"I SHOULD like to do that, every day, for a year to come," said Mr. William Everett, rubbing his hands together quickly, in irrepressible pleasure.
Mr. Everett was a stock and money broker, and had just made an "operation," by which a clear gain of two thousand dollars was secured. He was alone in his office: or, so much alone as not to feel restrained by the presence of another. And yet, a pair of dark, sad eyes were fixed intently upon his self-satisfied countenance, with an expression, had he observed it, that would, at least, have excited a moment's wonder. The owner of this pair of eyes was a slender, rather poorly dressed lad, in his thirteenth year, whom Mr. Everett had engaged, a short time previously, to attend in his office and run upon errands. He was the son of a widowed mother, now in greatly reduced circumstances. His father had been an early friend of Mr. Everett. It was this fact which led to the boy's introduction into the broker's office.
"Two thousand dollars!" The broker had uttered aloud his satisfaction; but now he communed with himself silently. "Two thousand dollars! A nice little sum that for a single day's work. I wonder what Mr. Jenkins will say tomorrow morning, when he hears of such an advance in these securities?"
From some cause, this mental reference to Mr. Jenkins did not increase our friend's state of exhilaration. Most probably, there was something in the transaction by which he had gained so handsome a sum of money, that, in calmer moments, would not bear too close a scrutiny—something that Mr. Everett would hardly like to have blazoned forth to the world. Be this as it may, a more sober mood, in time, succeeded, and although the broker was richer by two thousand dollars than when he arose in the morning, he was certainly no happier.
An hour afterward, a business friend came into the office of Mr. Everett and said—
"Have you heard about Cassen?"
"No; what of him?"
"He's said to be off to California with twenty thousand dollars in his pockets more than justly belongs to him."
"What!"
"Too true, I believe. His name is in the list of passengers who left New York in the steamer yesterday."
"The scoundrel!" exclaimed Mr. Everett, who, by this time, was very considerably excited.
"He owes you, does he?" said the friend.
"I lent him three hundred dollars only day before yesterday."
"A clear swindle."
"Yes, it is. Oh, if I could only get my hands on him!".
Mr. Everett's countenance, as he said this, did not wear a very amiable expression.
"Don't get excited about it," said the other. "I think he has let you off quite reasonably. Was that sum all he asked to borrow?"
"Yes."
"I know two at least, who are poorer by a couple of thousands by his absence."
But Mr. Everett was excited. For half an hour after the individual left who had communicated this unpleasant piece of news, the broker walked the floor of his office with compressed lips, a lowering brow, and most unhappy feelings. The two thousand dollars gain in no way balanced in his mind the three hundred lost. The pleasure created by the one had not penetrated deep enough to escape obliteration by the other.
Of all this, the boy with the dark eyes had taken quick cognizance. And he comprehended all. Scarcely a moment had his glance been removed from the countenance or form of Mr. Everett, while the latter walked with uneasy steps the floor of his office.
As the afternoon waned, the broker's mind grew calmer. The first excitement produced by the loss, passed away; but it left a sense of depression and disappointment that completely shadowed his feelings.
Intent as had been the lad's observation of his employer during all this time, it is a little remarkable that Mr. Everett had not once been conscious of the fact that the boy's eyes were steadily upon him. In fact he had been, as was usually the case too much absorbed in things concerning himself to notice what was peculiar to another, unless the peculiarity were one readily used to his own advantage.
"John," said Mr. Everett, turning suddenly to the boy, and encountering his large, earnest eyes, "take this note around to Mr. Legrand."
John sprang to do his bidding; received the note and was off with unusual fleetness. But the door which closed upon his form did not shut out the expression of his sober face and humid glance from the vision of Mr. Everett. In fact, from some cause, tears had sprung to the eyes of the musing boy at the very moment he was called upon to render a service; and, quicker than usual though his motions were, he had failed to conceal them.
A new train of thought now entered the broker's mind. This child of his old friend had been taken into his office from a kind of charitable feeling—though of very low vitality. He paid him a couple of dollars a week, and thought little more, about him or his widowed mother. He had too many important interests of his own at stake, to have his mind turned aside for a trifling matter like this. But now, as the image of that sad face—for it was unusually sad at the moment when Mr. Everett looked suddenly toward the boy—lingered in his mind, growing every moment more distinct, and more touchingly beautiful, many considerations of duty and humanity were excited. He remembered his old friend, and the pleasant hours they had spent together in years long since passed, ere generous feelings had hardened into ice, or given place to all-pervading selfishness. He remembered, too, the beautiful girl his friend had married, and how proudly that friend presented her to their little world as his bride. The lad had her large, dark, spiritual eyes—only the light of joy had faded therefrom, giving place to a strange sadness.
All this was now present to the mind of Mr. Everett, and though he tried once or twice during the boy's absence to obliterate these recollections, he was unable to do so.
"How is your mother, John?" kindly asked the broker, when the lad returned from his errand.
The question was so unexpected, that it confused him.
"She's well—thank you, sir. No—not very well, either—thank you, sir."
And the boy's face flushed, and his eyes suffused.
"Not very well, you say?" Mr. Everett spoke with kindness, and in a tone of interest. "Not sick, I hope?"
"No, sir; not very sick. But"——
"But what, John," said Mr., Everett, encouragingly.
"She's in trouble," half stammered the boy, while the colour deepened on his face.
"Ah, indeed? I'm sorry for that. What is the trouble, John?"
The tears which John had been vainly striving to repress now gushed over his face, and, with a boyish shame for the weakness, he turned away and struggled for a time with his overmastering feelings. Mr. Everett was no little moved by so unexpected an exhibition. He waited with a new-born consideration for the boy, not unmingled with respect, until a measure of calmness was restored.
"John," he then said, "if your mother is in trouble, it may be in my power to relieve her."
"O sir!" exclaimed the lad eagerly, coming up to Mr. Everett, and, in the forgetfulness of the moment, laying his small hand upon that of his employer, "if you will, you can."
Hard indeed would have been the heart that could have withstood the appealing, eyes lifted by John Levering to the face of Mr. Everett. But Mr. Everett had not a hard heart. Love of self and the world had encrusted it with indifference toward others, but the crust was now broken through.
"Speak freely, my good lad," said he, kindly. "Tell me of your mother. What is her trouble?"
"We are very poor, sir." Tremulous and mournful was the boy's voice. "And mother isn't well. She does all she can; and my wages help a little. But there are three of us children; and I am the oldest. None of the rest can earn any thing. Mother couldn't help getting behind with the rent, sir, because she hadn't the money to pay it with. This morning, the man who owns the house where we live came for some money, and when mother told him that she had none, he got, oh, so angry! and frightened us all. He said, if the rent wasn't paid by to-morrow, he'd turn us all into the street. Poor mother! She went to bed sick."
"How much does your mother owe the man?" asked Mr. Everett.
"Oh, it's a great deal, sir. I'm afraid she'll never be able to pay it; and I don't know what we'll do."
"How much?"
"Fourteen dollars, sir," answered the lad.
"Is that all?" And Mr. Everett thrust his hand into his pocket. "Here are twenty dollars. Run home to your mother, and give them to her with my compliments."
The boy grasped the money eagerly, and, as he did so, in an irrepressible burst of gratitude, kissed the hand from which he received it. He did not speak, for strong emotion choked all utterance; but Mr. Everett saw his heart in his large, wet eyes, and it was overflowing with thankfulness.
"Stay a moment," said the broker, as John Levering was about passing through the door. "Perhaps I had better write a note to your mother."
"I wish you would, sir," answered the boy, as he came slowly back.
A brief note was written, in which Mr. Everett not only offered present aid, but promised, for the sake of old recollections that now were crowding fast upon his mind, to be the widow's future friend.
For half an hour after the lad departed, the broker sat musing, with his eyes upon the floor. His thoughts were clear, and his feelings tranquil. He had made, on that day, the sum of two thousand dollars by a single transaction, but the thought of this large accession to his worldly goods did not give him a tithe of the pleasure he derived from the bestowal of twenty dollars. He thought, too, of the three hundred dollars he had lost by a misplaced confidence; yet, even as the shadow cast from that event began to fall upon his heart, the bright face of John Levering was conjured up by fancy, and all was sunny again.
Mr. Everett went home to his family on that evening, a cheerful-minded man. Why? Not because he was richer by nearly two thousand dollars. That circumstance would have possessed no power to lift him above the shadowed, fretful state which he loss of three hundred dollars had produced. Why? He had bestowed of his abundance, and thus made suffering hearts glad; and the consciousness of this pervaded his bosom with a warming sense of delight.
Thus it is, that true benevolence carries with it, ever a double blessing. Thus it is, that in giving, more is often gained than in eager accumulation or selfish withholding.
AFTER a day of unusual anxiety and fatigue, Dr. Elton found himself snugly wrapped up in a liberal quantity of blankets and bed-quilts, just as the clock struck twelve one stormy night in February. For over half an hour he had lain awake, racking his brain in reference to two or three critical cases which were on his hands; but tired nature could keep up no longer, and the sweet oblivion of sleep was stealing over his senses. But just as he had lost himself, the bell over his head began to ring furiously, and brought him into the middle of the floor in an instant. Pushing his head out of the window, he interrogated the messenger below, just too late to save that individual the trouble of giving the bell-rope another violent demonstration of his skill.
"Mr. Marvel wants you to come and see Charley immediately," replied the messenger.
"What's the matter with Charley?"
"He's got the croup, I believe."
"Tell him I'll be there in a moment," said Dr. Elton, drawing in his head. Hurrying on his clothes, he descended to his office, and, possessing himself of some necessary medicines, it being too late for the family to send out a prescription, wrapped his cloak around him, and turned out into the storm.
It was at least half a mile to the residence of Mr. Marvel, and by, the time the doctor arrived there, he was cold, wet, and uncomfortable both in mind and body. Ascending to the chamber, he was not a little surprised to find Charley, a bright little fellow of some two years old, sitting up in his crib as lively as a cricket.
"O doctor! we've been so frightened!" said Mrs. Marvel, as Dr. Elton entered. "We thought Charley had the croup, he breathed so loud. But he don't seem to get any worse. What do you think of him, doctor?"
Dr. Elton felt his pulse, listened to his respiration, examined the appearance of his skin, and then said, emphatically—
"I think you'd better all be in bed!"
"It's better to be scared than hurt, doctor," responded Mr. Marvel.
"Humph!" ejaculated Dr. Elton.
"Don't you think you'd better give him something, doctor?" said Mrs. Marvel.
"What for, ma'am?"
"To keep him from having the croup. Don't you think he's threatened with it?"
"Not half as much as I am," replied the doctor, who made a quick retreat, fearing that he would give way too much to his irritated feelings, and offend a family who were able to pay.
Next morning, on the debtor side of his ledger, under the name of Mr. Marvel, Dr. Elton made this entry; To one night-visit to son, $5. "And it's well for me that he's able to pay," added the doctor, mentally, as he replaced the book in the drawer from which he had taken it. Scarcely had this necessary part of the business been performed, when the same messenger who had summoned him the night before, came post-haste into the office, with the announcement that Mrs. Marvel wanted him to come there immediately, as Charley had got a high fever.
Obedient to the summons, Dr. Elton soon made his appearance, and found both Mr. and Mrs. Marvel greatly concerned about their little boy.
"I'm so 'fraid of the scarlet fever, doctor!" said Mrs. Marvel. "Do you think it's any thing like that?" she continued with much anxiety, turning upon Charley a look of deep maternal affection.
Dr. Elton felt of Charley's pulse, and looked at his tongue, and then wrote a prescription in silence.
"What do you think of him, doctor?" asked the father, much concerned.
"He's not dangerous, sir. Give him this, and if he should grow worse, send for me."
The doctor bowed and departed, and the fond parents sent off for the medicine. It was in the form of a very small dose of rhubarb, and poor Charley had to have his nose held tight, and the nauseous stuff poured down his throat. In the afternoon, when the doctor called, on being sent for, there were some slight febrile symptoms, consequent upon excitement and loss of rest. The medicine, contrary to his expectation, heightened, instead of allaying these; and long before nightfall he was summoned again to attend his little patient. Much to his surprise, he found him with a hot skin, flushed face, and quickened pulse. Mrs. Marvel was in a state of terrible alarm.
"I knew there was more the matter with him than you thought for, doctor!" said the mother, while Dr. Elton examined his patient. "You thought it was nothing, but I knew better. If you'd only prescribed last night, as I wanted you to, all this might have been saved."
"Don't be alarmed, madam," said the doctor, "there is nothing serious in this fever. It will soon subside."
Mrs. Marvel shook her head.
"It's the scarlet fever, doctor, I know it is!" said she, passionately, bursting into tears.
"Let me beg of you, madam, not to distress yourself. I assure you there is no danger!"
"So you said last night, doctor; and just see how much worse he is getting!"
As Dr. Elton was generally a man of few words, he said no more, but wrote a prescription, and went away, promising, however, at the earnest request of Mrs. Marvel, to call again that night.
About nine o'clock he called in, and found Charley's fever in no degree abated. Mrs. Marvel was in tears, and her husband pacing the floor in a state of great uneasiness.
"O doctor, he'll die, I'm sure he'll die!" said Mrs. Marvel, weeping bitterly.
"Don't be alarmed, my dear madam," replied the doctor. "I assure you it is nothing serious."
"Oh, I'm 'sure it's the scarlet fever! It's all about now."
"No, madam, I am in earnest when I tell you it is nothing of the kind. His throat is not in the least sore."
"Yes, doctor, it is sore!"
"How do you know?" responded the doctor, examining Charley's mouth and throat, which showed not the least symptom of any irritation of the mucous membrane. "It can't be sore from any serious cause. Some trifling swelling of the glands is all that can occasion it, if any exist."
Thus assured, and in a positive manner, Mrs. Marvel's alarm in some degree abated, and after ordering a warm bath, the doctor retired.
About three o'clock the doctor was again sent for in great haste. On entering the chamber of his little patient, he found his fever all gone, and he in a pleasant sleep.
"What do you think of him, doctor?" asked Mrs. Marvel, in a low, anxious whisper.
"I think he's doing as well as he can."
"But a'n't it strange, doctor, that he should breathe so low? He looks so pale, and lays so quiet! Are you sure he's not dying?"
"Dying!" exclaimed Dr. Elton,—"he's no more dying than you are! Really, Mrs. Marvel, yon torment yourself with unnecessary fears! Nature is only a little exhausted from struggling with the fever, he will be like a new person by morning."
"Do not mistake the case, doctor, for we are very much concerned," said Mr. Marvel.
"I do assure you, sir, that I understand the case precisely; and you must believe me, when I tell you that no patient was ever in a better way than your little boy."
Next morning, among other charges made by Dr. Elton, were two against Mr. Marvel, as follows: To four visits to son, $4. To one night-visit to son, $5.
"Not a bad customer!" said the doctor, with a smile, as he ran up the whole account, and then closed the book.
In the constant habit of sending for the doctor on every trifling occasion, whether it occurred at noonday or midnight, it is not to be wondered at that a pretty large bill should find its way to Mr. Marvel at the end of the year. And this was not the worst of it; the health of his whole family suffered in no slight degree from the fact of each individual being so frequently under the influence of medicine. Poor Charley was victimized almost every week; and, instead of being a fresh, hearty boy, began to show a pale, thin face, and every indication of a weakened vital action. This appearance only increased the evil, for both parents, growing more anxious in consequence, were more urgent to have him placed under treatment. Dr. Elton sometimes remonstrated with them, but to no purpose; and yielding to their ignorance and their anxiety, became a party in the destruction of the boy's health.
"What is that, my dear?" asked Mrs. Marvel of her husband, some ten months after their introduction to the reader, as the latter regarded, with no pleasant countenance, a small piece of paper which he held in his hand.
"Why, it's Dr. Elton's bill."
"Indeed! How much is it?"
"One hundred and fifty dollars!"
"Oh, husband!"
"Did you ever hear of such a thing?"
"One hundred and fifty dollars, did you say?"
"Yes, one hundred and fifty dollars. A'n't it outrageous?"
"It's scandalous! It's downright swindling! I'd never pay it in the world! Who ever heard of such a thing! One hundred and fifty dollars for one year's attendance! Good gracious!"—and Mrs. Marvel held up her hands, and lifted her eyes in profound astonishment.
"I can't understand it!" said Mr. Marvel. "Why, nobody's had a spell of sickness in the family for the whole year. Charley's been a little sick once or twice; but nothing of much consequence. There must be something wrong about it. I'll go right off and see him, and have an understanding about it at once."
Carrying out his resolution on the instant, Mr. Marvel left the house and proceeded with rapid steps toward the office of Dr. Elton. He found that individual in.
"Good morning Mr. Marvel! How do you do to-day?" said the doctor, who understood from his countenance that something was wrong, and had an instinctive perception of its nature.
"Good morning, doctor! I got your bill to-day."
"Yes, sir; I sent it out."
"But a'n't there something wrong about it, doctor?"
"No, I presume not. I make my charges carefully, and draw off my bills in exact accordance with them."
"But there must be, doctor. How in the world could you make a bill of one hundred and fifty dollars against me? I've had no serious sickness in my family."
"And yet, Mr. Marvel, I have been called in almost every week, and sometimes three or four times in as many days."
"Impossible!"
"I'll show you my ledger, if that will satisfy you, where every visit is entered."
"No, it's no use to do that. I know that you have been called in pretty often, but not frequently enough to make a bill like this."
"How many night-visits do you suppose I have made to your family, during the year?"
"I'm sure I don't know. Not more than three or four."
"I've made ten!"
"You must be mistaken, doctor."
"Do you remember that I was called in last February, when you thought Charley had the croup?"
"Yes."
"And the night after?"
"Yes. That's but two."
"And the night you thought he had the measles?"
"Yes."
"And the night after?"
"Yes. But that's only four."
"And the three times he fell out of bed?"
"Not three times, doctor!"
"Yes, it was three times. Don't you recollect the knob on his head?"
"Yes, indeed!"
"And the sprained finger?"
"Yes."
"And the bruised cheek?"
"Well, I believe you are right about that, doctor. But that don't make ten times."
"You have not forgotten, of course, the night he told you he had swallowed a pin?"
"No, indeed," said the father, turning pale. "Do you think there is any danger to be apprehended from its working its way into the heart, doctor?"
"None at, all, I should think. And you remember"—
"Never mind, doctor, I suppose you are right about that. But how can ten visits make one hundred and fifty dollars?"
"They will make fifty, though, and that is one-third of the bill."
"You don't pretend to charge five dollars a visit, though, doctor?"
"For all visits after ten o'clock at night, we are allowed by law to charge five dollars."
"Outrageous!"
"Would you get up out of your warm bed after midnight, turn out in a December storm, and walk half a mile for five dollars?"
"I can't say that I would. But then it's your business."
"Of course it is, and I must be paid for it."
"Any how, doctor, that don't account for the whole of this exorbitant bill."
"But one hundred day and evening visits here on my ledger will, though."
"You don't pretend to say you have paid my family a hundred visits, certainly?"
"I will give you day and date for them, if necessary."
"No, it's no use to do that," said Mr. Marvel, whose memory began to be a little more active. "I'll give you a hundred dollars, and say no more about it; that is enough, in all conscience."
"I can't do any such thing, Mr. Marvel. I have charged you what was right, and can take nothing off. What would you think of a man who had made a bill at your store of one hundred and fifty dollars, if he were to offer you one hundred when he came to pay, and ask for a receipt in full?"
"But that a'n't to the point."
"A'n't it, though? I should like to hear of a case more applicable. But it's no use to multiply words about the matter. My bill is correct, and I cannot take a dollar off of it."
"It's the last bill you ever make out of me, remember that, doctor!" said Mr. Marvel, rising, and leaving the office in a state of angry excitement.
"Well, what does he say?" asked Mrs. Marvel, who had waited for her husband's return with some interest.
"He tried to beat me down that the bill was all right; but I'm too old a child for that. Why, would you believe it?—he has charged five dollars for every night-visit."
"That's no better than highway robbery."
"Not a bit. But it's the last money he ever gets out of me."
"I'd never call him in, I know. He must think we're made of money."
"Oh, I suppose we're the first family he's had who wasn't poor, and he wanted to dig as deep as possible. I hate such swindling, and if it wasn't for having a fuss I'd never pay him a dollar."
"He's charged us for every poor family in the neighbourhood, I suppose."
"No doubt of it. I've heard of these tricks before; but it's the last time I'll submit to have them played off upon me."
The visit of Mr. Marvel somewhat discomposed the feelings of Dr. Elton, and he had begun to moralize upon the unthankful position he held in the community, when he was aroused from his reverie by the entrance of a servant from one of the principal hotels, with a summons to attend immediately a young lady who was thought to be exceedingly ill.
"Who is she?" asked the doctor.
"She is the daughter of Mr. Smith, a merchant from the East."
"Is any one with her?"
"Yes, her father."
"Tell him I will be there immediately."
In the course of fifteen minutes Dr. Elton's carriage drove up to the door of the hotel. He found his patient to be a young lady of about seventeen, accompanied by her father, a middle-aged man, whose feelings were much, and anxiously excited.
At a glance, his practised eye detected symptoms of a serious nature, and a closer examination of the case convinced him that all his skill would be called into requisition. With a hot, dry skin, slightly flushed face, parched lips, and slimy, furred tongue, there was a dejection, languor, and slight indication of delirium—and much apparent confusion of mind. Prescribing as he thought the case required, he left the room, accompanied with the father.
"Well, doctor, what do you think of her?" said Mr. Smith, with a heavy, oppressed expiration.
"She is ill, sir, and will require attention."
"But, doctor, you don't think my child dangerous, do you?" said the father with an alarmed manner.
"It is right that you should know, sir, that your daughter is, to all appearance, threatened with the typhus fever. But I don't think there is any cause for alarm, only for great care in her physician and attendants."
"O doctor, can I trust her in your hands? But I am foolish; I know that there is no one in this city of more acknowledged skill than yourself. You must pardon a father's fears. Spare no attentions, doctor—visit her at least twice every day, and you shall be well paid for your attentions. Save my child for me, and I will owe you eternal gratitude."
"All that I can do for her, shall be done, sir," said Dr. Elton.
Just relieved from the care of a dangerous case, in its healthy change, Dr. Elton's mind had relaxed from the anxiety which too frequently burdened it; for a physician's mind is always oppressed while the issue, of life or death hangs upon his power to subdue a disease, which may be too deeply seated to yield to the influence of medicine. Now, all the oppressive sense of responsibility, the care, the anxiety, were to be renewed, and felt with even a keener concern.
In the evening he called in, but there was no perceptible change, except a slight aggravation of all the symptoms. The medicine had produced no visible salutary effect. During the second day, there was exhibited little alteration, but on the morning of the third day, symptoms of a more decided character had supervened—such as suffused and injected eyes, painful deglutition, an oppression in the chest, accompanied with a short, dry cough, pains in the back, loins, and extremities; and a soreness throughout the whole body. These had not escaped the father's observation, and with the most painful anxiety did he watch the countenance of the physician while he examined the case in its new presentation. Much as he tried to control the expression of his face, he found it impossible. He felt too deeply concerned, and was too conscious of the frequent impotence of medicine, when administered with the most experienced skill.
In the afternoon he called again, and found the father, as usual, by the bedside. His patient seemed to be in a narcotic sleep, and when roused from it, complained of much giddiness, and soon sunk down again into a state of torpor.
"What do you think of her now, doctor?" asked the father, in a hoarse whisper, on the physician's leaving the chamber of his patient.
"It is impossible to form any correct idea respecting a case like this. I have seen many much worse recover, and have no doubt, as far as human calculation will go, that your daughter will get well. But the fever is a tedious one, usually defying all attempts at breaking it. It must run its course, which is usually some ten or fifteen days. All we can do is to palliate, and then assist nature, when the disease has abated its violence."
It is not necessary to trace the progress of the disease from day to day, until it reached its climax. When the fever did break, and a soft, gentle moisture penetrated the skin, the patient had but a spark of life remaining.
At the close of the fifteenth day, when every symptom indicated that convalescence or death would soon ensue, no one but a physician can imagine the painful, restless anxiety, which was felt by Dr. Elton. He took but little food, and slept hardly any during the whole night, frequently starting from his brief periods of troubled slumber, in consequence of great nervous excitement.
Early in the morning he called at the room of his patient, trembling, lest a first glance should dash every hope to the ground. He entered softly, and perceived the father bending over her with a pale anxious face. She was asleep. He took her hand, but let it drop instantly.
"What is the matter?" asked the father in an alarmed whisper, his face growing paler.
"She is safe?" responded the doctor, in a low whisper, every pulse thrilling with pleasant excitement.
The father clasped his hands, looked upward a moment, and then burst into tears.
"How can I ever repay you for your skill in saving my child!" he said, after his feelings had grown calmer.
It was nearly a month before the daughter was well enough to return home, during most of which time Dr. Elton was in attendance. For fifteen days he had attended twice a day regularly, and for nearly as long a period once a day.
While sitting in his office one day about three o'clock, waiting for his carriage to come up to the door, Mr. Smith entered, and asked for his bill, as he was about to leave. On examining his account-book, Dr. Elton found that he had made about fifty visits, and accordingly he made out his bill fifty dollars.
"How much is this, doctor?" said Mr. Smith, eyeing the bill with something of doubt in the expression of his countenance.
"Fifty dollars, sir."
"Fifty dollars! Why, surely, doctor, you are not going to take advantage of me in that way?"
"I don't understand you, sir."
"Why, I never heard of such an extravagant bill in my life. I have my whole family attended at home for fifty dollars a year, and you have not been visiting one of them much over a month."
"Such as the bill is, you will have to pay it, sir. It is just, and I shall not abate one dollar," responded Dr. Elton, considerably irritated.
Mr. Smith drew out his pocket-book slowly, selected a fifty-dollar bill from a large package, handed it to the doctor, took his receipt, and rising to his feet, said emphatically—
"I am a stranger, and you have taken advantage of me. But remember, the gains of dishonesty will never prosper!" and turning upon his heel, left the office.
"Who would be a doctor?" murmured Dr. Elton, forcing the unpleasant thoughts occasioned by the incident from his mind, and endeavouring to fix it upon a case of more than usual interest which he had been called to that day.
A word to the wise is sufficient; it is therefore needless to multiply scenes illustrative of the manner in which too many people pay the doctor.
When any one is sick, the doctor is sent for, and the family are all impatient until he arrives. If the case is a bad one, he is looked upon as a ministering angel; the patient's eye brightens when he comes, and all in the house feel more cheerful for hours after. Amid all kinds of weather, at all hours in the day or night, he obeys the summons, and brings all his skill, acquired by long study, and by much laborious practice, to bear upon the disease. But when the sick person gets well, the doctor is forgotten; and when the bill appears, complaint at its amount is almost always made; and too frequently, unless he proceed to legal measures, it is entirely withheld from him. These things ought not so to be. Of course, there are many honourable exceptions; but every physician can exclaim—"Would that their number was greater!"
IN a miserable old house, in Commerce street, north of Pratt street Baltimore,—there are fine stores there now—lived a shoemaker, whose wife took a particular fancy to me as a doctor, (I never felt much flattered by the preference,) and would send for me whenever she was sick. I could do no less than attend her ladyship. For a time I tried, by pretty heavy bills, to get rid of the honour; but it wouldn't do. Old Maxwell, the husband, grumbled terribly, but managed to keep out of my debt. He was the reputed master of his house; but I saw enough to satisfy me that if he were master, his wife was mistress of the master.
Maxwell had three or four apprentices, out of whom he managed to get a good deal of work at a small cost. Among these was a little fellow, whose peculiarly delicate appearance often attracted my attention. He seemed out of place among the stout, vulgar-looking boys, who stitched and hammered away from morning until night in their 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 a half ago, and if I hadn't taken him in, he would have gone to the poor house as like as not."
"Who was his mother?"
"She was a poor woman, who sewed for the slopshops for a living—but their 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 have said."
"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 of woman—feeling something above her condition, I should think. She was always low-spirited, my wife says, but never complained about any 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, to buy every thing. I don't believe she would have stirred beyond her own 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 of people, and was afraid of meeting some of them in the street."
This brief conversation awoke an interest in my mind for the lad. As I left the shop, I met him at the door with a large bucket of water in his hand—too heavy for his strength. I looked at him more narrowly than I had ever done before. There was a feminine delicacy about every feature of his face, unusual in boys who ordinarily belong to the station he was filling. His eyes, too, had a softer expression, and his brow was broader and fairer. The intentness with which I looked at him, caused him to look at me as intently. What thoughts were awakened in his mind I could not tell. I put my hand upon his head, involuntarily; but did not speak to him; and then passed on. I could not help turning to take another glance at the boy. 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 go back to speak to him, as I wished afterward that I had done, but kept on my way.
Not having occasion to visit the shoemaker's wife again for some months, this boy did not, during the time, fall under my notice. It was midwinter when I next saw him.
I was preparing to go out one stormy morning in February, when a lad came into my office. He was drenched to the skin by the rain, that was driving fiercely along under the pressure of a strong northeaster, and shivering with cold. His teeth chattered so that it was some time before he could make known his errand. I noticed that he was clad in a much worn suit of common corduroy, the cracks in which, here and there, showed the red skin beneath, and proved clearly enough that this was all that protected him from the bitter cold. One of his shoes gaped widely at the toe; and the other was run down at the heel so badly, that part of his foot and old ragged stocking touched the floor. A common sealskin cap, with the front part nearly torn off, was in his hand. He had removed this from his head on entering, and stood, with his eyes now resting on mine, and now dropping beneath my gaze, waiting for me to ask his errand. I did 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 last saw 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 time just so—" Imitating the wheezing sound attendant upon constricted respiration.
"Very well, my boy, I will be there in a little while, But, bless me! you will get the croup as well as Johnny, if you go out in such weather 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 boy innocently.
"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; and sometimes my face swells up and pains me so I can't sleep."
"Do not your feet get very cold? Have you no better shoes than these?"
"I've got a better pair of shoes: but they hurt my feet so I can't wear 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?" I asked.
"I don't know, sir. The boys say that nothing's the matter with them, only they're a little snow-burnt."
"How do they feel?"
"They burn and itch, and are so tender I can hardly touch them. I can'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 know they are so bad?"
"I showed them to him, and he said it was only a snow-burn, and that I 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, and get 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 inarticulate negative, made me regret having asked the question. It was a needless one, for already knew that his mother was dead. It was meant, however, as a preliminary inquiry, and, having been made, I proceeded to question him, in order to learn something, briefly, of his 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 questioned him no further. I knew Mr. W—— very well, and settled it at once in my mind that I would call and see him about the lad. I stood musing for some moments after the boy's last reply, and then said—
"Tell Mr. Maxwell, that I will call down in about half an hour: Run home as quickly as you can, and try and keep out of the rain."
The sad, rebuking earnestness with which the boy looked at me, when I said this, touched my feelings. He had, evidently, expected more than a mere expression of sympathy; but I did not think it right to create any false hopes in his mind. I meant to do all I could to relieve his wretched condition; but did not know how far I would be successful.
I found, on visiting the child of Maxwell, that I had quite a severe case of croup on my hands. His respiration was very difficult, and sounded as if the air were forced through a metallic tube. There was a good deal of fever, and other unfavourable symptoms. The albuminous secretion was large, and the formation of the false membrane so rapid as to threaten suffocation. I resorted to the usual treatment in such cases, and, happily, succeeded in producing a healthy change in the course of a few hours. So urgent had been the case, that, in attending to it, my mind had lost sight of the little boy on my first and second visits. As I was leaving the house on the morning succeeding the day on which I had been called in, I met him coming along the passage with an armful of wood. The look he gave me, as he passed, rebuked my forgetfulness, and forced me to turn back and speak to his master.
"Look here, Maxwell," I said, speaking decidedly, but in a voice so low that my words could not be heard distinctly by others in the room—"you must take better care of that boy Bill, or you will get into trouble."
"How so, doctor? I am not aware that I ill-treat him," returned the shoemaker, 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, thick cloth, and I perceived that there were thick woollen drawers under them.
"Take off these heavy trowsers and drawers," said I, and in place of them put on a pair of half-worn corduroy pantaloons, "and go out of doors and stand in the rain until you are drenched to the skin. The experiment will enable you to decide for yourself whether Bill is warmly enough clad."
I spoke with earnestness. Either my manner, or what I said, produced a strong effect upon the shoemaker. I could see that I had offended him, and that he was struggling to keep down a feeling of anger that was ready to pour itself forth upon me for having presumed to remark upon and interfere with his business.
"Understand me," said I, wishing to prevent the threatened outbreak of passion, "I speak as a physician, and my duty as a physician requires me to do so. The knowledge of, and the experience in diseases, which I possess, enable me to understand better than other men the causes that produce them, and to give, as I should give, to the unthinking, a warning of danger. And this I give to you now."
"All very well, doctor," returned Maxwell, "if you don't raise false alarms."
"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." I fixed my eyes intently on the man as I spoke.
"And his blood is three times as warm as mine. I need not tell you that, doctor."
"How do you know?"
"How do I know?" speaking contemptuously—"does not everybody know that?"
"How hot do you suppose your blood is?"
"I don't know."
"Let us suppose it to be eighty degrees. Three times eighty would be two hundred and forty. Water boils at two hundred and twelve. If it be indeed true that the lad's blood is above the boiling-point, I must agree with you that his clothes are quite sufficient to keep out the cold at any season."
"You understand me well enough, doctor," replied Maxwell, exhibiting a good deal of confusion. "I mean that a boy's blood is much warmer than a man's, which, with his greater activity, causes him to be less affected by cold. I have seen a good deal of boys, and have been a boy myself, and know all about it."
"Generally speaking, what you affirm about the greater warmth of young persons is true," I said to this. "But there are many exceptions. It is true, where there is good health, good spirits, plenty of good food, and activity. But it is not true where these are lacking. Nor is it true in any case to the extent you seem to imagine. Particularly is it not true in the case of the boy about whom 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, and consequently not the warmth of body. His face is pale and thin, and his limbs have not the fulness of youth. He has no activity in his movements."
"Because he is a lazy fellow," replied the shoemaker, knitting his brows. "He wants the strap two or three times a day; that would make his blood circulate freely enough."
"Brutal wretch!" I could hardly keep from exclaiming. But for the boy's sake I put a curb upon my feelings.
"In doing so," I quietly replied, "you would be guilty of sad cruelty and injustice. The lad can no more help what you call laziness, than you could help being born with gray eyes. It his natural bodily temperament. He has not the robust constitution we see in most boys; and this is his misfortune, not his fault."
Maxwell replied to this by pushing out his lips, drawing up his chin, half closing his eyes, and nodding his head in a very contemptuous manner; saying almost as plainly as words could express it—"All gammon, doctor! You needn't try to come over me with that kind of nonsense."
Satisfied that it would be useless to say any thing more upon the subject at that time, I turned away, remarking as I did so—
"If you are not influenced by my advice in this matter, you may chance to feel more potent reasons. A word to the wise is sufficient."
The shoemaker made no reply, and we parted. My first impression was to go immediately to Mr. W—— and apprize him of the condition of his nephew. But a little reflection convinced me that it would be much better to make some previous inquiries in regard to his family, and endeavour to ascertain the reason of his estrangement from his sister. I would then be able to act with more certainty of success. I soon obtained all the information I desired. The history was an impressive one. I will give it as briefly as possible.
Anna W——, at the age of twenty, was esteemed and beloved by all who knew her. Her family was one of wealth and standing, and she moved in our first circles. She had but one brother, to whom she was tenderly attached. Philip was her elder by some years. Among the many who sought the regard of Anna, was a young man named Miller, who had been for years the intimate friend of her brother. Extremely fond of his sister, and highly valuing his friend for his many estimable qualities, Philip was more than gratified when he saw evidences of attachment springing up between them.
Besides Miller, Anna had another suitor, a young man named Westfield, who had become quite intimate with her, but who had made no open declaration of love before Miller came forward and offered for her hand. Westfield loved Anna passionately, but hesitated to declare his feelings, long after he had come to the conclusion that without her for his companion through life, existence would be undesirable. This arose from the fact of his not being certain in regard to the maiden's sentiments, Anna was always kind, but reserved. She was, he could see, ever pleased to meet him; but how far this pleasure was the same that she experienced in meeting other friends, he could not tell. While thus hesitating, business required him to go to New Orleans, and spend some months there. Before leaving he called three several times upon Miss W——, with the intention of making known his sentiments, but each time shrank from the avowal, and finally resolved that he would make the declaration in writing immediately on his arrival at New Orleans. With this object in view, he asked her if she were willing to correspond with him. Anna hesitated a moment or two before replying, and then assented with a blushing cheek.
For some months before this, Miller had shown more than his usual attentions to the sister of his friend; and these had been sufficiently marked to attract Anna's notice. He was a man of intelligence, fine attainments, honourable sentiments, and of good personal appearance. To his attractions the maiden was by no means insensible. But Westfield had a prior claim upon her heart—she admired 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 letter touched upon all subjects but the one nearest to his heart. Anna replied to it briefly, and with evident reserve. This threw such a damper upon the young man, that he did not write again for nearly two months, and then not with the warmth and freedom that had distinguished his first letter.
Meantime, Miller grew more and more constant in his attentions to Anna: To second these attentions, Philip W—— frequently alluded to his friend in terms of admiration. Gradually Anna became interested in the young man, and pleased whenever he made her a visit. When Westfield asked the privilege of opening a correspondence with her, she believed, from many corroborating circumstances, that he designed formally addressing her, and that the correspondence would lead to that result. But as his letters, with the lapse of time, grew less and less frequent, and more constrained and formal, she was led to form a different opinion. During all this time Miller's attentions increased, and Anna's feelings became more and more interested. Finally, an offer of marriage was made, and, after due reflection accepted. Three days afterward Miss W—— received the following letter:—