brow--like
your own, intelligent and proud; dark-blue eyes, rather pensive, rather
sad. I knew why they were sad. He loved his father and his native land,
and he was doomed to exile from both! And how good and graceful was his
smile! Ah! how he would have smiled at his little child, had he lived
long enough to see it. He loved it even before it was born: he took
pleasure in looking at the cradle that awaited it. Poor, poor young
man!--I saw him on a stormy night, in the dark forest, stretched upon
the wet earth, motionless, lifeless, his garments covered with mud, his
temples shattered, blood escaping in torrents from his wound. I
saw--alas! I saw William--'
"'You saw my son's death!' cried Lord James, raising himself like a
spectre in the midst of his pillows, and fixing me with eyes so
distended and piercing, that I started back alarmed. But notwithstanding
the darkness, I thought I saw a tear moisten the old man's eyelids.
"'My lord,' I replied, 'I was present at your son's death, and at the
birth of his child!'
"There was an instant's silence. Lord James looked steadfastly at me. At
last he made a movement; his trembling hand sought mine, pressed it,
then his fingers relaxed their grasp, and he fell back upon the bed.
"'Enough sir, enough; I suffer, I need repose. Leave me.'
"I bowed, and retired.
"Before I was out of the room, Lord James had relapsed into his habitual
position; into silence and immobility.
"I will not detail to you my numerous and respectful representations to
Lord James Kysington, his indecision and secret anxiety, and how at last
his paternal love, awakened by the details of the horrible catastrophe,
his pride of race, revived by the hope of leaving an heir to his name,
triumphed over his bitter resentment. Three months after the scene I
have described, I awaited, on the threshold of the house at Montpellier,
the arrival of Eva Meredith and her son, summoned to their family and to
the resumption of all their rights. It was a proud and happy day for me.
"Lady Mary, perfect mistress of herself, had concealed her joy when
family dissensions had made her son heir to her wealthy brother. Still
better did she conceal her regret and anger when Eva Meredith, or rather
Eva Kysington, was reconciled with her father-in-law. Not a cloud
appeared upon Lady Mary's marble forehead. But beneath this external
calm how many evil passions fermented!
"When the carriage of Eva Meredith (I will still give her that name)
entered the courtyard of the house, I was there to receive her. Eva held
out her hand--'Thanks, thanks, my friend!' she murmured. She wiped the
tears that trembled in her eyes, and taking her boy, now three years
old, and of great beauty, by the hand, she entered her new abode. 'I am
afraid,' she said. She was still the weak woman, broken by affliction,
pale, sad, and beautiful, incredulous of earthly hopes, but firm in
heavenly faith. I walked by her side; and as she ascended the steps, her
gentle countenance bedewed with tears, her slender and feeble form
inclined towards the balustrade, her extended arm assisting the child,
who walked still more slowly than herself, Lady Mary and her son
appeared at the door. Lady Mary wore a brown velvet dress, rich
bracelets encircled her arms, a slender gold chain bound her brow, which
in truth was of those on which a diadem sits well. She advanced with an
assured step, her head high, her glance full of pride. Such was the
first meeting of the two mothers.
"'You are welcome, madam,' said Lady Mary, bowing to Eva Meredith.
"Eva tried to smile, and answered by a few affectionate words. How could
she forbode hatred, she who only knew love? We proceeded to Lord James's
room. Mrs Meredith, scarcely able to support herself, entered first,
took a few steps, and knelt beside her father-in-law's arm-chair. Taking
her child in her arms, she placed him on Lord James Kysington's knee.
"'His son!' she said. Then the poor woman wept and was silent.
"Long did Lord James gaze upon the child. As he gradually recognised
the features of the son he had lost, his eyes became moist, and their
expression affectionate. There came a moment when, forgetting his age,
lapse of time, and past misfortune, he dreamed himself back to the
happy day when he first pressed his infant son to his heart. 'William,
William!' he murmured. 'My daughter!' added he, extending his hand to
Eva Meredith.
"My eyes filled with tears. Eva had a family, a protector, a fortune. I
was happy; doubtless that was why I wept.
"The child remained quiet upon his grandfather's knees, and showed
neither pleasure nor fear.
"'Will you love me?' said the old man.
"The child raised its head, but did not answer.
"'Do you hear? I will be your father.'
"'I will be your father,' the child gently repeated.
"'Excuse him,' said his mother; 'he has always been alone. He is very
young; the presence of many persons intimidates him. By-and-by, my lord,
he will better understand your kind words.'
"But I looked at the child; I examined him in silence; I recalled my
former gloomy apprehensions. Alas! those apprehensions now became a
certainty; the terrible shock experienced by Eva Meredith during her
pregnancy had had fatal consequences for her child, and a mother only,
in her youth, her love, and her inexperience, could have remained so
long ignorant of her misfortune.
"At the same time with myself Lady Mary looked at the child. I shall
never forget the expression of her countenance. She stood erect, and
the piercing gaze she fixed upon little William seemed to read his very
soul. As she gazed, her eyes sparkled, her mouth was half-opened as by
a smile--she breathed short and thick, like one oppressed by great and
sudden joy. She looked, looked--hope, doubt, expectation, replaced each
other on her face. At last her hatred was clear-sighted, an internal cry
of triumph burst from her heart, but was checked ere it reached her
lips. She drew herself up, let fall a disdainful glance upon Eva, her
vanquished enemy, and resumed her usual calm.
"Lord James, fatigued by the emotions of the day, dismissed us, and
remained alone all the evening.
"Upon the morrow, after an agitated night, when I entered Lord James's
room, all the family were already assembled around him, and Lady Mary
had little William on her knees: it was the tiger clutching its prey.
"'What a beautiful child!' she said. 'See, my lord, these fair and
silken locks! how brilliant they are in the sunshine! But, dear Eva, is
your son always so silent? does he never exhibit the vivacity and gaiety
of his age?'
"'He is always sad,' replied Mrs Meredith. 'Alas! with me he could
hardly learn to laugh.'
"'We will try to amuse and cheer him,' said Lady Mary. 'Come, my dear
child, kiss your grandfather! hold out your arms, and tell him you
love him.'
"William did not stir.
"'Do you not know how? Harry, my love, kiss your uncle, and set your
cousin a good example.'
"Harry jumped upon Lord James's knees, threw both arms round his neck,
and said, 'I love you, dear uncle!'
"'Now it is your turn, my dear William,' said Lady Mary.
"William stirred not, and did not even look at his grandfather.
"A tear coursed down Eva Meredith's cheek.
"''Tis my fault,' she said. 'I have brought up my child badly.' And,
taking William upon her lap, her tears fell upon his face: he felt them
not, but slumbered upon his mother's heavy heart.
"'Try to make William less shy,' said Lord James to his daughter-in-law.
"'I will try,' replied Eva, in her submissive tones, like those of an
obedient child. 'I will try; and perhaps I shall succeed, if Lady Mary
will kindly tell me how she rendered her son so happy and so gay.' Then
the disconsolate mother looked at Harry, who was at play near his
uncle's chair, and her eyes reverted to her poor sleeping child. 'He
suffered even before his birth,' she murmured; 'we have both been very
unhappy! but I will try to weep no more, that William may be cheerful
like other children.'
"Two days elapsed, two painful days, full of secret trouble and
ill-concealed uneasiness. Lord James's brow was care-laden; at times his
look questioned me. I averted my eyes to avoid answering. On the morning
of the third day, Lady Mary came into the room with a number of
play-things for the children. Harry seized a sword, and ran about the
room, shouting for joy. William remained motionless, holding in his
little hand the toys that were given to him, but not attempting to use
them; he did not even look at them.
"'Here, my lord,' said Lady Mary to her brother, 'give this book to
your grandson; perhaps his attention will be roused by the pictures it
contains.' And she led William to Lord James. The child was passive; he
walked, stopped, and remained like a statue where he was placed. Lord
James opened the book. All eyes turned towards the group formed by the
old man and his grandson. Lord James was gloomy, silent, severe; he
slowly turned several pages, stopping at every picture, and looking at
William, whose vacant gaze was not directed to the book. Lord James
turned a few more pages; then his hand ceased to move; the book fell
from his knees to the ground, and an irksome silence reigned in the
apartment. Lady Mary approached me, bent forward as if to whisper in
my ear, and in a voice loud enough to be heard by all--
"'The child is an idiot, doctor!' she said.
"A shriek answered her. Eva started up as if she had received a blow;
and seizing her son, whom she pressed convulsively to her breast--
"'Idiot!' she exclaimed, her indignant glance flashing, for the first
time, with a vivid brilliance; 'idiot!' she repeated, 'because he has
been unhappy all his life, because he has seen but tears since his eyes
first opened! because he knows not how to play like your son, who has
always had joy around him! Ah! madam, you insult misfortune! Come, my
child!" cried Eva, all in tears. "Come, let us leave these pitiless
hearts, that find none but cruel words to console our misery!'
"And the unhappy mother carried off her boy to her apartment. I
followed. She set William down, and knelt before the little child.
'My son! my son!' she cried.
"William went close to her, and rested his head on his mother's
shoulder.
"'Doctor!' cried Eva, 'he loves me--you see he does! He comes
when I call him; he kisses me! His caresses have sufficed for my
tranquillity--for my sad happiness! My God! was it not then enough?
Speak to me, my son; reassure me! Find a consoling word, a single word
for your despairing mother! Till now I have asked nothing of you but to
remind me of your father, and leave me silence to weep. To-day, William,
you must give me words! See you not my tears--my terror? Dear child, so
beautiful, so like your father, speak, speak to me!'
"Alas! alas! the child remained motionless, without sign of fear or
intelligence; a smile only, a smile horrible to behold, flitted across
his features. Eva hid her face in both hands, and remained kneeling upon
the ground. For a long time no noise was heard save the sound of her
sobs. Then I prayed heaven to inspire me with consoling thoughts, such
as might give a ray of hope to this poor mother. I spoke of the future,
of expected cure, of change possible--even probable. But hope is no
friend to falsehood. Where she does not exist her phantom cannot
penetrate. A terrible blow, a mortal one, had been struck, and Eva
Meredith saw all the truth.
"From that day forwards, only one child was to be seen each morning in
Lord James Kysington's room. Two women came thither, but only one of
them seemed to live--the other was silent as the tomb. One said, 'My
son!' the other never spoke of her child; one carried her head high, the
other bowed hers upon her breast, the better to hide her tears; one was
blooming and brilliant, the other pale and a mourner. The struggle was
at an end. Lady Mary triumphed. It was cruel how they let Harry play
before Eva Meredith's eyes. Careless of her anguish, they brought him to
repeat his lessons in his uncle's presence; they vaunted his progress.
The ambitious mother calculated everything to consolidate her success;
and, whilst abounding in honeyed words and feigned consolation, she
tortured Eva Meredith's heart each moment in the day. Lord James,
smitten in his dearest hopes, had resumed the cold impassibility which
I now saw formed the foundation of his character. Strictly courteous to
his daughter-in-law, he had no word of affection for her: only as the
mother of his grandson could the daughter of the American planter find
a place in his heart. And he considered the child as no longer in
existence. Lord James Kysington was more gloomy and taciturn than ever,
regretting, perhaps, to have yielded to my importunities, and to have
ruffled his old age by a painful and profitless emotion.
"A year elapsed; then a sad day came, when Lord James sent for Eva
Meredith, and signed to her to be seated beside his arm-chair.
"'Listen to me, madam,' he said, 'listen with courage. I will act
frankly with you, and conceal nothing. I am old and ill, and must
arrange my affairs. The task is painful both for you and for me. I will
not refer to my anger at my son's marriage; your misfortune disarmed
me--I called you to my side, and I desired to behold and to love in your
son William, the heir of my fortune, the pivot of my dreams of future
ambition. Alas! madam, fate was cruel to us! My son's widow and orphan
shall have all that can insure them an honourable existence; but, sole
master of a fortune due to my own exertions, I adopt my nephew, and look
upon him henceforward as my sole heir. I am about to return to London,
whither my affairs call me. Come with me, madam--my house is yours--I
shall be happy to see you there.'
"Eva (she afterwards told me so) felt, for the first time, her
despondency replaced by courage. She had the strength that is given by
a noble pride: she raised her head, and her brow, less haughty than
that of Lady Mary, wore all the dignity of misfortune.
"'Go, my lord,' she answered, 'go; I shall not accompany you. I will not
witness the usurpation of my son's rights! You are in haste to condemn,
my lord. Who can foresee the future! You are in haste to despair of the
mercy of God!'
"'The future,' replied Lord James, 'at my age, is bounded by the passing
day. What I would be certain to do I must do at once and without delay.'
"'Act as you think proper,' replied Eva. 'I return to the dwelling
where I was happy with my husband. I return thither with your grandson,
William Kysington; of that name, his sole inheritance, you cannot
deprive him; and though the world should know it but by reading it on
his tomb, your name, my lord, is the name of my son!'
"A week later, Eva Meredith descended the stairs of the hotel, holding
her son by the hand, as she had done when she had entered this fatal
house. Lady Mary was a little behind her, a few steps higher up: the
numerous servants, sad and silent, beheld with regret the departure of
the gentle creature thus driven from the paternal roof. When she quitted
this abode, Eva quitted the only beings she knew upon the earth, the
only persons whose pity she had a right to claim--the world was before
her, an immense wilderness. It was Hagar going forth into the desert."
"This is horrible, doctor!" cried Dr Barnaby's audience. "Is it possible
there are persons so utterly unhappy? What! you witnessed all this
yourself?"
"I have not yet told you all," replied the village doctor; "let me get
to the end.
"Shortly after Eva Meredith's departure, Lord James went to London. Once
more my own master, I gave up all idea of further study; I had enough
learning for my village, and in haste I returned thither. Once more I
sat opposite to Eva in the little white house, as I had done two years
before. But how greatly had intervening events increased her misfortune!
We no longer dared talk of the future, that unknown moment of which we
all have so great need, and without which our present joys appear too
feeble, and our misfortunes too great.
"Never did I witness grief nobler in its simplicity, calmer in its
intensity, than that of Eva Meredith. She forgot not to pray to the God
who chastened her. For her, God was the being in whose hands are the
springs of hope, when earthly hopes are extinct. Her look of faith
remained fixed upon her child's brow, as if awaiting the arrival of the
soul her prayers invoked. I cannot describe the courageous patience of
that mother speaking to her son, who listened without understanding. I
cannot tell you all the treasures of love, of thought, of ingenious
narrative she displayed before that torpid intelligence, which repeated,
like an echo, the last of her gentle words. She explained to him heaven,
God, the angels; she endeavoured to make him pray, and joined his hands,
but she could not make him raise his eyes to heaven. In all possible
shapes she tried to give him the first lessons of childhood; she read
to him, spoke to him, placed pictures before his eyes--had recourse to
music as a substitute for words. One day making a terrible effort, she
told William the story of his father's death; she hoped, expected a
tear. The child fell asleep whilst yet she spoke: tears were shed, but
they fell from the eyes of Eva Meredith.
"Thus did she exhaust herself by vain efforts, by a persevering
struggle. That she might not cease to hope, she continued to toil; but
to William's eyes pictures were merely colours; to his ears words were
but noise. The child, however, grew in stature and in beauty. One who
had seen him but for an instant would have taken the immobility of his
countenance for placidity. But that prolonged and continued calm, that
absence of all grief, of all tears, had a strange and sad effect upon
us. Suffering must indeed be inherent in our nature, since William's
eternal smile made every one say, 'The poor idiot!' Mothers know not
the happiness concealed in the tears of their child. A tear is a regret,
a desire, a fear; it is life, in short, which begins to be understood.
Alas! William was content with everything. All day long he seemed to
sleep with his eyes open; anger, weariness, impatience, were alike
unknown to him. He had but one instinct: he knew his mother--he even
loved her. He took pleasure in resting on her knees, on her shoulder; he
kissed her. When I kept him long away from her, he manifested a sort of
anxiety. I took him back to his mother; he showed no joy, but he was
again tranquil. This tenderness, this faint glimmering of William's
heart, was Eva's life. It gave her strength to strive, to hope, to wait.
If her words were not understood, at least her kisses were! How often
she took her son's head in her hands and kissed his forehead, as long
and fervently as if she hoped her love would warm and vivify his frozen
soul! How often did she dream a miracle whilst clasping her son in her
arms, and pressing his still heart to her burning bosom! Often she
lingered at night in the village church. (Eva Meredith was of a Roman
Catholic family.) Kneeling upon the cold stone before the Virgin's
altar, she invoked the marble statue of Mary, holding her child in her
arms, 'O virgin!' she said, 'my boy is inanimate as that image of thy
Son! Ask of God a soul for my child!'
"She was charitable to all the poor children of the village, giving them
bread and clothes, and saying to them, 'Pray for him.' She consoled
afflicted mothers, in the secret hope that consolation would come at
last to her. She dried the tears of others, to enjoy the belief that one
day she also should cease to weep. In all the country round, she was
loved, blessed, venerated. She knew it, and she offered up to Heaven,
not with pride but with hope, the blessings of the unfortunate in
exchange for the recovery of her son. She loved to watch William's
sleep; then he was handsome and like other children. For an instant, for
a second perhaps, she forgot; and whilst contemplating those regular
features, those golden locks, those long lashes which threw their shadow
on his rose-tinted cheek, she felt a mother's joy, almost a mother's
pride. God has moments of mercy even for those He has condemned to
suffer.
"Thus passed the first years of William's childhood. He attained the age
of eight years. Then a sad change, which could not escape my attentive
observation, occurred in Eva Meredith. Either that her son's growth made
his want of intelligence more striking, or that she was like a workman
who has laboured all day, and sinks at eve beneath the load of toil, Eva
ceased to hope; her soul seemed to abandon the task undertaken, and to
recoil with weariness upon itself, asking only resignation. She laid
aside the books, the engravings, the music, all the means, in short,
that she had called to her aid; she grew silent and desponding; only, if
that were possible, she was more affectionate than ever to her son. As
she lost hope in his cure, she felt the more strongly that her child had
but her in the world; and she asked a miracle of her heart--an increase
of the love she bore him. She became her son's servant--his slave; her
whole thoughts were concentrated in his wellbeing. If she felt cold, she
sought a warmer covering for William; was she hungry, it was for
William she gathered the fruits of her garden; did she suffer from
fatigue, for him she selected the easiest chair and the softest
cushions; she attended to her own sensations only to guess those of her
son. She still displayed activity, though she no longer harboured hope.
"When William was eleven years old, the last phase of Eva Meredith's
existence began. Remarkably tall and strong for his age, he ceased to
need that hourly care required by early childhood: he was no longer the
infant sleeping on his mother's knees; he walked alone in the garden; he
rode on horseback with me, and accompanied me in my distant visits; in
short, the bird, although wingless, left the nest. His misfortune was
in no way shocking or painful to behold. He was of exceeding beauty,
silent, unnaturally calm--his eyes expressing nothing but repose: he was
not awkward, or disagreeable, or importunate: it was a mind sleeping
beside yours, asking no question, making no reply. The incessant
maternal care which had served to occupy Mrs Meredith, and to divert
her mind from dwelling on her sorrows, became unnecessary, and she
resumed her seat at the window, whence she beheld the village and the
church-steeple--at that same window where she had so long wept her
husband. Hope and occupation successively failed her, and nothing was
left her but to wait and watch, by day and by night, like the lamp that
ever burns beneath cathedral vaults.
"But her forces were exhausted. In the midst of this grief which had
returned to its starting-point, to silence and immobility, after having
in vain essayed exertion, courage, hope, Eva Meredith fell into a
decline. In spite of all the resources of my art, I beheld her grow weak
and thin. How apply a remedy, when the sickness is of the soul?
"The poor foreigner! she needed her native sun and a little happiness to
warm her; but the ray of sun and the ray of joy were alike wanting. It
was long before she perceived her danger, because she thought not of
herself; but when at last she was unable to leave her arm-chair, she
was compelled to understand. I will not describe to you all her anguish
at the thought of leaving William without a guide, without friend or
protector--of leaving him alone in the midst of strangers, he who needed
to be cherished and led by the hand like a child. Oh, how she struggled
for life! with what avidity she swallowed the potions I prepared! how
many times she tried to believe in a cure, whilst all the time the
disease progressed! Then she kept William more at home,--she could no
longer bear to lose sight of him.
"'Remain with me,' she said; and William, always content near his
mother, seated himself at her feet. She looked at him long, until a
flood of tears prevented her distinguishing his gentle countenance;
then she drew him still nearer to her, and pressed him to her heart.
'Oh!' she exclaimed, in a kind of delirium, 'if my soul, on leaving my
body, might become the soul of my child, how happy should I be to die!'
No sufferings could make her wholly despair of divine mercy, and when
all human possibility disappeared, this loving heart had gentle dreams
out of which it reconstructed hopes. But how sad it was, alas! to see
the poor mother slowly perishing before the eyes of her son, of a son
who understood not death, and who smiled when she embraced him.
"'He will not regret me,' she said: 'he will not weep: he will not
remember.' And she remained motionless, in mute contemplation of her
child. Her hand then sometimes sought mine: 'You love him, dear doctor?'
she murmured.
"'I will never quit him,' replied I, 'so long as he has no better
friends than myself.' God in heaven, and the poor village doctor
upon earth, were the two guardians to whom she confided her son.
"Faith is a great thing! This woman, widowed, disinherited, dying, an
idiot child at her side, was yet saved from that utter despair which
brings blasphemy to the lips of death. An invisible friend was near her,
on whom she seemed to rest, listening sometimes to holy words, which she
alone could hear.
"One morning she sent for me early. She had been unable to get up. With
her wan, transparent hand she showed me a sheet of paper on which a few
lines were written.
"'Doctor,' she said, in her gentlest tones, 'I have not strength to
continue; finish this letter!'
"I read as follows:--
"'My Lord,--I write to you for the last time. Whilst health is
restored to your old age, I suffer and am about to die. I leave
your grandson, William Kysington, without a protector. My Lord,
this last letter is to recall him to your memory; I ask for him a
place in your heart rather than a share of your fortune. Of all the
things of this world, he has understood but one--his mother's love;
and now she must leave him for ever! Love him, my Lord,--love is
the only sentiment he can comprehend.'
"She could write no more. I added:--
"'Mrs William Kysington has but few days to live. What are Lord
James Kysington's orders with respect to the child who bears his
name?'
"This letter was sent to London, and we waited. Eva kept her bed.
William, seated near her, held her hand in his: his mother smiled sadly
upon him, whilst I, at the other side of the bed, prepared potions to
assuage her pains. Again she began to talk to her son, as if no longer
despairing that, after her death, some of her words might recur to his
memory. She gave the child all the advice, all the instructions she
would have given to an intelligent being. Then she turned to me--'Who
knows, doctor,' she said, 'one day, perhaps, he will find my words at
the bottom of his heart!'
"Three more weeks elapsed. Death approached, and submissive as was the
Christian soul of Eva, she yet felt the anguish of separation and the
solemn awe of the future. The village priest came to see her, and when
he left her I met him and took his hand.
"'You will pray for her,' I said.
"'I have entreated _her_ to pray for _me_!' was his reply.
"It was Eva Meredith's last day. The sun had set: the window, near which
she so long had sat, was open: she could see from her bed the landscape
she had loved. She held her son in her arms and kissed his face and
hair, weeping sadly. 'Poor child! what will become of you? Oh!' she
said, with tender earnestness, 'listen to me, William:--I am dying!
Your father is dead also; you are alone; you must pray to the Lord. I
bequeath you to Him who watches over the sparrow upon the house-top; He
will shield the orphan. Dear child, look at me! listen to me! Try to
understand that I die, that one day you may remember me!' And the poor
mother, unable to speak longer, still found strength to embrace her
child.
"At that moment an unaccustomed noise reached my ears. The wheels of a
carriage grated upon the gravel of the garden drive. I ran to the door.
Lord James Kysington and Lady Mary entered the house.
"'I got your letter,' said Lord James. 'I was setting out for Italy, and
it was not much off my road to come myself and settle the future destiny
of William Meredith: so here I am. Mrs William----?'
"'Mrs William Kysington still lives, my lord,' I replied.
"It was with a painful sensation that I saw this calm, cold, austere
man approach Eva's chamber, followed by the haughty woman who came to
witness what for her was a happy event--the death of her former rival!
They entered the modest little room, so different from the sumptuous
apartments of their Montpellier hotel. They drew near the bed, beneath
whose white curtains Eva, pale but still beautiful, held her son upon
her heart. They stood, one on the right, the other on the left of that
couch of suffering, without finding a word of affection to console the
poor woman who looked up at them. They barely gave utterance to a few
formal and unmeaning phrases. Averting their eyes from the painful
spectacle of death, and persuading themselves that Eva Meredith neither
saw nor heard, they passively awaited her spirit's departure--their
countenances not even feigning an expression of condolence or regret.
Eva fixed her dying gaze upon them, and sudden terror seized the heart
which had almost ceased to throb. She comprehended, for the first time,
the secret sentiments of Lady Mary, the profound indifference and
egotism of Lord James; she understood at last that they were enemies
rather than protectors of her son. Despair and terror portrayed
themselves on her pallid face. She made no attempt to soften those
soulless beings. By a convulsive movement she drew William still closer
to her heart, and, collecting her last strength--
"'My child, my poor child!' she cried, 'you have no support upon earth;
but God above is good. My God! succour my child!'
"With this cry of love, with this supreme prayer, she breathed out her
life: her arms opened, her lips were motionless on William's cheek.
Since she no longer embraced her son, there could be no doubt she was
dead--dead before the eyes of those who to the very last had refused to
comfort her affliction--dead without giving Lady Mary the uneasiness of
hearing her plead the cause of her son--dead, leaving her a complete and
decided victory.
"There was a moment of solemn silence: none moved or spoke. Death makes
an impression upon the haughtiest. Lady Mary and Lord James Kysington
kneeled beside their victim's bed. In a few minutes Lord James arose.
'Take the child from his mother's room,' he said, 'and come with me,
doctor; I will explain to you my intentions respecting him.'
"For two hours William had been resting on the shoulder of Eva Meredith,
his heart against her heart, his lips pressed to hers, receiving her
kisses and her tears. I approached him, and, without expending useless
words, I endeavoured to raise and lead him from the room; but he
resisted, and his arms clasped his mother more closely. This resistance,
the first the poor child had ever offered to living creature, touched my
very soul. On my renewing the attempt, however, William yielded; he made
a movement and turned towards me, and I saw his beautiful countenance
suffused with tears. Until that day, William had never wept. I was
greatly startled and moved, and I let the child throw himself again upon
his mother's corpse.
"'Take him away,' said Lord James.
"'My lord,' I exclaimed, 'he weeps! Ah, check not his tears!'
"I bent over the child, and heard him sob.
"'William! dear William!' I cried, anxiously taking his hand, 'why do
you weep, William?'
"For the second time he turned his head towards me; then, with a gentle
look, full of sorrow, 'My mother is dead,' he replied.
"I have not words to tell you what I felt. William's eyes were now
intelligent: his tears were sad and significant; and his voice was
broken as when the heart suffers. I uttered a cry; I almost knelt down
beside Eva's bed.
"'Ah! you were right, Eva!' I exclaimed, 'not to despair of the mercy
of God!'
"Lord James himself had started. Lady Mary was as pale as Eva.
"'Mother! mother!' cried William, in tones that filled my heart with
joy; and then, repeating the words of Eva Meredith--those words which
she had so truly said he would find at the bottom of his heart--the
child exclaimed aloud,
"'I am dying, my son. Your father is dead; you are alone upon the earth;
you must pray to the Lord!'
"I pressed gently with my hand upon William's shoulder; he obeyed the
impulse, knelt down, joined his trembling hands--this time it was of his
own accord--and, raising to heaven a look full of life and feeling: 'My
God! have pity on me!' he murmured.
"I took Eva's cold hand. 'Oh mother! mother of many sorrows!' I
exclaimed, 'can you hear your child? do you behold him from above? Be
happy! your son is saved!'
"Dead at Lady Mary's feet, Eva made her rival tremble; for it was not I
who led William from the room, it was Lord James Kysington who carried
out his grandson in his arms.
"I have little to add, ladies. William recovered his reason and departed
with Lord James. Reinstated in his rights, he was subsequently his
grandfather's sole heir. Science has recorded a few rare instances of
intelligence revived by a violent moral shock. Thus does the fact I have
related find a natural explanation. But the simple women of the village,
who had attended Eva Meredith during her illness, and had heard her
fervent prayers, were convinced that, even as she had asked of Heaven,
the soul of the mother had passed into the body of the child.
"'She was so good,' said they, 'that God could refuse her nothing.' This
artless belief took firm root in the country. No one mourned Mrs
Meredith as dead.
"'She still lives,' said the people of the hamlet: 'speak to her son,
and she will answer you.'
"And when Lord William Kysington, in possession of his grandfather's
property, sent each year abundant alms to the village that had witnessed
his birth and his mother's death, the poor folks exclaimed--'There is
Mrs Meredith's kind soul thinking of us still! Ah, when she goes to
heaven, it will be great pity for poor people!'
"We do not strew flowers upon her tomb, but upon the steps of the altar
of the Virgin, where she so often prayed to Mary to send a soul to her
son. When bearing thither their wreaths of wild blossoms, the villagers
say to each other--'When she prayed so fervently, the good Virgin
answered her softly: "I will give thy soul to thy child!"'
"The _cure_ has suffered our peasants to retain this touching
superstition; and I myself, when Lord William came to see me, when he
fixed upon me his eyes, so like his mother's--when his voice, which
had a well-known accent, said, as Mrs Meredith was wont to say, 'Dear
Doctor, I thank you!' Then--smile, ladies, if you will--I wept, and I
believed, like all the village, that Eva Meredith was before me.
"She, whose existence was but a long series of sorrows, has left behind
her a sweet, consoling memory, which has nothing painful for those who
loved her.
"In thinking of her we think of the mercy of God, and those who have
hope in their hearts, hope with the greater confidence.
"But it is very late, ladies--your carriages are at the door. Pardon
this long story: at my age it is difficult to be concise in speaking of
the events of one's youth. Forgive the old man for having made you smile
when he arrived, and weep before he departed."
These last words were spoken in the kindest and most paternal tone,
whilst a half-smile glided across Dr Barnaby's lips. All his auditors
now crowded round him, eager to express their thanks. But Dr Barnaby
got up, made straight for his riding-coat of brown taffety, which hung
across a chair back, and, whilst one of the young men helped him to put
it on--"Farewell, gentlemen; farewell, ladies," said the village doctor.
"My chaise is ready; it is dark, the road is bad; good-night: I must be
gone."
When Dr Barnaby was installed in his cabriolet of green wicker-work, and
the little grey cob, tickled by the whip, was about to set off, Madame
de Moncar stepped quickly forward, and leaning towards the doctor,
whilst she placed one foot on the step of his vehicle, she said, in a
low voice--
"Doctor, I make you a present of the white cottage, and I will have it
fitted up as it was when you loved Eva Meredith!"
Then she ran back into the house. The carriages and the green chaise
departed in different directions.
A SINGULAR LETTER FROM SOUTHERN AFRICA
COMMUNICATED BY MR HOGG, THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD.
[_MAGA._ NOVEMBER 1829.]
My dear friend,--In my last I related to you all the circumstances of
our settlement here, and the prospect that we had of a peaceful and
pleasant habitation. In truth, it is a fine country, and inhabited by a
fine race of people, for the Kousies, as far as I have seen of them, are
a simple and ingenuous race, and Captain Johnstone having insured the
friendship and protection of their chief, we lived in the most perfect
harmony with them, trafficking with them for oxen, for which we gave
them iron and copper in exchange, the former being held in high
estimation by them. But alas! sir, such a fate has befallen to me since
I wrote you last, as I am sure never fell to the lot of a human being.
And I am now going to relate to you one of those stories which, were it
to occur in a romance, would be reckoned quite out of nature, and beyond
all bounds of probability, so true is it that there are many things in
heaven and earth that are not dreamed of in our philosophy.
You knew my Agnes from her childhood--you were at our wedding at
Beattock, and cannot but remember what an amiable and lovely girl she
then was. I thought so, and so did you--at least you said you never had
as bonny a bride on your knee. But you will hardly believe that her
beauty was then nothing in comparison with what it became afterwards;
and when she was going about our new settlement with our little boy in
her arms, I have often fancied that I never saw as lovely a human being.
Be that as it may, the chief Karoo came to me one day with his
interpreter, whom he caused to make a long palaver about his power, and
dominion, and virtues, and his great desire to do much good. The
language of this fellow being a mixture of Kaffre, High Dutch, and
English, was peculiarly ludicrous, and most of all so when he concluded
with expressing his lord's desire to have my wife to be his own, and to
give me in exchange for her four oxen, the best that I could choose from
his herd!
As he made the proposal in presence of my wife, she was so much tickled
with the absurdity of the proposed barter, and the manner in which it
was expressed, that she laughed immoderately. Karoo, thinking she was
delighted with it, eyed her with a look that surpasses all description,
and then caused his interpreter make another palaver to her concerning
all the good things she was to enjoy, one of which was, that she was to
ride upon an ox whose horns were tipped with gold. I thanked the great
Karoo for his kind intentions, but declared my incapability to part with
my wife, for that we were one flesh and blood, and nothing could
separate us but death. He could comprehend no such tie as this. All men
sold their wives and daughters as they listed, I was told,--for that the
women were the sole property of the men. He had bought many women from
the Tambookies, that were virgins, and had never given above two cows
for any of them; and because he desired to have my wife, he had offered
me as much for her as would purchase four of the best wives in all the
two countries, and that therefore I was bound to give her up to him. And
when I told him finally that nothing on earth could induce me to part
with her, he seemed offended, bit his thumb, knitted his brows, and
studied long in silence, always casting glances at Agnes of great pathos
and languishment, which were perfectly irresistible, and ultimately he
struck his spear's head in the ground, and offered me ten cows and a
bull for my wife, and a choice virgin to boot. When this proffer was
likewise declined, he smiled in derision, telling me I was the son of
foolishness, and that _he foretold I should repent it_. Three times he
went over this, and then went away in high dudgeon. Will you, sir,
believe, or will any person alive believe, that it was possible I could
live to repent this?
My William was at this time about eleven months old, but was still at
the breast, as I could never prevail on his lovely mother to wean him;
and at the very time of which I am speaking, our little settlement
was invaded one night by a tribe of those large baboons called
ourang-outangs, pongos, or wild men of the woods, who did great mischief
to our fruits, yams, and carrots. From that time we kept a great number
of guns loaded, and set a watch; and at length the depredators were
again discovered. We sallied out upon them in a body, not without alarm,
for they are powerful and vindictive animals, and our guns were only
loaded with common shot. They fled at the first sight of us, and that
with such swiftness that we might as well have tried to catch deers, but
we got one close fire at them, and doubtless wounded a number of them,
as their course was traced with blood. We pursued them as far as the
Keys river, which they swam, and we lost them.
Among all the depredators, there was none fell but one youngling, which
I lifted in my arms, when it looked so pitifully, and cried so like a
child, that my heart bled for it. A large monster, more than six feet
high, perceiving that he had lost his cub, returned brandishing a huge
club, and grinning at me. I wanted to restore the abominable brat, for
I could not bear the thought of killing it, it was so like a human
creature; but before I could do this, several shots had been fired by my
companions at the hideous monster, which caused him once more to take to
his heels; but turning oft as he fled, he made threatening gestures at
me. A Kousi servant that we had, finished the cub, and I caused it to be
buried.
The very morning after that but one, Agnes and her black maid were
milking our few cows upon the green: I was in the garden, and William
was toddling about pulling flowers, when, all at once, the women were
alarmed by the sight of a tremendous ourang-outang issuing from our
house, which they had just left. They seem to have been struck dumb and
senseless with amazement, for not one of them uttered a sound, until the
monster, springing forward in one moment, snatched up the child and made
off with him. Instead of coming to me, the women pursued the animal with
the child, not knowing, I believe, what they were doing. The fearful
shrieks which they uttered alarmed me, and I ran to the milking-green,
thinking the cows had fallen on the women, as the cattle of that
district are ticklish for pushing when any way hurt or irritated. Before
I reached the green where the cows stood, the ourang-outang was fully
half a mile gone, and only the poor feeble exhausted women running
screaming after him. For a good while I could not conceive what was the
matter, but having my spade in my hand I followed spontaneously in the
same direction. Before I overtook the women, I heard the agonised
cries of my dear boy, my darling William, in the paws of that horrible
monster. There is no sensation of which the human heart is capable that
can at all be compared with the horror which at that dreadful moment
seized on mine. My sinews lost their tension, and my whole frame became
lax and powerless. I believe I ran faster than usual, but then I fell
every minute, and as I passed Agnes she fell into a fit. Kela-kal, the
black girl, with an astonishing presence of mind, had gone off at a
tangent, without orders, or without being once missed, to warn the rest
of the settlers, which she did with all expedition. I pursued on,
breathless, and altogether unnerved with agony; but, alas! I rather lost
than gained ground.
I think if I had been fairly started, that through desperation I could
have overtaken the monster, but the hopelessness of success rendered me
feeble. The truth is, that he did not make great speed, not nearly the
speed these animals are wont to make, for he was greatly encumbered
with the child. You perhaps do not understand the nature of these
animals--neither do I: but they have this peculiarity, that when they
are walking leisurely or running down-hill, they walk upright like a
human being; but when hard pressed on level ground, or up-hill, they use
their long arms as fore-legs, and then run with inconceivable swiftness.
When flying with their own young, the greater part of them will run
nearly twice as fast as an ordinary man, for the cubs cling to them with
both feet and hands, but as my poor William shrunk from the monster's
touch, he was obliged to embrace him closely with one paw, and run on
three, and still in that manner he outran me. O may never earthly parent
be engaged in such a heartrending pursuit! Keeping still his distance
before me, he reached the Keys river, and there the last gleam of hope
closed on me, for I could not swim, while the ourang-outang, with much
acuteness, threw the child across his shoulders, held him by the feet
with one paw, and with the other three stemmed the river, though then
in flood, with amazing rapidity. It was at this dreadful moment that my
beloved babe got his eyes on me as I ran across the plain towards him,
and I saw him holding up his little hands in the midst of the foaming
flood, and crying out, "Pa! pa! pa!" which he seemed to utter with a
sort of desperate joy at seeing me approach.
Alas! that sight was the last, for in two minutes thereafter the monster
vanished, with my dear child, in the jungles and woods beyond the river,
and then my course was stayed, for to have thrown myself in, would only
have been committing suicide, and leaving a destitute widow in a foreign
land. I had therefore no other resource but to throw myself down, and
pour out my soul in lamentation and prayer to God. From this state of
hapless misery I was quickly aroused by the sight of twelve of my
countrymen coming full speed across the plain on my track. They were
all armed and stripped for the pursuit, and four of them, some of whom
you know--Adam Johnstone, Adam Haliday, Peter Carruthers, and Joseph
Nicholson--being excellent swimmers, plunged at once into the river and
swam across, though not without both difficulty and danger, and without
loss of time continued the pursuit.
The remainder of us, nine in number, were obliged to go half a day's
journey up the river, to a place called Shekah, where the Tambookies
dragged us over on a hurdle; and we there procured a Kousi, who had a
hound, which he pretended could follow the track of an ourang-outang
over the whole world. Urged on by a sort of forlorn and desperate hope,
we kept at a running pace the whole afternoon; and at the fall of night
came up with Peter Carruthers, who had lost the other three. A singular
adventure had befallen to himself. He and his companions had agreed to
keep within call of each other; but as he advanced, he conceived he
heard the voice of a child crying behind him to the right, on which he
turned off in that direction, but heard no more of the wail. As he was
searching, however, he perceived an ourang-outang steal from a thicket,
which, nevertheless, it seemed loth to leave. When he pursued it, it
fled slowly, as with intent to entice him in pursuit from the spot; but
when he turned towards the thicket, it immediately followed. Peter was
armed with a pistol and rapier; but his pistol and powder had been
rendered useless by swimming the river, and he had nothing to depend on
but his rapier. The creature at first was afraid of the pistol, and kept
aloof; but seeing no fire issue from it, it came nigher and nigher, and
seemed determined to have a scuffle with Carruthers for the possession
of the thicket. At length it shook its head, grinning with disdain, and
motioned him to fling the pistol away as of no use; it then went and
brought two great clubs, of which it gave him the choice, to fight with
it. There was something so bold, and at the same time so generous, in
this, that Peter took one as if apparently accepting the challenge; but
that moment he pulled out his gleaming rapier, and ran at the hideous
brute, which frightened it so much that it uttered two or three loud
grunts like a hog, and scampered off; but soon turning, it threw the
club at Peter with such a certain aim that it had very nigh killed him.
He saw no more of the animal that night; but when we found Carruthers,
he was still lingering about the spot, persuaded that my child was
there, and that, if in life, he would soon hear his cries. We watched
the thicket all night, and at the very darkest hour, judge of my
trepidation when I heard the cries of a child in the thicket, almost
close by me, and well could distinguish that the cries proceeded from
the mouth of my own dear William--from that sweet and comely mouth which
I had often kissed a hundred times in a day. We all rushed spontaneously
into the thicket, and all towards the same point; but, strange to
relate, we only ran against one another, and found nothing besides. I
cried on my boy's name, but all was again silent, and we heard no more.
He only uttered three cries, and then we all heard distinctly that his
crying was stopped by something stuffed into his mouth. I still wonder
how I retained my reason, for certainly no parent had ever such a trial
to undergo. Before day, we heard some movement in the thicket, and
though heard by us all at the same time, each of us took it for one of
our companions moving about; and it was not till long after the sun was
up, that we at length discovered a bed up among the thick branches of a
tree, and not above twelve feet from the ground; but the occupants had
escaped, and no doubt remained but that they were now far beyond our
reach. This was the most grievous and heartbreaking miss of all; and I
could not help giving vent to my grief in excessive weeping, while all
my companions were deeply affected with my overpowering sorrow.
We then tried the dog, and by him we learned the way the fliers had
taken; but that was all, for as the day grew warm, he lost all traces
whatever. We searched over all the country for many days, but could
find no traces of my dear boy, either dead or alive; and at length were
obliged to return home weary and broken-hearted. To describe the state
of my poor Agnes is impossible. It may be conceived, but can never be
expressed. But I must haste on with my narrative, for I have yet a great
deal to communicate.
About three months after this sad calamity, one evening, on returning
home from my labour, my Agnes was missing, and neither her maid-servant,
nor one of all the settlers, could give the least account of her. My
suspicions fell instantly on the Kousi chief, Karoo, for I knew that
he had been in our vicinity hunting, and remembered his threat. This
was the most grievous stroke of all, and in order to do all for the
preservation of my dear wife that lay in my power, I and three of my
companions set out and travelled night and day till we came to the
chief's headquarters. I have not time to describe all the fooleries
and difficulties we had to encounter; suffice it, that Karoo denied
the deed, but still in such a manner that my suspicions were confirmed.
I threatened him terribly with the vengeance of his friend Captain
Johnstone, and the English army at the Cape, saying I would burn him
and all his wives and his people with fire. He wept out of fear and
vexation, and offered me the choice of his wives, or any two of them,
showing me a great number of them, many of whom he recommended for their
great beauty and fatness; and I believe he would have given me any
number if I would have gone away satisfied. But the language of the
interpreter being in a great measure unintelligible, we all deemed that
he said repeatedly that Karoo _would not give the lady up_.
What was I now to do? We had not force in our own small settlement
to compel Karoo to restore her; and I was therefore obliged to buy a
trained ox, on which I rode all the way to the next British settlement,
for there are no horses in that country. There I found Captain Johnstone
with three companies of the 72d, watching the inroads of the savage
Boshesmen. He was greatly irritated at Karoo, and despatched Lieutenant
M'Kenzie and fifty men along with me to chastise the aggressor. When
the chief saw the Highlanders, he was terrified out of his wits; but
nevertheless, not knowing what else to do, he prepared for resistance,
after once more proffering me the choice of his wives.
Just when we were on the eve of commencing a war, which must have been
ruinous to our settlement, a black servant of Adam Johnstone's came to
me, and said that I ought not to fight and kill his good chief, for that
he had not the white woman. I was astonished, and asked the Kaffre what
he meant, when he told me that he himself saw my wife carried across the
river by a band of pongos (ourang-outangs), but he had always kept it a
secret, for fear of giving me distress, as they were too far gone for
pursuit when he beheld them. He said they had her bound, and were
carrying her gently on their arms, but she was either dead or in a
swoon, for she was not crying, and her long hair was hanging down.
I had kept up under every calamity till then, but these news fairly
upset my reason. I fell a-blaspheming, and accused the Almighty of
injustice for laying such fearful judgments on me. May He in mercy
forgive me, for I knew not what I said; but had I not been deprived
of reason I could not have outlived such a catastrophe as this; and
whenever it recurs to my remembrance, it will make my blood run chill
till the day of my death. A whole year passed over my head like one
confused dream; another came, and during the greater part of it my mind
was very unsettled; but at length I began to indulge in long fits of
weeping, till by degrees I awakened to a full sense of all my misery,
and often exclaimed that there was no sorrow like my sorrow. I lingered
on about the settlement, not having power to leave the spot where I had
once been so happy with those I loved, and all my companions joined in
the cultivation of my fields and garden, in hopes that I would become
resigned to the will of the Lord and the judgments of His providence.
About the beginning of last year a strange piece of intelligence reached
our settlement. It was said that two maids of Kamboo had been out on the
mountains of Norroweldt gathering fruits, where they had seen a pongo
taller than any Kousi, and that this pongo had a beautiful white boy
with him, for whom he was gathering the choicest fruits, and the boy was
gambolling and playing around him, and leaping on his shoulders.
This was a piece of intelligence so extraordinary, and so much out of
the common course of events, that every one of the settlers agreed that
it could not be a forgery, and that it behoved us immediately to look
after it. We applied to Karoo for assistance, who had a great number of
slaves from that country, much attached to him, who knew the language of
the place whither we were going, and all the passes of the country. He
complied readily with our request, giving us an able and intelligent
guide, with as many of his people as we chose. We raised in all fifty
Malays and Kousies; nine British soldiers, and every one of the settlers
that could bear arms, went with us, so that we had in all nearly a
hundred men, the blacks being armed with pikes, and all the rest with
swords, guns, and pistols. We journeyed for a whole week, travelling
much by night, and resting in the shade by day, and at last we came to
the secluded district of which we were in search, and in which we found
a temporary village, or camp, of one of these independent inland tribes.
They were in great alarm at our approach, and were apparently preparing
for a vigorous resistance; but on our guide going up to them, who was
one of their own tribe, and explaining our views, they received us
joyfully, and proffered their assistance.
From this people we got the heart-stirring intelligence, that a whole
colony of pongos had taken possession of that country, and would soon be
masters of it all; for that the Great Spirit had sent them a queen from
the country beyond the sun, to teach them to speak, and work, and go to
war; and that she had the entire power over them, and would not suffer
them to hurt any person who did not offer offence to them; that they
knew all she said to them, and answered her, and lived in houses and
kindled fires like other people, and likewise fought rank and file. That
they had taken one of the maidens of their own tribe to wait upon the
queen's child; but because the girl wept, the queen caused them to set
her at liberty.
I was now rent between hope and terror--hope that this was my own wife
and child, and terror that they would be rent in pieces by the savage
monsters rather than given up. Of this last, the Lockos (the name of
this wandering tribe) assured us, we needed not to entertain any
apprehensions, for that they would, every one of them, die rather than
wrong a hair of their queen's head. But that it behoved us instantly
to surround them; for if they once came to understand that we were in
pursuit, they would make their escape, and then the whole world would
not turn or detain them.
Accordingly, that very night, being joined by the Lockos, we surrounded
the colony by an extensive circle, and continuing to close as we
advanced. By the break of day we had them closely surrounded. The
monsters flew to arms at the word of command, nothing daunted, forming
a close circle round their camp and queen, the strongest of the males
being placed outermost, and the females inmost, but all armed alike, and
all having the same demure and melancholy faces. The circle being so
close that I could not see inside, I went with the nine red-coats to the
top of a cliff that in some degree overlooked the encampment, in order
that, if my Agnes really was there, she might understand who was near
her. Still I could not discover what was within, but I called her name
aloud several times, and in about five minutes after that, the whole
circle of tremendous brutal warriors flung away their arms and retired
backward, leaving an open space for me to approach their queen.
In the most dreadful trepidation I entered between the hideous files,
being well guarded by soldiers on either hand, and followed by the rest
of the settlers; and there I indeed beheld my wife, my beloved Agnes,
standing ready to receive me, with little William in her right hand, and
a beautiful chubby daughter in her left, about two years old, and the
very image of her mother. Conceive, if you can, sir, such a meeting!
Were there ever a husband and wife met in such circumstances before?
Never since the creation of the world! The two children looked healthy
and beautiful, with their fur aprons, but it struck me at first that my
beloved was much altered: it was only, however, caused by her internal
commotion, by feelings which overpowered her grateful heart, against
which nature could not bear up, for on my first embrace she fainted in
my arms, which kept us all in suspension and confusion for a long space.
The children fled from us, crying for their mother, and took shelter
with their friends the pongos, who seemed in great amazement, and part
of them began to withdraw as if to hide themselves.
As soon as Agnes was somewhat restored, I proposed that we should
withdraw from the camp of her savage colony; but she refused, and told
me that she behoved to part with her protectors on good terms, and that
she must depart without any appearance of compulsion, which they might
resent; and we actually rested ourselves during the heat of the day in
the shades erected by those savage inhabitants of the forest. My wife
went to her hoard of provisions, and distributed to every one of the
pongos his share of fruit, succulent herbs, and roots, which they ate
with great composure. It was a curious scene, something like what I had
seen in a menagerie; and there was my little William, serving out food
to the young ourang-outangs, cuffing them and ordering them, in the
broad Annandale dialect, to do this, that, and the other thing; and
they were not only obedient, but seemed flattered by his notice and
correction. We were then presented with delicious fruits, but I had no
heart to partake, being impatient to have my family away from the midst
of this brutal society; for as long as we were there, I could not
conceive them safe or fairly in my own power.
Agnes then stood up and made a speech to her subjects, accompanying her
expressions with violent motions and contortions to make them understand
her meaning. They understood it perfectly; for when they heard that she
and her children were to leave them, they set up such a jabbering of
lamentation as British ears never heard. Many of them came cowering and
fawning before her, and she laid her hand on their heads; many, too, of
the young ones came running, and lifting the children's hands, they put
them on their own heads. We then formed a close circle round Agnes and
the children, to the exclusion of the pongos that still followed behind,
howling and lamenting; and that night we lodged in the camp of the
Lockos, placing a triple guard round my family, of which there stood
great need. We durst not travel by night, but we contrived two covered
hurdles, in which we carried Agnes and the children, and for three days
a considerable body of the tallest and strongest of the ourang-outangs
attended our steps, and some of them came to us fearlessly every day, as
she said, to see if she was well, and if we were not hurting her.
We reached our own settlement one day sooner than we took in marching
eastward; but then I durst not remain for a night, but getting into a
vessel, I sailed straight for the Cape, having first made over all my
goods and chattels to my countrymen, who are to send me down value here
in corn and fruit; and here I am, living with my Agnes and our two
children, at a little wigwam about five miles from Cape Town.
My Agnes's part of the story is the most extraordinary of all. But here
I must needs be concise, giving only a short and general outline of
her adventures; for among dumb animals, whose signals and grimaces were
so liable to misinterpretation, much must have been left to her own
conjecture. The creatures' motives for stealing and detaining her
appeared to have been as follows:--
These animals remain always in distinct tribes, and are perfectly
subordinate to a chief or ruler, and his secondary chiefs. For their
expedition to rob our gardens, they had brought their sovereign's sole
heir along with them, as they never leave any of the royal family behind
them, for fear of a surprisal. It was this royal cub which we killed,
and the queen his mother having been distractedly inconsolable for the
loss of her darling, the old monarch had set out by night to try if
possible to recover it; and on not finding it, he seized on my boy in
its place, carried him home in safety to his queen, and gave her him to
nurse! She did so. Yes, she positively did nurse him at her breast for
three months, and never child throve better than he did. By that time he
was beginning to walk, and aim at speech, by imitating every voice he
heard, whether of beast or bird; and it had struck the monsters as a
great loss that they had no means of teaching their young sovereign to
speak, at which art he seemed so apt. This led to the scheme of stealing
his own mother to be his instructor, which they effected in the most
masterly style, binding and gagging her in her own house, and carrying
her from a populous hamlet in the fair forenoon, without having been
discovered. Their expertness, and the rapidity of their motions, Agnes
described as inconceivable by those who had never witnessed them. They
showed every sort of tenderness and kindness by the way, proffering her
plenty of fruit and water; but she gave herself totally up to despair,
till, behold! she was introduced to her own little William, plump,
thriving, and as merry as a cricket, gambolling away among his brutal
compeers, for many of whom he had conceived a great affection,--but then
they far outgrew him, while others as fast overtook him in size.
Agnes immediately took her boy under her tuition, and was soon given to
understand that her will was to be the sole law of the community; and
all the while that they detained her, they never refused her in aught
save to take her home again. Our little daughter she had named Beatrice,
after her maternal grandmother. She was born six months and six days
after Agnes's abstraction. She spoke highly of the pongos, of their
docility, generosity, warmth of affection to their mates and young ones,
and of their irresistible strength. She conceived that, however, to have
been a tribe greatly superior to all others of the race, for she never
could regard them in any other light than as dumb human creatures. I
confess that I had the same sort of feeling while in their settlement,
for many of the young females in particular were much comelier than
negro savages whom I have often seen, and they laughed, smiled, and
cried very much like human creatures. At my wife's injunctions, or from
her example, they all wore aprons: and the females had let the hair of
their heads grow long. It was glossy black, and neither curled nor
woolly, and on the whole, I cannot help having a lingering affection
for the creatures. They would make the most docile, powerful, and
affectionate of all slaves; but they come very soon to their growth, and
are but shortlived, in that way approximating to the rest of the brute
creation. They live entirely on fruits, roots, and vegetables, and taste
no animal food whatever.
I asked Agnes much of the civility of their manner to her, and she
always describes it as respectful and uniform. For a while she never
thought herself quite safe when near the queen, but the dislike of the
latter to her arose entirely out of her boundless affection for the
boy. No mother could possibly be fonder of her own offspring than this
affectionate creature was of William, and she was jealous of his mother
for taking him from her, and causing him instantly to be weaned. But
then the chief never once left the two queens by themselves; they had
always a guard day and night.
I have no objection to the publication of these adventures in Britain,
though I know they will not obtain credit; but I should not like that
the incidents reached the "Sidney Gazette," as I intend emigrating to
that country as soon as I receive value for the stock I left at the
settlement, for I have a feeling that my family is scarcely safe as
long as I am on any part of the coast of Africa. And for the sake of my
rising family, I have an aversion at its being known that they were
bred among creatures that must still be conceived to be of the brute
creation. Do not write till you hear from me again; and believe me ever,
your old affectionate friend,
WM. MITCHELL.
VANDER CREEK, NEAR CAPE TOWN,
_Oct. 1, 1826_.
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:
In the story "The Village Doctor," the use of double and single quotes
was partially omitted, and inconsistent with the balance of the book;
this has been corrected. Other than this, only minor changes have been
made to correct typesetters' errors; otherwise, every effort has been
made to remain true to the authors' words and intent.