Before I left the room Lord Kysington had resumed his accustomed
position, his silence, and immobility.
I will not repeat to you, ladies, my numerous and respectful attempts
with Lord Kysington; his indecision, his concealed anxiety, and how, at
last, his paternal love, awakened by the details of the horrible
catastrophe; how the pride of his house, animated by the hope of leaving
an heir to his name, ended in the triumph over a bitter resentment.
Three months after the scene I have just described, I stood on the
threshold of the mansion to receive Eva Meredith and her son, recalled
to their family to resume all their rights. It was a joyful day for me.
Lady Mary, who, possessing great command over herself, had dissembled
her joy when family dissensions had made her son the future heir of her
brother, now concealed still better her regret and anger when Eva
Meredith, or rather Eva Kysington, became reconciled with her
father-in-law. Lady Mary’s marble-like brow remained without emotion,
but how many dark passions lurked within her breast beneath this
apparent calm.
I stood, as I have said, at the threshold when the carriage of Eva
Meredith (I will continue to call her by that name) drew up in the
court-yard. Eva eagerly gave me her hand. “Thanks! thanks, my friend!”
she said, and she brushed away the tears that were trembling in her
eyes, and taking by the hand her child, a boy three years old, she
entered her new home. “I feel afraid,” she said to me. She was the same
weak woman, broken down by misfortune, pale, sad, and beautiful,
scarcely believing in the hopes of earth, and whose only certainty was
the things of heaven. I walked by her side, and, whilst still dressed in
mourning, she was ascending the first flight of stairs, her sweet face
bedewed with tears, her slender and attenuated form leaning on the
balustrade, and with outstretched arm she drew along the child, who
walked still slower than herself, Lady Mary and her son appeared at the
head of the staircase. She wore a robe of brown velvet, splendid
bracelets encompassed her arms, and a light gold chain girt that
forehead which would have graced a diadem. Her step was firm, her form
erect, and her glance one of pride; and thus did these two mothers meet
for the first time.
“Welcome, madame,” said Lady Mary, as she kissed Eva Meredith. Eva made
an effort to smile, and answered in an affectionate manner. How could
she have dreamt of hatred, she who only knew how to love.
We proceeded toward Lord Kysington’s cabinet. Madame Meredith could
scarcely support herself, but she entered first, and advancing several
steps, knelt by the arm-chair of her father-in-law. She took her child
in her arms and placing him on Lord Kysington’s knees, said,
“It is _his_ son.” And the poor creature wept in silence.
For a long time did Lord Kysington gaze on the child, and as he
recognized the resemblance to the features of his lost son, his look
became affectionate, and his eyes grew dim with tears. Forgetting his
age, the lapse of time, the misfortunes he had experienced, he fancied
the happy days were returned when he pressed that son, yet a child, to
his heart.
“William! William!” he sobbed. “My daughter!” he added, extending his
hand to Eva Meredith.
My eyes were suffused with tears. Eva had now a home, a protector, a
fortune. I was happy and wept.
The child, quietly seated on its grandfather’s knee, had evinced no
signs of fear or joy.
“Will you love me?” said the old man.
The child raised his head, but made no reply.
“Do you not hear me? I will be a father to you.”
“Excuse him,” his mother said, “he has always been alone; he is still
very young, and so many persons frighten him; he will soon, my lord,
understand your kind words.”
But I looked at the child; I examined him attentively; I recalled my
sinister alarms. Alas! those forebodings were changed into a certainty;
the awful calamity Eva had experienced before the birth of her child,
had occasioned sad consequences for her infant; none but a mother, in
her youth, and love, and inexperience, could have remained so long in
ignorance of her misfortune.
And Lady Mary, too, was watching the child at the same time as minutely
as myself.
Never, while life remains, shall I forget the expression of her face;
she was standing upright, and her piercing eyes were bent on the little
William as though they wished to penetrate his very soul; and as she
gazed, lightning seemed to flash from her eyes, her lips parted, as if
to smile, her breath came short and oppressed, like that of one
anticipating a great joy. She looked with straining eyes—hope, doubt,
and eager expectation depicted on every feature; at last her acute
hatred guessed the worst, a cry of triumph seemed to have escaped from
her inmost heart, but no sound issued from her lips. She drew herself
up, cast a glance of disdain on her conquered rival, and once more
became impassible.
Lord Kysington, wearied with the emotions of the day, sent us all from
his cabinet, and continued alone the whole evening.
The next morning, after a night of disquiet, when I descended to Lord
Kysington’s room, all the family were assembled round him; Lady Mary
held the little William in her arms—it was the tiger holding its prey.
“The beautiful babe,” said she. “See, my lord, this fair silken hair,
how bright the sun makes it look! but, dear Eva, is your son always so
silent? He has not the vivacity, nor the gayety belonging to his age.”
“He is always pensive,” said Madame Meredith. “Alas! he could not learn
to be gay while near me.”
“We will try to amuse him and make him lively,” returned Lady Mary. “Go,
my dear child, and embrace your grandfather, tell him that you love
him.”
But William did not stir.
“Do you not know how to embrace? Harry, that’s a good boy, embrace your
uncle, and set your cousin a good example.”
Harry sprang on Lord Kysington’s knees, threw his arms about his neck,
and said,
“I love you, uncle.”
“Now, my dear William,” said Lady Mary.
But William stood without moving, without even raising his eyes to his
grandfather.
A tear stole down Eva’s cheek.
“It is my fault,” she said, “I have not educated him rightly.” And she
took William on her lap, while her tears fell fast upon his face; he
felt them not, however, but fell asleep on the oppressed bosom of his
mother.
“Try,” said Lord Kysington, “to make William less shy.”
“I will endeavor,” she replied, in that child-like tone of submission I
had so often heard. “I will try, and perhaps I may succeed, if Lady Mary
will tell me what she has done to make her son so happy and gay.” And
the wo-begone mother looked at Harry, who was playing by Lord
Kysington’s chair, and her glance returned to her own poor sleeping
babe.
“He suffered even before his birth,” she murmured. “We have both been
very unfortunate; but I will endeavor to weep no more that William may
become as other children.”
Two days elapsed, two painful days, full of concealed grief, full of a
heavy anxiety. Lord Kysington’s brow was care-worn, and his eyes would
seek mine, as though to question; but I turned away to avoid answering.
The morning of the third day Lady Mary entered the room with playthings
of various kinds, which she had brought for the two children. Harry laid
hold of a sabre, and ran up and down the room, uttering shouts of joy.
William stood still; he held in his little hands the toys that were
given him, but made no effort to use them, nor even looked at them.
“Stay, my lord,” said Lady Mary to her brother, “take this picture-book
and give it to your grandson, perhaps his attention will be attracted by
the pictures in it.” And she led William to Lord Kysington. The child
made no resistance, but walked up to him, then stood still as a statue.
Lord Kysington opened the book, and every eye was turned upon the old
man and his grandson. Lord Kysington was sullen, silent, and austere; he
turned over several leaves, slowly stopping at every picture, and
keeping his eye on William, whose steadfast gaze was not even directed
toward the book. Lord Kysington turned over a few more leaves, then his
hand became motionless, the book fell from his knees, and a mournful
silence prevailed in the room.
Lady Mary approached me, and leant over, as if to whisper in my ear, but
said, in a tone loud enough to be heard by all present, “This child is
surely an idiot, doctor.”
She was answered by a scream. Eva rose like one thunder-stricken, and
snatching up her son, whom she clasped convulsively to her
breast—“Idiot!” she cried, while her glance for the first time flashed
with indignation, “Idiot!” she repeated, “because he has been
unfortunate all his life; because he has witnessed nothing but tears
from his birth; because he cannot play like your son, who has ever been
surrounded by happiness! Come! come, my child,” said Eva, and she wept
bitterly, “come, let us leave these pitiless hearts, that have nothing
but harsh words for our calamities.”
And the unhappy mother took her child in her arms, and quickly ascended
to her chamber. I followed her. She placed William on the floor and
knelt before that little child. “My son! my son!” she sobbed; William
came to her, and leaned his head on his mother’s shoulder. “Doctor,” she
cried, “he loves me; you see it; he comes to me when I call him; he
embraces me; his caresses have sufficed for my tranquillity, for my
happiness, sad as that happiness is. Good God! is not this enough! Speak
to me, my son; comfort me; find a consoling word, a single word to tell
thy despairing mother. Until now I have only thought of gazing on those
features so like thy father’s, and wished for silence that I might weep
freely; but now, William, I must have words from thy lips. Dost thou not
see my tears, my anguish. Beloved child, so beautiful, so like thy
father—speak, oh, speak to me!”
Alas! the child did not heed her, and evinced no emotion, no
intelligence; a smile alone—a smile horrible to look upon, played upon
his lips. Eva buried her face in her hands, and continued kneeling on
the floor, sobbing violently.
O! then I prayed heaven to inspire me with consoling thoughts, which
might suggest to this mother a ray of hope. I spoke to her of the
future, of a cure to be looked for, of a change that was possible, nay,
probable. But hope seldom lends its aid to falsehood; and when there is
no longer room for it, it changes to despair. A terrible, a mortal shock
had been given, and Eva at last comprehended the whole truth.
From that day but one child descended each morning into Lord Kysington’s
cabinet; there were two females, but one only seemed to live, the other
was silent as the dead; the one said, “my son,” the other never breathed
her child’s name; the one bore herself erect and haughty, the other’s
head was ever bowed on her bosom, the better to hide her tears; the one
brilliant and beautiful, the other pale, and clothed in mourning, the
struggle was over—Lady Mary triumphed. Harry was allowed to play
beneath Eva’s very eyes; this was cruel. Her anguish was never taken
into consideration; each day Harry was brought to repeat his lessons to
his uncle. They boasted of his progress. The ambitious mother had
calculated every thing that could insure success; and whilst she had
soothing words and feigned consolations for Eva Meredith, each moment
she contrived to torture her heart. Lord Kysington, disappointed in his
dearest hopes, relapsed into that coldness which had terrified me so
much; the last spark of love had fled from that heart, closed now as
firmly as the stone seals the tomb. Though strictly polite to his
daughter-in-law, he had for her no affectionate word. The daughter of
the American planter could find no place in his heart but as the mother
of his grandson, and that grandson he regarded as one dead. He was more
silent and gloomy than ever, regretting, no doubt, that he had yielded
to my entreaties, and given his old age a severe trial, so painful, and
henceforth so useless.
A year rolled by in this manner, when, on a mournful day, Lord Kysington
sent for Eva Meredith, and motioned her to take a seat near him. “Listen
to me, madame,” he said, “take courage, and listen to me. I wish to act
justly toward you and conceal nothing. I am old and ailing, and must now
attend to my worldly affairs. They are sad both for you and myself. I
will not speak to you of my chagrin at my son’s marriage; your
misfortune has disarmed me on that point. I sent for you to reside with
me; I was desirous to see and love, in your son William, the heir of my
fortune; on him were based all my dreams of the future and of ambition.
Alas! madame, fate has been cruel to us both. The widow and child of my
son shall have all that can obtain them an honorable subsistence, but as
the master of a fortune, which I have acquired by my own exertions, I
have adopted my nephew; and hereafter shall consider him as my sole
heir. I am about to return to London, but my house shall still be your
home.”
Eva, (so she afterward told me,) for the first time, felt courage take
the place of dejection within her; she possessed that becoming strength
a noble spirit gives; she raised her head, and if her brow had not the
pride of Lady Mary’s, it wore at least the dignity of misfortune.
“Depart, my lord,” she replied, “go! I shall not accompany you. I will
not be a witness to the disinheriting of my son. You have been very
hasty, my lord, in condemning forever. What can we know of the future?
You have very soon despaired of God’s mercy.”
“The future,” said Lord Kysington, “at my age, is all in the passing
hour. If I am to act, there is no time for delay—the present moment is
my only certainty.”
“Do as you will,” Eva replied. “I will return to the house where I was
happy with my husband. I will remain there with your grandson, Lord
William Kysington; this name, his only heritage, he shall retain; and
though the world may never know it till it is inscribed on his tomb,
nevertheless your name is that of my son.”
Eight days from this time Eva Meredith descended the staircase, still
holding her son by the hand as when she first entered that fatal house.
Lady Mary was behind, a few steps higher up, and numerous domestics
gathered together in melancholy silence, were looking on, and regretting
that mild mistress driven from her paternal roof.
In quitting this house, Eva left the only beings whom she knew on earth,
the only ones from whom she had the right to claim pity; the world was
before her, boundless and void—it was Hagar departing for the desert.
“This is dreadful, doctor!” exclaimed the village doctor’s auditors.
“Are there, then, lives so completely miserable—and you too have
witnessed them?”
“I did witness all,” said Doctor Barnabé; “but I have not yet told you
all, allow me to finish.”
Soon after the departure of Eva Meredith, Lord Kysington started for
London. Finding myself once more at liberty, I renounced all desire of
improving myself—I possessed enough skill for my native village, and I
returned to it immediately.
And again we stood in that little white house, reunited as before this
two years’ absence; but the time which had passed had augmented the
heaviness of misfortune. We neither of us dared to speak of the future,
that unknown time of which we have all so much need, and without which
the present moment, if it is joyous, passes by with a transient
happiness, if sad, with indelible sorrow.
I have never looked on a grief more noble in its simplicity, more calm
in its strength, than that of Eva Meredith. She still implored the God
who had stricken her. God was for her the unseen Being who could work
impossibilities, near whom we commence to hope once more, when the hopes
of earth are fled. Her look, that look replete with faith, which had
already attracted my attention so forcibly, was riveted on the brow of
her boy, as if awaiting the coming of the soul she so fervently prayed
for. I cannot describe to you the courageous patience of that mother,
speaking to her son, who heard but understood not. I could tell you all
the treasures of love, the thoughts, the ingenious tales she endeavored
to instill into that benighted mind, which repeated like an echo the
last words of the sweet language spoken to him. She told him of heaven,
and God, and of his angels; she joined his hands together that he might
pray, but she could never make him raise his eyes to heaven.
She attempted in every possible form the first lessons of childhood; she
read to her son, spoke to him, tried to divert him with pictures, and
sought from music sounds which, differing from the voice, might attract
his attention.
One day, making a horrible effort, she related to William his father’s
death; she hoped for, expected a tear. That morning the child fell
asleep while she was yet speaking to him; tears were shed, but they fell
from the eyes of Eva Meredith.
Thus she vainly exhausted every endeavor in a persevering struggle. She
labored on that she still might hope; to William, however, pictures were
but colors, and words only noise. Nevertheless the child grew, and
became remarkably handsome. Any one to have seen him for a moment only,
would have called the passiveness of his features’ calmness; but this
prolonged, this continued calm, this absence of all sorrow, of all
tears, had upon us a strange and melancholy effect. Ah! it must be in
our nature to suffer, for William’s eternal smile made every one say
“the poor idiot!” Mothers do not know the happiness which is concealed
beneath their children’s tears. A tear is a regret, a desire, a fear—in
fine, it is the very existence commencing to be understood. William was
content with every thing. In the daytime he appeared to sleep with open
eyes; he never hastened his steps, nor avoided any danger. He never grew
weary, impatient, or angry; and if he could not obey the words spoken to
him, he at least made no resistance to the hand which led him.
One instinct alone remained in this nature deprived of all
understanding; he knew his mother—he even loved her. He took pleasure
in leaning on her lap, on her shoulder—he embraced her. If I detained
him for some time from her, he manifested a kind of uneasiness, and when
I conducted him to her, without evincing any signs of joy, he became
tranquil again. This tenderness, this faint glimmering of reason in
William’s heart was Eva’s support—her very life. Through this she found
strength to attempt, to hope, to wait. If her words were not understood,
at least her kisses were. O! how often she pressed his head between her
hands, and kissed his forehead again and again, as though she had hopes
that her love might kindle that cold and silent heart. How often, when
clasping her son in her arms, did she almost look for a miracle.
Oft times, in the village church, (Eva was of a Catholic family,)
kneeling on the stones, before the altar of the Virgin, forgetting every
thing beside, she would hold her son in her arms, by the marble statue
of Mary, and say—“Holy Virgin! my son is inanimate as this thy image,
O! ask of God a soul for my child.”
She gave alms to all the poor of the village; she supplied them with
bread and clothing, saying, “Pray for him.” She consoled suffering
mothers in the cherished hope that she, too, might be comforted. She
dried up the tears of others, that hers also might cease to flow. She
was beloved, blessed, venerated by all who knew her; conscious of this,
she offered up the blessings of the unfortunate, not in pride, but hope,
to obtain grace for her son. She loved to look upon William when he
slept, for then he appeared like other children; for an instant, a
single moment, perhaps, she would forget the truth, and gazing on those
symmetrical features, on that bright hair, on the long lashes which cast
their shade on William’s rosy cheek, she felt that she was a mother
almost joyfully, almost with pride. God is often merciful even toward
them whom he has decreed shall suffer.
It was thus that William’s first years of childhood were passed. He had
now reached his eighth year. Then a sad change came over Eva Meredith,
which I could not fail to perceive; she ceased to hope; whether her
son’s stature (for he had grown tall) rendered his want of intelligence
more apparent, or that, like a workman who has labored all the day, in
the evening yields to fatigue, the soul of Eva seemed to have renounced
the task it had undertaken, and to have become doubly dejected. She now
only prayed to Heaven for resignation. She abandoned books, pictures,
music, in fine, all the means she had called to her assistance. She
became utterly dispirited and silent, but, if possible, still more
affectionate to her son. Having ceased hoping that she could afford him
the chance of mixing with the world, of acquiring a position in it, she
felt that he had now none but her on earth; and she asked of her own
heart a miracle, that of augmenting the love she bore him. The poor
mother became a slave—a slave to her son; the whole aim of her soul was
to keep him from every suffering, from the smallest inconvenience. If a
sunbeam shone on him, she would rise, draw the curtains, and produce
shade in the place of the strong light which had made him lower his
eyes. If she felt cold, it was for William she brought a warmer garment;
was she hungry, for William, too, the garden fruits were gathered; did
she feel fatigued, for him she brought the arm-chair and downy cushions;
in a word, she only lived to guess his every wish and want. She still
possessed activity, but no hope. William arrived at the age of eleven,
and then commenced a new epoch in Eva’s life. William, amazingly large
and strong for his age, had no longer need of the constant cares that
are lavished on the first years of life. He was no longer the child,
sleeping on his mother’s lap; he walked alone in the garden; he rode on
horseback with me; he followed me willingly in my mountain trips; the
bird, though deprived of wings, had at last quitted its nest.
William’s misfortune had in it nothing frightful nor even painful to
look on. He was a young boy, beautiful as the day, silent and calm—a
calmness not belonging to earth, whose features expressed nothing but
repose, and whose face was ever smiling. He was neither awkward, nor
disagreeable, nor rude; a being living by your side without a question
to ask, and who knew not how to answer one. Madame Meredith had not now,
to occupy her grief, that need of activity which the mother, as a nurse,
always finds; she again seated herself by the window, whence she could
see the hamlet and the village spire, on the very spot where she had
mourned so deeply for her first William. She turned her face to the
exterior air, as though asking the wind which breathed through the trees
to refresh her burning temples also.
Hope, necessary cares, each in turn vanished, and now she had only to be
vigilant, to watch at a distance, day and night, as the lamps which burn
forever beneath the church vaults.
But her strength was exhausted. In the midst of this grief, which had
returned when on the point of being healed, through silence and want of
occupation, after having vainly tried every effort of courage and hope,
Eva Meredith fell into a consumption. In spite of the resources of my
art, I saw her weaken and waste away; for what remedy can be given when
the disease is of the soul?
Poor stranger! the sun of her own clime, and a little happiness might
have restored her; but there was no ray of either for her. For a long
time she was ignorant of her danger—for she had no thought of self; but
when she could no longer leave her arm-chair, it became apparent even to
herself. I could not depict to you her anguish at the thought of leaving
William, helpless, with no friends or protector, among such as could not
find an interest in him, who should have been loved, and led by the hand
like a child. Oh! how she struggled to live! with what eagerness she
drank the potions I prepared for her! and she fondly believed in a
cure—but the disease progressed. And now she detained William in the
house more frequently; she could not bear him to be out of her sight.
“Stay with me,” she would say; and William, always contented by his
mother’s side, seated himself at her feet. She would gaze on him till a
torrent of tears prevented her from distinguishing his gentle form, then
she beckoned him still nearer, folded him to her heart, and exclaimed in
a species of transport, “O! if my soul, when separated from my body,
could enter into that of my child, I could die with pleasure!”
Eva could not persuade herself to despair entirely of the divine mercy;
and when every earthly hope had vanished, her loving heart had sweet
dreams on which she built new hopes. Good God! it was sad to see that
mother dying beneath the very eyes of her son—of a son who could not
comprehend her situation, but smiled when she embraced him.
“He will not regret me,” she said, “he will not weep for me, perhaps not
even remember me.” And she sat motionless, in mute contemplation of her
child, her hand then sometimes seeking mine. “You love him, my friend?”
she murmured.
And I told her that I would never leave him till he had better friends
than myself.
God in heaven, and the poor village doctor, were the only protectors to
whom she confided her son.
Truth is mighty! this widowed being, disinherited, dying by the side of
a child who could not even appreciate her love, felt not yet that
despair which makes men die blaspheming. No, an invisible friend was
near her, whom she seemed to depend on, and would often listen to holy
words that she alone could hear.
One morning she sent for me early; she was unable to leave her bed, and
with her shrunken hand she pointed to a sheet of paper, on which some
lines were traced.
“Doctor, my friend,” she said, in her sweetest tone, “I had not the
strength to go on, will you finish the letter?”