your grandson; perhaps his attention will be roused by the pictures it
contains." And she led William to Lord James. The child was passive;
he walked, stopped, and remained like a statue where he was placed.
Lord James opened the book. All eyes turned towards the group formed
by the old man and his grandson. Lord James was gloomy, silent,
severe; he slowly turned several pages, stopping at every picture, and
looking at William, whose vacant gaze was not directed to the book.
Lord James turned a few more pages; then his hand ceased to move; the
book fell from his knees to the ground, and an irksome silence reigned
in the apartment. Lady Mary approached me, bent forward as if to
whisper in my ear, and in a voice loud enough to be heard by all--
"The child is an idiot, doctor!" she said.
A shriek answered her. Eva started up as if she had received a blow;
and seizing her son, whom she pressed convulsively to her breast--
"Idiot!" she exclaimed, her indignant glance flashing, for the first
time, with a vivid brilliance; "idiot!" she repeated, "because he has
been unhappy all his life, because he has seen but tears since his
eyes first opened! because he knows not how to play like your son, who
has always had joy around him! Ah! madam, you insult misfortune! Come,
my child!" cried Eva, all in tears. "Come, let us leave these pitiless
hearts, that find none but cruel words to console our misery!"
And the unhappy mother carried off her boy to her apartment. I
followed. She set William down, and knelt before the little child. "My
son! my son!" she cried.
William went close to her, and rested his head on his mother's
shoulder.
"Doctor!" cried Eva, "he loves me--you see he does! He comes when I
call him; he kisses me! His caresses have sufficed for my
tranquillity--for my sad happiness! My God! was it not then enough?
Speak to me, my son, reassure me! Find a consoling word, a single word
for your despairing mother! Till now I have asked nothing of you but
to remind me of your father, and leave me silence to weep. To-day,
William, you must give me words! See you not my tears--my terror? Dear
child, so beautiful, so like your father, speak, speak to me!"
Alas! alas! the child remained motionless, without sign of fear or
intelligence; a smile only, a smile horrible to behold, flitted across
his features. Eva hid her face in both hands, and remained kneeling
upon the ground. For a long time no noise was heard save the sound of
her sobs. Then I prayed heaven to inspire me with consoling thoughts,
such as might give a ray of hope to this poor mother. I spoke of the
future, of expected cure, of change possible--even probable. But hope
is no friend to falsehood. Where she does not exist her phantom cannot
penetrate. A terrible blow, a mortal one, had been struck, and Eva
Meredith saw all the truth.
From that day forwards, only one child was to be seen each morning in
Lord James Kysington's room. Two women came thither, but only one of
them seemed to live--the other was silent as the tomb. One said, "My
son!" the other never spoke of her child; one carried her head high,
the other bowed hers upon her breast, the better to hide her tears;
one was blooming and brilliant, the other pale and a mourner. The
struggle was at an end. Lady Mary triumphed. It was cruel how they let
Harry play before Eva Meredith's eyes. Careless of her anguish, they
brought him to repeat his lessons in his uncle's presence; they
vaunted his progress. The ambitious mother calculated everything to
consolidate her success; and, whilst abounding in honeyed words and
feigned consolation, she tortured Eva Meredith's heart each moment in
the day. Lord James, smitten in his dearest hopes, had resumed the
cold impassibility which I now saw formed the foundation of his
character. Strictly courteous to his daughter-in-law, he had no word
of affection for her: only as the mother of his grandson, could the
daughter of the American planter find a place in his heart. And he
considered the child as no longer in existence. Lord James Kysington
was more gloomy and taciturn than ever, regretting, perhaps, to have
yielded to my importunities, and to have ruffled his old age by a
painful and profitless emotion.
A year elapsed; then a sad day came, when Lord James sent for Eva
Meredith, and signed to her to be seated beside his arm-chair.
"Listen to me, madam," he said, "listen with courage. I will act
frankly with you, and conceal nothing. I am old and ill, and must
arrange my affairs. The task is painful both for you and for me. I
will not refer to my anger at my son's marriage; your misfortune
disarmed me--I called you to my side, and I desired to behold and to
love in your son William, the heir of my fortune, the pivot of my
dreams of future ambition. Alas! madam, fate was cruel to us! My son's
widow and orphan shall have all that can insure them an honourable
existence; but, sole master of a fortune due to my own exertions, I
adopt my nephew, and look upon him henceforward as my sole heir. I am
about to return to London, whither my affairs call me. Come with me,
madam--my house is yours--I shall be happy to see you there."
Eva (she afterwards told me so) felt, for the first time, her
despondency replaced by courage. She had the strength that is given by
a noble pride: she raised her head, and if her brow was less haughty
than that of Lady Mary, on the other hand it had all the dignity of
misfortune.
"Go, my lord," she answered, "go; I shall not accompany you. I will
not witness the usurpation of my son's rights! You are in haste to
condemn, my lord. Who can foresee the future! You are in haste to
despair of the mercy of God!"
"The future," replied Lord James, "at my age, is bounded by the
passing day. What I would be certain to do I must do at once and
without delay."
"Act as you think proper," replied Eva. "I return to the dwelling
where I was happy with my husband. I return thither with your
grandson, William Kysington; of that name, his sole inheritance, you
cannot deprive him; and though the world should know it but by reading
it on his tomb, your name, my lord, is the name of my son!"
A week later, Eva Meredith descended the stairs of the hotel, holding
her son by the hand, as she had done when she entered this fatal
house. Lady Mary was a little behind her, a few steps higher up: the
numerous servants, sad and silent, beheld with regret the departure of
the gentle creature thus driven from the paternal roof. When she
quitted this abode, Eva quitted the only beings she knew upon the
earth, the only persons whose pity she had a right to claim--the world
was before her, an immense wilderness. It was Hagar going forth into
the desert.
"This is horrible, doctor!" cried Dr Barnaby's audience. "Is it
possible there are persons so utterly unhappy? What! you witnessed all
this yourself?"
"I have not yet told you all," replied the village doctor; "let me get
to the end."
Shortly after Eva Meredith's departure, Lord James went to London.
Once more my own master, I gave up all idea of further study; I had
enough learning for my village, and in haste I returned thither. Once
more I sat opposite to Eva in the little white house, as I had done
two years before. But how greatly had intervening events increased her
misfortune! We no longer dared talk of the future, that unknown moment
of which we all have so great need, and without which our present joys
appear too feeble, and our misfortunes too great.
Never did I witness grief nobler in its simplicity, calmer in its
intensity, than that of Eva Meredith. She forgot not to pray to the
God who chastened her. For her, God was the being in whose hands are
the springs of hope, when earthly hopes are extinct. Her look of faith
remained fixed upon her child's brow, as if awaiting the arrival of
the soul her prayers invoked. I cannot describe the courageous
patience of that mother speaking to her son, who listened without
understanding. I cannot tell you all the treasures of love, of
thought, of ingenious narrative she displayed before that torpid
intelligence, which repeated, like an echo, the last of her gentle
words. She explained to him heaven, God, the angels; she endeavoured
to make him pray, and joined his hands, but she could not make him
raise his eyes to heaven. In all possible shapes she tried to give him
the first lessons of childhood; she read to him, spoke to him, placed
pictures before his eyes--had recourse to music as a substitute for
words. One day, making a terrible effort, she told William the story
of his father's death; she hoped, expected a tear. The child fell
asleep whilst yet she spoke: tears were shed, but they fell from the
eyes of Eva Meredith.
Thus did she exhaust herself by vain efforts, by a persevering
struggle. That she might not cease to hope, she continued to toil; but
to William's eyes pictures were merely colours; to his ears words were
but noise. The child, however, grew in stature and in beauty. One who
had seen him but for an instant would have taken the immobility of his
countenance for placidity. But that prolonged and continued calm, that
absence of all grief, of all tears, had a strange and sad effect upon
us. Suffering must indeed be inherent in our nature, since William's
eternal smile made every one say, "The poor idiot!" Mothers know not
the happiness concealed in the tears of their child. A tear is a
regret, a desire, a fear; it is life, in short, which begins to be
understood. Alas! William was content with everything. All day long he
seemed to sleep with his eyes open; anger, weariness, impatience, were
alike unknown to him. He had but one instinct: he knew his mother--he
even loved her. He took pleasure in resting on her knees, on her
shoulder; he kissed her. When I kept him long away from her, he
manifested a sort of anxiety. I took him back to his mother; he showed
no joy, but he was again tranquil. This tenderness, this faint
glimmering of William's heart, was Eva's life. It gave her strength
to strive, to hope, to wait. If her words were not understood, at
least her kisses were! How often she took her son's head in her hands
and kissed his forehead, as long and fervently as if she hoped her
love would warm and vivify his frozen soul! How often did she dream a
miracle whilst clasping her son in her arms, and pressing his still
heart to her burning bosom! Often she lingered at night in the village
church. (Eva Meredith was of a Roman Catholic family.) Kneeling upon
the cold stone before the Virgin's altar, she invoked the marble
statue of Mary, holding her child in her arms, "O virgin!" she said,
"my boy is inanimate as that image of thy Son! Ask of God a soul for
my child!"
She was charitable to all the poor children of the village, giving
them bread and clothes, and saying to them, "Pray for him." She
consoled afflicted mothers, in the secret hope that consolation would
come at last to her. She dried the tears of others, to enjoy the
belief that one day she also would cease to weep. In all the country
round, she was loved, blessed, venerated. She knew it, and she offered
up to Heaven, not with pride but with hope, the blessings of the
unfortunate in exchange for the recovery of her son. She loved to
watch William's sleep; then he was handsome and like other children.
For an instant, for a second perhaps, she forgot; and whilst
contemplating those regular features, those golden locks, those long
lashes which threw their shadow on his rose-tinted cheek, she felt a
mother's joy, almost a mother's pride. God has moments of mercy even
for those he has condemned to suffer.
Thus passed the first years of William's childhood. He attained the
age of eight years. Then a sad change, which could not escape my
attentive observation, occurred in Eva Meredith. Either that her son's
growth made his want of intelligence more striking, or that she was
like a workman who has laboured all day, and sinks at eve beneath the
load of toil, Eva ceased to hope; her soul seemed to abandon the task
undertaken, and to recoil with weariness upon itself, asking only
resignation. She laid aside the books, the engravings, the music, all
the means, in short, that she had called to her aid; she grew silent
and desponding; only, if that were possible, she was more affectionate
than ever to her son. As she lost hope in his cure, she felt the more
strongly that her child had but her in the world; and she asked a
miracle of her heart--an increase of the love she bore him. She became
her son's servant--his slave; her whole thoughts were concentrated in
his wellbeing. If she felt cold, she sought a warmer covering for
William; was she hungry, it was for William she gathered the fruits of
her garden; did she suffer from fatigue, for him she selected the
easiest chair and the softest cushions; she attended to her own
sensations only to guess those of her son. She still displayed
activity, though she no longer harboured hope.
When William was eleven years old, the last phase of Eva Meredith's
existence began. Remarkably tall and strong for his age, he ceased to
need that hourly care required by early childhood: he was no longer the
infant sleeping on his mother's knees; he walked alone in the garden;
he rode on horseback with me, and accompanied me in my distant visits;
in short the bird, although wingless, left the nest. His misfortune was
in no way shocking or painful to behold. He was of exceeding beauty,
silent, unnaturally calm--his eyes expressing nothing but repose, his
mouth ignorant of a smile: he was not awkward, or disagreeable, or
importunate: it was a mind sleeping beside yours, asking no question,
making no reply. The incessant maternal care which had served to occupy
Mrs Meredith, and to divert her mind from dwelling on her sorrows,
became unnecessary, and she resumed her seat at the window, whence she
beheld the village and the church-steeple--at that same window where
she had so long wept her husband. Hope and occupation successively
failed her, and nothing was left her but to wait and watch, by day and
by night, like the lamp that ever burns beneath cathedral vaults.
But her forces were exhausted. In the midst of this grief which had
returned to its starting-point, to silence and immobility, after
having in vain essayed exertion, courage, hope, Eva Meredith fell into
a decline. In spite of all the resources of my art, I beheld her grow
weak and thin. How apply a remedy, when the sickness is of the soul?
The poor foreigner! she needed her native sun and a little happiness
to warm her; but the ray of sun and the ray of joy were alike wanting.
It was long before she perceived her danger, because she thought not
of herself; but when at last she was unable to leave her arm-chair,
she was compelled to understand. I will not describe to you all her
anguish at the thought of leaving William without a guide, without
friend or protector--of leaving him alone in the midst of strangers,
he who needed to be cherished and led by the hand like a child. Oh,
how she struggled for life! with what avidity she swallowed the
potions I prepared! how many times she tried to believe in a cure,
whilst all the time the disease progressed! Then she kept William more
at home,--she could no longer bear to lose sight of him.
"Remain with me," she said; and William, always content near his
mother, seated himself at her feet. She looked at him long, until a
flood of tears prevented her distinguishing his gentle countenance;
then she drew him still nearer to her, and pressed him to her heart.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, in a kind of delirium, "if my soul, on leaving my
body, might become the soul of my child, how happy should I be to
die!" No amount of suffering could make her wholly despair of divine
mercy, and when all human possibility disappeared, this loving heart
had gentle dreams out of which it reconstructed hopes. But how sad it
was, alas! to see the poor mother slowly perishing before the eyes of
her son, of a son who understood not death, and who smiled when she
embraced him.
"He will not regret me," she said: "he will not weep: he will not
remember." And she remained motionless, in mute contemplation of her
child. Her hand then sometimes sought mine: "You love him, dear
doctor?" she murmured.
"I will never quit him," replied I, "so long as he has no better
friends than myself." God in heaven, and the poor village doctor upon
earth, were the two guardians to whom she confided her son.
Faith is a great thing! This woman, widowed, disinherited, dying, an
idiot child at her side, was yet saved from that utter despair which
brings blasphemy to the lips of death. An invisible friend was near
her, on whom she seemed to rest, listening sometimes to holy words,
which she alone could hear.
One morning she sent for me early. She had been unable to get up. With
her wan, transparent hand she showed me a sheet of paper on which a
few lines were written.
"Doctor," she said, in her gentlest tones, "I have not strength to
continue; finish this letter!"
I read as follows:--
"My Lord,--I write to you for the last time. Whilst health is restored
to your old age, I suffer and am about to die. I leave your grandson,
William Kysington, without a protector. My Lord, this last letter is
to recall him to your memory; I ask for him a place in your heart
rather than a share of your fortune. Of all the things of this world,
he has understood but one--his mother's love; and now she must leave
him for ever! Love him, my Lord,--love is the only sentiment he can
comprehend."
She could write no more. I added:--
"Mrs William Kysington has but few days to live. What are Lord James
Kysington's orders with respect to the child who bears his name?
"The Doctor Barnaby."
This letter was sent to London, and we waited. Eva kept her bed.
William, seated near her, held her hand in his: his mother smiled
sadly upon him, whilst I, at the other side of the bed, prepared
potions to assuage her pains. Again she began to talk to her son, as
if no longer despairing that, after her death, some of her words might
recur to his memory. She gave the child all the advice, all the
instructions she would have given to an intelligent being. Then she
turned to me--"Who knows, doctor," she said, "one day, perhaps, he
will find my words at the bottom of his heart!"
Three more weeks elapsed. Death approached, and submissive as was the
Christian soul of Eva, she yet felt the anguish of separation and the
solemn awe of the future. The village priest came to see her, and when
he left her I met him and took his hand.
"You will pray for her," I said.
"I have entreated _her_ to pray for _me_!" was his reply.
It was Eva Meredith's last day. The sun had set: the window, near
which she so long had sat, was open: she could see from her bed the
landscape she had loved. She held her son in her arms and kissed his
face and hair, weeping sadly. "Poor child! what will become of you?
Oh!" she said, with tender earnestness, "listen to me, William:--I am
dying! Your father is dead also; you are alone; you must pray to the
Lord. I bequeath you to Him who watches over the sparrow upon the
house-top; He will shield the orphan. Dear child, look at me! listen
to me! Try to understand that I die, that one day you may remember
me!" And the poor mother, unable to speak longer, still found strength
to embrace her child.
At that moment an unaccustomed noise reached my ears. The wheels of a
carriage grated upon the gravel of the garden drive. I ran to the
door. Lord James Kysington and Lady Mary entered the house.
"I got your letter," said Lord James. "I was setting out for Italy,
and it was not much off my road to come myself and settle the future
destiny of William Meredith: so here I am. Mrs William?----"
"Mrs William Kysington still lives, my lord," I replied.
It was with a painful sensation that I saw this calm, cold, austere
man approach Eva's chamber, followed by the haughty woman who came to
witness what for her was a happy event--the death of her former rival!
They entered the modest little room, so different from the sumptuous
apartments of their Montpellier hotel. They drew near the bed, beneath
whose white curtains Eva, pale but still beautiful, held her son upon
her heart. They stood, one on the right, the other on the left of that
couch of suffering, without finding a word of affection to console the
poor woman who looked up at them. They barely gave utterance to a few
formal and unmeaning phrases. Averting their eyes from the painful
spectacle of death, and persuading themselves that Eva Meredith
neither saw nor heard, they passively awaited her spirit's
departure--their countenances not even feigning an expression of
condolence or regret. Eva fixed her dying gaze upon them, and sudden
terror seized the heart which had almost ceased to throb. She
comprehended, for the first time, the secret sentiments of Lady Mary,
the profound indifference and egotism of Lord James; she understood at
last that they were enemies rather than protectors of her son. Despair
and terror portrayed themselves on her pallid face. She made no
attempt to soften those soulless beings. By a convulsive movement she
drew William still closer to her heart, and, collecting her last
strength--
"My child, my poor child!" she cried, "you have no support upon earth;
but God above is good. My God! succour my child!"
With this cry of love, with this supreme prayer, she breathed out her
life: her arms opened, her lips were motionless on William's cheek.
Since she no longer embraced her son, there could be no doubt she was
dead--dead before the eyes of those who to the very last had refused
to comfort her affliction--dead without giving Lady Mary the
uneasiness of hearing her plead the cause of her son--dead, leaving
her a complete and decided victory.
There was a moment of solemn silence: none moved or spoke. Death makes
an impression upon the haughtiest. Lady Mary and Lord James Kysington
kneeled beside their victim's bed. In a few minutes Lord James arose.
"Take the child from his mother's room," he said, "and come with me,
doctor; I will explain to you my intentions respecting him."
For two hours William had been resting on the shoulder of Eva
Meredith, his heart against her heart, his lips pressed to hers,
receiving her kisses and her tears. I approached him, and, without
expending useless words, I endeavoured to raise and lead him from the
room; but he resisted, and his arms clasped his mother more closely.
This resistance, the first the poor child had ever offered to living
creature, touched my very soul. On my renewing the attempt, however,
William yielded; he made a movement and turned towards me, and I saw
his beautiful countenance suffused with tears. Until that day, William
had never wept. I was greatly startled and moved, and I let the child
throw himself again upon his mother's corpse.
"Take him away," said Lord James.
"My lord," I exclaimed, "he weeps! Ah, check not his tears!"
I bent over the child, and heard him sob.
"William! dear William!" I cried, anxiously taking his hand, "why do
you weep, William?"
For the second time he turned his head towards me; then, with a gentle
look, full of sorrow, "My mother is dead," he replied.
I have not words to tell you what I felt. William's eyes were now
intelligent: his tears were sad and significant; and his voice was
broken as when the heart suffers. I uttered a cry; I almost knelt down
beside Eva's bed.
"Ah! you were right, Eva!" I exclaimed, "not to despair of the mercy
of God!"
Lord James himself had started. Lady Mary was as pale as Eva.
"Mother! mother!" cried William, in tones that filled my heart with
joy; and then, repeating the words of Eva Meredith--those words which
she had so truly said he would find at the bottom of his heart--the
child exclaimed aloud,
"I am dying, my son. Your father is dead; you are alone upon the
earth; you must pray to the Lord!"
I pressed gently with my hand upon William's shoulder; he obeyed the
impulse, knelt down, joined his trembling hands--this time it was of
his own accord--and, raising to heaven a look full of life and
feeling: "My God! have pity on me!" he murmured.
I took Eva's cold hand. "Oh mother! mother of many sorrows!" I
exclaimed, "can you hear your child? do you behold him from above? Be
happy! your son is saved!"
Dead at Lady Mary's feet, Eva made her rival tremble; for it was not I
who led William from the room, it was Lord James Kysington who carried
out his grandson in his arms.