“My Lord,—This is the last time I shall ever write to you.
Whilst health is restored to your old age, I am suffering and
dying. I leave your grandson, William Kysington, without a
protector. My lord, this letter is written to remind you of him,
and I ask for him rather a place in your affections, than your
fortune. Throughout his life he has understood but one
thing—his mother’s love; and he must now be deprived of this
forever! Cherish him, my lord; he only comprehends affection.”
She had not been able to finish; I added,
“Lady William Kysington has but a few days to live; what are
Lord Kysington’s orders in regard to the child who bears his
name?
“Dr. Barnabé.”
This letter was sent to London, and we anxiously awaited the answer. Eva
never after rose from her bed. William, seated beside her, held his
mother’s hand in his the livelong day, and she sadly endeavored to smile
on him. On the opposite side of the bed I prepared draughts to mitigate
her pain.
She again began to speak to her son, still in hopes that after her death
some of her words would recur to his memory. She gave him every advice,
every instruction that she would have lavished on the most enlightened
being; and turning to me, she would say—“Who knows, doctor, perhaps
some day he will find my words in the depths of his heart.”
Some weeks more slipped by. Death was approaching, and however submitted
her soul might be, this moment brought the anguish of separation, and
the solemn thought of futurity. The curate of the village came to see
her; and when he left her, I drew near him, and taking his hand, said,
“You will pray for her?”
“I asked her,” he replied, “to pray for me.”
It was the last day of Eva’s life. The sun had set, the window near
which she had sat so often, was open. She could see in the distance the
spots which had become endeared to her. She clasped her son to her
heart, kissing his brow, and his locks, and wept.
“Poor child!” said she, “what will become of you?” and with a final
effort, while love beamed from her eyes, she exclaimed, “O! listen to
me, William; I am dying—your father, too, is dead; you are now alone on
earth—but pray to God. I consign you to Him, who provides for the
harmless sparrow on the house-top, He will watch over the orphan. Dear
child! look on me—speak to me! Try to comprehend that I am dying, that
some day you may think of me!” And the poor mother lost her strength to
speak, but still embraced her child.
At that moment an unaccustomed noise aroused me. The wheels of a
carriage were rolling over the gravel of the garden-walks. I ran to the
steps. Lord Kysington and Lady Mary alighted, and entered the house.
“I received your letter,” said Lord Kysington to me. “I was on the point
of leaving for Italy, and I have deviated from my route somewhat in
order to decide the fate of William Meredith. Lady William?”
“Lady William Kysington still lives, my Lord,” I answered.
It was with a feeling of pain that I saw that calm, cold, and austere
man enter Eva’s chamber, followed by that proud woman, who had come to
witness an event so fortunate for herself—the death of her former
rival.
They went into the little chamber, so neat and plain, so different from
the gorgeous apartment of the mansion at Montpellier. They approached
the bed, within the curtains of which Eva, pale and dying, yet still
beautiful, held her son folded to her heart. They stood on either side
of that bed of sorrow, but found no tender word to console the
unfortunate being whose eyes met theirs. A few cold sentences, a few
disconnected words escaped their lips. Witnesses, for the first time, of
the mournful spectacle of a death-bed, they averted their eyes, in the
belief that Eva Meredith could not see nor hear; they were only waiting
till she should expire, and did not even assume an expression of
kindness or regret.
Eva fixed her dying gaze upon them, and a sudden effort seized upon her
almost lifeless heart. She now understood that which she never before
suspected—the concealed sentiments of Lady Mary, the profound
indifference, the selfishness of Lord Kysington. She at last felt that
these were her son’s enemies, not his protectors. Despair and terror
were depicted on her wan, emaciated countenance. She made no effort to
implore the soulless beings before her, but with a convulsive impulse,
she drew William still closer to her heart, and gathering her little
remaining strength, she cried, while she impressed her last kisses on
his lips, “My poor child! thou hast not a single prop on earth; but God
above is good. O, God! come to the assistance of my child!” And with
this cry of love, with this last, holiest prayer, her breath fled, her
arms unclasped, and her lips remained fixed on William’s brow. She was
dead, for she no longer embraced her son—dead! beneath the very eyes of
those who to the last had refused to protect her—dead! without giving
Lady Mary the fear of seeing her attempt, by a single supplication, to
revoke the decree which had been pronounced, leaving her a lasting
victory.
There was a pause of solemn silence; no one moved or spoke—for death
appals the proudest hearts. Lady Mary and Lord Kysington knelt by the
bed of their victim.
In a few minutes Lord Kysington rose, and said to me, “Take the child
from the room, doctor; I will explain to you my intentions regarding
him.”
William had now lain two hours on Eva’s shoulder—his heart pressed
hers, his lips glued to hers. I approached, and without addressing him
in useless words, I endeavored to raise him, in order to lead him from
the room; but William resisted, and his arms clasped his mother still
tighter to his breast. This resistance, the first he had ever opposed to
any one on earth, touched me to the heart. Nevertheless, I renewed the
effort; this time William yielded, he moved, and turning toward me, I
saw his fine face bedewed with tears. Till that day William had never
wept. I was deeply affected, and allowed the child to throw himself
again on his mother’s body.
“Lead him away,” said Lord Kysington.
“My lord, he is weeping; Oh! let his tears flow.”