“She has been very rich,” she said. “She is no other than the once famous actress, Miss Winsome, whom all theatre-goers went mad after some years since. Trouble, as well as penury, have brought her to the sorry pass you now see her in. She has told me that she had two beautiful children, both of whom died of typhoid fever, and that the first intimation which she had of their illness was the news of their death. The shock nearly killed her, and she has never been the same since. She has given me a box of papers to take care of for her. If she gets better I am to give her the little box back again. If she dies, I am to burn all the letters, but I am to see that a manuscript, which she calls her confession, is published. She says it will be a warning to others. But I really don’t know who will take it for publication.”
“If she dies, give it to me,” I said, eagerly. “You know who I am. I am about to publish some of my experiences, and I will insert this among them.”
The nurse very willingly agreed to this, and, after going to the patient’s bedside, to ascertain if I could do anything for her, I quitted the hospital. The poor soul made a most curious request in response to my invitation to tell me what she would like best.
“I shan’t live above a day or two,” she said, “but I would just like to taste champagne again before I die.”
I was not sure that it was quite the thing to do. But I promised her some champagne, and took her a little bottle the next morning. Alas! I was too late! Her spirit had left its earthly casement, and bodily longings or desires would trouble her no more. The end had come much more swiftly than had been expected. But it could hardly be regretted, since a prolongation of life would only have been a prolongation of suffering for one with her shattered hopes and constitution.
“She just went to sleep,” said the nurse, and but for the fact that she ceased murmuring the names of her children, of whom she seemed to be dreaming happily, we could hardly tell when she passed away.”
It was better so, I thought, as I left the hospital again with the little box which the nurse had handed over to me. And after reading the M.S. that had been spoken of, I was all the more glad that her end had been painless. Here is her story, and I pray my readers not to judge her too harshly.
“Had any one ever told my mother that her daughter would live to be the most talked of and the most courted woman in London, she would have scouted the prediction as one that was impossible of fulfilment.
“For were we not miserably poor and obscure? Did not my estimable parents cultivate the habit of moonlight flitting, in order to evade the landlord’s just demands? Had I not an uncle in prison for housebreaking? And was it not a fact that my progenitors had never been joined in the bonds of holy wedlock?
“All these things were only too true! But, fortunately, the world doesn’t inquire too closely into the antecedents of successful people.