family, friends, whom I long loved, until the day when I loved
William. But then I shut my heart to those who repulsed my lover.
William's father forbade him to wed me, because he was too noble for
the daughter of an American planter. My father forbade me to love
William, because he was too proud to give his daughter to a man whose
family refused her a welcome. They tried to separate us; but we loved
each other. Long did we weep and supplicate, and implore the pity of
those to whom we owed obedience; they remained inflexible, and we
loved! Doctor, did you ever love? I would you had, that you might be
indulgent to us. We were secretly married, and we fled to France. Oh
how beautiful the ocean appeared in those early days of our affection!
The sea was hospitable to the fugitives. Wanderers upon the waves, we
passed happy days in the shadow of our vessel's sails, anticipating
pardon from our friends, and dreaming a bright future. Alas! we were
too sanguine. They pursued us; and, upon pretext of some irregularity
of form in our clandestine marriage, William's family cruelly thought
to separate us. We found concealment in the midst of these mountains
and forests. Under a name which is not ours we live unknown. My father
has not forgiven--he has cursed me! That is the reason, doctor, why I
cannot always smile, even with my dear William by my side."
How those two loved each other! Never have I seen a being more
completely wrapped up in another than was Eva Meredith in her husband!
Whatever her occupation, she always so placed herself, that, on
raising her eyes, she had William before them. She never read but in
the book he was reading. Her head against his shoulder, her eyes
followed the lines on which William's eyes were fixed; she wished the
same thoughts to strike them at the same moment; and, when I crossed
the garden to reach their door, I smiled always to see upon the gravel
the trace of Eva's little foot close to the mark of William's boot.
What a difference between the deserted old house you see yonder, and
the pretty dwelling of my young friends! What sweet flowers covered
the walls! What bright nosegays decked the tables! How many charming
books were there, full of tales of love that resembled their love! How
gay the birds that sang around them! How good it was to live there,
and to be loved a little by those who loved each other so much! But
those are right who say that happy days are not long upon this earth,
and that, in respect of happiness, God gives but a little at a time.
One morning Eva Meredith appeared to suffer. I questioned her with all
the interest I felt for her. She answered me abruptly.
"Do not feel my pulse, doctor," she said; "it is my heart that beats
too quick. Think me childish if you will, but I am sad this morning.
William is going away. He is going to the town beyond the mountain, to
receive money."
"And when will he return?" inquired I, gently.
She smiled, almost blushed, and then, with a look that seemed to say,
Do not laugh at me, she replied, "_This evening!_"
Notwithstanding her imploring glance, I could not repress a smile.
Just then a servant brought Mr Meredith's horse to the door. Eva rose
from her seat, went out into the garden, approached the horse, and,
whilst stroking his mane, bowed her head upon the animal's neck,
perhaps to conceal the tear that fell from her eyes. William came out,
threw himself lightly into the saddle, and gently raised his wife's
head.
"Silly girl!" said he, with love in his eyes and voice. And he kissed
her brow.
"William, we have never yet been so many hours apart!"
Mr Meredith stooped his head towards that of Eva, and imprinted a
second kiss upon her beautiful golden hair; then he touched his
horse's flank with the spur, and set off at a gallop. I am convinced
that he, too, was a little moved. Nothing is so contagious as the
weakness of those we love; tears summon tears, and it is no very
laudable courage that keeps our eyes dry by the side of a weeping
friend. I turned my steps homeward, and, once more in my cottage, I
set myself to meditate on the happiness of loving. I asked myself if
an Eva would ever cheer my poor dwelling. I did not think of examining
whether I were worthy to be loved. When we behold two beings thus
devoted to each other, we easily discern that it is not for good and
various reasons that they love so well; they love because it is
necessary, inevitable; they love on account of their own hearts, not
of those of others. Well, I thought how I might seek and find a heart
that had need to love, just as, in my morning walks, I might have
thought to meet, by the road-side, some flower of sweet perfume. Thus
did I muse, although it is perhaps a wrong feeling which makes us, at
sight of others' bliss, deplore the happiness we do not ourselves
possess. Is not a little envy there? and if joy could be stolen like
gold, should we not then be near a larceny?
The day passed, and I had just completed my frugal supper, when I
received a message from Mrs Meredith, begging me to visit her. In five
minutes I was at the door of the white cottage. I found Eva, still
alone, seated on a sofa, without work or book, pale and trembling.
"Come, doctor, come," said she, in her soft voice; "I can remain alone
no longer; see how late it is!--he should have been home two hours
ago, and has not yet returned!"
I was surprised at Mr Meredith's prolonged absence; but, to comfort
his wife, I replied quietly, "How can we tell the time necessary to
transact his business? They may have made him wait; the notary was
perhaps absent. There were papers to draw up and sign."
"Ah, doctor, I was sure you would find words of consolation! I needed
to hear some one tell me that it is foolish to tremble thus! Gracious
heaven, how long the day has been! Doctor, are there really persons
who live alone? Do they not die immediately, as if robbed of half the
atmosphere essential to life? But there is eight o'clock!" Eight
o'clock was indeed striking. I could not imagine why William was not
back. At all hazards I said to Mrs Meredith, "Madam, the sun is hardly
set; it is still daylight, and the evening is beautiful; come and
visit your flowers. If we walk down the road, we shall doubtless meet
your husband."
She took my arm, and we walked towards the gate of the little garden.
I endeavoured to turn her attention to surrounding objects. At first
she replied, as a child obeys. But I felt that her thoughts went not
with her words. Her anxious gaze was fixed upon the little green gate,
which had remained open since William's departure. Leaning upon the
paling, she suffered me to talk on, smiling from time to time, by way
of thanks; for, as the evening wore away, she lacked courage to answer
me. Gray tints succeeded the red sunset, foreshadowing the arrival of
night. Gloom gathered around us. The road, hitherto visible like a
white line winding through the forest, disappeared in the dark shade
of the lofty trees, and the village clock struck nine. Eva started. I
myself felt every stroke vibrate upon my heart. I pitied the poor
woman's uneasiness.
"Remember, madam," I replied, (she had not spoken, but I answered the
anxiety visible in her features,) "remember that Mr Meredith must
return at a walk; the roads through the forest are not in a state to
admit fast riding." I said this to encourage her; but the truth is, I
knew not how to explain William's absence. Knowing the distance, I
also knew that I could have gone twice to the town and back since his
departure. The evening dew began to penetrate our clothes, and
especially Eva's thin muslin dress. Again I drew her arm through mine
and led her towards the house. She followed unresistingly; her gentle
nature was submissive even in affliction. She walked slowly, her head
bowed, her eyes fixed on the tracks left by the gallop of her
husband's horse. How melancholy it was, that evening walk, still
without William! In vain we listened: there reigned around us the
profound stillness of a summer night in the country. How greatly does
a feeling of uneasiness increase under such circumstances. We entered
the house. Eva seated herself on the sofa, her hands clasped upon her
knees, her head sunk upon her bosom. There was a lamp on the
chimney-piece, whose light fell full upon her face. I shall never
forget its suffering expression. She was pale, very pale--her brow and
cheeks exactly the same colour; her hair, relaxed by the night-damp,
fell in disorder upon her shoulders. Tears filled her eyes, and the
quivering of her colourless lips showed how violent was the effort by
which she avoided shedding them. She was so young that her face
resembled that of a child forbidden to cry.
I was greatly troubled, and knew not what to say or how to look.
Suddenly I remembered (it was a doctor's thought) that Eva, engrossed
by her uneasiness, had taken nothing since morning, and her situation
rendered it imprudent to prolong this fast. At my first reference to
the subject she raised her eyes to mine with a reproachful expression,
and the motion of her eyelids caused two tears to flow down her
cheeks.
"For your child's sake, madam," said I.
"Ah, you are right!" she murmured, and she passed into the
dining-room; but there the little table was laid for two, and at that
moment this trifle so saddened me as to deprive me of speech and
motion. My increasing uneasiness rendered me quite awkward; I had not
the wit to say what I did not think. The silence was prolonged; "and
yet," said I to myself, "I am here to console her; she sent for me for
that purpose. There must be fifty ways of explaining this delay--let
me find one." I sought, and sought--and still I remained silent,
inwardly cursing the poverty of invention of a poor village doctor.
Eva, her head resting on her hand, forgot to eat. Suddenly she turned
to me and burst out sobbing.
"Ah, doctor!" she exclaimed, "I see plainly that you too are uneasy."
"Not so, madam--indeed not so," replied I, speaking at random. "Why
should I be uneasy? He has doubtless dined with the notary. The roads
are safe, and no one knows that he went for money."
I had inadvertently revealed one of my secret causes of uneasiness. I
knew that a band of foreign reapers had that morning passed through
the village, on their way to a neighbouring department.
Eva uttered a cry.
"Robbers! robbers!" she exclaimed. "I never thought of _that_ danger."
"But, madam, I only mention it to tell you it does not exist."
"Oh! the thought struck you, doctor, because you thought the
misfortune possible! William, my own William! why did you leave me?"
cried she, weeping bitterly.
I was in despair at my blunder, and I felt my eyes fill with tears. My
distress gave me an idea.
"Mrs Meredith," I said, "I cannot see you torment yourself thus, and
remain by your side unable to console you. I will go and seek your
husband; I will follow at random one of the paths through the forest;
I will search everywhere and shout his name, and go, if necessary, to
the town itself."
"Oh, thanks, thanks, kind friend!" cried Eva Meredith, "take the
gardener with you and the servant; search in all directions!"
We hurried back into the drawing-room, and Eva rang quickly and
repeatedly. All the inhabitants of the cottage opened at the same time
the different doors of the apartment. "Follow Dr Barnaby," cried Mrs
Meredith.
At that moment a horse's gallop was distinctly heard upon the gravel
of the garden. Eva uttered a cry of happiness that went home to every
heart. Never shall I forget the divine expression of joy that
illumined her face, still inundated with tears. She and I, we flew to
the house-door. The moon, passing from behind a cloud, threw her full
light upon a riderless and foam-covered horse, whose bridle dragged
upon the ground, and whose dusty flanks were galled by the empty
stirrups. A second cry, this time of intensest horror, burst from
Eva's breast; then she turned towards me, her eyes fixed, her mouth
half open, her arms hanging powerless.
The servants were in consternation.
"Get torches, my friends!" cried I, "and follow me! Madam, we shall
soon return, I hope, and your husband with us. He has received some
slight hurt, a strained ancle, perhaps. Keep up your courage. We will
soon be back."
"I go with you!" murmured Eva Meredith in a choking voice.
"Impossible!" I cried. "We must go, fast, perhaps far, and in your
state--it would be risking your life, and that of your child--"
"I go with you!" repeated Eva.
Then did I feel how cruel was this poor woman's isolation! Had a
father, a mother been there, they would have ordered her to stay, they
would have retained her by force; but she was alone upon the earth,
and to all my hurried entreaties she still replied in a hollow voice:
"I go with you!"
We set out. The moon was again darkened by dense clouds; there was
light neither in the heavens nor on the earth. The uncertain radiance
of our torches barely showed us the path. A servant went in front,
lowering his torch to the right and to the left, to illumine the
ditches and bushes bordering the road. Behind him Mrs Meredith, the
gardener, and myself followed with our eyes the stream of light. From
time to time we raised our voices and called Mr Meredith. After us a
stifled sob, murmured the name of William, as if a heart had reckoned
on the instinct of love to hear its tears better than our shouts. We
reached the forest. Rain began to fall, and the drops pattered upon
the foliage with a mournful noise, as if everything around us wept.
Eva's thin dress was soon soaked with the cold flood. The water
streamed from her hair over her face. She bruised her feet against the
stones of the road, and repeatedly stumbled and fell upon her knees;
but she rose again with the energy of despair, and pushed forwards. It
was agonising to behold her. I scarcely dared look at her, lest I
should see her fall dead before my eyes. At last--we were moving in
silence, fatigued and discouraged--Mrs Meredith pushed us suddenly
aside, sprang forward and plunged into the bushes. We followed her,
and, upon raising the torches--alas! she was on her knees beside the
body of William, who was stretched motionless upon the ground, his
eyes glazed and his brow covered with blood which flowed from a wound
in the left temple.
"Doctor?" said Eva to me. That one word expressed--"Does William
live?"
I stooped and felt the pulse of William Meredith; I placed my hand on
his heart and remained silent. Eva still gazed at me; but, when my
silence was prolonged, I saw her bend, waver, and then, without word
or cry, fall senseless upon her husband's corpse.
"But, ladies," said Dr Barnaby, turning to his audience, "the sun
shines again; you can go out now. Let us leave this sad story where it
is."
Madame de Moncar approached the old physician. "Doctor," said she, "I
implore you to continue; only look at us, and you will not doubt the
interest with which we listen."
There were no more smiles of mockery upon the young faces that
surrounded the village doctor. In some of their eyes he might even
distinguish the glistening of tears. He resumed his narrative.
"Mrs Meredith was carried home, and remained for several hours
senseless upon her bed. I felt it at once a duty and a cruelty to use
every effort to recall her to life. I dreaded the agonising scenes
that would follow this state of immobility. I remained beside the poor
woman, bathing her temples with fresh water, and awaiting with anxiety
the sad and yet the happy moment of returning consciousness. I was
mistaken in my anticipations, for I had never witnessed great grief.
Eva half opened her eyes and immediately closed them again; no tear
escaped from beneath their lids. She remained cold, motionless,
silent; and, but for the heart which again throbbed beneath my hand, I
should have deemed her dead. Sad is it to behold a sorrow which one
feels is beyond consolation! Silence, I thought, seemed like a want of
pity for this unfortunate creature: on the other hand, verbal
condolence was a mockery of so mighty a grief. I had found no words to
calm her uneasiness; could I hope to be more eloquent in the hour of
her great suffering? I took the safest course, that of profound
silence. I will remain here, I thought, and minister to the physical
sufferings, as is my duty; but I will be mute and passive, even as a
faithful dog would lie down at her feet. My mind once made up, I felt
calmer; I let her live a life which resembled death. After a few
hours, however, I put a spoonful of a potion to her lips. Eva slowly
averted her head. In a few moments I again offered her the drug.
"Drink, madam," I said, gently touching her lips with the spoon. They
remained closed.
"Madam, your child!" I persisted, in a low voice.
Eva opened her eyes, raised herself with effort upon her elbow,
swallowed the medicine, and fell back upon her pillow.
"I must wait," she murmured, "till another life is detached from
mine!"
Thenceforward Mrs Meredith spoke no more, but she mechanically
followed all my prescriptions. Stretched upon her bed of suffering,
she seemed constantly to sleep; but at whatever moment I said to her,
even in my lowest whisper, "Drink this," she instantly obeyed; thus
proving to me that the soul kept its weary watch in that motionless
body, without a single instant of oblivion and repose.
There were none beside myself to attend to the interment of William.
Nothing positive was ever known as to the cause of his death. The sum
he was to bring from the town was not found upon him; perhaps he had
been robbed and murdered; perhaps the money, which was in notes, had
fallen from his pocket when he was thrown from his horse, and, as it
was some time before any thought of seeking it, the heavy rain and
trampled mud might account for its disappearance. A fruitless
investigation was made and soon dropped. I endeavoured to learn from
Eva Meredith if her family, or that of her husband, should not be
written to. I had difficulty in obtaining an answer. At last she gave
me to understand that I had merely to inform their agent, who would do
whatever was needful. I hoped that, at least from England, some
communication would arrive, decisive of this poor creature's future
lot. But no; day followed day, and none seemed to know that the widow
of William Meredith lived in utter isolation, in a poor French
village. To endeavour to bring back Eva to the sense of her existence,
I urged her to leave her bed. Upon the morrow I found her up, dressed
in black; but she was the ghost of the beautiful Eva Meredith. Her
hair was parted in bands upon her pale forehead, and she sat near a
window, motionless as she had lain in bed.
I passed long silent evenings with her, a book in my hand for apparent
occupation. Each day, on my arrival, I addressed to her a few words of
sympathy. She replied by a thankful look; then we remained silent. I
waited an opportunity to open a conversation; but my awkwardness and
my respect for her grief prevented my finding one, or suffered it to
escape when it occurred. Little by little I grew accustomed to this
mute intercourse; and, besides, what could I have said to her? My
chief object was to prevent her feeling quite alone in the world; and,
obscure as was the prop remaining, it still was something. I went to
see her merely that my presence might say, "I am here."
It was a singular epoch in my life, and had a great influence on my
future existence. Had I not shown so much regret at the threatened
destruction of the white cottage, I would hurry to the conclusion of
this narrative. But you have insisted upon knowing why that building
is hallowed to me, and I must tell you therefore what I have thought
and felt beneath its humble roof. Forgive me, ladies, if my words are
grave. It is good for youth to be sometimes a little saddened; it has
so much time before it to laugh and to forget.
The son of a rich peasant, I was sent to Paris to complete my studies.
During four years passed in that great city, I retained the
awkwardness of my manners, the simplicity of my language, but I
rapidly lost the ingenuousness of my sentiments. I returned to these
mountains, almost learned, but almost incredulous in all those points
of faith which enable a man to pass his life contentedly beneath a
thatched roof, in the society of his wife and children, without caring
to look beyond the cross above the village cemetery.
Whilst contemplating the love of William and of Eva, I had reverted to
my former simple peasant-nature. I began to dream of a virtuous,
affectionate wife, diligent and frugal, embellishing my house by her
care and order. I saw myself proud of the gentle severity of her
features, revealing to all the chaste and faithful spouse. Very
different were these reveries from those that haunted me at Paris
after joyous evenings spent with my comrades. Suddenly, horrible
calamity descended like a thunderbolt upon Eva Meredith. This time I
was slower to appreciate the lesson I daily received. Eva sat
constantly at the window, her sad gaze fixed upon the heavens. The
attitude, common in persons of meditative mood, attracted my attention
but little. Her persistence in it at last struck me. My book open upon
my knees, I looked at Mrs Meredith; and well assured she would not
detect my gaze, I examined her attentively. She still gazed at the
sky--my eyes followed the direction of hers. "Ah," I said to myself
with a half smile, "she thinks to rejoin him _there_!" Then I resumed
my book, thinking how fortunate it was for the weakness of women that
such thoughts came to the relief of their sorrows.
I have already told you that my student's life had put evil thoughts
into my head. Every day, however, I saw Eva in the same attitude, and
every day my reflections were recalled to the same subject. Little by
little I came to think her dream a good one, and to regret I could not
credit its reality. The soul, heaven, eternal life, all that the old
priest had formerly taught me, glided through my imagination as I sat
at eventide before the open window. "The doctrine of the old _curé_,"
I said to myself, "was more comforting than the cold realities science
has revealed to me." Then I looked at Eva, who still looked to heaven,
whilst the bells of the village church sounded sweetly in the
distance, and the rays of the setting sun made the steeple-cross
glitter against the sky. I often returned to sit opposite the poor
widow, persevering in her grief as in her holy hopes.
"What!" I thought, "can so much love address itself to a few particles
of dust, already mingled with the mould; are all these sighs wasted on
empty air? William departed in the freshness of his age, his
affections yet vivid, his heart in its early bloom. She loved him but
a year, one little year--and is all over for her? Above our heads is
there nothing but void? Love--that sentiment so strong within us--is
it but a flame placed in the obscure prison of our body, where it
shines, burns, and is finally extinguished by the fall of the frail
wall surrounding it? Is a little dust all that remains of our loves,
and hopes, and passions--of all that moves, agitates, and exalts us?"
There was deep silence in the recesses of my soul. I had ceased to
think. I was as if slumbering between what I no longer denied, and
what I did not yet believe. At last, one night, when Eva joined her
hands to pray, beneath the most beautiful starlit sky possible to
behold, I know not how it was, but I found my hands also clasped, and
my lips opened to murmur a prayer. Then, by a happy chance, and for
the first time, Eva Meredith looked round, as if a secret instinct had
whispered her that my soul harmonised with hers.
"Thanks," said she, holding out her hand, "keep him in your memory,
and pray for him sometimes."
"Oh, madam!" I exclaimed, "may we all meet again in a better world,
whether our lives have been long or short, happy or full of trial."
"The immortal soul of William looks down upon us!" she replied in a
grave voice, whilst her gaze, at once sad and bright, reverted to the
star-spangled heavens.
Since that evening, when performing the duties of my profession, I
have often witnessed death; but never without speaking, to the
sorrowing survivors, a few consoling words on a better life than this
one; and those words were words of conviction.