About six weeks after my recovery from childbed, some affairs of importance called Mr Montague to London. Three days after he had quitted me, as, bending over the cradle of my babe, I contemplated in silence its tranquil slumbers, I was alarmed by an uncommon confusion in the lower part of the house. Hastening down stairs, to enquire into the cause, I was informed—that a gentleman, in passing through the town, had been thrown from his horse, that he was taken up senseless, and, as was customary in cases of accident, had been brought into our house, that he might receive assistance.
Mr Montague was from home, a young gentleman who resided with us, and assisted my husband in his profession, was also absent, visiting a patient. Having myself acquired some knowledge of surgery, I went immediately into the hall to give the necessary directions on the occasion. The gentleman was lying on the floor, without any signs of life. I desired the people to withdraw, who, crowding round with sincere, but useless sympathy, obstructed the circulation of air. Approaching the unfortunate man, I instantly recognised the well-known features, though much altered, wan and sunk, of Augustus Harley. Staggering a few paces backward—a death-like sickness overspread my heart—a crowd of confused and terrible emotions rushed through my mind.—But a momentary reflection recalled my scattered thoughts. Once before, I had saved from death an object so fatal to my repose. I exerted all my powers, his hair was clotted, and his face disfigured with blood; I ordered the servants to raise and carry him to an adjoining apartment, wherein was a large, low sopha, on which they laid him. Carefully washing the blood from the wound, I found he had received a dangerous contusion in his head, but that the scull, as I had at first apprehended, was not fractured. I cut the hair from the wounded part, and applied a proper bandage. I did more—no other assistance being at hand, I ventured to open a vein: the blood presently flowed freely, and he began to revive. I bathed his temples, and sprinkled the room with vinegar, opened the windows to let the air pass freely through, raised his head with the pillows of the sopha, and sprinkled his face and breast with cold water. I held his hand in mine—I felt the languid and wavering pulse quicken—I fixed my eyes upon his face—at that moment every thing else was forgotten, and my nerves seemed firmly braced by my exertions.
He at length opened his eyes, gazed upon me with a vacant look, and vainly attempted, for some time, to speak. At last, he uttered a few incoherent words, but I perceived his senses were wandering, and I conjectured, too truly, that his brain had received a concussion. He made an effort to rise, but sunk down again.
'Where am I,' said he, 'every object appears to me double.'
He shut his eyes, and remained silent. I mixed for him a cordial and composing medicine, and entreating him to take it, he once more raised himself, and looked up.—Our eyes met, his were wild and unsettled.
'That voice,'—said he, in a low tone, 'that countenance—Oh God! where am I?'
A strong, but transient, emotion passed over his features. With a trembling hand he seized and swallowed the medicine I had offered, and again relapsed into a kind of lethargic stupor. I then gave orders for a bed to be prepared, into which I had him conveyed. I darkened the room, and desired, that he might be kept perfectly quiet.
I retired to my apartment, my confinement was yet but recent, and I had not perfectly recovered my strength. Exhausted by the strong efforts I had made, and the stronger agitation of my mind, I sunk into a fainting fit, (to which I was by no means subject) and remained for some time in a state of perfect insensibility. On my recovery, I learnt that Mr Lucas, the assistant of my husband, had returned, and was in the chamber of the stranger; I sent for him on his quitting the apartment, and eagerly interrogated him respecting the state of the patient. He shook his head—I related to him the methods I had taken, and enquired whether I had erred? He smiled—
'You are an excellent surgeon,' said he, 'you acted very properly, but,' observing my pallid looks, 'I wish your little nursery may not suffer from your humanity'—
'I lay no claim,' replied I with emotion—'to extraordinary humanity—I would have done the same for the poorest of my fellow creatures—but this gentleman is an old acquaintance, a friend, whom, in the early periods of my life, I greatly respected.'