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( Continued from first jmge.)
walked by her side; and as she ascended the
steps, her gentle eves bedewed with tears, her
slender atid feeble form inclined towards the bal
ustrade, her extended arms assisting the child,
who walked stiil more slowly than herself, Lady
Marv 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. iShe advanced with an as
sured 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 af
fectionate words.. How could she forebode ha
tred, she who only knew love ? We proceeded
to Lord Jame’s room. Mrs. Meredith, scarcely
able to support herself, entered first, took a few
*steps, and knelt beside her father-in-law’s chair.
Taking her child in her arms, she placed him on
Lord Janies Kysington’s knee.
“ His son ! ” site 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 hap
py days 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 1 wept.
The child remained quiet upon his grand
father’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 \vi 11 be your father.”
41 1 will be your father,” the child gently re
peated.
44 Excuse him,” said his mother, “he has al
ways been alone. He is very young ; the pres
ence of many persons intimidates him. Bv-and
by, mv lord, he will better understand your kind
words.”
But l looked at the child ; I examined him in
silence. I recalled my former gloomy apprehen
sions. Alas ! those apprehensions now became
a certainty ; the terrible shocked 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 misfor-
O V-f
tunc.
At the same time, with myself, Lady Mary
looked at the child. 1 sh.ill never forget the ex
pression of th it countenance. She stood erect,
and the piercing gaze she fixed upon little Wil
liam seeniid to read his very soul. As she gazed,
her eyes sparkled, her mouth was half opened,
as by a smile —she breathed short nnd thick, like
one oppressed by great and sudden joy. She
looked, looked—hope, doubt, expectation, re
placed each other on her face. At last her ha
tred was clear-sighted, an internal cry of tri
umph 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 fam
ily were alreedy assembled around him, and Lady
Mary had little William on her knees ; it was the
tiger clutching its prey.
44 What a beautiful child ! ” she said, 44 See
my lord, these fair and silken locks ! how bril
liant they’ are in the sunshine ! But, dear Eva,
is your son always* so silent! does he never ex
hibit the vivacity and gaiety of his age ? ”
44 He is very sad,” replied Mrs. Meredith. —
44 Alas! with me he could hardiv learn to laugh.”
-
14 We will try to amuse and cheer him,” said
lady Mary. 44 Come, my dear child, kiss your
grandfather ! hold out your arms, and tell him
you love him.”
Will iam did not'stir.
“Do vou not know liow? Harry mv love,
kiss your uncle, atid set your cousin a good ex
ample.”
Harry jumped upon Lord James’s knees, threw
both arms round his neck, and said, 1 love you,
uncle! ”
44 Now itisy’our 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.
44 ’Tis my’ fault,” she said. 44 1 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.
44 Try to make William less shy,” said Lord
James to his daughter-in-law.
44 1 will try,” replied Eva, in her submissive
tones, like those of an obedient child. 44 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. 44 He suffered even before
his birth, she murmured ; 44 we have both been
very unhappy ! but 1 will try to weep no more,
that William may be cheerful like other children.”
Two davs elapsed, two painful days, lull 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,
Ladv Mary came into the room with a number ol
| playthings for the children. Harry seized a
! sword, and ran about the room, shouting for joy.
William remained motionless, holding in his lit
tle hand the toys that were given to him, but not
attempting to use them ; he did not even look at
them.
“ Here my lord,” said Lady” Mary to her
brother, “give this book to your grandson ; per
haps 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, si
lent, 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 bv 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—
*‘Jdiot!” she exclaimed, her indignant glance
flashing, for the first time, with a vivid brilliance;
44 idiot ! ” she repeated, 44 because he has been
unhappy all his life, because be has seen but
tears since bis eyes first opened! because be
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 child. “My son !
my son ! ” she cried.
William went close to her, and rested his head
on his mother’s shoulder.
“Doctor!” cried Eva, 44 he loves me—you
see he does ! He comes when I call him ;he
kisses me ! His caresses have sufficed for mv
tranquility —for my sad happiness ! My God !
was it not then enough ! Speak to me, my son,
re-assurc me ! Kind a consoling word, a single
word for your despairing mother ! Till now 1
have asked nothing of vou 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 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 conso
ling thoughts, such as might give a ray of hope
to this poor mother. 1 spoke of the future, of
expected cure, of change possible—even proba
ble. But hope /s 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 forward, only one child was to
be seen each morning in Lord James Kysington’s
room. Two women came thither, but only one
seemed to live—the oilier was silent as the tomb.
One said, “My son ! ” the other never spoke of
tier child ; one carried her head high, the other
bowed hers upon her breast, the better to bide 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 re
peat. bis lessons in his uncle’s presence ; thev
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
day. Lord James, smitten in his dearest hopes,
had resumed the cold impassibility which L 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 Amer
ican planter find a place in his heart. And be
considered the child as no longer in existence.—
Lord James Kysington was more gloomy and
taciturn than ever, regretting, perhaps, to have
ruffled his old age by a painful and profitless
emoticfn.
A year elapsed ; then a sad day carne, 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. lam old and ill, and must ar
range my affairs. The task is painful both for
you and for me, I will not refer to my anger at
my son’s maariage ; your misfortune disarmed
me— l called you to my side, and 1 desired to be
hold 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 ensure them an honorable existence ; but,
sole master of a fortune due to my own exertions,
1 adopt my nephew, and look upon him hence
forward as my sole heir. I am about to return
to London, whither my affairs call me. Come
with me, madam—my house is yours —1 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 r 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; 1 shall not
accompany you. I will not witness the usurpa
tion of my son’s rights ! You art? in haste to
condemn, my lord. Who can forsee the future !
You are in despair of the mercy of God ! ”
“ Lite future,” replied Lord James, “at my
age, is bounded by the passing day. What 1
would be certain to do Imust do at once and with
out delay.” •
“Act as you think proper,” replied Eva. “ 1
return to the dwelling where I was happy with
my husband. I return thither with your grandson,
William Kysin gton ; of that name, his sole in
heritance, 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 mv
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 on
ly beings she new upon the earth, the only per
sons 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 ? 4 ’
“ 1 have not vet told you all,” replied the vil
lage doctor; “ let me get to the end.”
{Shortly alter Eva Meredith’s departure, Lord
James went to London. Once more my own
master, 1 gave up all idea of further study ; i had
enough learning for my village, and in haste 1
returned thither. Once more I sat opposite to
Eva in the little white house, a§ I had done two
years before. But how greatly had intervening
events increased her misfortune We no lon
ger dared talk of the future, that unknown mo
ment 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 simpli
city, 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 re
mained fixed upon her child’s brow, as if awaiting
the arrival of the soul her prayers invoked. 1
cannot describe the courageous patience of that
mother speaking to her son, who listened without
understanding. 1 cannot tell you all the treas
ures of love, of thought, of ingenious narrative
she displayed before that torpid intelligence,
which repeated, like an echo, the last of her gen
tle words. She explained to him heaven, God,
the angels ; she endeavored 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 child
hood ; she read to him, spoke to him, placed pic
tures before his oyes —bad 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 Wil
liam’s eyes pictures were mere colours ; to his
ears words were but noise. The child, however,
grew in statue and in beauty. One who had
seen him l*ut for an instant would have taken the
immobility of tiis countenance for placidity. —
But that prolonged and continued calm, that ab
sence of all grief, of all tears, had a strange and
sad effect upon us. Suffering must indeed be in
herent to 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 de
sire, 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 in
stinct ; 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 noj 0 y,
but he was again tranquil. This tenderness, thi 3
faint gffmmeringof 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
hfer arms and pressing his still heart to her burn,
ing 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 ! Askof 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, “Bray for him.” She consoled
afflicted mothers, in the secret hope that consola
tion 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* fche
knew it, and she offered up to Heaven, not with
pride but with hope, the blessings of the unfor
tunate in exchange for the recovery of her son.
c>he loved to watch William’s sleep; then he was
handsome and like other children. For an insianr,
for a second perhaps, she forgot; and whilst con
templating ttiose 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 lirst years of Wdliam’s child
hood. He attained the age of eight years. Then
a sad change, which could not escape my atten
tive 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 labored all day, and sinksat
eve beneath the load of toil, Eva ceased to hone;
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, ail 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. iShe became her sou’s servant
—his slave ; her whole thoughts were concentra
ted in his well being. If she felt.cold, she sought
a warmer covering for William ; was she hungry,
it was tor 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. tSbe stiff displayed activity,
though she no longer harbored hope.
When William was eleven years old, the last
phase of Eva Meredith’s existence began. Re
markably tall and strong for his age, he ceased
to need that hourly care required by early child
hood ; he was no longer the infant sleeping on
his mother’s knees; he walked alone in the gar
den ; he rode on horseback with me, and accom
panied me in my distant visits; in short the bird,
although wingless, left the nest. Ilis misfortune
was iri 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 awk
ward, or disagreeable, or importunate; it was a
mind sleeping beside yours, asking no questions,
making no reply. The incessant maternal care
which had served to occupy Mrs. Meredith, and
to.divert her mind from dwelling on her sorrows,
had become 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 noth
ing was left her but to wait and watch, by day
and by night, like the lamp that ever burns be
neath the 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 Mere
dith fell into a decline. In spite of all the resour
ces of my art, I beheld her grow weak and thin.
How apply a remedy when the sickness is of the
soul f
The poor foreigner! she needed her native
sun and a little happiness to warm her; but the
ray ot sun and the ray of joy were alike wanting.
It was long before she perceived her danger, be
cause 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 pro
tector —of leaving him alone in the midst of stran
gers, 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 pro*
gressed ! Then she kept William more at hoip € >
—she could no longer bear to lose sight of him*
( Concluded in onr next.) y