THE VILLAGE DOCTOR. (continued 2)

“‘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?’

“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.

“I have little to add, ladies. William recovered his reason and departed with Lord James. Reinstated in his rights, he was subsequently his grandfather’s sole heir. Science has recorded a few rare instances of intelligence revived by a violent moral shock. Thus does the fact I have related find a natural explanation. But the simple women of the village, who had attended Eva Meredith during her illness, and had heard her fervent prayers, were convinced that, even as she had asked of Heaven, the soul of the mother had passed into the body of the child.

“‘She was so good,’ said they, ‘that God could refuse her nothing.’ This artless belief took firm root in the country. No one mourned Mrs Meredith as dead.

“‘She still lives,’ said the people of the hamlet: ‘speak to her son, and she will answer you.’

“And when Lord William Kysington, in possession of his grandfather’s property, sent each year abundant alms to the village that had witnessed his birth and his mother’s death, the poor folks exclaimed—‘There is Mrs Meredith’s kind soul thinking of us still! Ah, when she goes to heaven, it will be great pity for poor people!’

“We do not strew flowers upon her tomb, but upon the steps of the altar of the Virgin, where she so often prayed to Mary to send a soul to her son. When bearing thither their wreaths of wild blossoms, the villagers say to each other—‘When she prayed so fervently, the good Virgin answered her softly: “I will give thy soul to thy child!”’

“The curé has suffered our peasants to retain this touching superstition; and I myself, when Lord William came to see me, when he fixed upon me his eyes, so like his mother’s—when his voice, which had a well-known accent, said, as Mrs Meredith was wont to say, ‘Dear Doctor, I thank you!’ Then—smile, ladies, if you will—I wept, and I believed, like all the village, that Eva Meredith was before me.

“She, whose existence was but a long series of sorrows, has left behind her a sweet, consoling memory, which has nothing painful for those who loved her.

“In thinking of her we think of the mercy of God, and those who have hope in their hearts, hope with the greater confidence.

“But it is very late, ladies—your carriages are at the door. Pardon this long story: at my age it is difficult to be concise in speaking of the events of one’s youth. Forgive the old man for having made you smile when he arrived, and weep before he departed.”

These last words were spoken in the kindest and most paternal tone, whilst a half-smile glided across Dr Barnaby’s lips. All his auditors now crowded round him, eager to express their thanks. But Dr Barnaby got up, made straight for his riding-coat of brown taffety, which hung across a chair back, and, whilst one of the young men helped him to put it on—“Farewell, gentlemen; farewell, ladies,” said the village doctor. “My chaise is ready; it is dark, the road is bad; good-night: I must be gone.”

When Dr Barnaby was installed in his cabriolet of green wicker-work, and the little grey cob, tickled by the whip, was about to set off, Madame de Moncar stepped quickly forward, and leaning towards the doctor, whilst she placed one foot on the step of his vehicle, she said, in a low voice—

“Doctor, I make you a present of the white cottage, and I will have it fitted up as it was when you loved Eva Meredith!”

Then she ran back into the house. The carriages and the green chaise departed in different directions.