The Little Bound-Boy

by Mary Roberts Rinehart

In a miserable old house, in Commerce street, north of Pratt streetBaltimore,--there are fine stores there now--lived a shoemaker,whose wife took a particular fancy to me as a doctor, (I never feltmuch flattered by the preference,) and would send for me whenevershe was sick. I could do no less than attend her ladyship. For atime I tried, by pretty heavy bills, to get rid of the honour; butit wouldn't do. Old Maxwell, the husband, grumbled terribly, butmanaged to keep out of my debt. He was the reputed master of hishouse; but I saw enough to satisfy me that if he were master, hiswife was mistress of the master.Maxwell had three or four apprentices, out of whom he managed to geta good deal of work at a small cost. Among these was a littlefellow, whose peculiarly delicate appearance often attracted myattention. He seemed out of place among the stout, vulgar-lookingboys, who stitched and hammered away from morning until night intheir master's dirty shop."Where did you get that child?" I asked of the shoemaker one day."Whom do you mean? Bill?""Yes, the little fellow you call Bill.""I took him out of pure charity. His mother died about a year and ahalf ago, and if I hadn't taken him in, he would have gone to thepoor house as like as not.""Who was his mother?""She was a poor woman, who sewed for the slopshops for a living--buttheir pay won't keep soul and body together.""And so she died?""Yes, she died, and I took her child out of pure charity, as I havesaid.""Is he bound to you?""Oh yes. I never take a boy without having him bound.""What was his mother's name?""I believe they called her Mrs. Miller.""Did you ever meet with her?""No: but my wife knew her very well. She was a strange kind ofwoman--feeling something above her condition, I should think. Shewas always low-spirited, my wife says, but never complained aboutany thing. Bill was her only child, and he used to go for her work,and carry it home when it was finished. She sent him out, too, tobuy every thing. I don't believe she would have stirred beyond herown door if she had starved to death.""Why not?""Pride, I reckon.""Pride? Why should she be proud?""Dear knows! Maybe she once belonged to the bettermost class ofpeople, and was afraid of meeting some of them in the street."This brief conversation awoke an interest in my mind for the lad. AsI left the shop, I met him at the door with a large bucket of waterin his hand--too heavy for his strength. I looked at him morenarrowly than I had ever done before. There was a feminine delicacyabout every feature of his face, unusual in boys who ordinarilybelong to the station he was filling. His eyes, too, had a softerexpression, and his brow was broader and fairer. The intentness withwhich I looked at him, caused him to look at me as intently. Whatthoughts were awakened in his mind I could not tell. I put my handupon his head, involuntarily; but did not speak to him; and thenpassed on. I could not help turning to take another glance at theboy. He had turned also. I saw that there were tears in his eyes."Poor fellow!" I murmured, "he is out of his place." I did, not goback to speak to him, as I wished afterward that I had done, butkept on my way.Not having occasion to visit the shoemaker's wife again for somemonths, this boy did not, during the time, fall under my notice. Itwas midwinter when I next saw him.I was preparing to go out one stormy morning in February, when a ladcame into my office. He was drenched to the skin by the rain, thatwas driving fiercely along under the pressure of a strongnortheaster, and shivering with cold. His teeth chattered so that itwas some time before he could make known his errand. I noticed thathe was clad in a much worn suit of common corduroy, the cracks inwhich, here and there, showed the red skin beneath, and provedclearly enough that this was all that protected him from the bittercold. One of his shoes gaped widely at the toe; and the other wasrun down at the heel so badly, that part of his foot and old raggedstocking touched the floor. A common sealskin cap, with the frontpart nearly torn off, was in his hand. He had removed this from hishead on entering, and stood, with his eyes now resting on mine, andnow dropping beneath my gaze, waiting for me to ask his errand. Idid not recognise him."Well, my little man," I said, "is any one sick?""Please sir, Mr. Maxwell wants you to come down and see Johnny.""Mr. Maxwell! Do you live with Mr. Maxwell?""Yes, sir."I now recognized the lad. He was a good deal changed since I lastsaw him, and changed for the worse."What is the matter with Johnny?" I asked."I believe he's got the croup.""Indeed! Is he very sick?""Yes, sir. He can't hardly breathe at all, and goes all the timejust so--" Imitating the wheezing sound attendant upon constrictedrespiration."Very well, my boy, I will be there in a little while, But, blessme! you will get the croup as well as Johnny, if you go out in suchweather as this and have on no warmer clothing than covers you now.Come up to the stove and warm yourself--you are shivering all over.Why did not you bring an umbrella?""Mr. Maxwell never lets me take the umbreller," said the boyinnocently."He doesn't? But he sends you out in the rain?""Oh yes--always. Sometimes I am wet all day.""Doesn't it make you sick?""I feel bad, and ache all over sometimes after I have been wet; andsometimes my face swells up and pains me so I can't sleep.""Do not your feet get very cold? Have you no better shoes thanthese?""I've got a better pair of shoes: but they hurt my feet so I can'twear them. Thomas, one of the boys, gave me these old ones.""Why do they hurt your feet? Are they too small?""No, sir, I don't think they are. But my feet are sore."I feared as much as this. "What is the matter with your feet?" Iasked."I don't know, sir. The boys say that nothing's the matter withthem, only they're a little snow-burnt.""How do they feel?""They burn and itch, and are so tender I can hardly touch them. Ican't sleep at nights sometimes for the burning and itching."I examined the boy's feet, and found them red, shining and tumefied,with other indications of a severe attack of chilblains."What have you done for your feet?" I asked. "Does Mr. Maxwell knowthey are so bad?""I showed them to him, and he said it was only a snow-burn, and thatI must put my feet in snow and let it draw the cold out.""Did you do so?""Yes, sir, as long as I could bear it; but it hurt dreadful bad. Mr.Maxwell said I didn't keep them in half long enough.""Were they better afterward?""Yes, sir, I think they were; but I go out so much in the snow, andget them wet so often, that they can't get well.""What is your name?" I asked."William.""What else?""William Miller.""Is your mother alive?"The tone and manner of the boy, when he gave a half inarticulatenegative, made me regret having asked the question. It was aneedless one, for already knew that his mother was dead. It wasmeant, however, as a preliminary inquiry, and, having been made, Iproceeded to question him, in order to learn something, briefly, ofhis history."Were you born in Baltimore?" I continued."Yes, sir.""Have you any relatives here?""Mr. P----W----is my uncle.""Mr. W----?" I said, in surprise."Yes, sir--mother said he was my uncle.""Is he your mother's brother?""Yes, sir.""Did he ever come to see your mother?""No, sir, he never came near us, and mother never went to see him.""What was the reason?""I don't know, sir."The child continued to look intently in my face, but I questionedhim no further. I knew Mr. W----very well, and settled it at once inmy mind that I would call and see him about the lad. I stood musingfor some moments after the boy's last reply, and then said--"Tell Mr. Maxwell, that I will call down in about half an hour: Runhome as quickly as you can, and try and keep out of the rain."The sad, rebuking earnestness with which the boy looked at me, whenI said this, touched my feelings. He had, evidently, expected morethan a mere expression of sympathy; but I did not think it right tocreate any false hopes in his mind. I meant to do all I could torelieve his wretched condition; but did not know how far I would besuccessful.I found, on visiting the child of Maxwell, that I had quite a severecase of croup on my hands. His respiration was very difficult, andsounded as if the air were forced through a metallic tube. There wasa good deal of fever, and other unfavourable symptoms. Thealbuminous secretion was large, and the formation of the falsemembrane so rapid as to threaten suffocation. I resorted to theusual treatment in such cases, and, happily, succeeded in producinga healthy change in the course of a few hours. So urgent had beenthe case, that, in attending to it, my mind had lost sight of thelittle boy on my first and second visits. As I was leaving the houseon the morning succeeding the day on which I had been called in, Imet him coming along the passage with an armful of wood. The look hegave me, as he passed, rebuked my forgetfulness, and forced me toturn back and speak to his master."Look here, Maxwell," I said, speaking decidedly, but in a voice solow that my words could not be heard distinctly by others in theroom--"you must take better care of that boy Bill, or you will getinto trouble.""How so, doctor? I am not aware that I ill-treat him," returned theshoemaker, looking up with surprise."He is not clothed warmly enough for such weather as this.""You must be mistaken. He has never complained of not feeling warm."I took hold of Maxwell's pantaloons. They were made of coarse, thickcloth, and I perceived that there were thick woollen drawers underthem."Take off these heavy trowsers and drawers," said I, and in place ofthem put on a pair of half-worn corduroy pantaloons, "and go out ofdoors and stand in the rain until you are drenched to the skin. Theexperiment will enable you to decide for yourself whether Bill iswarmly enough clad."I spoke with earnestness. Either my manner, or what I said, produceda strong effect upon the shoemaker. I could see that I had offendedhim, and that he was struggling to keep down a feeling of anger thatwas ready to pour itself forth upon me for having presumed to remarkupon and interfere with his business."Understand me," said I, wishing to prevent the threatened outbreakof passion, "I speak as a physician, and my duty as a physicianrequires me to do so. The knowledge of, and the experience indiseases, which I possess, enable me to understand better than othermen the causes that produce them, and to give, as I should give, tothe unthinking, a warning of danger. And this I give to you now.""All very well, doctor," returned Maxwell, "if you don't raise falsealarms.""Do you think I have done so in the present case?""I don't think any thing about it. I know you have.""Then you think the lad warmly enough clothed?""If I did not think so, I would dress him more warmly.""You have on three times the thickness of clothing that he has." Ifixed my eyes intently on the man as I spoke."And his blood is three times as warm as mine. I need not tell youthat, doctor.""How do you know?""How do I know?" speaking contemptuously--"does not everybody knowthat?""How hot do you suppose your blood is?""I don't know.""Let us suppose it to be eighty degrees. Three times eighty would betwo hundred and forty. Water boils at two hundred and twelve. If itbe indeed true that the lad's blood is above the boiling-point, Imust agree with you that his clothes are quite sufficient to keepout the cold at any season.""You understand me well enough, doctor," replied Maxwell, exhibitinga good deal of confusion. "I mean that a boy's blood is much warmerthan a man's, which, with his greater activity, causes him to beless affected by cold. I have seen a good deal of boys, and havebeen a boy myself, and know all about it.""Generally speaking, what you affirm about the greater warmth ofyoung persons is true," I said to this. "But there are manyexceptions. It is true, where there is good health, good spirits,plenty of good food, and activity. But it is not true where theseare lacking. Nor is it true in any case to the extent you seem toimagine. Particularly is it not true in the case of the boy aboutwhom we are conversing.""Why not in his case, doctor? I can see no reason.""He has not the vital activity of most boys of his age, andconsequently not the warmth of body. His face is pale and thin, andhis limbs have not the fulness of youth. He has no activity in hismovements.""Because he is a lazy fellow," replied the shoemaker, knitting hisbrows. "He wants the strap two or three times a day; that would makehis blood circulate freely enough.""Brutal wretch!" I could hardly keep from exclaiming. But for theboy's sake I put a curb upon my feelings."In doing so," I quietly replied, "you would be guilty of sadcruelty and injustice. The lad can no more help what you calllaziness, than you could help being born with gray eyes. It hisnatural bodily temperament. He has not the robust constitution wesee in most boys; and this is his misfortune, not his fault."Maxwell replied to this by pushing out his lips, drawing up hischin, half closing his eyes, and nodding his head in a verycontemptuous manner; saying almost as plainly as words could expressit--"All gammon, doctor! You needn't try to come over me with thatkind of nonsense."Satisfied that it would be useless to say any thing more upon thesubject at that time, I turned away, remarking as I did so--"If you are not influenced by my advice in this matter, you maychance to feel more potent reasons. A word to the wise issufficient."The shoemaker made no reply, and we parted. My first impression wasto go immediately to Mr. W----and apprize him of the condition ofhis nephew. But a little reflection convinced me that it would bemuch better to make some previous inquiries in regard to his family,and endeavour to ascertain the reason of his estrangement from hissister. I would then be able to act with more certainty of success.I soon obtained all the information I desired. The history was animpressive one. I will give it as briefly as possible.Anna W----, at the age of twenty, was esteemed and beloved by allwho knew her. Her family was one of wealth and standing, and shemoved in our first circles. She had but one brother, to whom she wastenderly attached. Philip was her elder by some years. Among themany who sought the regard of Anna, was a young man named Miller,who had been for years the intimate friend of her brother. Extremelyfond of his sister, and highly valuing his friend for his manyestimable qualities, Philip was more than gratified when he sawevidences of attachment springing up between them.Besides Miller, Anna had another suitor, a young man namedWestfield, who had become quite intimate with her, but who had madeno open declaration of love before Miller came forward and offeredfor her hand. Westfield loved Anna passionately, but hesitated todeclare his feelings, long after he had come to the conclusion thatwithout her for his companion through life, existence would beundesirable. This arose from the fact of his not being certain inregard to the maiden's sentiments, Anna was always kind, butreserved. She was, he could see, ever pleased to meet him; but howfar this pleasure was the same that she experienced in meeting otherfriends, he could not tell. While thus hesitating, business requiredhim to go to New Orleans, and spend some months there. Beforeleaving he called three several times upon Miss W----, with theintention of making known his sentiments, but each time shrank fromthe avowal, and finally resolved that he would make the declarationin writing immediately on his arrival at New Orleans. With thisobject in view, he asked her if she were willing to correspond withhim. Anna hesitated a moment or two before replying, and thenassented with a blushing cheek.For some months before this, Miller had shown more than his usualattentions to the sister of his friend; and these had beensufficiently marked to attract Anna's notice. He was a man ofintelligence, fine attainments, honourable sentiments, and of goodpersonal appearance. To his attractions the maiden was by no meansinsensible. But Westfield had a prior claim upon her heart--sheadmired the former, but loved the latter unacknowledged to herself.Immediately on his arrival at New Orleans, Westfield wrote to Anna,but did not speak of the true nature of his feelings. The lettertouched upon all subjects but the one nearest to his heart. Annareplied to it briefly, and with evident reserve. This threw such adamper upon the young man, that he did not write again for nearlytwo months, and then not with the warmth and freedom that haddistinguished his first letter.Meantime, Miller grew more and more constant in his attentions toAnna: To second these attentions, Philip W----frequently alluded tohis friend in terms of admiration. Gradually Anna became interestedin the young man, and pleased whenever he made her a visit. WhenWestfield asked the privilege of opening a correspondence with her,she believed, from many corroborating circumstances, that hedesigned formally addressing her, and that the correspondence wouldlead to that result. But as his letters, with the lapse of time,grew less and less frequent, and more constrained and formal, shewas led to form a different opinion. During all this time Miller'sattentions increased, and Anna's feelings became more and moreinterested. Finally, an offer of marriage was made, and, after duereflection accepted. Three days afterward Miss W----received thefollowing letter:--"NEW ORLEANS, June.8th, 18--."MY DEAR ANNA,"A letter from an intimate and mutual friend prompts me at once toopen to you my whole heart. For many months--nay, for more than ayear--I have loved you with an ardour that has made your image everpresent with me, sleeping or waking. Often and often have I resolvedto declare this sentiment, but a foolish weakness has hitherto keptme silent; and now the danger of losing you constrains me to speakout as abruptly as freely. When I asked the privilege of opening acorrespondence with you, it was that I might, in my very firstepistle, say what I am now saying; but the same weakness andhesitation remained. Many times I wrote all I wished to say, foldedand sealed the letter, and--cast it into the flames. I had not thecourage to send it. Foolish weakness! I tremble to think of theconsequences that may follow. Dear Anna!--I will thus address youuntil you forbid the tender familiarity, and bid my yearning heartdespair--Dear Anna! write me at once and let me know my fate. Do notwait for a second post. Until I hear from you I shall be the mostunhappy of mortals. If your heart is still free--if no promise toanother has passed your lips, let me urge my suit by all thetenderest, holiest, and purest, considerations. No one can love youwith a fervour and devotion surpassing mine; no heart can beatresponsive to your own more surely than mine; no one can cherish youin his heart of hearts, until life shall cease, more tenderly than Iwill cherish you. But I will write no more. Why need I? I shallcount the days and hours until your answer come."Yours, in life and death,"H. WESTFIELD."Tears gushed from the eyes of Anna W----, as she read the last lineof this unlooked for epistle, her whole frame trembled, and herheart beat heavily in her bosom. It was a long time before she wassufficiently composed to answer the letter. When she did answer, itwas, briefly, thus--"BALTIMORE, June 28, 18--."MR. H. WESTFIELD."Dear Sir:--Had your letter of the 18th, come a week earlier, myanswer might have been different. Now I can only bid you forget me."Yours, &c.ANNA.""Forget you?" was the answer received to this. "Forget you? Bid meforget myself! No, I can never forget you. A week!--a week earlier?Why should a single week fix our fates for ever. You are notmarried. That I learn from my friend. It need not, then, be toolate. If you love me, as I infer from your letter, throw yourselfupon the magnanimity of the man to whom you are betrothed, and hewill release you from your engagement. I know him. He isgenerous-minded, and proud. Tell him he has not and cannot have yourwhole heart. That will be enough. He will bid you be free."The reply of Anna was in these few words. "Henry Westfield; it istoo late. Do not write to me again. I cannot listen to such languageas you use to me without dishonour."This half-maddened the young man. He wrote several times urging Annaby every consideration he could name to break her engagement withMiller. But she laid his letters aside unanswered.An early day for the marriage was named. The stay of Westfield atthe South was prolonged several months beyond the time at firstdetermined upon. He returned to Baltimore a month after the proposedunion of Anna with Miller had been consummated.Although induced, from the blinding ardency of his feelings, to urgeAnna to break the engagement she had formed, this did not arise fromany want of regard in his mind to the sacredness of the marriagerelation. So suddenly had the intelligence of her contract withMiller come upon him, coupled with the admission that if hisproposal had come a week earlier it might have been accepted, thatfor a time his mind did not act with its usual clearness. But, whenthe marriage of her he so idolized took place, Westfield, as a manof high moral sense, gave up all hope, and endeavoured to banishfrom his heart the image of one who had been so dearly beloved. Onhis return to Baltimore, he did not attempt to renew hisacquaintance with Anna. This he deemed imprudent, as well as wrong.But, as their circle of acquaintance was the same, and as thehusband and brother of Anna were his friends, it was impossible forhim long to be in the city without meeting, her. They met a fewweeks after his return, at the house of a friend who had a largecompany. Westfield saw Anna at the opposite side of one of theparlours soon after he came in. The question of leaving the housecame up and was some time debated. This he finally determined not todo, for several reasons. He could not always avoid her; and theattempt to do so would only make matters worse, for it would attractattention and occasion remarks. But, although he remained with thecompany, he preferred keeping as distant as possible from Anna. Hisfeelings were yet too strong. To meet her calmly was impossible, andto meet her in any other way, would, he felt, be wrong. While hethus thought and felt, the husband of Anna touched him on the armand said--"Come! I must introduce you to my wife. You were one of her oldfriends, but have not once called upon her since your return fromthe South. She complains of your neglect, and, I think, justly.Come!"Westfield could not hesitate. There was no retreat. In a space oftime shorter than it takes to write this sentence, he was standingbefore the young bride, struggling manfully for the mastery overhimself. This was only partial--not complete. Anna, on the contrary,exhibited very few, if any signs of disturbance. She received himwith a warm, frank, cordial manner, that soon made him feel atease--it caused a pleasant glow in his bosom. As soon as they hadfairly entered into conversation, the young husband left them. Hispresence had caused Westfield to experience some restraint; thisgave way as soon as he withdrew to another part of the room, and hefelt that no eye but an indifferent one was upon him. An hour passedlike a minute. When supper was announced, Westfield offered his armto conduct Anna to the refreshment room. She looked around for herhusband, and, not seeing him, accepted. the attention. Just as theywere about leaving the parlour, Miller came up, and Westfieldoffered to resign his wife to his care, but he politely declinedtaking her from his arm. At supper, the husband and the former loverseemed to vie with each other in their attention to Anna, who neverfelt happier in her life. Why she experienced more pleasurablefeelings than usual, she did not pause to inquire. She was consciousof being happy, and that was all.From that time, Westfield became a regular visiter at the house ofMr. Miller, with whom he was now more intimate than before. He cameand went without ceremony, and frequently spent hours with Annawhile her husband was away. This intimacy continued for two or threeyears without attracting any attention from the social gossips whoinfest every circle."It is high time you were married."Or--"Westfield, why don't you go more into company?"Or--"I really believe you are in love with Mrs. Miller."Were laughing remarks often made by his friends, to which he alwaysmade some laughing answer; but no one dreamed of thinking hisintimacy with Anna an improper one. He was looked upon as a warmfriend of both her husband and herself, and inclined to be somethingof an "old bachelor." If she were seen at the theatre, or on thestreet, with Westfield, it was looked upon almost as much a matterof course as if she were with her husband. It is but fair to state,that the fact of his ever having been an avowed lover was not known,except to a very few. He had kept his own secret, and so had theobject of his misplaced affection.No suspicion had ever crossed the generous mind of Miller, althoughthere were times when he felt that his friend was in the way, andwished that his visits might be less frequent and shorter. But suchfeelings were of rare occurrence. One day, about three years afterhis marriage, a friend said to him, half in jest, and half inearnest--"Miller, a'n't you jealous of Westfield?""Oh yes--very jealous," he returned, in mock seriousness."I don't think I would like my wife's old flame to be quite asintimate with her as Westfield is with your wife.""Perhaps I would be a little jealous if I believed him to be an oldflame.""Don't you know it?"The tone and look that accompanied this question, more than thequestion itself, produced an instant revulsion in Miller's feelings."No, I do not know it!" he replied, emphatically--"Do you knowit?"Conscious that he had gone too far, the friend hesitated, andappeared confused."Why have you spoken to me in the way that you have done? Are youjesting or in earnest?"Miller's face was pale, and his lip quivered as he said this."Seriously, my friend," replied the other, "if you do not know thatWestfield was a suitor to your wife, and only made known his love toher after you had offered her your hand, it is time that you didknow it. I thought you were aware of this.""No, I never dreamed of such a thing. Surely it cannot be true.""I know it to be true, for I was in correspondence with Westfield,and was fully aware of his sentiments. Your marriage almost set himbeside himself."As soon as Miller could get away from the individual who gave himthis startling information, he turned his steps homeward. He did notask himself why he did so. In fact, there was no purpose in hismind. He felt wretched beyond description. The information justconveyed, awakened the most dreadful suspicions, that would notyield to any effort his generous feelings made to banish them.On arriving at home, (it was five o'clock in the afternoon,) hefound that his wife had gone out; and further learned that Westfieldhad called for her in a carriage, and that they had ridden outtogether. This information did not, in the least, tend to quiet theuneasiness he felt.Going up into the chambers, he noticed many evidences of Anna'shaving dressed, herself to go out, in haste. The door of thewardrobe stood open, and also one of her drawers, with her bunch ofkeys lying upon the bureau. The dress she had on when he left her atdinner-time, had been changed for another, and, instead of beinghung up, was thrown across a chair.The drawer that stood open was her private drawer, in which she keptall her trinkets, and little matters particularly her own. Itscontents her husband had never seen, and had never desired to see.Now, however, something more than mere curiosity prompted him tolook somewhat narrowly into its contents. In one corner of thisdrawer he found a small casket, beautifully inlaid, that had neverbefore come under his notice. Its workmanship was costly andexquisite. He lifted it and examined it carefully, and then takingthe bunch of keys that lay before him, tried the smallest in thelock. The lid flew open. A few letters, and a small braid of hair,were its only contents. These letters were addressed to her underher maiden name. The husband was about unfolding one of them, whenhe let it fall suddenly into the casket, saying, as he did so--"No, no! I have no right to read these letters. They were notaddressed to my wife." With an effort he closed the drawer andforced himself from the room. But the fact that Westfield had been asuitor for the hand of Anna, and was now on terms of the closestintimacy with her, coming up vividly in his mind, he came, aftersome reflection, to the firm conclusion that he ought to know thecontents of letters treasured so carefully--letters that he hadevery reason now to believe were from Westfield. Their post-mark hehad noticed. They were from New Orleans.After again hesitating and debating the question for some time, hefinally determined to know their contents. He read them over andover again, each sentence almost maddening him. They were fromWestfield. The reader already knows their contents. From theirappearance, it was evident that they had been read over very manytimes; one of them bore traces of tears. For some time the feelingsof Miller were in a state of wild excitement. While this continued,had his wife or Westfield appeared, he would have been tempted tocommit some desperate act. But this state gradually gave way to amore sober one. The letters were replaced carefully, the casketlocked, and every thing restored to its former appearance. Thehusband then sat down to reflect, as calmly as was in his power,upon the aspect of affairs. The more he thought, the more closely hecompared the sentiments of the letters so carefully treasured withthe subsequent. familiarity of his wife with Westfield, the moresatisfied was he that he had been deeply and irreparablywronged--wronged in a way for which there was no atonement.As this conviction fully formed itself in his mind, the question ofwhat he should do came up for immediate decision. He had one child,about eighteen months old, around whom his tenderest affections hadentwined themselves; but when he remembered that his friend'sintimacy with his wife had run almost parallel with their marriage,a harrowing suspicion crossed his mind, and made his heart turn fromthe form of beauty and innocence it had loved so purely.The final conclusion of the agonized husband was to abandon his wifeat once, taking with him the corroborating evidence of herunfaithfulness. He returned to her private drawer, and taking fromit the letters of Westfield and the braid of hair, placed them inhis pocket. He then packed his clothes and private papers in atrunk, which he ordered to be sent to Gadsby's Hotel. Half an hour,before his wife's return, he had abandoned her for ever.When Mrs. Miller came home, it was as late as tea-time. She wasaccompanied by Westfield, who came into the house with his usualfamiliarity, intending to share with the family in their eveningmeal, and enjoy a social hour afterward.Finding that her husband was not in the parlour--it was past theusual hour of his return--nor anywhere in the house, Mrs. Millerinquired if he had not been home."Oh yes, ma'am," said the servant to whom she spoke, "he came homemore than two hours ago.""Did he go out again?" she asked, without suspicion of any thingbeing wrong."Yes, ma'am. He went up-stairs and stayed a good while, and thencame down and told Ben to take his trunk to Gadsby's."The face of Mrs. Miller blanched in an instant. She turned quicklyaway and ran up to her chamber. Her drawer, which she had notnoticed before, stood open. She eagerly seized her precious casket;this, too, was open, and the contents gone! Strength andconsciousness remained long enough for her to reach the bed, uponwhich she fell, fainting.When the life-blood once more flowed through her veins, and she wassufficiently restored to see what was passing around her, she foundthe servants and Westfield standing by her bedside. The latterlooked anxiously into her face. She motioned him to come near. As hebent his ear low toward her face, she whispered--"Leave me. You must never again visit this house, nor appear to beon terms of intimacy with me.""Why?""Go, Mr. Westfield. Let what I have said suffice. Neither of us haveacted with the prudence that should have governed our conduct, allthings considered. Go at once! In time you will know enough, andmore than enough."Westfield still hesitated, but Mrs. Miller motioned him away with animperative manner; he then withdrew, looking earnestly back at everystep.A glass of wine and water was ordered by Anna, after drinking which,she arose from the bed, and desired all her domestics to leave theroom.Meantime, her husband was suffering the most poignant anguish ofmind. On retiring to a hotel, he sent for the brother of his wife,and to him submitted the letters he had taken from Anna's casket.After they had been hurriedly perused, he said--"You know the intimacy of Westfield with Anna. Put that factalongside of these letters and their careful preservation, and whatis your conclusion?""Accursed villain!" exclaimed W----, grinding his teeth and stampingupon the floor, his anger completely overmastering him. "His lifeshall pay the price of my sister's dishonour. Madness!""You think, then, as I do," said the husband, with forced calmness,"that confidence, nay, every thing sacred and holy, has beenviolated?""Can I doubt? If these were his sentiments," (holding up the lettersof Westfield,) "before my sister's marriage, can they have changedimmediately afterward. No, no; our confidence has been baselybetrayed. But the wretch shall pay for this dearly."On the next day W----called upon Westfield in company with a friendwho had possession of the letters, and who read them as apreliminary explanation of the cause of the visit."Did you write those letters?" W----asked, with a stern aspect."I certainly did," was the firm reply. "Do you question my right todo so?""No: not your right to make known to my sister your sentimentsbefore marriage, but your right to abuse her husband's confidenceafter marriage.""Who dares say that I did?""I dare say it," returned the brother, passionately."You! Bring your proof.""I want no better proof than the fact that, entertaining sentimentssuch as are here avowed, you have visited her at all times, andunder nearly all circumstances. You have abused a husband's and abrother's confidence. You have lain like a stinging viper in thebosom of friendship.""It is false!" replied Westfield, emphatically.W----'s feelings were chafed to the utmost already. This remarkdestroyed entirely the little self-control that remained. He sprangtoward Westfield, and would have grappled his throat, had not hisfriend, who had feared some such result, been perfectly on hisguard, and stepped between the two men in time to prevent acollision.Nothing was now left W----but to withdraw, with his friend. Achallenge to mortal combat followed immediately. A meeting was theresult, in which Westfield was severely wounded. This made publicproperty of the whole matter; and as public feeling is generally onthe side of whoever is sufferer, quite a favourable impression ofthe case began to prevail, grounded upon the denial of Westfield tothe charge of improper intimacy with Mrs. Miller. But this feelingsoon changed. The moment Mrs. Miller heard that Westfield had beenseriously wounded by her brother, she flew to his bedside, andnursed him with unwearying devotion for three weeks; when he died ofinflammation arising from his wound.This act sealed her fate: it destroyed all sympathy for her; it was,in the mind of every one, proof positive of her guilt. When shereturned home, the house was closed against her. An application fora divorce had already been laid before the legislature; then insession at Annapolis, and, as the inferential proofs of defectionwere strongly corroborated by Mrs. Miller's conduct after thehostile meeting between Westfield and her brother, the applicationwas promptly granted, with the provision of five hundred dollars ayear for her support. The decision of the legislature, withinformation of the annual amount settled upon her, were communicatedthrough the attorney of her husband. Her only answer was a promptand indignant refusal to accept the support the law had awarded her.From that moment she sank into obscurity with her child, and withher own hands earned the bread that sustained both their lives. Fromthat moment until the day of her death, all intercourse with herfamily and friends was cut off. How great were her sufferings, noone can know. They must have been nearly up to the level of humanendurance.I learned this much from one who had been intimate with all thecircumstances. He remembered the duel very well, but had neverbefore understood the true cause. My informant had no knowledgewhatever of Mrs. Miller from the time of her divorce up to theperiod of my inquiries. Miller himself still lived. I had someslight acquaintance with him.Under this aspect of things, I hardly knew what course to pursue inorder to raise the lad at Maxwell's above his present unhappycondition. I entertained, for some time, the idea of communicatingwith his father and uncle on the subject; but I could not make up mymind to do this. The indignation with which they had thrown off hiserring mother, and the total oblivion that had been permitted tofall upon her memory, made me fearful that to approach them on thesubject would accomplish no good for the boy, and might place me ina very unpleasant position toward them. Thus far I had kept my owncounsel, although the nature of my inquiries about Mrs. Miller hadcreated some curiosity in the minds of one or two, who asked me agood many questions that I did not see proper to answer directly."The child is innocent, even if the mother were guilty." This I saidto myself very frequently, as a reason why I should make everyeffort in my power to create an interest in favour of little Bill,and get him out of the hands of his master, who, in my view, treatedhim With great cruelty. In thinking about the matter, it occurred tome that in case Mrs. Miller were innocent of the derelictionscharged upon her, she would leave some evidence of the fact, for thesake of her child at least. So strongly did this idea take hold ofmy mind, that I determined to question Bill closely about his motheras early as I could get an opportunity. This did not occur forseveral weeks. I then met the boy in the street, hobbling along withdifficulty. I stopped him and asked him what ailed his feet. He saidthey were sore, and all cracked open, and hurt him so that he couldhardly walk."Come round to my office and let me see them," said I."I am going to take these shoes to the binder's,"--he had a packageof "uppers" in his hand--"and must be back in twenty minutes, or Mr.Maxwell says he will give me the strap." The boy made this reply,and then hobbled on as fast as he could."Stop, stop, my lad," I called after him. "I want you for a littlewhile, and will see that Mr. Maxwell does not give you the strap.You must come to my office and get something done for your feet.""They are very bad," he said, turning round, and looking down atthem with a pitiable expression on his young face."I know they are, and you must have something done for themimmediately.""Let me go to the binder's first.""Very well. Go to the binder's. But be sure to come to my office asyou return; I want to see you particularly."My words made the blood rush to the child's pale face. Hope againwas springing up in his bosom.In about ten minutes he entered my office. His step was lighter, butI could see that each footfall gave him pain. The first thing I didwas to examine his feet. They were in a shocking condition. One ofthem had cracked open in several places, and the wounds had becomerunning sores; other parts were red and shining, and much swollen, Idressed them carefully. When I came to replace his shoes, I foundthem so dilapidated and out of shape, as to be no protection to hisfeet whatever, but rather tending to fret them, and liable to ruboff the bandages I had put on. To remedy this, I sent my man out fora new pair, of soft leather. When these were put on, and he stoodupon, his feet, he said that they did not hurt him at all. I needednot his declaration of the fact to convince me of this, for thewhole expression of his face had changed. His eyes were no longerfixed and sad; nor were his brows drawn down, nor his lipscompressed."I think you told me that your name was Miller?" I said to him, ashe stood looking earnestly in my face after the dressing of his feetwas completed."Yes, sir," he replied."And that your mother was dead?""Yes, sir.""I think you said that W----was your uncle?""Yes, sir. Mother told me that he was my uncle.""Is your father living?""I don't know, sir.""Did your mother ever speak to you about him?""No, sir.""Then you can't tell whether he is living or not?""No, sir; but I suppose he is dead.""Why do you think so?""Because I never saw him, nor heard mother speak of him.""You are sure your name is Miller?""Oh yes, sir.""And that Mr. W----is your uncle?""My mother said he was.""Did you ever see him?""No, sir.""Why don't you go, to see him, and tell him who you are?""I asked mother, one day, to let me do so, but she said I must neverthink of such a thing.""Why not?""I don't know.""And so you never went to see him?""No, indeed; mother said I must not." This was said with greatartlessness."What became of your mother's things after she died?""The woman we rented from took them all. Mother owed her, she said.""Indeed! Where did you live?""In Commerce street, three or four doors from Mr. Maxwell's. Motherrented a room up-stairs.""Does the woman live there still?""Yes, sir.""Do you ever go to see her?""No, sir; she won't let me come into the house.""Why not?""I cannot tell. She was going to send me to the poorhouse, when Mr.Maxwell took me in. I have often and often wanted to see the roomwhere we lived in, and where mother died, but she wouldn't let me goup. One day I begged and cried for her to let me go up--I wanted to,so bad; but she called me a dirty little brat, and told me to goabout my business, or she would get Mr. Maxwell to give me abeating. I never have tried to go there since.""What is the woman's name?""Her name is Mrs. Claxon.""And she lives three or four doors from Mr. Maxwell's?""Yes, sir.""I am going home with you in a little while, and will get you toshow me the house. Your mother had some furniture in her room?""Yes, sir. We had a bureau, and a bedstead, and a good many things.""Do you know what was in the bureau?""Our clothes.""Nothing else?""Mother had a beautiful little box that was always locked. It hadletters in it, I think.""Did you ever see her reading them?""Oh yes, often, when she thought I was asleep; and she would cry,sometimes, dreadful hard.""This box Mrs. Claxon kept?""Yes, sir; she kept every thing.""Very well. We will see if we can't make her give up some of thethings.""If she will give me that little box, she may have every thingelse," said the lad."Why are you so desirous to have that box?""I sometimes think if I could get that box, and all the letters andpapers it had in it, that I would be able to know better who I am,and why I mustn't go and see my uncle, who is rich, and could takeme away from where I am now.""You don't like to live with Mr. Maxwell, then?""Oh no, sir."I did not question him as to the reason; that was unnecessary.After putting up one or two prescriptions, (we had not then falleninto the modern more comfortable mode of writing them,) I told theboy that I would walk home with him, and excuse him to his masterfor having stayed away so long. I had no great difficulty in doingthis, although the shoemaker seemed at first a little fretted at myhaving taken up the lad's cause again. In passing to his shop, thehouse where Mrs. Claxon lived was pointed out to me. Before leaving,I made Maxwell promise to let the boy come up on the next evening toget his feet dressed, telling him, what was true, that this wasnecessary to be done, or very serious consequences might follow.I then called upon Mrs. Claxon. She was a virago. But the grave andimportant face that I put on when I asked if a Mrs. Miller did notonce live in her house, subdued her. After some little hesitation,she replied in the affirmative."I knew as much," I said, thinking it well to let her understandfrom the beginning that it would not do to attempt deception."She died here, I believe?" I continued."Yes, sir; she died in my house.""She left some property in your hands, did she not?""Property? Humph! If you call an old bed and bedstead, with othertrumpery that didn't sell for enough to pay her back rent,property, why, then, she did leave property.""Of course," I said, calmly. "Whatever she left was property; and,of course, in taking possession of it, you did so under a regularlegal process. You took out letters of administration, I presume,and brought in your bill against the effects of the deceased, whichwas regularly passed by the Orphans' Court, and paid out of theamount for which the things sold."The effect of this was just what I desired. The woman lookedfrightened. She had done no such thing, as I knew very well."If you have proceeded in this way," I resumed, "all is well enough;but if you have not done so, I am sorry to say that you will mostlikely get yourself into trouble.""How so, sir?" she asked, with increasing alarm."The law is very rigid in all these matters. When a person dies,there must be a regular administration upon his property. The lawpermits no one to seize upon his effects. In the case of Mrs.Miller, if you were legally authorized to settle her estate, youcan, of course, account for all that came into your hands. Now, I amabout instituting a rigid examination into the matter, and if I donot get satisfaction, shall have you summoned to appear before theOrphans' Court, and answer for your conduct. Mrs. Miller was highlyconnected, and it is believed had papers in her possession of vitalimportance to the living. These were contained in a small casket ofcostly and curious workmanship. This casket, with its contents, mustbe produced. Can you produce them?""Y-y-yes!" the alarmed creature stammered out."Very well. Produce them at once, if you wish to save yourself aworld of trouble."The woman hurried off up-stairs, and presently appeared with thecasket."It is locked," she said. "I never could find the key, and did notlike to force it open. She handed me the box as she spoke."Yes, this is it," I remarked, as if I was perfectly familiar withthe casket. "You are sure the contents have not been disturbed?""Oh yes: very sure.""I trust it will be found so. I will take possession of the casket.In a few days you will hear from me."Saying this, I arose and left the house. I directed my steps to theshop of a locksmith, whose skill quickly gave me access to thecontents. They consisted mainly of papers, written in a delicatefemale hand; but there were no letters. Their contents were, to me,of a most gratifying kind. I read on every, page the injured wife'sinnocence. The contents of the first paper I read, I will heretranscribe. Like the others, it was a simple record of feelings,coupled with declarations of innocence. The object in view, inwriting these, was not fully apparent; although the mother hadevidently in mind her child, and cherished the hope that, after herdeath, these touching evidences of the wrong she had endured, wouldcause justice to be done to him.The paper I mentioned was as follows, and appeared to have beenwritten a short time after her divorce:--"That I still live, is to me a wonder. But a few short months ago Iwas a happy wife, and my husband loved me with a tenderness thatleft my heart nothing to ask for. I am now cast off from hisaffections, driven from his home, repudiated, and the most horriblesuspicions fastened upon me; And worse, the life of one who neverwronged me by a look, or word, or act--in whose eyes my honour wasas dear as his own--has been murdered. Oh! I shall yet go mad withanguish of spirit! There are heavy burdens to bear in this life; butnone can be heavier than that which an innocent wife has to endure,when all accuse her as I am accused, and no hope of justice is left."Let me think calmly. Are not the proofs of my guilt strong? Thoseletters--those fatal letters--why did I keep them? I had no right todo so. They should have been destroyed. But I never looked at themfrom the day I gave my hand with my heart at the altar to one whonow throws me off as a polluted wretch. But I knew they were there,and often thought of them; but to have read over one line of theircontents, would have been false to my husband; and that I could notbe, under any temptation. I think Westfield was wrong, under thecircumstances, to visit me as constantly as he did; but my husbandappeared to like his company, and even encouraged him to come. Manytimes he has asked him to drive me out, or to attend me to a concertor the theatre, as he knew that I wished to go, and he had businessthat required his attention, or felt a disinclination to leave home.In not a single instance, when I thus went out, would not mypleasure have been increased, had my husband been my companion; andyet I liked the company of Westfield--perhaps too well. The remainsof former feelings may still have lingered, unknown to me, in myheart. But I was never false to my husband, even in thought; nor didWestfield ever presume to take the smallest liberty. Indeed, whetherin my husband's presence, or when with me, his manner was polite,and inclined to be deferential rather than familiar. I believe thatthe sentiments he held toward me before my marriage, remained; andthese, while they drew him to my side, made him cherish my honourand integrity as a wife, as he would cherish the apple of his eye.And yet he has been murdered, and I have been cast off, while bothwere innocent! Fatal haste! Fatal misjudgment! How suddenly have Ifallen from the pinnacle of happiness into the dark pit of despair!Alas! alas! Who can tell what a day may bring forth?"Another, and very important paper, which the casket contained, was awritten declaration of Mrs. Miller's innocence, made by Westfieldbefore his death. It was evidently one of his last acts, and waspenned with a feeble and trembling hand. It was in these impressivewords:--"Solemnly, in the presence of God, and without the hope of livingbut a few hours, do I declare that Mrs. Anna Miller is innocent ofthe foul charges made against her by her husband and brother, andthat I never, even in thought, did wrong to her honour. I was onterms of close intimacy with her, and this her husband knew andfreely assented to. I confess that I had a higher regard for herthan for any living woman. She imbodied all my highest conceptionsof female excellence. I was never happier than when in her company.Was this a crime? It would have been had I attempted to win from herany thing beyond a sentiment of friendship. But this I never didafter her marriage, and do not believe that she regarded me in anyother light than as her own and her husband's friend. This is allthat, as a dying man, I can do or say. May heaven right theinnocent! HENRY WESTFIELD."Besides the paper in the handwriting of Mrs. Miller, which I havegiven, there were many more, evidently written at various times, butall shortly after her separation from her husband. They imbodiedmany touching allusions to her condition, united with firmexpressions of her entire innocence of the imputation under whichshe lay. One sentiment particularly arrested my attention, andanswered the question that constantly arose in my mind, as to whyshe did not attempt, by means of Westfield's dying asseveration, toestablish her innocence. It was this:--"He has prejudged me guilty and cast me off without seeing me orgiving me a hearing, and then insulted me by a legislative tender offive hundred dollars a year. Does he think that I would save myself,even from starvation, by means of his bounty? No--no--he does notknow the woman he has wronged."After going over the entire contents of the casket, I replaced them,and sent the whole to Mr. Miller, with a brief note, stating thatthey had come into my possession in rather a singular manner, andthat I deemed it but right to transmit them to him. Scarcely half anhour had elapsed from the time my messenger departed, before Millerhimself entered my office, pale and agitated. I had met him a fewtimes before, and had a slight acquaintance with him."This is from you, I believe, doctor?" he said, holding up the noteI had written him.I bowed."How did you come in possession of the casket you sent me?" hecontinued as he took the chair I handed him.I was about replying, when he leaned over toward me, and laying hishand upon my arm, said, eagerly--"First tell me, is the writer of its contents living?""No," I replied; "she has been dead over two years."His countenance fell, and he seemed, for some moments, as if hisheart had ceased to beat. "Dead!" he muttered to himself--"dead! andI have in my hands undoubted proofs of her innocence."The expression of his face became agonizing."Oh, what would I not give if she were yet alive," he continued,speaking to himself. "Dead--dead--I would rather be dead with herthan living with my present consciousness.""Doctor," said he, after a pause, speaking in a firmer voice, "letme know how those papers came into your hands?" I related, asrapidly as I could, what the reader already knows about little Billand his mother dwelling as strongly as I could upon the sufferingcondition of the poor boy."Good heavens!" ejaculated Miller, as I closed my narrative--"canall this indeed be true? So much for hasty judgment fromappearances! You have heard the melancholy history of my wife?"I bowed an assent."From these evidences, that bear the force of truth, it is plainthat she was innocent, though adjudged guilty of one of the mostheinous offences against society. Innocent, and yet made to sufferall the penalties of guilt. Ah, sir--I thought life had alreadybrought me its bitterest cup: but all before were sweet to the tastecompared with the one I am now compelled to drink. Nothing is nowleft me, but to take home my child. But, as he grows up towardmanhood, how can I look him in the face, and think of his motherwhom I so deeply wronged.""The events of the past, my dear sir," I urged, "cannot be altered.In a case like this, it is better to look, forward with hope, thanbackward with self-reproaches.""There is little in the future to hope for," was the mournful replyto this."But you have a duty to perform, and, in the path of duty, alwayslie pleasures.""You mean to my much wronged and suffering child. Yes, I have aduty, and it shall be performed as faithfully as lies in my power.But I hope for little from that source.""I think you may hope for much. Your child I have questionedclosely. He knows nothing of his history; does not even know thathis father is alive. The only information he has received from hismother is, that W----is his uncle.""Are you sure of this?""Oh yes. I have, as I said, questioned him very closely on thispoint."This seemed to relieve the mind of Mr. Miller. He mused for someminutes, and then said--"I wish to see my son, and at once remove him from his presentposition. May I ask you to accompany me to the place where he nowis.""I will go with pleasure," I returned, rising.We left my office immediately, and went direct to Maxwell's shop. Aswe entered, we heard most agonizing cries, mingled with hoarse angryimprecations from the shoemaker and the sound of his strap. He waswhipping some one most severely. My heart misgave me that it waspoor little Bill. We hurried into the shop. It was true. Maxwell hadthe child across his knees, and was beating him most cruelly."That is your son," I said, in an excited voice to Miller, pointingto the writhing subject of the shoemaker's ire. In an instantMaxwell was lying four or five feet from his bench in a corner ofhis shop, among the lasts and scraps of leather. A powerful blow onthe side of his head, with a heavy cane, had done his. The father'shand had dealt it. Maxwell rose to his feet in a terrible fury, butthe upraised cane of Miller, his dark and angry countenance, and hisdeclaration that if he advanced a step toward him, or attempted tolay his hand again upon the boy, he would knock his brains out,cooled his ire considerably."Come, my boy," Miller then said, catching hold of the hand of thesobbing child--"let me take you away from this accursed den forever.""Stop!" cried Maxwell, coming forward at this; "you cannot take thatboy away. He is bound to me by law, until he is twenty-one. Bill!don't you dare to go.""Villain!" said Miller, in a paroxysm of anger, turning towardhim--"I will have you before the the court in less than twenty-fourhours for inhuman treatment of this child--of my child."As Miller said this, the trembling boy at his side started andlooked eagerly in his face."Oh, sir! Are you indeed my father?" said he, in a voice thatthrilled me to the finger ends."Yes, William; I am your father, and I have come to take you home."Tears gushed like rain over the cheeks of the poor boy. He shrankclose to his father's side, and clung to him with a strong grasp,still looking up into a face that he had never hoped to see, with amost tender, confiding, hopeful, expressive countenance.The announcement of the fact subdued the angry shoemaker. He made afeeble effort at apology, but was cut short by our turning abruptlyfrom him and carrying of the child he had so shamefully abused.I parted from the father and son at the first carriage-stand thatcame in our way. When I next saw Bill, his appearance was verydifferent indeed from what it was when I first encountered him. Hisfather lived some ten years from this time during the most of whichperiod William was at school or college. At his death he left him alarge property, which remained with him until his own death, whichtook place a few years ago. He never I believe, had the most distantidea of the cause which had separated his mother from his father.That there had been a separation he knew too well but, he alwaysshrank from inquiring the reason, and had always remained inignorance of the main facts here recorded.

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