'VOLUME Zo
TOWANDA:
ilhintesbn Z crninp, 4nlg 11, MB.
(From rilackiroocrs i Magazane.]
Eltar2DP3:
TIE VILLAGE DOCTOR'S STORY.
ET ,MADIIIE D ARDOCV/LLE
[coynNtED ]
1 felt in despair at my blunder, and T felt my
rives till with tears. My distress give me an
idea. • •
" Mrs. Meredith," I said, " I cannot see you tor
ment yourself thus, and remain by your side una
ble to console you. I will go and seek your hus
band I will follow at random one of the paths
through the forest; I will search everywhere and
shout his name, and go if neeessary to the town
itself."
• "Oh thanks, thanks, kind friend !** cried Eva
Meredith, "take the gardener yog, and the
servant: and search. in all direc t'.''
We hurried bark into the drawing room, and
Eva rang and repeate--Ily:- All the inhabi
tants of the cottage opened at the same time at the
inherent doors of the apartment.
' Follow Dr. Bamaby," cried Mrs. Meredith.
Al that momenta horse's gallop was distinctly
heard on 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
tl;a1 illumined her face, still inundated with tears
She a.2d. I, we flew to the house door. The moon
tram behind a cloud. threw her whole light
a riderless foamed covered horse, whose
hti Ile dragged upon the ground, and whose dusty
ILL-11,s were galled- by the empty stirrups. A sec
ond cry. this time of intewaehormr.burst from Eva's
'breast • then she turned towards me, her eyes fix
'.;er mouth half open, het arms hanving pow-
MEM
The servants were in consternation.
"Get torrhes my friends"' cried I. ' and fol.
"X Mt' -Madam. we shall fcn return, 1 }inpe,
V , U7 husband with us. I has received some
hurt. a strained ancle, perhaps. Keep your
We will soon be back." •
I you!" murmured Eva Meredith in a
=I
=2
• I cried. 7,7• We must go fast.
pe-')aps fava:Ta in. your state—it would be risking
:,!e. and that of your child—"
• I c NVIIII you '.— repeated Era.
T. e^ ::;.! I feel 604:cruel was this poor woman's
Ilad a father. a mother, been there,
•:•.•.ey woi.::•1 ha% e retained he.: by force: but she
uiNsn Ore earth, anifto all my hurried
ervreaties f-he tqiii replied is a hollow toice . • I
with vou '
We set cu. The moon was again darkened by
dense clouds: there was light neither in the hea
vens nor on the earth. The ungertain radiance of
our torches barely showed uc the path. A servant
xi - frit in front lowering his torch to the right and to
tie ;eft. to illuminate the ditches and liushes bor.
.!erinu he road. Behind him Mrs. Meredithohe
: - ..lo . enei and myself followed with our eyes the
S!'?" . 3[7l of ltlat. From tithe to time we raised our
r:',:es and called Mr. Meredith. Alter us .a stifled
, ols murmured the name of William, aid a heart
lad reckoned on the instinct of love to hear its
tears better than our shouts. We reached the for
est. Rain began to 1.4, and the drops pahe*
upon the foliage with a mournful noise. as if ev
erything, around ns wept. Era's thin dress was
sorin snaked with with the cold flood. The water
streamed from her hair over her face. She bruis
ed her feet with the stones of the road. and repeat
edly snlinbled and fell upon her knee: but she
r, - t‘e azain with au energy of d es pair, and pushed
io , ward. It was a,gcnizing, to behold her. I
rcar:ely dared look .at her, lest I should, see her
fa!! dead before; ms; es-es. At last we were mov-
1-; in silence, fatigued and discouraged —Mrs.
Merolch pushed us suddenly aside, sprang forward
plun-tevi into the buSbes. Wre followed her
! raisin; the to:Ans.—alas ' 'he vras upon
knees c t side the body of William, who . was
51etclied motionless upon• the ground. his ey e s
:ia.-ed and his brovr covered with blood which
•': , a-r.! from a wound in the left temple.
• Doctor! saki Eca to me. That oue word ex
recce
DN.* William lice t•'
I s' ,- -ped and felt the pulse of Wiliam Mere
jith pl3ce4 my hand od his heart. it remained
r , a,ent. Eva mil gazed at me: but, when my oi
ler:cc was . prolonged, I saw her bend. wafer. and
withoin a word, or cry, fall senseless upon
Ler Lusband's corle.
Rut lad tef,. - said Dr. Barnaby; turning to his
t the sun shines. again : you ean, go
eu: now. Let us leave this saAl store u - lieve it now
Madirne de Noncar approached the oh) physi
cian. " Dcictor, - said she," I implore you to can
untie : 0n1 . 4: look at us, and you will not doubt the
interest with Which we listen."
Thom- were no more smile., of mockery upon
the young faces that stirroumied the village doctor.
1:1 some of their eyes be might eve n th star7l - w a
tSe Bening of tears. He _ resumed his curative.
‘• Mrs. Menadith.was carried home, and re main .
ed for /several hours seuseless;upon her bed. I felt
11 at - once a duty and a cruelty to the every effort
13 recall her to bk. I dreaded the agonizing sexes
t4a: would follow this state of immobility. I re
mained beside the poot woman, bedtime her tem
?les with flesh water, and awaiting with anxiety
sad andiet haPpy moment of returnin gcon
seeiness. I was mistaken wish my auticipa
t•s I had neirer iitussed gnu' grief. Eva half
(trued her eyes and immediately closed them
• . no tear menved from beneath their lids.—
remained calm, motiordess, adetit; and bilif
1 4 she bean which again throbbed bermath my
• I should base damned hes dead. Sad 8 is
. .
•
to behold a sorrow which one feels is beyond con
solation ! Silence, I thought. seemed like a want
of pity for this unfortunate creature : on the other
hand verbal condolence'was a monkery of so migh
ty a grief. Iliad found no words to calm her un
easiness; 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 thiiught, and minister to the physical suffer.
ings, as is my duty; but I will be mute and pas
sive,l even as a faithful dog would lie down at
her feet. 'My maid 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 lotion to
her lips, Eva slowly i'verted 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 clued.
" Madam, your child !" :I persisted in a low
voice.
Era opened her eyes, raised herself with effort
upon her e.bow, swahowed the medicine and fell
back upon her pillow.
'• 1 must wait," she murmured " till anotLer life
is detached from mine!"
Thenceforward Mrs. Meredith spoke no more.
but she mechanically followed all my prescriptions.
Stretche3 upon her bed of sufiering, she seemed
constantly to sleep but a: whatever moment I said
to her, even in the 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 moment of oblivion and repose.
There were none beside myself to attend to the
interment of William. Nothing poz-itive was ever
known as to the cause of his death. The sum he
was to biing 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 Lis pocket when Le 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 nas made and soon dropped. I en•
deavored to learn from Eva Meredith if her fami
ly or that of her husband should not' be written to.
I had difficulty in obtaining an answer. At last ebe
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 com
munication would arrive decisive of this poor crea•
ture•s lot_ But no; day followed day, and none
seemed to know that the widow of William Mere
dith lived in utter imolifion, in a prior French vil
lage. To endeavor 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 Mere
dith. Her hair was parted in bands upon her pale
forehead, and she sat near a window motionless , as
she had laid in bed. .
I passed long silent evenings with he'r, a .book
in my hand for apparent occupation. Each day on
my arrival, I addressed to her a few words of sym
pathy: She replied by a thankful look ; then we
remained silent. I awaited an opportunity to open
a conversation : but my awkwardness and my re
spect for her grief prevented my finding one, or
antlered it to escape when it °deviled. Little by
little I grew accustomed to this 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 remain
ing. it still wissomething. I went to see her mere
ly that my presence might say, "I am here."
It way 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 conclu
sion 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
to laugh ana 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 ingeniousness of my sentiments.—
I returned to diroe mountains, almost learned. bet
almost incredulous in all three points of faith which
enable a man to rum his life contentedly beneath a
thatched roof, in the society of his wife and chil
dren, with caring to look beyond the crow above
the village cemetery_
Whilst contemplating the love of Willie - rut and
of Eva, I
_had reverted td my former simple peas
ant-nature. I b e gan to dream of a virtuous after>
tionate wife, diligent and frugal, embellar.bttq urf
house by her care and -order. I saw myself proud
of the gentle seventy of her features, revealing to
all the chaste and faithful sparse. Very different
were these reveries from thcie that haunted me at
Paris after joyous, evening spent with my com
rades. Soddenly, horrible calamity descended
like a tnunderbolt upon Eva Meredith. This time
I was slower to appreciate the lesson I daily re
ceived. Era sat constantly at the window, her
sad gazefixed upon the heavens. 'The . attitude,
common in persons of meditative mood, framed
my attention but little. Her persistence in it at
licit struck me. My book upon my knees, I look
ed at. Mm. Meredith; and well zs'tered she would
not detect my gaze, 1 examine& her attentively.—
She stilt gazed at the sky—my eyes followed the
direction of hers. " Ah , 7 I said to myself with a
halt smite, "she thinks to rejoin him therer—
Then I. resumed my book, thinking how kerma*
it was for the weakness of women that ma'
thotqlits came to the relief of their sorrows.
I have already told you that my stadeut's life
had pot evil thoughts into my bead. Every day,
however, I saw Eva in the same aCtinicle, and
every day my reflections were recalled to tbo
same subject. Little by hide I mew to dank her
dream a good one, imd b ,egos I amid not credit
its fearer The soul, hearse; eternal We, all that
PUBLISHED EYEIIY WEDNESDAY, AT TOWANDA, BRADFORD COUNTY, PA., BY E. O'MEARA GOODRICH.
the old priest had formerly tiught me, glided
through my imagination as I sat at eventide before
the open window. " The doctrine of the old oure,"
I said to myself, " was more comforting than the
cold realities science has revealed to me." Then
T 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, persever
ing in her grief as in her holy hopes.
" What!" Lthonght," can so much love address
itself to a few particles of dust, already mingled
with the mould: all these slis wasted on empty
air William departed in the freshness of his age,
his.affeetions 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 these noth
ing but void ? Love—that sentiment so strong
.within as—is it but a flame placed in the obscure
prison of our body, where it shines ; bums, 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 ri
There was deep silence in the recesses of my
soul. I had ceased to think. I was as if slumber
ing between whoa I no longer denied, and what I
did not yet beliete. At last, one nigh', when Era
joined her hands to pray. beneath the most ,beauti
tul 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 hap
py chance, and for the first time, Era Meredith
looked round, as if a secret instinct had whispered
her that my soul harmonised with hers.
"Thanks:" said she, hold tnz nut her hnnd, "lee?
him in your memory, and pray for him some-
WM
"Oh, maaam!“ I eielaimed, "may we all
meet again in a better worki. whether our lives
have been long or short, happy or full of trial..?
"The Immortal snulluf looks down
.
on us! . she replied in a grave voice, whilst her
pie, at once sad and bruzlit, reverted to the star
spangled heavens.
Since that evening when performinz the duties
of my profession, I have often witnessed death :
but never without speaking. to the sorrowing situ
sivors, a few eonsolinz wo.-ds on a bet:et life than
this one : and thc*e worts were words of convic
tion.
At last, a month after these incidents. Era Mere
dith gave birth to a son. When they brought her
child,—" William !"' exclaimed the poor widow ;
the 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 Era's gaze long directed -to heaven.
returned earthwards. She looked at her child now,
as she had previou-.ly looked to her God. She
bent over him to seek his father's features. Pro
vidence had permitted an exact resemblance be
tween William and the soil he was fated not to see
A great change occurred amend us. Era, -who
had consented to lire until her child's existence
IA as detached horn 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 hide
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 sufferekand ask
ed what could be done to save, him from pain.—
For her chiP she leered the heat of a ray of sun,
the chill of the lightest breeze. Bendie, 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 Williams 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 sniled . he was qui
et ; and that seems to denote ..sefiensig. I fanci
ed that all the tears shed over the cradle froze that
hale soul. I werild fain have seen William's arms
twined caressingly round Lis Mother's neck. I
would hare hzd him return the kisses lavished up
on him. " Bat what am I thin about!' I
then said to myself; is it tenisoisable to expect that
a little creature, not yet a year upon the earth,
should understand that it is sent tbither to love and
console this woman r
It use, I assure you, a tonchirq sight to behold
this young mother, pale. feeble, and who bad once
renounced existence, cl.riging againto to, fe z t h e
sake of a little child which could not even say
" Thanks, dear mother !" What a man-el is the
human bean ! Of how small a thing it makes
much! eve it tont a grain of sand, and it elevates
a mountain : at its latest throb show it but an mom
to lore, and again its pulses revise; it stops for
good only when all is void around it,• and when,
even the -shadow of is affections bad vanished=
from the earth !
Tune rolled on, and I received a letter from an
uncle, my sole surviving relative. My uncle, a
member of the faculty of Montpelier, summoned
me to his vide, to complete in that learned , town
inY initiation-into the secrets of my art. This let
ter, in from an =simian, was in feet an order. I
had to set oat. One morning, my heart big, when
I thought of the isolation in which I left ithe
dow and the orphan, I repaired to the white cot
tage to take leave of Era Meredith: I k fl ow not
whether an additional shade of sadness (Mae over .
her frames when I mid her I was about to make
a long absence. Since the death of liVAliwn Mer
edith such profound melancholy dwelt upon her
eseateitance that a untie week! Use been the she
preceptilis Tatiatioe: sadness was always there.
"You hese air* she eselabied; years:ire is
solnefal to rerelsld la
Tlaipoor kiiily*ciaafaire te seams dig de-
gi REGAittiugss OT DENTWaATINN /SON ANT QV/N.713611
pasture of her la-q triend ; 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
him lona, attentively, sadly, and a tear started to
my eye, " Oh. no, no! I must be mistaken !" I
murmured, and I hurried from the white cottage.
Good heavens. doctor! ' t•imultaneously ex
claimed all Dr. Barnaby's audience, ‘• what did you
appTeherid r
"Sutler me to finish my story my own way,"
replied the village doctor ; even thing rhall be
told in us !urn. 1 relate these events in the, order
to crllleti they occurred.•'
Ou my arrival at Montpellier, I was exceeding
ly well received by my - uncle : who declared, how.
ever, that he could ritvither lodge nor feed me, nor
lend me money, and that as a stranger, without a
name, I must not hope for a patient at a town so
lull of celebrated
Then I n ill return to my village, uncle, - re
plied I.
By no means!" was his answer. " I have got
you a lucrative and respectable Et! uation . An old
Engl, ishman, rich, gouty, and restless, wishes to
have a doctor to live with him. an intelligent young
rr.an who will take charge of his health under the
superintendence of an older physician. I have
proposed you—you hare been acepte,l-; let us go
to him."
We took our.elves immediately to the residence
of Lord James Kvsingion, a' large and handsome
house. tu:l of servant.. 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 arimehair was an
old man of cold and severe aspect, whose white
'hair contrasted od:!ly with his eyebrows, still a jet
black. lie was tall and thin, as far as I could jc.4e
throurb the folds of a lar-ze cloth coat, made like a
dresing-gown His disappeared under Lis
cuffs, and his feet were wrapped in the skin of a
white bear. A number of medicine vials were
upon a table beside him.
'• 100, this is my nephew. Dr. Bamaby."
Lord Kysington bowed : that ra to say. he looked
at me. and made a scarcely percepuble movement
with his bead.
‘• Ile is well Term. td in Ls profes-ion, and I doubt
not that his care will" be most beneficial to your
A second movement of the hea.l was the role re
ply occ hsafeti
•• Moreoser," continued my relation, " having
had a tolerably good education. be can read to
your lordship, or write under yolr dictation.-
'• I ahail be obliged to him. - replied Lord Kys
ington. 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 dress
vrhtt continued her embroidery without once
raising her eyes, as if we were not worthy her no
tice. Upon the carpet at her feet a little boy amu
sed 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, accord
ing to my notion, was to be fair, like Eva Meredith ;
and moreover, in my experiende, 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 dis
dainful, and her month unsmiling. Like Lord IC ys.
irrgton, she was tall, thin, rather pale. In charac
ter they were too much alike to snit each other
well Formal and taciturn they lived together with
out affection, almost without converse. The child,
too, had been taught silence ; he walked on tiptoe,
and at the least noise a severe look from Lord
Kysingion changed him to a statue.
It was too late to return to my villme: bat it is
never too late to r e gret 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 Kysin- ,
ton bad come to Montpelier for his health, deteri
orated by. the climate of India. Secood sod of the
Duke of Cysinvon, and a lord only by courtesy, he
owed to talent and not to inheritance his 'brume
and his political positions in the Howe of Com
mons. Lady Mary was the wife of his youa„nest
brother; and Lord James, free todupose of his for
tune. had named her son his heir.
Towards me his lordship was most punctiliously
polite. A bow thanked me for every service I ren
dered him. I read aloud for horns together, vain.
termpted 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
node's presence. I had never led so melancholy
a life, and yet, as you know, ladies, the little white_
cottage bad him; ceased to be gay ; but the'silence
of mislortame implies such graTe reflections, that
words are insufficient to eirr , ,ess them. One feels
the Wolff the sod under the &Moan of the body.
In my own abode it was the sdeoce of a void.
One day that Lord James doted and Lady Mary
was engrossed with the embroniery, link? Harry
crumbed wen my knee ; as I sat apartat the farther
end of the room, and began to quemina ms with
the 'artless cariosity of his age. In my twa, and
withont rellectitur am what I said, I goesmomed him
cramming Iris family.
a Haas you any brothers or sisters !. I imputed.
" I base a pretty !ink sister."
Cr What is bier tame r meted I, ablentl7, glen
-624it "S 1 1 4 4411; Um&
'''She has a beaseitsd awns. Games it, Doctor /4
1 know not what I was thinking about la my
Tillage 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, a Guess,. guess !" I replied at ran
dom.
" Eva, perhaps ?"
We were speaking very low ;.but when the name
of Eva escapedmy lips, Lord James opened his
eyes quickly, and raised himself in his chair, Lady
Mary dropped her needle, ana turned sharply to
wards me. I was confounded at the eßect 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 re
sumed her needle. Harry and I ceased our conver
sation. I reflected for sometime 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 a sign to
follow. When we were both in another room she
shot the door, and raising her head, with the'impe
rions air which was the most habitual expression
of her features : " Dr. Barnaby," said she, " be so
good as never again O pronounce the name that just
now escaped your lips. It is a name Lord James
Kysingt ii 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 Kysing
ton's daughter in-law? Was I in the house of Wil
liam's father ? I hoped., but still I doubted ; for,
after 41. if there was but one Eva in the world for
me, in Enztand the name was, doubtless, by no
means uncommon. But the thought that I was per
haps with the family of Eva Meredith, living with
the woman who robbed the widdow and the or
phan ot their inheritance, this thought was present
to me by day and by night. In my dreams I be
held the return of Eva and her son to the paternal
residence, in cousequenoe of the pardon I had im
plored and obtained for them. But when I raised
. my eves, the cold impassible physiognomy ot Lord
Kysington froze all the hopes of my heart. I ap
phed myself to the examination of that countenance
as ill had never before seen it; I analysed its tea ,
tures and- lines to find a trace of_ -sensibility.
songht the heart I so gladly wool,/ have touched.
Alas! 1 !mind it not , Eat I had so good a cause
that I was ;lot to bed discouraged. "Tslia‘r I
said to myself, " what matters the expression ot
theldcet why heed the external envelope? May
not the darkest coffer contain bright gold ? Must
ail that is within us reveal itself at a glance? Dces
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 Impossible to question Lady
Mary or Lord James ; the se; rants were French,
and ha,' lately come to the house. An English
valet-de-chambre had just been despatched to Lon
don on a confidential mission. I directed my in
vesuwations to Lord James Eysiagton. The severe
expression of his countenance ceased to intimidate
me. I said to myself; When the , forftaer 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 oppor
tunity.
To await an opportunity with impatience is to
accelera:e its coming: Instead of depending on cir
cumstances we subjugate them. One night Lord
James sent for me. He was in pain. After ad
ministering 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 bead of Lord James was thrown back upon
his pillow. His eyes were shut, according to his
custom when suffering, as if he xincentiated his
moral enem i es within him. He never complain
ed, but lay stretched out in his bed,—straight and
motionless as kings statue upon a , marble tomb:
In general he got somebody to read to tam, hoping
either to distract his thoughts from his pains, or to
be lulled to sleep by the monotonous sated.
Up,n that night he made sign to me with his
meagre hand to take a book and read, bull sought
one in vain; books and newspapers had all been
removed to the drawing-room; the doors were
locked, and unless I rang and wormed the house,
a book was not to be had. Lord James made a
gesture of impatience, then one of resonation, and
beckoned mom sesame my seat, by his side. We
remained for some time without speaking, almost
in darkness, the silence broken only by the ticking
of the dock. Seep came not. Suddenly Lord
antes opened his eyes.
"Speak to me,' he said. "Tell me something;
whatever you like."
His eyes closed., and be waited. My heart .brat
latently. The moment had come_
"My Lord," said I , " I greatly fear I know no&
ing 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 tieees
sary to fa your attention. What can a peasant
have to say, who hatTived contented with little, rr
obsemity 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 arrecoury house, which
I have known inhatited by rich people who reonkl
have lett nif they had 4 liked, but who remained,
bemuse the woods were thick, the paths burdened
with tkrarear, the streams bright and =Odin their
rocky beds. ' Alas! they were two in that besise—
and moon a poor woman was there aloes, rand the
binh of hereon. My lord, she is a ammywomark
Oro% as Eggliskimmisso, of beauty mods as is
seldom sees either in Engboid ar Frames; good
as, Weigle, beromdy this awls in btimmixams bat
See had jerteasorkied her eighenindiveaszirheit
I left her, fatherless ; motherless,- and already wid
owed of an adored husband; she is feeble, delicate,
almost in, and yet she mast live :—who would pro
tect that. little child ? Oh ! my lord, there are very
unhappy beings of this world ! To be enhany in
middle life or- oldage, is doubtlesasad, butitill you
have pleasant memories of the past to remind you
that yon have had yoor day, your share, your hap
piness ; 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 /mature. We
see a beggar by the road side suffering from cold
and hunger; and we give hisn alms r andlook spots
him without pain, because it is in our power to re
lieve him ; but this unhappy, broben-hearted wo
man, 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 fore young
luau her husband was!—hardly three-and-twenty;
a nofee countenance, a lofty btow-;--like you' own
intelligent and proud ;.• dark blue eyes, rather pen
sive, 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 be would have
smiled at his little child, had be 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 stor
my night, in the darkest forest, stretched upon the
wet earth, motionless, lifeless, his garments cover.
ed with mud, his temple shattered, blood escaping
in torrents from his wound. I saw—alas i saw
William—" -
gt you saw my son's death ! cried Lon} James,
raisins himself like a spectre in the midst of his
pillows, and fixing me with his eyes so. distended
and piercing, that I started back alarmed. Bat Lot
witstanding the darkness, I .thought I saw a tear
moisten the old man'tieye7liikt.
" 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 we. At last he made a move
ment; his trembling hand sought mine, pressed -it,
then his fingers relaxed their grasp, and he fell
back upon his bed. •
" Enough, sir, enough : I infer , I need, repose.
Leave me
I bowed and retired
Before I was out of the room, Lord bases had
relapsed into his habitual position; iritosilenee and
immobility.
I will not detail to you my numerous and re
spectful representations to Lord Jame., lEysington,
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 leas in= an heir to his name, triumph
ed over his bitter resentment. Three months after
the sceriel have described, rawaited, on the thresh
old of the house at Montpelier, the !arrival of Eva
Meredith and her son, summoned to their family.
and to the resumption of all their rights. It was a
primd and happy day for me.
Lady Mary, perfect Mistress of herself, bad con
cealed her' joy when family dissensions bad made
her son heir to her wealthy brother. Still better
did she conceal her rret and anger when Eva
Meredith ; or rather Eva Kysington, was reconciled
to her father-in r law. Nix a cloci appeared upon
Lacy Mary's marble forehead. But beneath this
external calm how many evil passions 'fomented I
When the carriage of Eva Meredith entered the
Court-yard of the house, I eras there to remise her.
Eva held out her harl—"Thanks, thanks my
friend!" the muixoured. She wiped the tears that
were trembling in her eyes, and. taking her boy,
now three years old, by the hand, she entered her
new abide. "1 am afraid r she said. She was
still the weak woman, broken by affliction, pale,
sad and beautiful, incredulous of earthly hopes, 191
firm in heavenly faith. I walked by her aide;
as the ascended the steps, her gentle countenance
bedewed with teats, her slender and feeble form
inclined toward the balustrade, her extended arms
assisted 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 aleiakkg gold
chain encircled her brow, which in truth of
those nu which a diadem sits. well. She
with an assured step, ber head high, her fall
of pride. Such was the firer meeting of the two
mothers.
. 4 You ate welcome, madam," said. Lady Mary,.
bowing to Eva Meredith.
Eva tried to mule, and answered by a f e w af•
fectimme words. How could she forebode hatted,
she who only knew love! We proceeded to Lord
James' room. Mrs. Meredith scarcely able Wimp.
port herself, entered first, too a Jew steps and knelt
beside her grand-huher's armchair. Taking her
child in her arms, she placed him on his grand
father's knee.
' " His sown she said. 4 Then the pow won=
wept and was silent.
Lon did Lord James gaged upon the child. As
he gradually recognized the features of the son be
had lost, his eyes became moist and. their erpres
skin affectionate. There came a morn", when
forvsuing his age, and lapse of time, and past tale.
fortune, he 'dreamed lumself back alto the hap
py day when be fisst premed his infant son as hia
beast ig William, William!" he nuannunei u•Sfy
dantiter added br, exunartug his hand to Eva
bleredi:h.
My eyes filled with . tan. Era bad a Lundy
protector, a tanume, I Was happy; pathaps, that
was why I lima.,
'Met Grt tai. £ Rtestoi.: vety wsa,'
says Mts. Dobbs, "fat the moist pgwes to keep
saying-don't get sin w Pte; bat ter ley pan,
when the nestranstriive Mr. D., goes. arbed with
Lis boots, I Mat & arm"
IM:at (4
NiXT WC/X.