“‘Listen to me, madam,’ he said, ‘listen with courage. I will act frankly with you, and conceal nothing. I am old and ill, and must arrange my affairs. The task is painful both for you and for me. I will not refer to my anger at my son’s marriage; your misfortune disarmed me—I called you to my side, and I desired to behold 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 insure them an honourable existence; but, sole master of a fortune due to my own exertions, I adopt my nephew, and look upon him henceforward as my sole heir. I am about to return to London, whither my affairs call me. Come with me, madam—my house is yours—I 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 a noble pride: she raised her head, and her brow, less haughty than that of Lady Mary, wore all the dignity of misfortune.
“‘Go, my lord,’ she answered, ‘go; I shall not accompany you. I will not witness the usurpation of my son’s rights! You are in haste to condemn, my lord. Who can foresee the future! You are in haste to despair of the mercy of God!’
“‘The future,’ replied Lord James, ‘at my age, is bounded by the passing day. What I would be certain to do I must do at once and without delay.’
“‘Act as you think proper,’ replied Eva. ‘I return to the dwelling where I was happy with my husband. I return thither with your grandson, William Kysington; of that name, his sole inheritance, 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 my son!’
“A week later, Eva Meredith descended the stairs of the hotel, holding her son by the hand, as she had done when she had 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 only beings she knew upon the earth, the only persons 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?”
“I have not yet told you all,” replied the village doctor; “let me get to the end.
“Shortly after Eva Meredith’s departure, Lord James went to London. Once more my own master, I gave up all idea of further study; I had enough learning for my village, and in haste I returned thither. Once more I sat opposite to Eva in the little white house, as I had done two years before. But how greatly had intervening events increased her misfortune! We no longer dared talk of the future, that unknown moment of which we all have so great need, and without which our present joys appear too feeble, and our misfortunes too great.