It was between four and five o'clock in the afternoon, when I called
again at the Allen House. An old colored servant, who had been in the
family ever since my remembrance--she went by the name of “Aunty”--was
standing by the gate as I alighted from my chaise.
“'Deed, massa, Ise glad you come,” said she in a troubled way.
“Why so, Aunty? No body very sick, I hope.”
“'Deed, an dar is den; else old Aunty don't know nothin'.”
“Who?”
“Why dat blessed young lady what drapped in among us, as if she'd come
right down from Heaven. I was jest a gwine to run down an' ax you to
come and see her right away.”
I did not linger to talk with “Aunty,” but went forward to the house.
The mother of Blanche met me at the door. She looked very anxious.
“How is your daughter now?” I asked.
“Not so well as when you saw her this morning,” she answered. Her voice
trembled.
“I would have called earlier, but have been visiting a patient several
miles away.”
“She has been lying in a kind of stupor ever since you were here. What
can it mean, Doctor?”
The mother looked intently in my face, and paused for an answer, with
her lips apart. But I knew as little as she what it meant. Ah! how often
do anxious friends question us, and hearken eagerly for our replies,
when the signs of disease are yet too indefinite for any clear
diagnosis!
“I can tell better after seeing your daughter,” said I. And we went up
to the sick girl's chamber; that north-west room, at the window of which
I had first seen the fair stranger, as I stood wondering in storm and
darkness. I found her lying in apparent sleep, and breathing heavily.
Her face was flushed; and I noticed the peculiar odor that usually
accompanies an eruptive fever.
“How do you feel now?” I asked.
She had opened her eyes as I took her hand. She did not answer, but
looked at me in a half bewildered way. Her skin was hot and the pulse
small, but tense and corded.
“Does your head ache?”
I wished to arouse her to external consciousness.
“Oh, it's you, Doctor.”
She recognized me and smiled faintly.
“How are you now?” I inquired.
“Not so well, I think, Doctor,” she answered. “My head aches worse than
it did; and I feel sick all over. I don't know what can ail me.”
“Have you any uneasiness, or sense of oppression in the stomach?” I
inquired.
“Oh, yes, Doctor.” She laid her hand upon her chest; and drew in a long
breath, as if trying to get relief.
“Have you felt as well as usual for a week, or ten days past?” I
inquired.
“No, Doctor.” It was the mother who answered my question. “And in order
that you may understand the case clearly, let me say, that it is only a
week since we arrived from England. We came over in a steamer, and were
fifteen days in making the trip. From Boston, we came here in our own
carriage. Before leaving home, Blanche went around to see a number of
poor cottagers in our neighbourhood, and there was sickness at several
of the places where she called. In one cottage, particularly, was a case
of low fever. I was troubled when I learned that she had been there, but
still hoped that her excellent state of health would repel anything
like contagion. During the first part of our voyage, she suffered
considerably from sea-sickness; but got along very well after that. If
it hadn't been for the unhappy scenes of the last few days, with their
painfully exciting consummation, I think she would have thrown off,
wholly, any lurking tendency to disease.”
I turned my face partly aside, so that its expression could not be seen.
The facts stated, and the symptoms as now presented, left me in little
doubt as to the nature of the malady against which I had to contend.
Even while her mother talked, my patient fell away into the stupor from
which I had aroused her.
My treatment of the case coincided with the practice of men eminent in
the school of medicine to which I then belonged. I am not a disciple
of that school now, having found a system of exacter science, and one
compassing more certain results with smaller risk and less waste of
physical energy.
In order to remove the uneasiness of which my patient complained, I gave
an emetic. Its action was salutary, causing a determination towards the
skin, and opening the pores, as well as relieving the oppression from
which she suffered.
“How is your head now?” I asked, after she had been quiet for some
minutes.
“Better. I feel scarcely any pain.”
“So far, all is right,” said I, cheerfully.
The mother looked at me with an anxious face. I arose, and we retired
from the room together. Before leaving, I spoke encouragingly to my
patient, and promised to see her early in the morning.
“My daughter is very sick, Doctor. What is the disease?” The mother
spoke calmly and firmly. “I am not one towards whom any concealments
need be practised; and it is meet that I should know the worst, that I
may do the best.”
“The disease, madam,” I replied, “has not yet put on all of its
distinctive signs. A fever--we call it the fever of incubation--is the
forerunner of several very different ailments, and, at the beginning,
the most accurate eye may fail to see what is beyond. In the present
case, however, I think that typhoid fever is indicated.”
I spoke as evenly as possible, and with as little apparent concern as
possible. But I saw the blood go instantly back from the mother's face.
“Typhoid fever!” she ejaculated, in a low voice, clasping her hands
together. I learned afterwards that she had cause to dread this
exhausting and often fatal disease. “Oh, Doctor! do for her as if she
were your own and only child.”
She grasped my arm, like one catching at a fleeting hope.
“As if she were my own and only child!” I repeated her words in promise
and assurance, adding--
“The first result of the medicine which I gave is just what I desired.
I will leave something more to be taken at intervals of two hours, until
midnight. In the morning, I hope to find a very encouraging change.”
“But, Doctor,” she replied, “if this is a case of typhoid fever, no hope
of any quick change for the better can be entertained. I am no stranger
to the fearful malady.”
“Attacks of all diseases,” I answered to this, “are more or less severe,
according to the nature of the predisposing and exciting causes. So
far as your daughter is concerned, I should think, from the very slight
opportunity I have had of forming an opinion in regard to her, that
she is not readily susceptible of morbific intrusions. Under an unusual
exposure to exciting causes, the balance of health has been overcome.
If my presumption is correct, we have the steady effort of nature, in
co-operation with remedial agencies, working towards a cure.”
“Do you think the attack light, or severe?” the mother asked, speaking
more calmly.
“Neither light nor severe; but of a character, judging from the first
impression made upon it, entirely controllable by medicines.”
This opinion gave her confidence. As I had spoken without any apparent
concealment, she evidently believed the case to stand exactly as I had
stated it. After leaving medicine to be taken, every two hours, for the
first part of the night, I went away.
In the morning, I found my patient in that comatose state, the usual
attendant upon typhoid fever. She aroused herself on my entrance, and
answered all questions clearly. She had no pain in the head, nor any
distressing symptoms. Her skin was soft and moist. All things looked
favorable. I gave, now, only gentle diaphoretics, and let the case
progress, watching it with the closest attention. In this, I followed my
usual course of treatment as to giving medicines. If I could produce a
reaction, or remove some obstruction, and give nature a chance, I did
not think it wise to keep on with drugs, which, from their general
poisonous qualities, make even well people sick--regarding the struggle
of life with disease as hazardous enough, without increasing the risk by
adding a new cause of disturbance, unless the need of its presence were
unmistakably indicated.
The course of this fever is always slow and exhausting. My patient sunk
steadily, day by day, while I continued to watch the case with more than
common anxiety. At the end of a week, she was feeble as an infant, and
lay, for the most part, in a state of coma. I visited her two or three
times every day, and had the thought of her almost constantly in my
mind. Her mother, nerved for the occasion, was calm, patient, and
untiring. The excitement which appeared on the occasion of my first
visits, when there was doubt as to the character of the disease, passed
away, and never showed itself again during her daughter's illness. I
saw, daily, deeper into her character, which more and more impressed
me with its simple grandeur, if I may use the word in this connection.
There was nothing trifling, mean, or unwomanly about her. Her mind
seemed to rest with a profoundly rational, and at the same time
child-like trust, in Providence. Fear did not unnerve her, nor anxiety
stay her hands in any thing. She met me, at every visit, with dignified
self-possession, and received my report of the case, each time, without
visible emotion. I had not attempted to deceive her in any thing from
the beginning; she had seen this, and the fact gave her confidence in
all my statements touching her daughter's condition.
At the end of a week, I commenced giving stimulants, selecting, as the
chief article, sound old Maderia wine. The effect was soon apparent,
in a firmer pulse and a quickened vitality. The lethargic condition in
which she had lain for most of the time since the commencement of the
attack, began to give way, and in a much shorter period than is
usually the case, in this disease, we had the unmistakable signs of
convalescence.
“Thank God, who, by means of your skill, has given me back my precious
child!” said the mother to me, one day, after Blanche was able to sit
up in bed. She took my hand and grasped it tightly. I saw that she was
deeply moved. I merely answered:
“With Him are the issues of life.”
“And I have tried to leave all with Him,” she said. “To be willing to
suffer even that loss, the bare thought of which makes me shudder. But I
am not equal to the trial, and in mercy He has spared me.”
“He is full of compassion, and gracious. He knows our strength, and will
not test it beyond the limits of endurance.”
“Doctor,” she said, a light coming into her face, “I have much to say to
you, but not now. I think you can understand me.”
I merely bowed.
“There is one thing,” she went on, “that I have liked in you from the
beginning. I am to you a total stranger, and my presence in this house
is a fact that must awaken many questions in your mind. Yet you have
shown no restless curiosity, have plied me with no leading questions,
have left me free to speak, or keep silence. There is a manly courtesy
about this that accords with my feelings.”
I bowed again, but did not venture upon mere words of compliment.
“I am not sure,” said she, “that my name even is known to you.”
“It is not,” I answered. “You have seemed to avoid any allusion thereto,
and delicacy forbade my asking.”
“There has been no purposed concealment. My name is Montgomery; and I am
sister to the late Captain Allen.”
“I had already inferred this relationship.” The remark evidently
surprised her.
“On what ground could you base such an inference?” she asked, curiously.
“On traditional ground. The history of this old mansion is familiar
to most persons in S----; and some of the incidents connected with the
family have too strong a tinge of romance about them to easily pass into
oblivion. It is well known to us that Captain Allen had an only sister.”
“What is it said became of her?”
“When she was about two years of age her mother carried her off,
sailing, as was believed, to England, of which country she was a
native.”
“Is the name of the child preserved in this tradition?”
“Yes. It was Flora.”
“My own name,” she said.
“And in person you are identical.”
“Yes. My mother's early life embraced some dreadful experiences. Her
father and mother, with two brothers and a younger sister, were all
murdered by pirates. She alone was spared, and afterwards became the
wife of a sea captain, who, I fear, was not a man innocent of blood.
On this point, however, my mother was reserved, almost silent. In the
course of time she grew so wretched, as the wife of this man, that
she sent a letter to England, addressed to some remembered relative,
imploring him to save her from a life that was worse than death. This
letter fell into the right hands. A cousin was sent out from England,
and she fled with him. No attempt, as far as we know, was ever made to
follow and regain her She did not live many years afterwards. I grew
up among my relatives, ignorant of her history. My memory of her is
distinct, though she died when I was but eight years old.
“I married, at the age of twenty-six, an officer in the British army,
one of the younger sons in a titled family, for whom no way in the
world is opened, except through the church or the battle-field. General
Montgomery chose the profession of a soldier, not from a love of its
exciting and fearful concomitants, but because he had no fancy for the
gown and cassock, and could not be a hypocrite in religion. He went
quite early to British India, and distinguished himself there by many
acts of bravery, as well as by his humane and honorable conduct. So
highly was he regarded by the East India Company, that he was
selected for most important services, and assigned to posts of great
responsibility. He was past thirty years of age when I met him, on the
occasion of one of his visits to England. The attraction was mutual;
and when he returned to Calcutta, I went with him as his wife. Then
came twenty years of a happy married life;--happy, I mean, so far as a
perfect union of souls can make us happy in this world, but miserable,
at times, through intense anxiety for the absent one exposed to fearful
perils.
“We had three children.” There was a tremor in the voice of Mrs.
Montgomery as she referred to her children. “One only remains.” She
paused, as if to recover herself, and then went on.
“I lost my husband first. Ten years ago, he fell at the post of duty,
and, while my heart lay crushed and bleeding under the terrible blow, it
leaped with throbbings of pride, as his honored name went sounding from
lip to lip, and from land to land. I had not the sad pleasure of being
with him in that last time. For the sake of our children, I was residing
in England.
“Troubles rarely come alone. Two years afterwards my oldest son died. My
home was in the family of General Montgomery, where I was treated with
great kindness; but as my income was not sufficient for an establishment
of my own, I felt a sense of obligation that is always oppressive to
one of my nature. This feeling grew upon me daily, and at last began to
haunt me like a constantly re-appearing spectre. It is now about
three years since, in looking over some old letters and papers, I came
unexpectedly upon a document written by my mother--all the evidence as
to this was clear--and addressed to myself. How it should have remained
so long unobserved, and yet in my possession, is one of the mysterious
things which I do not attempt to explain. There is a Providence in
all things, even to the most minute, and I simply refer the fact to
Providence, and leave it there. This document spoke briefly, but with
no special particularity, of her marriage with a Captain Allen, and
settlement in this town. It stated that she had two children, a son and
a daughter, and that in leaving America for England, she had taken her
daughter, but left the son behind. There was no suggestion as to the
use to be made of these facts; but there was such a statement of them as
left their verification, I thought, easy. I turned them over and over
in my mind, and in the end resolved to gain all accessible information
touching the present condition of things. To this end, I sent over
about two years ago, a man of prudence and intelligence, versed in legal
matters, with instructions to obtain all possible particulars in regard
to my brother, his family and estate. He brought back word that my
brother was dead; that he had left no children, and that his widow--if,
indeed, she were ever his legal wife, which seemed to be doubted--was
old, in poor health, and verging towards mental imbecility, if not
insanity. That there was a large and valuable estate, to which I, as
sister of Captain Allen, was undoubtedly the heir.
“I kept these things, for the time being, to myself, and pondered over
them in some perplexity as to the best course to take. But from these
thoughts, my mind was soon turned by the illness of my oldest daughter.
After a lingering sickness of many weeks, she died. It seemed almost
impossible to arouse myself from the stunning effects of this blow. It
crushed me down more than any previous sorrow, for it fell upon a heart
weakened by pain. It was many months before the discipline of this
affliction awakened me to thoughts of a higher life. Then I began to
rise into serener heights--to see as by an interior vision, to believe
that even our saddest things may fall upon us in mercy.
“Finally, circumstances of which I need not speak, made me resolve to
leave England, and under legal advice of the highest authority, take
quiet possession of this estate, which is mine.”
Mrs. Montgomery ceased speaking.
“Perhaps,” she resumed, after a moment, “it may be as well, all things
considered, that you do not speak of this for the present. I shall,
as soon as my daughter's full recovery gives me time to enter into the
subject, place my affairs in the hands of a safe legal agent, in order
that they may assume due form and order. You can, no doubt, refer me to
the right individual.”
“I can,” was my reply. “Judge Bigelow, of our town, is the man. I speak
of him with the utmost confidence.”
“Thank you, Doctor. You lay me under additional obligation,” she said.
“I will, at an early day consult him.”
Thus closed this deeply interesting interview.