Amelia Bertrand.
The information which this note conveyed struck Amelia with painful surprise; if Capt. Wilkinson was, indeed, the man to whom her mother had been married—and there seemed to be no reason to doubt it—how could he be her father? The poor girl sat wrapt in doubt and perplexity. If he was her father, she knew the duty which she owed to him—and she blessed God that at any risk she had been allowed to minister to his physical comforts, and, as she had reason to believe, to his spiritual aid; and she would renew her devotion to him. But what could she say of her mother’s conduct—her pure-hearted, her saintly mother? Is there shame on her name, too? Amelia arose up with firmness, and as she passed to the sick-chamber of her father, she said to herself, “I never knew her to say or do aught unbecoming a Christian lady; should not nearly twenty years experience teach me to trust to her purity and truth, rather than yield to doubt, which unexplained circumstances suggest. I will have faith in her who has never deceived nor has ever distrusted me. Misfortunes are around us—but may God shield us from shame!”
Captain Wilkinson soon passed through the worst stages of the loathsome disease, but he was still held to his bed by the broken limbs. One morning he missed his nurse, and on inquiry, learned that she was confined to her chamber with evident symptoms of the small-pox. This was most painful to him, as he felt that she had taken the disease by her attendance on him. “Am I destined,” said he, “to bring distress into every family I visit, and repay the hospitality of a stranger with misery, and perhaps death? If she should ever recover it is likely that the ravages of the disease will destroy the beauty of a face that made the loveliness of the mind so captivating. Could I roll back twenty years of my life, could I forget, or could heaven forgive the follies which have caused so much misery, surely this young woman would, however disease may mar her beauty, be to me all that I had desired in the charms of one I ruined and in the mental excellence of her I shamefully imposed upon. How like the two Amelias is she—the gentle manners of the first, the mental excellence of the second. How can I compensate her for the distress which my advent here has wrought? If my life and hers are spared that must be my study. Heaven helping me, I here dedicate the remainder of my existence and my wealth to compensate, as far as both will go, those who have suffered by me, and when the injured individuals cannot be found, may my efforts for the good of others be accepted instead of the direct compensation.”
“That is a Christian resolution,” said the physician, who had entered the room unnoticed by his patient. “And as I have heard your remarks by mere accident, will you allow me to express my congratulation at what I regard a much greater change in your mental than in your physical condition, though the latter is truly hopeful?”
“Where two such physicians as yourself and my late gentle, meek nurse are employed, we may hope for every thing of which the patient is capable; but let me add in truth, doctor, that skillful as you have shown yourself with my broken and bruised limbs, and my painful disease, I think Amelia has shown no less skill in dealing with an unbalanced mind and an untoward will.”
“But, captain, neither of us hope for much success without a blessing.”
“Ah! such an attendant as Amelia was in itself a blessing—she treated the wounds of my mind like those of my body, with perfect gentleness, but with the same direct application. But what will her aged mother say to the terrible consequences of her daughter’s kindness to me?”
“She will answer for herself, captain, as she is with us.”
The doctor then mentioned Mrs. Bertrand’s name, and Captain W. apologized for his inability to recognize her; his lameness prevented him from moving, and the room was darkened with reference to the weakness of the eyesight consequent upon the small-pox.
Mrs. B. seated herself by the bed-side, and the physician withdrew.