Mr. and Mrs. Quintin had been married about three years when one day the former called on me, his face beaming with joy, and informed me that his fondest hopes were about to be realized, and that he would like me to call and consult with his wife. I was a little surprised at this intimation, as, from what I knew of Mrs. Quintin, I had fully made up my mind that she would never become a patient of mine; however, I was glad to hear that I had been mistaken, and so, when next in the neighborhood I waited on that lady and congratulated her on her improved prospects. To my great surprise she burst into tears, and confessed that she was not enceinte, or likely ever to become so; that her career in M——‘s store, and continued standing for hours together, had rendered her physically unable ever to become a mother. She added that her husband had so set his heart upon the one object (viz., the desire to have children), and had spent so much money for medicine and medical advice with a view to that end, that she could not bear him to think that all his efforts were unavailing, and her complaint having assumed a form to all outward appearances similar to pregnancy, she had permitted him to delude himself with the belief that the latter was the cause of her altered appearance, and that scientific skill had counteracted the effects of years of abuse.
I was greatly taken aback at this disclosure, but my surprise was as nothing compared to that in hearing the plot which the woman’s now diseased mind had concocted. She said she was going to bear reproach no longer (for, though her husband never murmured, at least in words, his friends and her neighbors were ever ready to deepen her sorrow and humiliation by taunting her with her impotency), and her eyes rolled in frenzy as she almost shouted: I MUST AND SHALL HAVE A CHILD’! Why am I prohibited from having what many do not know how to value? Many of them cast their treasures from them; shall I, frantic with despair, refuse to pick one up!
As she walked up and down the room in her fury, she looked like one demented. Her hands were clenched till the nails entered her flesh, her eyes rolled wildly, and, were I more easily frightened, I would have felt impelled to call for help. Gradually becoming cooler, Mrs. Quintin unfolded to me her plan for deceiving her husband, and, with a coolness that I would not have pardoned but for her evidently unhinged condition, actually requested me to assist her? She said she had been offered a child for adoption by a lady who was more guilty and unfeeling than herself, and that the person in question had promised to send her word when she was taken ill, so that she might send for me, and make her arrangements for the reception of the child, which was to be transported secretly into her bedroom.
I was so astonished that I was for a time unable to a speak. The deep plot itself, the proposition made to me to assist her, and the cool manner of the lady herself, fairly staggered me. At length, speaking as calmly as I could, I tried to convince Mrs. Quintin of the enormity of the crime she intended to commit, telling her that, if she wished to adopt a child, she would find it quite an easy matter to do so without taking any such course as she evidently intended; and, after arguing for some time, she seemed to yield a little to reason, and promised to do nothing rashly. She had already, however, committed herself to the first part of her programme, and told her husband a falsehood; how was she to undeceive him? I suggested that she should tell him on his return that she had been mistaken, and that on examination I had found nothing unusual the matter with her. This she positively refused to do, saying that her husband had so set his heart on this one object that, were his hopes suddenly dashed to the ground, he might do something desperate. She said she would break it to him gently, and, imploring me to say nothing to him of what had passed, she escorted me to the door, and, with tearful eyes, bade me farewell.
Several months elapsed, and I had, for the time, thought little of either Mr. and Mrs. Quintin, when one evening in glancing over the papers, my eye fell on the following announcement: “On the ——th inst., at —— Cadieux street the wife of R. Quintin of a daughter.” I let the paper drop as I gazed vacantly at the ceiling and tried to realize the whole affair. Undecided how to act, I mechanically put on my bonnet and cloak, and walked up Cadieux street, when, coming out of the house, I spied my friend, Dr. P——.
“Good evening, Doctor,” said I.
“Oh, good evening, Mrs. Schroeder. I have just been attending a patient of yours; it seems they were not at all prepared, and had not time to notify you. Indeed, I was late myself, as I did not arrive till some minutes after the child was born.”
Without saying a word I beckoned the Doctor aside, and made a sign that I wished to speak with him privately. He invited me to step into his carriage, and we drove in perfect silence to his residence in Beaver Hall Terrace. Alighting, he preceded me to his surgery, and closed the door; then, with a look full of meaning, he said:
“Well, what is there wrong here?”
“I said, Before I reply, will you permit me to ask you one or two questions.”