Eva opened her eyes, and raising herself with difficulty, rested on her elbow, leaned over toward the drink I presented, and took it; she then fell back on her pillow.
“I must wait till another life is separated from mine,” she murmured.
From that time Madame Meredith spoke no more, but she followed my prescriptions mechanically. Stretched on her bed of grief, she seemed to sleep eternally; but whenever, in my lowest tone, I said to her, “raise yourself and drink this,” she obeyed at the first word, which proved to me that the soul was ever awake in that body, and found no moment of forgetfulness or repose.
There was no one but myself to attend to William’s funeral. Nothing positive was ever known as to the cause of his death. The money that he was to have brought from the town was not found upon him; perhaps he had been robbed and assassinated; perhaps this money, given in notes, had fallen from his pocket at the time when his horse might have stumbled, and as they never thought of looking for it till some time afterward, it was not impossible that the rain had buried it in the muddy ground and wet grass. Some inquiries were instituted, but without result, and all search was soon given over.
I endeavored to learn from Eva Meredith if it was not necessary to write some letters to inform her family, or her husband’s, of what had taken place. It was difficult to obtain an answer from her; but I succeeded at last in finding out that I had only need to acquaint their agent with it, and he would do all that was requisite. I hoped, then, that from England at least some news would come to decide the future of this unfortunate young woman. But days passed on and no one on earth appeared to know that the widow of William Meredith was living in utter solitude in a poor country village. Soon after this, in order to recall Eva to the feeling of existence, I expressed a desire that she would rise. The next morning I found her risen, and dressed in black; she was but the ghost of the beautiful Eva Meredith. Her hair was parted over her pale forehead; she was seated near a window, and remained motionless as when she had been in bed.
And thus I passed long evenings near her. Each day I would accost her with words of condolence; but her only answer was a look of thanks, and then we sat still without speaking. I patiently waited for some opportunity to exchange a few thoughts with her; but my awkwardness and respect for her misfortune either could not find one, or if it occurred, let it pass by. By degrees I became accustomed to this absence of all conversation, to this reserve; and beside, what could I have said? It was of consequence she should feel that she was not absolutely alone in the world; and the support that was left her, humble though it might be, was still a consolation. I only visited her to say by my presence—I am here.
It was a strange episode in my life, and had a great influence on the rest of my destiny. Had I not evinced to you so much regret at the thought of the white house being torn down, I would quickly pass to the conclusion of this recital; but you wished to know why this house was to me a consecrated place. It is necessary, then, for me to tell you that which I thought and felt beneath its humble roof. Ladies, you will excuse some serious reflections; it does the young no harm to be made sad at times, for they have plenty of time before them to laugh and forget.
The son of a rich farmer, I had been sent to Paris to complete my studies. During the four years that I lived in that great city, I retained my awkwardness of manner, and my simplicity of style, but I had rapidly lost the ingenuousness of my sentiments. I returned to these mountains almost learned, but at the same time nearly incredulous as to every thing calculated to make us live happily beneath a thatched roof, surrounded by a family, with the prospect of the grave before us.
When Eva Meredith was happy, her felicity began to afford me useful lessons. “They deceived me there,” I said. “There are true hearts, then; there are souls as pure as these children. The pleasure of a moment is not every thing in this life of ours; there are feelings which do not expire with the year; we can love for a length of time, perhaps forever.”
And whilst I contemplated the love of William and Eva, I recovered my former artless peasant’s nature. I began to dream of a virtuous, sincere woman; one who was industrious, and would adorn my home by her diligence and solicitude. I saw myself proud of the sweet firmness of her countenance, disclosing the faithful and even austere wife. Certes, these were not my dreams at Paris, at the end of a boisterous evening passed with my comrades. But a terrible misfortune had fallen like a thunderbolt upon Eva Meredith, and this made me slower in understanding the great lessons each day unfolded to me.