'It is of no use, my good woman,' said the surgeon, soothingly, as he withdrew his hand from the man's breast. 'Stay - undraw that curtain!'
'Why?' said the woman, starting up.
'Undraw that curtain!' repeated the surgeon in an agitated tone.
'I darkened the room on purpose,' said the woman, throwing herself before him as he rose to undraw it. - 'Oh! sir, have pity on me!
If it can be of no use, and he is really dead, do not expose that form to other eyes than mine!'
'This man died no natural or easy death,' said the surgeon. 'IMUST see the body!' With a motion so sudden, that the woman hardly knew that he had slipped from beside her, he tore open the curtain, admitted the full light of day, and returned to the bedside.
'There has been violence here,' he said, pointing towards the body, and gazing intently on the face, from which the black veil was now, for the first time, removed. In the excitement of a minute before, the female had thrown off the bonnet and veil, and now stood with her eyes fixed upon him. Her features were those of a woman about fifty, who had once been handsome. Sorrow and weeping had left traces upon them which not time itself would ever have produced without their aid; her face was deadly pale; and there was a nervous contortion of the lip, and an unnatural fire in her eye, which showed too plainly that her bodily and mental powers had nearly sunk, beneath an accumulation of misery.
'There has been violence here,' said the surgeon, preserving his searching glance.
'There has!' replied the woman.
'This man has been murdered.'
'That I call God to witness he has,' said the woman, passionately;'pitilessly, inhumanly murdered!'
'By whom?' said the surgeon, seizing the woman by the arm.
'Look at the butchers' marks, and then ask me!' she replied.
The surgeon turned his face towards the bed, and bent over the body which now lay full in the light of the window. The throat was swollen, and a livid mark encircled it. The truth flashed suddenly upon him.
'This is one of the men who were hanged this morning!' he exclaimed, turning away with a shudder.
'It is,' replied the woman, with a cold, unmeaning stare.
'Who was he?' inquired the surgeon.
'MY SON,' rejoined the woman; and fell senseless at his feet.
It was true. A companion, equally guilty with himself, had been acquitted for want of evidence; and this man had been left for death, and executed. To recount the circumstances of the case, at this distant period, must be unnecessary, and might give pain to some persons still alive. The history was an every-day one. The mother was a widow without friends or money, and had denied herself necessaries to bestow them on her orphan boy. That boy, unmindful of her prayers, and forgetful of the sufferings she had endured for him - incessant anxiety of mind, and voluntary starvation of body -had plunged into a career of dissipation and crime. And this was the result; his own death by the hangman's hands, and his mother's shame, and incurable insanity.
For many years after this occurrence, and when profitable and arduous avocations would have led many men to forget that such a miserable being existed, the young surgeon was a daily visitor at the side of the harmless mad woman; not only soothing her by his presence and kindness, but alleviating the rigour of her condition by pecuniary donations for her comfort and support, bestowed with no sparing hand. In the transient gleam of recollection and consciousness which preceded her death, a prayer for his welfare and protection, as fervent as mortal ever breathed, rose from the lips of this poor friendless creature. That prayer flew to Heaven, and was heard. The blessings he was instrumental in conferring, have been repaid to him a thousand-fold; but, amid all the honours of rank and station which have since been heaped upon him, and which he has so well earned, he can have no reminiscence more gratifying to his heart than that connected with The Black Veil.