“‘Impossible!’ I cried. ‘We must go fast, perhaps far, and in your state—it would be risking your life, and that of your child—’
“‘I go with you!’ repeated Eva.
“Then did I feel how cruel was this poor woman’s isolation! Had a father, a mother been there, they would have ordered her to stay, they would have retained her by force; but she was alone upon the earth, and to all my hurried entreaties she still replied in a hollow voice: ‘I go with you!’
“We set out. The moon was again darkened by dense clouds; there was light neither in the heavens nor on the earth. The uncertain radiance of our torches barely showed us the path. A servant went in front, lowering his torch to the right and to the left, to illumine the ditches and bushes bordering the road. Behind him Mrs Meredith, the gardener, and myself, followed with our eyes the stream of light. From time to time we raised our voices and called Mr Meredith. After us a stifled sob murmured the name of William, as if a heart had reckoned on the instinct of love to hear its tears better than our shouts. We reached the forest. Rain began to fall, and the drops pattered upon the foliage with a mournful noise, as if everything around us wept. Eva’s thin dress was soon soaked with the cold flood. The water streamed from her hair over her face. She bruised her feet against the stones of the road, and repeatedly stumbled and fell upon her knees; but she rose again with the energy of despair, and pushed forwards. It was agonising to behold her. I scarcely dared look at her, lest I should see her fall dead before my eyes. At last—we were moving in silence, fatigued and discouraged—Mrs Meredith pushed us suddenly aside, sprang forward and plunged into the bushes. We followed her, and, upon raising the torches—alas! she was on her knees beside the body of William, who was stretched motionless upon the ground, his eyes glazed and his brow covered with blood which flowed from a wound in the left temple.
“‘Doctor?’ said Eva to me. That one word expressed—‘Does William live?’
“I stooped and felt the pulse of William Meredith; I placed my hand on his heart and remained silent. Eva still gazed at me; but, when my silence was prolonged, I saw her bend, waver, and then, without word or cry, fall senseless upon her husband’s corpse.
“But, ladies,” said Dr Barnaby, turning to his audience, “the sun shines again; you can go out now. Let us leave this sad story where it is.”
Madame de Moncar approached the old physician. “Doctor,” said she, “I implore you to continue; only look at us, and you will not doubt the interest with which we listen.”
There were no more smiles of mockery upon the young faces that surrounded the village doctor. In some of their eyes he might even distinguish the glistening of tears. He resumed his narrative.