son. When they brought her her child,--"William!" exclaimed the poor
widow; and tears, soothing tears too long denied to her grief, escaped
in torrents from her eyes. The child bore that much-loved name of
William, and a little cradle was placed close to the mother's bed.
Then Eva's gaze, long directed to heaven, returned earthwards. She
looked to her child now, as she had previously looked to her God. She
bent over him to seek his father's features. Providence had permitted
an exact resemblance between William and the son he was fated not to
see. A great change occurred around us. Eva, who had consented to live
until her child's existence was detached from hers, was now, I could
plainly see, willing to live on, because she felt that this little
being needed the protection of her love. She passed the days and
evenings seated beside his cradle; and when I went to see her, oh!
then she questioned me as to what she should do for him, she explained
what he had suffered, and asked what could be done to save him from
pain. For her child she feared the heat of a ray of sun, the chill of
the lightest breeze. Bending over him, she shielded him with her body,
and warmed him with her kisses. One day, I almost thought I saw her
smile at him. But she never would sing, whilst rocking his cradle, to
lull him to sleep; she called one of her women, and said, "Sing to my
son that he may sleep." Then she listened, letting her tears flow
softly upon little William's brow. Poor child! he was handsome,
gentle, easy to rear. But, as if his mother's sorrow had affected him
even before his birth, the child was melancholy: he seldom cried, but
he never smiled: he was quiet; and at that age quiet seems to denote
suffering. I fancied that all the tears shed over the cradle froze
that poor little soul. I would fain have seen William's arms twined
caressingly round his mother's neck. I would have had him return the
kisses lavished upon him. "But what am I thinking about?" I then said
to myself; "is it reasonable to expect that a little creature, not yet
a year upon the earth, should understand that it is sent hither to
love and console this woman?"
It was, I assure you, a touching sight to behold this young mother,
pale, feeble, and who had once renounced existence, clinging again to
life for the sake of a little child which could not even say "Thanks,
dear mother!" What a marvel is the human heart! Of how small a thing
it makes much! Give it but a grain of sand, and it elevates a
mountain; at its latest throb show it but an atom to love, and again
its pulses revive; it stops for good only when all is void around it,
and when even the shadow of its affections has vanished from the
earth!
Time rolled on, and I received a letter from an uncle, my sole
surviving relative. My uncle, a member of the faculty of Montpellier,
summoned me to his side, to complete in that learned town my
initiation into the secrets of my art. This letter, in form an
invitation, was in fact an order. I had to set out. One morning, my
heart big when I thought of the isolation in which I left the widow
and the orphan, I repaired to the white cottage to take leave of Eva
Meredith. I know not whether an additional shade of sadness came over
her features when I told her I was about to make a long absence. Since
the death of William Meredith such profound melancholy dwelt upon her
countenance that a smile would have been the sole perceptible
variation: sadness was always there.
"You leave us?" she exclaimed; "your care is so useful to my child!"
The poor lonely woman forgot to regret departure of her last friend;
the mother lamented the loss of the physician useful to her son. I did
not complain. To be useful is the sweet recompense of the devoted.
"Adieu!" she said, holding out her hand. "Wherever you go, may God
bless you; and should it be His will to afflict you, may He at least
afford you the sympathy of a heart compassionate as your own."
I bowed over the hand of Eva Meredith; and I departed, deeply moved.
The child was in the garden in front of the house, lying upon the
grass, in the sun. I took him in my arms and kissed him repeatedly; I
looked at long, attentively, sadly, and a tear started to my eyes.
"Oh, no, no! I must be mistaken!" I murmured, and I hurried from the
white cottage.
"Good heavens, doctor!" simultaneously exclaimed all Dr Barnaby's
audience, "what did you apprehend?"
"Suffer me to finish my story my own way," replied the village doctor;
"everything shall be told in its turn. I relate these events in the
order in which they occurred."
On my arrival at Montpellier, I was exceedingly well received by my
uncle; who declared, however, that he could neither lodge nor feed me,
nor lend me money, and that as a stranger, without a name, I must not
hope for a patient in a town so full of celebrated physicians.
"Then I will return to my village, uncle," replied I.
"By no means!" was his answer. "I have got you a lucrative and
respectable situation. An old Englishman, rich, gouty, and restless,
wishes to have a doctor to live with him, an intelligent young man who
will take charge of his health under the superintendence of an older
physician. I have proposed you--you have been accepted; let us go to
him."
We betook ourselves immediately to the residence of Lord James
Kysington, a large and handsome house, full of servants, where, after
waiting some time, first in the anteroom, and then in the parlours, we
were at last ushered into the presence of the noble invalid. Seated in
a large arm-chair was an old man of cold and severe aspect, whose
white hair contrasted oddly with his eyebrows, still of a jet black.
He was tall and thin, as far as I could judge through the folds of a
large cloth coat, made like a dressing-gown. His hands disappeared
under his cuffs, and his feet were wrapped in the skin of a white
bear. A number of medicine vials were upon a table beside him.
"My lord, this is my nephew, Dr Barnaby."
Lord Kysington bowed; that is to say, he looked at me, and made a
scarcely perceptible movement with his head.
"He is well versed in his profession, and I doubt not that his care
will be most beneficial to your lordship."
A second movement of the head was the sole reply vouchsafed.
"Moreover," continued my relation, "having had a tolerably good
education, he can read to your lordship, or write under your
dictation."
"I shall be obliged to him," replied Lord Kysington, breaking silence
at last, and then closing his eyes, either from fatigue, or as a hint
that the conversation was to drop. I glanced around me. Near the
window sat a lady, very elegantly dressed, who continued her
embroidery without once raising her eyes, as if we were not worthy her
notice. Upon the carpet at her feet a little boy amused himself with
toys. The lady, although young, did not at first strike me as
pretty--because she had black hair and eyes; and to be pretty,
according to my notion, was to be fair, like Eva Meredith; and
moreover, in my inexperience, I held beauty impossible without a
certain air of goodness. It was long before I could admit the beauty
of this woman, whose brow was haughty, her look disdainful, and her
mouth unsmiling. Like Lord Kysington, she was tall, thin, rather pale.
In character they were too much alike to suit each other well. Formal
and taciturn, they lived together without affection, almost without
converse. The child, too, had been taught silence; he walked on
tiptoe, and at the least noise a severe look from his mother or from
Lord Kysington changed him into a statue.
It was too late to return to my village; but it is never too late to
regret what one has loved and lost. My heart ached when I thought of
my cottage, my valley, my liberty.
What I learned concerning the cheerless family I had entered was as
follows:--Lord James Kysington had come to Montpellier for his health,
deteriorated by the climate of India. Second son of the Duke of
Kysington, and a lord only by courtesy, he owed to talent and not to
inheritance his fortune and his political position in the House of
Commons. Lady Mary was the wife of his youngest brother; and Lord
James, free to dispose of his fortune, had named her son his heir.
Towards me his lordship was most punctiliously polite. A bow thanked
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 such grave
reflections, that words are insufficient to express them. 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 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 roadside 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 temple 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 court-yard 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; perhaps 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, 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.