Papa's own girl: A novel

by Marie Stevens Howland

The rich Buzzells in Oakdale had never recognized her existence except in a purely conventional way, and as they were only relatives of her husband, she felt perfectly justified in disposing of her property as she saw fit. She gave all her real estate in trust with “the firm of Dykes, Delano & Company, florists, for Minnie, daughter of Dan Forest and Susie Dykes.” “It is the best thing I can do for her,” she said, a day or two before she died, while caressing the child, who stood by the arm of “auntie’s” big chair. “It will make her independent, in a modest way; so if she chooses to enjoy the luxury of living an old maid, she can do so.”

“I sha’n’t be a ole maid,” said the young lady, replying to the first intelligible words of Mrs. Buzzell.

“I suppose not, dear. You’ll give some man the chance to break your heart. I only say you can if you wish,” said Mrs. Buzzell. Her furniture and personal property she gave to Susie, and to the firm, a present of one thousand dollars; and so, having set her “house in order,” as she said, leaving a kind message for Mrs. Forest, who had so long neglected her, and holding the hand of her well-beloved Dr. Forest, she dropped into her rest, apparently without a shadow of pain.

Some two months after this event, Dr. Forest was roused from his warm bed by a policeman, requesting him to go quickly to the station-house to see if he could revive an unfortunate, who had just been dragged from the icy river.

“Don’t wait for me,” said the doctor, coming to the head of the stairs in his night-gown. “Go back, and have her stripped and put into warm blankets. Lay her on her stomach and rub her till I come.”

The doctor found the rough functionaries at the police-station working over the patient as he had directed, their sympathies being more active from the fact that she was young, and evidently pretty; though not much beauty could be recognized in the deathly pallor, the half-closed eyelids, and the drenched and matted hair that clung to her face and neck. The men pronounced her dead. “I hope not,” said the doctor, hastily relieving himself of his overcoat and coming forward. “I think we may revive her,” he said, after pinching her flesh and watching intently for signs of circulation. He gave his orders quickly, and then commenced the slow and difficult process of discharging the water from the lungs and inflating them. To the squeamish, and to the unscientific, the operations of the doctor with this ghastly, limp subject, would have seemed unsightly; but no careful observer could have failed to admire Dr. Forest, seeing him thus professionally absorbed. He was excited, as you could see by the intense expression of his whole face, but commanding every muscle perfectly, never hesitating, never making a false or awkward motion, he continued his work for about forty minutes, though it would have seemed much longer to a mere spectator. One of these, the officer in charge, seeing no sign of life and becoming impatient with so much apparently useless effort, said in a low tone, “Oh, what is the use, doctor? Anybody can see she is dead.”

“My dear sir,” said the doctor, without looking up, “your opinion don’t amount to much in this instance. See! the color is coming; we have saved her!” None but the quick, well-trained eye of the doctor could see any change yet, however; but in a few minutes it was apparent to all. One of the men recognized the young girl as one he had seen at “old mother Torbit’s,” who was well known as the keeper of a disreputable house. “Poor little woman!” said the officer. “It’s questionable whether we’ve done her a favor. I think any very unhappy wretch has a right to seek a short cut out of his misery.”

“Suppose the short cut don’t get you out of the misery,” said another policeman, who was placing fresh bottles of hot water at the patient’s feet.

“The world has a right to our lives,” said the doctor. “We have scarcely a moral right to destroy ourselves, and certainly not while we are free from hideous and certainly mortal diseases.”

There was little to be done after respiration had been restored to the patient. In a few minutes she opened her eyes and drew the blankets higher over her breast. One of the officers was struck by this movement, and called the doctor’s attention to it, saying, “She has some modesty left. She can’t be wholly lost.”