The Funny Side of Physic Part 47

His little teeth chattered, as he replied, "O, I am very--cold--sir."

The impatient horses plunged violently in the traces, and the coachman asked to be allowed to drive on. I gave the poor boy the few silver coins that were in my pocket, and we pa.s.sed on.

I never saw that boy but once again; his look haunts me to this day.

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 cl.u.s.tered 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 p.r.o.nounced her laboring under typhus fever. My G.o.d, 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 pa.s.sed 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._

[Ill.u.s.tration: 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 G.o.d, 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 G.o.d, 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 a.s.sistance 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 inst.i.tuted 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE LOST HEIR.]

His cap had fallen on the ground, and his dark, curling hair fell cl.u.s.tering 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 brus.h.i.+ng 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.)

THE TERRIBLE CALLER.

It was about half past nine in the morning.

My office door suddenly opened, and looking up from my writing, I saw, standing in the pa.s.sage-way, a very tall man, in a long white frock, reaching to his knees, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a slouched hat set back on his head, his face painted or bedaubed with some white substance, and his eyes gleaming upon me most intensely!

There he stood, looking almost fiercely upon me, while he held the door-k.n.o.b with his left hand, and grasped with his right a long carving-knife, which was thrust through his belt.

"Are you the doctor?" he shouted with excitement.