(_Concluded from page 167._)
I arrived at Montpellier, and was well received by my uncle, who
informed me that he had obtained for me an honorable situation. A rich
Englishman, very old, nervous and gouty, was desirous of having a doctor
constantly beneath his roof, an intelligent young man, who might attend
to his disease under the direction of another physician. I had been
proposed and accepted. We immediately repaired to the residence of Lord
James Kysington. We entered a large and handsome mansion, filled with
servants, and having passed through a suite of rooms we were ushered
into the cabinet of Lord James Kysington.
Lord Kysington was seated in a large arm-chair. He was a very old man,
with a chilling and austere countenance. His hair, which was completely
white, contrasted singularly with eye-brows that were still of the
deepest black. He was tall and thin, at least as well as I could
distinguish through the folds of a large linen surtout, fashioned like a
dressing-gown. His hands were hidden in the sleeves, and a white bear’s
fur covered his ailing feet. A table stood near him on which were placed
several vials containing potions.
My uncle introduced me. “My lord, this is my nephew, Doctor Barnabé,” he
said.
Lord Kysington bowed, that is to say, he made an almost imperceptible
inclination of his head, as he looked at me.
“He is well instructed,” my uncle resumed, “and I doubt not will prove
useful to your lordship.”
A second motion of the head was the only answer my uncle obtained.
“Besides,” added the latter, “having received a good education, he can
read to your lordship, or write when you wish to dictate.”
“I shall be obliged to him for it,” Lord Kysington at last replied, and
he instantly closed his eyes, either because he was fatigued or that he
wished the conversation to cease there; and my uncle took his departure.
I now had time to look about me. Near the window sat a young woman, very
elegantly dressed, who was working at a piece of embroidery without at
all raising her eyes toward us, as though we were not worthy of her
notice. On the carpet at her feet a little boy was playing with toys. At
first the young woman did not appear to me pretty, because she had black
hair and black eyes, and to be handsome, in my estimation, was to be
fair, like Eva Meredith; and then, in my inexperienced judgment, I
always associated beauty with a certain air of gentleness. That which I
found pleasant to look upon was what I supposed to be a goodness of
heart—and it was long before I could confess to myself the beauty of
this female, whose bearing was so proud, and whose look so disdainful.
She was, like Lord Kysington, tall, thin, and somewhat pale, and there
seemed to exist between them a family resemblance. Their dispositions
were too much alike for them to agree well, and they lived together
scarcely exchanging a word, certainly not loving each other. The child,
too, had been taught to make as little noise as possible; he stepped on
tiptoe, and at the least creaking of the floor a harsh look from his
mother or Lord Kysington would change him into a statue.
It was too late now to return to my village, but there is always time to
regret that which we have loved and lost, and my heart beat faster when
I thought of my humble home, my native valley, and liberty.
The following was all I could learn relative to the family I was in.
Lord Kysington had come to Montpellier for the restoration of his
health, which had been injured by the climate of the Indies. The second
son of the Duke of Kysington, himself only lord by courtesy, he owed to
his own talents, and not to birth, his fortune and political position in
the House of Commons. Lady Mary was the wife of his youngest brother,
and Lord Kysington had chosen her son, his nephew, for his heir. I now
began to attend to this old man as zealously as I could, fully persuaded
that the most likely method of bettering a bad position was to fulfill
even a painful duty.
Lord Kysington always behaved to me with the strictest politeness. A nod
would thank me for every care, for every action that relieved him. One
day when he appeared to be asleep, and Lady Mary was busy with her work,
little Harry climbed on my knees, and finding that we were in a distant
corner of the room, he asked me some questions with the artless
curiosity of his age, and I, in return, hardly aware of what I was
saying, interrogated him as to his relations.
“Have you any brothers or sisters?” I asked.
“I have a very pretty little sister.”
“And what is her name?”
“Oh, she has a charming name, guess it, doctor.”
I know not what I was thinking of. In my own village I had only heard
the names of peasants, and they would not have been fit for the daughter
of Lady Mary. Madame Meredith was the only well-bred lady I knew, and as
the child kept repeating, guess, guess, I answered at random,
“Eva, perhaps.”
We were speaking in a very low tone, but the instant the name of Eva had
passed my lips, Lord Kysington suddenly opened his eyes and sat upright
in his chair, Lady Mary dropped her work and turned quickly toward me. I
was stupefied at the effect I had produced, and gazed at them
alternately, without daring to speak another word—some moments
elapsed—Lord Kysington fell back in his arm-chair and closed his eyes
again, Lady Mary resumed her work, and Harry and myself spoke no more.
For a long time I sat reflecting on this singular incident; afterward,
all things having sunk into their usual calm, and silence reigning
around me, I rose gently, and was about to leave the room. Lady Mary
laid aside her embroidery, passed out before me, and motioned with her
hand for me to follow her. As soon as we reached the parlor, she shut
the door, and standing before me, her head erect, and her whole
countenance wearing the imperious air which was the most natural
expression of her features. “Dr. Barnabé,” said she, “will you be so
kind as never again to pronounce the name you just now uttered; it is
one that Lord Kysington should not hear;” and with a slight inclination
she returned to the cabinet and shut the door.
A thousand ideas beset me; this Eva, whose name it was forbidden to
mention, was she not Eva Meredith? Was she, then, the daughter-in-law of
Lord Kysington? And was I living with the father of William? I hoped,
yet doubted, for, in a word, although this name of Eva designated but
one person to me, to others it might only be a name, perhaps, common in
England.
I did not dare to question, but the thought that I was in the family of
Eva Meredith, near the woman who was robbing the mother and orphan of
their paternal inheritance, engrossed my mind constantly, both day and
night. Often in fancy did I picture the return of Eva and her son to
this dwelling, and saw myself asking and obtaining forgiveness for them;
but when I raised my eyes, the cold, impassible face of Lord Kysington
froze all the hopes of my heart I began to examine that face as if I had
never seen it; I endeavored to find in those features some motions, some
traces, which might disclose a little feeling. I sought for the soul I
wished to move; alas! I found it not. But, thought I, what signifies the
expression of the countenance, it is but the exterior cover which is
seen with the eye—the meanest chest may be filled with gold! All that
is within us cannot be guessed at first sight; and whoever has lived,
has also learned to separate his soul and his thoughts from the common
expression of his features.
I resolved to clear up my doubts—but what method was I to take? To
interrogate Lady Mary, or Lord Kysington, was out of the question. To
ask the domestics?—they were French, and but newly engaged. An English
valet-de-chambre, the only servant who had accompanied his master, had
just been sent to London on a confidential mission. It was to Lord
Kysington that I must direct my inquiries. From him would I learn
all—from him obtain pardon for Eva. The severe expression of his face
had ceased to terrify me. I said to myself, “when in the forest we find
a tree to all appearance dead, we make an incision in it to ascertain
whether the sap does not still flow beneath the dead bark; so will I
test his heart, and try if some feeling be not still within it.” I
waited for an opportunity. To await patiently will not bring to pass
that which we look for; instead of depending entirely on circumstances,
we should avail ourselves of them as they occur.
One night Lord Kysington sent for me; he was in pain. After giving him
the attentions requisite, I remained by him to watch the result of my
prescriptions. The chamber was gloomy. A wax light shone dimly on the
objects in the room; the pale and noble form of Lord Kysington was
reclining on his pillow. His eyes were closed; it was his custom, when
about to suffer, to collect his moral courage; he never complained, but
lay stretched on his couch, straight and motionless as the effigy of a
king on his tomb. He usually asked me to read to him, perhaps because
the thoughts of the book would occupy his mind, or the monotony of a
voice might put him to sleep.
That evening he made a sign to me with his bony hand to take a book and
read to him; but I looked for one in vain, for the books and papers had
been taken down into the parlor, and all the doors leading to it were
fastened, so that I could not obtain one without ringing for it and
disturbing the family. Lord Kysington made a gesture of impatience, but
he resigned himself, and pointed to a chair for me to take a seat near
him. We sat thus for a long while without speaking, almost in darkness,
the clock alone breaking the silence with the regular ticking of its
pendulum. But sleep came not. Of a sudden Lord Kysington unclosed his
eyes, and turning to me, said,
“Speak to me; relate something, I care not what.”
He shut his eyes again, and lay waiting.
My heart beat violently—the time was come.
“My lord,” I said, “I fear I know of nothing that would interest your
lordship. I can only speak of myself and the events of my life; and you
would wish to hear the history of some great man, or some great event,
that might claim your attention. What can a peasant have to descant
upon, who has lived content with little, in obscurity and repose? I have
scarcely ever been absent from my native village. It is a pretty hamlet
in the mountains. Not far off there is a country residence, where I have
seen those who were rich, and might have left, and who, nevertheless,
stayed there because the woods are thick, the paths covered with
flowers, the rivulets clear and dashing over the rocks. Alas! there were
two in that house—and soon but one poor, solitary woman remained until
the birth of her child. My Lord, this lady spoke the same language as
yourself. She was beautiful, as seldom may be seen in England or France;
good, as only the angels in heaven can be. She was but eighteen years of
age when I left her, fatherless, motherless, and already bereaved of an
adored husband; she is weak, delicate, almost sickly, and yet she has
need to live—who else will protect her little child?
“Oh! my lord, there are many unfortunate beings in this world. To be
unfortunate in the meridian of life, or when old age is creeping on, is
doubtless sad, yet there are then pleasant remembrances which tell us
that we have played our part, that we have lived our time, and had our
joys. But when tears and sorrow come at eighteen, it is sadder still,
for we know full well nothing can revive the dead—all that is left is
to weep forever. Poor girl! do we see a beggar by the road-side, it is
with cold or hunger that he suffers; we give him charity, and do not
think of him with sorrow, since he may be relieved; but the only
alleviation that could be tendered to this unhappy being, whose heart is
bowed and broken, would be to love her—and there is no one near to do
her this charity. Ah! my lord, had you but known the handsome young man
who was her husband. Barely twenty-three years old, of a noble form, a
high forehead—like your own, intellectual and haughty—with deep blue
eyes, somewhat thoughtful—yes, somewhat sad; but I knew the reason—it
was that he loved his father, his country, and yet must be banished from
both. His smile was full of gentleness. Oh! how he would have smiled on
his little child had he lived to see him! Yes, he loved it yet unborn;
he even took delight in looking at the cradle destined for it. Poor,
unfortunate young man! I saw him on a stormy night, in a dark forest,
stretched on the damp ground, motionless, lifeless, his garments covered
with mire, and his head crushed with a frightful wound, from which the
blood still flowed in torrents. I saw—alas! I saw William—”
“You were present, then, at the death of my son!” cried Lord Kysington,
rising like a spectre from the pillows that sustained him, and fixing on
me his eyes, so large, so piercing, that I drew back in fear; but in
spite of the darkness of the room, I thought a tear moistened the
eye-lids of the old man.
“My lord,” I replied, “I saw your son dead, and I saw his child born.”
There was a moment’s silence.
Lord Kysington gazed fixedly on me; at last he made a motion, his
trembling hand sought mine and pressed it, his fingers then unclasped,
and he fell back exhausted.
“Enough, enough, sir!—I suffer!—I have need of repose. Leave me.”