Yesterday evening, he gave us all a fright. The doctor hearing me below, asking after him, said I was to come upstairs and help to move him to have his bed made. As soon as I raised him up (though I’m sure I touched him as gently as I could), he fainted dead away. While he was being brought to, a little piece of something that looked like cardboard, prettily embroidered with beads and silk, came away from a string that held it round his neck, and dropped off the bedside. I picked it up; for I remembered the time, Mary, when you and I were courting, and how precious the least thing was to me that belonged to you. So I took care of it for him, thinking it might be a keepsake from his sweetheart. And sure enough, when he came to, he put up his thin white hands to his neck, and looked so thankful at me when I tied the little thing again to the string! Just as I had done that, the doctor beckons me to the other end of the room.
“This won’t do,” says he to me in a whisper. “If he goes on like this, he’ll lose his reason, if not his life. I must search his papers, to find out what friends he has; and you must be my witness.”
So the doctor opens his little bag, and takes out a square sealed packet first; then two or three letters tied together; the poor soul looking all the while as if he longed to prevent us from touching them. Well, the doctor said there was no occasion to open the packet, for the direction was the same on all the letters, and the name corresponded with his initials marked on his linen.
“I’m next to certain this is where he lives, or did live; so this is where I’ll write,” says the doctor.
“Shall my wife take the letter, Sir?” says I. “She’s in London with our girl, Susan; and, if his friends should be gone away from where you are writing to, she may be able to trace them.”
“Quite right, Penhale!” says he; “we’ll do that. Write to your wife, and put my letter inside yours.”
I did as he told me, at once; and his letter is inside this, with the direction of the house and the street.
Now, Mary, dear, go at once, and see what you can find out. The direction on the doctor’s letter may be his home; and if it isn’t, there may be people there who can tell you where it is. So go at once, and let us know directly what luck you have had, for there is no time to be lost; and if you saw the young gentleman, you would pity him as much as we do.
This has got to be such a long letter, that I have no room left to write any more. God bless you, Mary, and God bless my darling Susan! Give her a kiss for father’s sake, and believe me,
Letter II
From Mary Penhale to Her Husband
Dearest William,
Susan sends a hundred kisses, and best loves to you and her brothers and sisters. She’s getting on nicely; and her mistress is as kind and fond of her as can be. Best respects, too, from my sister Martha, and her husband. And now I’ve done giving you all my messages, I’ll tell you some good news for the poor young gentleman who is so bad at Treen.
As soon as I had seen Susan, and read your letter to her, I went to the place where the doctor’s letter directed me. Such a grand house, William! I was really afraid to knock at the door. So I plucked up courage, and gave a pull at the bell; and a very fat, big man, with his head all plastered over with powder, opened the door, almost before I had done ringing. “If you please, Sir,” says I, showing him the name on the doctor’s letter, “do any friends of this gentleman live here?” “To be sure they do,” says he; “his father and sister live here: but what do you want to know for?” “I want them to read this letter,” says I. “It’s to tell them that the young gentleman is very bad in health down in our country.” “You can’t see my master,” says he, “for he’s confined to his bed by illness: and Miss Clara is very poorly too—you had better leave the letter with me.” Just as he said this, an elderly lady crossed the hall (I found out she was the housekeeper, afterwards), and asked what I wanted. When I told her, she looked quite startled. “Step this way, ma’am,” says she; “you will do Miss Clara more good than all the doctors put together. But you must break the news to her carefully, before she sees the letter. Please to make it out better news than it is, for the young lady is in very delicate health.” We went upstairs—such stair-carpets! I was almost frightened to step on them, after walking through the dirty streets. The housekeeper opened a door, and said a few words inside, which I could not hear, and then let me in where the young lady was.
Oh, William! she had the sweetest, kindest face I ever saw in my life. But it was so pale, and there
