As I rode on, memory was busy tracing where I had ever seen features like
his. The dark hair, that lay in uncombed curls upon his forehead, and
clustered warmly about his neck, as though in protection against the
bitter cold; his large, black eyes, with their long lashes; the
finely-chiselled outlines of his mouth and nose,--these all impressed me
that I had somewhere seen a face which strikingly resembled his. Poor boy!
beauty was his only possession.
At breakfast a letter was handed me, summoning me immediately to one of my
own children, who lay sick in a distant town. Before leaving I wrote a
hurried note to Mrs. T., stating the cause of my sudden departure,
desiring her to call another physician, during my absence. The young
girl's fate and the poor beggar boy's face were almost forgotten in my own
cares.
On the sixth day following, I again found myself at home. My first thought
was for poor Emily. I dreaded to ask; there was something whispering to my
heart that all was not well.
My suspense was not long; a messenger had just left, stating that the dear
girl was fast failing; that her physician had pronounced her laboring
under typhus fever. My God, how my heart sank under these words! I had
dreaded this mistake after I left. Alas! how many have fallen by the name
of a disease, and not by the disease itself!
After a hurried meal, I drove rapidly to Mr. T.'s residence. The house
door was quietly opened by a servant, and in another minute I stood in the
chamber of the invalid. The mantel was crowded with numerous vials. The
close atmosphere of the sick-room was sickening. By the bedside, with her
face bowed over one of the pale hands of the daughter, which she held in
both of her own, sat the wretched mother. It seemed to me as though ten
years had passed over her faded and care-worn countenance, since I last
gazed upon it. I could not stir; my heart stood still. _Her hair had
become entirely gray._
[Illustration: REMORSE.]
I gained heart to approach; the desolate mother heard me, and turning
quickly she sprang from her chair, and placing her hands on my shoulders,
she bowed her head: she sobbed wildly, as though her heart would break.
"Look, look, doctor! Would you have known her? O, my God, she is leaving
me! Save her--O, save her!" and the wretched mother fell fainting to the
floor. We gently raised and bore her to her own chamber. In a few moments
I returned to Emily. She turned her head languidly towards me, while her
right hand moved as if to take mine. How dry was the palm! Her color had
faded away; the once rounded cheeks were sunken. O, I will not describe
her!
The physician who had been called, after my departure, had found her with
high fever and delirium. He mistook the excitement of the brain for its
inflammation. O, fatal error! A consultation was called. The second comer
was notedly a man who viewed every excitement as caused by "an over-action
of the vessels," and bleeding was its only relief. The nervous system he
entirely ignored. From his theory, man was a mere combination of blood,
blood-vessels, and biliary secretions, more or less deranged. Calomel,
salts, and the lancet were his Hercules. The grand _causa mortis_ amongst
the human family was "serosity." Hence some evil-minded wag amongst his
brethren had named him "Old Serosity."
The poor child had been bled, cupped, and purged, in order to subdue this
"over-action of the blood-vessels." Verily it may cure the vessels, but it
certainly kills the patient.
The life current was nigh exhausted; there was no blood left for renewal
of brain, nerve, or vital tissue. My heart was bitter against this
murderous adherence to a false principle. Here a human life, that of a
young and spotless girl, was the forfeit.
But to return to the thread of the narrative.
"O, I am glad you have come back to me. Do try to save me, doctor," she
said, with great effort. Sending the nurse from the room, I quickly
pressed the young girl's hand within my own, and said to her,--
"Do you really wish to live, Emily?"
"Yes, yes," she murmured; "I am very young to die."
"Then, my dear, tell me truly what has so terribly shocked your nervous
system; tell me." With a strength that startled me, she searched under the
mattress side, and drew forth a small note, which she silently placed in
my hand. It was discolored by time. I opened it; the date was above twelve
years back. It ran thus:--
"When you receive this, Mira (Mrs. T.'s given name), my career will have
ended. By my death you will inherit all. Let my unborn child have its
just, legal claim. Your child, Emily, take to your home as though she were
an adopted orphan. Let not her youth be blighted by the knowledge of her
unblest birth. I forgive you. Adieu, forever. H. T."
"O my God, the doomed child is illegitimate," I said. I stooped down and
kissed the sufferer's forehead, and promised that I would be a father to
her. "Come, cheer up," I whispered, "for your mother's sake. If she has
sinned she has suffered much for your sake; forgive her."
"I do forgive her," she whispered, "but can I forget myself, unblessed as
I am? But I must know the whole truth. O, where is the right heir of all
this wealth? My memory returns now, indistinctly, to my earlier days. A
cloud intervenes. I remember but a small cottage, in a deep wood, where
mother often came to see me, and a tall woman took care of me. Then came a
gay carriage, and took me to a large house; but I never again returned to
the cottage in the wood. There, at the large house, mother left me a long
time; and when she came back--O, doctor, I can speak no longer. Do give me
something to strengthen me, and I will try yet to live."
A cordial was administered by my own hands, and in a short time sleep
overcame her. Night again closed in; the wind had sunk to rest with the
setting sun. Another night of bitter cold was ushered in. Woe to the poor!
Woe to the hungry and the fireless.
* * * * *
As I entered the mother's apartments I found her sitting by a private
secretary, which had been brought from the library. Its lid was open, and
as I seated myself she took from a package of tied letters a sealed paper,
and placing it in my hands, said,--
"Read this at your leisure, doctor. My pilgrimage of life is nigh ended.
You will judge how great my sin, and how severe has been my punishment. I
ask no forgiveness, _for there will be none left to forgive me_."
Well, I knew her heart was nigh crushed!
I sought the daughter's chamber. How still was everything! The very
candle, with its long flame, parted by the thickened wick-char, seemed not
to flicker, as it burned dimly on. I looked at the bed; the sweet girl lay
with both hands crossed upon her bosom, as though in prayer. An
orange-blossom had dropped from her grasp, and lay neglected by her side;
her life-hand never touched it more! Death had claimed his bride!
A wild shriek sounded through the house. The erring mother now knew that
she was alone in the great world.
Whilst the shrouding of the dead took place I retired and opened the
sealed package. It briefly told its tale of sin and sorrow.
It told how from the first love Emily was the fruit, and how, unknown to
all, the child had been secreted; how, about three years after Emily's
birth, the mother was married to Harold T., whom _she never loved_; and
how, by a singular accident, the knowledge of her transgression became
known to her husband; that, after violently cursing her for her sin and
deception, he left her, and shortly afterwards committed suicide; that
the letter (written by him just before his death), which was so fatal to
the peace and life of Emily, had accidentally dropped from the secretary,
and was picked up by her (that night after her return in the carriage),
unknown to the mother until the sixth day after my return, when she missed
it.
The narrative went on to state that a male child was born after T.'s
death, and that, seized with an insane fury, she resolved that he never
should inherit its father's name and wealth; and that, through the
assistance of a nurse, it was placed with a sum of money at a beggar's
door, and a dead child laid beside the mother instead; that before sending
the infant away, the nurse tattooed its father's initials on its left arm.
The beggar had died, and all traces of the child had been lost. At length
her guilty conscience so reproached her that the mother had instituted
search for the child, but all in vain.
As I read this tale of crime and repentance, busy memory traced out the
features of the _beggar boy_! Like a sudden light it burst upon me--those
features that had so tormented my memory to recall were those of the
unhappy mother.
Quickly I went to her room. She was not there. I hastened to Emily's. The
mother was wildly clasping the enshrouded form of her daughter, and
weeping as though her heart would break asunder. Gently removing her to
her own chamber, I intimated that another child, long lost, might yet be
restored to her.
She listened as one bewildered. I then informed her of my adventure with
the beggar boy.
It was hardly day-dawn as I entered the carriage. My breath froze against
the window panes. After a short ride the horses stopped before the
wretched snow-covered hovel (where he had seen the beggar child once
enter). I opened the carriage door, leaped out, and placed my hand on the
latch. The door opened. It was neither bolted nor locked; for no thief
would enter there. In the corner of the room lay a bundle of rugs, with
some straw, but it was unoccupied. Near the fireplace, where nought but a
little well-charred bark remained upon the cold ashes, half reclining in a
large wooden chair, lay the beggar boy.
[Illustration: THE LOST HEIR.]
His cap had fallen on the ground, and his dark, curling hair fell
clustering over his extended arm, as his head rested upon it. He had
seemingly fallen asleep the night before, for his thin summer clothes were
on his person, and his basket, yet filled with the fragments of broken
feasts, remained untouched at his feet. I placed my hand upon his
beautiful head; it was icy cold. Quickly brushing back the fallen ringlets
from his face, the unmistakable evidence of death met my gaze.
He had apparently fallen asleep weeping, for a tear-drop lay frozen
between the long lashes that fringed the eyelids.
I raised the stiffened body of the ill-fated youth, and tearing away the
thin sleeve from his left arm, I distinctly discovered the letters 'H. T.'
thereon.
Deserted, famished, and frozen, death had claimed the darling, lone boy
before he knew a mother's love!
This sad tale is taken from "_Scenes in Northern Practice by Dr. Dewees_,
N. Y."--_Scalpel_, 1855. (And like all the stories herein, it has the
merit of being true to the letter.)