“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.