“The curé has suffered our peasants to retain this touching superstition; and I myself, when Lord William came to see me, when he fixed upon me his eyes, so like his mother’s—when his voice, which had a well-known accent, said, as Mrs Meredith was wont to say, ‘Dear Doctor, I thank you!’ Then—smile, ladies, if you will—I wept, and I believed, like all the village, that Eva Meredith was before me.
“She, whose existence was but a long series of sorrows, has left behind her a sweet, consoling memory, which has nothing painful for those who loved her.
“In thinking of her we think of the mercy of God, and those who have hope in their hearts, hope with the greater confidence.
“But it is very late, ladies—your carriages are at the door. Pardon this long story: at my age it is difficult to be concise in speaking of the events of one’s youth. Forgive the old man for having made you smile when he arrived, and weep before he departed.”
These last words were spoken in the kindest and most paternal tone, whilst a half-smile glided across Dr Barnaby’s lips. All his auditors now crowded round him, eager to express their thanks. But Dr Barnaby got up, made straight for his riding-coat of brown taffety, which hung across a chair back, and, whilst one of the young men helped him to put it on—“Farewell, gentlemen; farewell, ladies,” said the village doctor. “My chaise is ready; it is dark, the road is bad; good-night: I must be gone.”
When Dr Barnaby was installed in his cabriolet of green wicker-work, and the little grey cob, tickled by the whip, was about to set off, Madame de Moncar stepped quickly forward, and leaning towards the doctor, whilst she placed one foot on the step of his vehicle, she said, in a low voice—
“Doctor, I make you a present of the white cottage, and I will have it fitted up as it was when you loved Eva Meredith!”
Then she ran back into the house. The carriages and the green chaise departed in different directions.