been right in supposing that his profession was by no means a burden
to him. I was told again and again that he was a wonderfully
successful and daring surgeon; but he confessed to me that his dislike
to such work continually increased, and could only be overcome in the
excitement of some desperate emergency. It seemed to me at first that
he ought not to let his skill lie useless and idle; but he insisted
that the other doctors did as well as he, that they sent for him if
they wanted him, and he did not care for a practice of his own. So he
had grown into a way of helping his friends with their business; and
he was a microscopist of some renown, and a scientific man, instead of
the practical man he ought to have been,--though his was, after all,
by no means an idle nor a useless life, dear old Jack! He did a great
deal of good shyly and quietly; he was often at the hospitals, and his
friends seemed very fond of him, and said he had too little confidence
in himself. I have often wondered why he did not marry; but I doubt if
he ever tells me, though he knows well enough my own story, and that
there is a quiet grave in Florence which is always in sight, no matter
how far away from it I go, while sometimes I think I know every
ivy-leaf that falls on it from the wall near by.
As I have said, my brother was constantly meeting some one of his old
classmates or army comrades or school friends during that first
winter; and, while sometimes he would ask them to dine at his club, he
oftener brought them home to dine or to lunch; for we were both
possessed with an amazing spirit of hospitality. I wish I could
remember half the stories I have heard, or could keep track of the
lives in which I often grew much interested. There is one curious
story which I knew, and which seems very well worth telling,--an
instance of the curious entanglement of two lives, and of those
strange experiences which some people call supernatural, and others
think simple enough and perfectly reasonable and explainable.
One short, snowy December day, just as it was growing dark, I was
sitting alone in the library, and was surprised to hear my brother's
latch-key click in the hall-door; for he had told me, when he went out
after our very late breakfast, that he should not be in before six,
and perhaps dinner had better wait until seven. He threw off his wet
ulster, and was talking for some time to the man, and at last came in
to me.
"What brings you home so early?" said I.
"I'm going to have two or three friends to dine. I suppose it'll be
all right about the dinner? That was not why I came home, though: I
had some letters to write which must go by the steamer, and I didn't
go to Cambridge after all. The snow-storm was too much for me, I
wanted a good light there."
"Sit down a while," said I. "You have time enough for your letters;
it's only a little after four." Jack hated to write at the
library-table, and always went to the desk in his own book-room if he
had any thing to do. He seemed a little tired, and threw me some
letters the postman had given him as he came in at the door; then he
sat down in his great chair near me, and seemed to be lost in thought.
He was immensely interesting to me then; for we had only been together
a few weeks, and I was often curious about his moods, and was apt to
be much pained myself if any thing seemed to trouble him. I was always
wishing we had not been separated so much, and I was afraid I might be
wanting in insight and sympathy; but I think the truth has been that
we are much more intimate, and are far better friends, and have less
restraint, because we had seen so little of one another in the years
that had passed. But we were terribly afraid of interfering with each
other at first, and were so distractingly polite that we bored each
other not a little; though that did not last long, happily, after we
had convinced each other that we could behave well.
"You say it'll be all right about dinner?" repeated my brother.
"Oh, yes!" said I, "unless you wish for something very grand. Would
you like to have me put on my crown and sceptre?"
"There has never been a day yet when I should have been sorry to have
brought a friend home," said Jack, with a good deal of enthusiasm, and
I was at once puffed up with pride; for Jack, though an uncomplaining
soul, was also fastidious, and his praise was not given often enough
to be unnoticed.
"I met an old classmate just now," said he presently, rousing himself
from his reverie. "I haven't seen him for years before. He went out to
South America just after the war, and I supposed he was there still.
He used to be one of the best fellows in the class; and he enlisted
when I did, though we did not belong to the same company. I heard once
he was rather a failure; but something has broken him down horribly.
He doesn't look as if he drank," said my brother, half to himself. "I
met him over on Tremont Street, and I think he meant to avoid me; but
I made him walk across the Common with me, for he was coming this way.
He promised to come to dinner this evening; and I stopped at the club
a few minutes as I came down the street, and luckily found George
Sheffield, and he is coming round too. I told him seven o'clock, but I
told Whiston we dined at six, without thinking; so he will be here
early. Never mind: I'll be ready, and we will take care of ourselves.
I must finish my letters, though," and he rose from his chair to go
upstairs. "It is dreadful to see a man change so," said Jack, still
lingering. "He used to be one of the friskiest fellows in college. I
hope he'll come. I didn't exactly like to ask where I could find him."
Then he went away: and I waited awhile, looking out at the snow, and
thinking idly enough, until Patrick came silently in, and surprised me
with a sudden blaze of gas; when I went upstairs to dress for dinner,
as there didn't seem to be any thing else to do. I was a little sorry
that any one was coming. Jack and I had arranged for a quiet evening
together, and he was reading some new book aloud in which I was much
interested. His reading was a perfect delight to me. He did not force
you to think how well he read, but rather how charming the story or
the poem was; and I always liked Jack's voice.
I found something to be busy about in my room, and did not come down
again until some time after six. When I entered the parlor, Jack arose
with a satisfied smile, and presented Mr. Whiston; and I was
pleasantly surprised, for I had half expected to see a most
forlorn-looking man, perhaps even out at elbows, from what Jack had
said. He was very pale indeed, and looked like an invalid; and he
certainly looked frightened and miserable. He had a hunted look. It
was the face I should imagine one would have who was haunted by the
memory of some awful crime; but I both pitied him and liked him very
much.
He said he remembered seeing me one day out at Cambridge with my
brother when I was hardly more than a child; and we talked about those
old days until my cousin George Sheffield came, Jack's best friend,
who had also been Mr. Whiston's classmate.
I fancied, as we went out to dinner, that our guest would enjoy the
evening, his friends were giving him so hearty and cordial a welcome;
and I was glad the table looked so bright with its roses and fruit,
and its glittering glass. I somehow looked at it through his eyes. His
face lighted a little, as if he thought he should dine to his liking.
He looked as if he were poor; but he was most carefully dressed, and I
grew more and more curious about him, while I liked him better and
better for the grace of his good manners, and for his charmingly
bright and clever way of talking. He spoke freely of his
South-American life, and of being in Europe; but there was something
about him which made neither of his friends dare to ask him many
questions. I could see that my cousin George was in a great hurry to
know more of his history, for they had been very good friends, and he
had lost sight of Mr. Whiston years before, and had been amazed when
he was asked to meet him that evening. They talked a great deal about
their Harvard days, and grew more and more merry with each other; but,
when Mr. Whiston's face was quiet, the look of fear and melancholy was
always noticeable.
When dinner was over, I went away to see one of my friends who came in
just then. I could hear the gentlemen laughing together, and I stood
talking in the hall some time with my friend before she went away; but
at last I went back to the dining-room, for I always liked my tea
there with Jack better than in the parlor. I took my chair again; and
I was glad to find I did not interrupt them, of which I had a sudden
fear as I entered the door.
They were talking over their army life; and my brother said, "That was
the same day poor Fred Hathaway was killed, wasn't it? I never shall
forget seeing his dead face. We had thrown a dozen or more men in a
pile, and meant to bury them; but there was an alarm, and we had to
hurry forward again, what there was left of us. I caught sight of
Fred, and I remember now just how he looked. You know what yellow hair
he had, and we used to call him The Pretty Saxon. I know there were
one or two men in that pile still alive, and moving a little. I hardly
thought of the horror of it as I went by. How used we were to such
sights in those days! and now sometimes they come to me like horrid
nightmares. Dunster was killed that day too. Somebody saw him fall,
and I suppose he was thrown in a hurry into one of the trenches; but
he was put down as missing in the reports. You know they drove us back
toward night, and held that piece of cleared land and the pine-woods
for two days."
"It all seems like a dream to me now," said George Sheffield. "What
boys we were too! But I believe I never shall feel so old again."
"You are such comfortable people in these days," said I, "that I can't
imagine you as soldiers living such a rough and cruel life as that
must have been."
I happened to look up at Mr. Whiston; and to my dismay he looked paler
than ever, and was uneasy. He looked over his shoulder as if he knew a
ghost was standing there, and he followed something with his eyes for
a moment or two in a way that gave me a little chill of fear. I looked
over at Jack to know if he was watching also, and I was rejoiced when
he suddenly nodded to me, and asked George Sheffield something about
the cigars; and George, who had also noticed, answered him, and began
to talk to me about an opera which we had both heard the evening
before. I did not know whether they had chanced upon an unlucky
subject, or whether Mr. Whiston was crazy; but at any rate he seemed
ill at ease, and was not inclined to talk any more. He looked gloomier
and more frightened than ever. I went into the library, and presently
they followed me; and Mr. Whiston came to say goodnight, though, when
Jack insisted that he should not go away so early,--for it was only
half-past nine,--he sat down again with a half-sigh, as if it made
little difference to him where he was.
"You're not well, I'm afraid, Whiston," said my brother in his most
professional tone. "I think I shall have to look after you a little.
By the way, are you at a hotel? I wish you would come to us for a few
days. I'll drive you to Cambridge, and you know there are a good many
of your old friends here in town." And I seconded this invitation,
though I most devoutly hoped it would not be accepted. I had a
suspicion that he would be a most uncomfortable guest.
"Thank you, Miss Ainslie," said he, with a quick, pleasant smile, that
brought back my first liking for him. "You're very good, but I'm not
exactly in trim for paying visits. I will come to you for to-morrow
night, Ainslie, if you like. I should be glad to see you and Sheffield
again--to say good-by. I am going out in the Marathon on Saturday."
Later, when he had gone, Jack and my cousin and I had a talk about
this strange guest of ours. "Is he crazy?" said I to begin with; "and
did you see him look at a ghost at dinner? I'm sure it was a ghost."
And George Sheffield laughed; but one of us was as much puzzled as the
other. "I thought at first he was melodramatic," said he; "but there's
something wrong about him. Is he crazy, do you think, Jack? You're
lucky in having a doctor in the house, Helen, if he does come back."
"He's not crazy," said Jack; "at least I think not. I have been
watching him. But he is no doubt shattered; he may have some
monomania, and I'm afraid he takes opium."
"I should urge him to spend the winter," said George serenely, "and
what's the difference between having a monomania and being crazy?
Couldn't he take a new fancy, and do some mischief or other some day?"
But Jack only laughed, and went to a book-case; while I thought he had
been very inconsiderate, and yet I wished Mr. Whiston to come again. I
hoped he would tell us what it was he saw.
"Here's Bucknill and Tuke," said my brother, coming close to the
drop-light, and turning over the pages; "and now you'll always know
what I mean when I say 'monomania.' 'Characterized by some particular
illusion impressed on the understanding, and giving rise to a partial
aberration of judgment: the individual affected is rendered incapable
of thinking correctly on subjects connected by the particular
illusion, while in other respects he betrays no palpable disorder of
the mind.' That's quoted from Prichard." And he shut the book again,
and went back to put it in its place; but my cousin asked for it, and
turned to another page with an air of triumph. "'An object may appear
to be present before his eyes which has no existence whatever there....
If unable to correct or recognize it when an appeal is made to
reason, he is insane.' What do you think of that?" said he. "You had
better be on your guard, Jack. I'm very wise just now. I have been
studying up on insanity for a case of mine that's to be tried next
month,--at least I devoutly hope it is."
"But tell me something about Mr. Whiston," said I. "Do you suppose he
has no friends? He seems to have been wandering about the world for
years."
"I remember his telling me, when we were in college, that he had no
relatives except an old aunt, and a cousin, Henry Dunster, whom we
spoke of to-night, who was killed in the war. Whiston was very fond of
him; but I always thought Dunster was entirely unworthy his
friendship. Whiston was thought to be rich. His father left him a very
good property at any rate, and he was always a generous fellow.
Dunster made away with a good deal, I imagine; they roomed together,
and Whiston paid most of the bills. There was something weak and
out-of-the-way about him then, I remember thinking, but he was a
fairly good scholar, and he made a fine soldier. He was promoted fast;
but you know he resigned long before the rest of us were mustered out.
Had a fever, didn't he?"
"I believe so," said the judge, as his friends always called my
cousin. "The snow will reach my ears by this time. I must go home.
What a storm it is! No, I can't stay later. All night! no, indeed.
I'll come round late to-morrow evening if I can; but it will not be
likely. Now, if you had only been sensible and studied law, Jack, you
wouldn't have missed the festivities: it's too bad. To tell the truth,
I wish I could make some excuse, and come here instead. I'm very much
excited about Whiston." And with a "good-night" to us, and a fresh
cigar which he was sure the snow-storm would put out, he went
away,--my lucky, easy-going cousin George Sheffield, whose cigars
never did go out at inopportune times, and who never was excited about
any thing. It always seemed refreshing to find in this age of hurry
and dash and anxiety so calm and comfortable and satisfied a soul.
I was in doubt whether we should see any more of our sorrowful guest:
but he appeared late the next afternoon; and, when I came in from my
walk, I saw a much-used portmanteau being taken upstairs by Patrick,
who told me that there were some flowers in the parlor that
Mr. Whiston had brought. So I went in to see them, and my heart went
out to the giver at once; for had he not chosen the most exquisite
roses,--my favorite roses,--and more like Italy than any thing I had
seen in a long day? Patrick had crammed them into exactly the wrong
vase; but I thanked him for that, since it gave me a chance of
handling all the beautiful heavy flowers, and making them comfortable
myself, which was certainly a pleasure.
I found Mr. Whiston evidently in better spirits than he had been the
night before, and I was not sorry when I found we were to be by
ourselves at dinner. I had not asked any one myself, you may be sure.
My brother and I have a fashion of lingering long at the table, unless
I am going out for the evening; and that night he and his friend lit
their cigars, and went on with their talk of old times, while I
listened and read the Transcript by turns. Presently there were a few
minutes of silence, and then Jack said,--
"There was a strange case brought into the city hospital to-day,--a
poor young fellow who had been literally almost frightened to death.
One of his fellow-clerks, who boarded with him, went into his room the
night before in a horrible mask, and wrapped in a sheet, and stood
near him in the moonlight, watching him until he woke. He did it for a
joke, of course, and is said to be in agonies of penitence; but I'm
afraid the poor victim will lose his wits entirely, if he doesn't die,
which I think he will. I don't know what they can do with him. He had
one fit after another. He may rally; but he looked to me as if he
wouldn't hold out till morning. A nervous, slight fellow, it was a
cruel thing to do. Somebody told me he belonged somewhere up in New
Hampshire, and that his mother was almost entirely dependent upon
him."
Mr. Whiston listened eagerly. "Poor fellow! I hope he will die," said
he sadly; and then, hesitating a moment: "Do you believe in ghosts,
Ainslie?"
"No," said Jack, with the least flicker of a smile as I caught his
eye; "that is, I've never seen one myself. But there are very strange
things that one can't explain to one's satisfaction."
"I know that the dead come back," said Mr. Whiston, speaking very low,
and not looking at either of us. "John Ainslie," said he suddenly, "I
never shall see you again. I'm not going to live long at any rate, and
you and your sister have given me more of the old-time feeling than I
have had for many a day before. It seems as if I were at home with
you. I suppose you will say I am a monomaniac at the very least; but
I'm going to tell you what it is that has been slowly killing me.
You're a doctor, and you may put any name to it you like, and call it
a disease of the brain; but Henry Dunster follows me."
Jack and I stole a glance at each other, and I felt the strongest
temptation to look over my shoulder. Jack reached over, and filled
Mr. Whiston's glass; and the Transcript startled me by sliding to the
floor.
"I don't often speak of it now: people only laugh at the idea," said
our guest, with a faint smile. "But it is most horribly real to me. It
sometimes seems the only thing that is real." And this is the story he
told:--
"When I was in college, you know, Henry roomed with me; and at one
time we were greatly interested in what we called then superstition
and foolishness. We thought ourselves very wise, and thought we could
explain every thing. There was a craze among some of the students
about spirit-rappings, and that sort of thing; and we went through
with a good deal of nonsense, and wasted a good deal of time, in
trying to ravel out mysteries, and to explain things that no mortal
man has ever yet understood. One night very late we were talking, and
grew much excited; and we promised each other solemnly that the one
who died first would appear to the other, if such a thing were
possible, and would at least warn him in a way that should be
unmistakable of his death. We were half in fun and half in earnest,
God forgive us! and we made that awful promise to each other. Then we
went into the army, and I don't remember thinking of it once until the
very night before he was killed. We were sitting together under a
tree, after a hard day's fight, and Dunster said to me, laughing, 'Do
you remember we promised each other, that whoever died first would
appear to the other, and follow him?' I laughed,--you know how
reckless we were in those days when death and dying were so horribly
familiar,--and I said the same shell might kill us both, which would
be a great pity. We were very merry and foolish; and I should have
said Henry had been drinking, but there had been nothing to drink and
hardly any thing to eat: you remember we were cut off from our
supplies, and the men had very little in their haversacks. Next day
the fight was hotter than ever, and we were being driven back, when I
saw him toss up his hands, and fall. He must have been trodden to
death at any rate. When we regained that little field beyond the woods
some days afterward, they had dragged off the wounded, and buried the
dead in shallow trenches. I knew Dunster was dead; and I stood on
picket near a trench which was just about where he fell, and I cried
in the dark like a girl. I loved Dunster. You know he was the only
near relative I had in the world whom I cared any thing for, and ours
wasn't a bonfire friendship. He had his faults, I know he wasn't liked
in the class. He was a brilliant fellow; but I used to be afraid he
might go to the bad. Do you remember that night, Ainslie? The men were
so tired that they had dropped down anywhere in the mud to sleep, and
there was some kind of a bird in the woods that gave a lonely, awful
cry once in a while."
"I remember it," said my brother, moving uneasily in his chair, and
this time I had to look behind me, there was no help for it.
"I went to the hospital soon after that," Mr. Whiston said next. "I
was not badly wounded at all, but the exposure in that rainy weather
played the mischief with me, and I was discharged, and, before you
were mustered out, I went to South America, where a friend of mine
wished me to go into business with him. I did capitally well, and I
grew very strong. The climate suited me, and I used to go on those
long horseback rides into the interior among the plantations that I
told you about last night. My partner disliked that branch of the
business far more than I did; so he left it almost wholly to me. I did
not think often about Henry, though I mourned so much over his death
at first, and I never was less nervous in my life.
"One evening I had just returned to Rio after an absence of several
weeks, and I went to dine with some friends of mine. It was a terribly
hot night, and after dinner we went out in the harbor for a sail, as
the moon would be up later. There was not much wind, however; and the
two boatmen took the oars, and we struck out farther, hoping to catch
a breeze beyond the shipping. It was very dark, and suddenly there
came by a large, heavy boat which nearly ran us down. Our men shouted
angrily, and the other sailors swore; but there was no accident after
all. They seemed to be drunk, and we were all in the shadow of a brig
that was lying at anchor; but, Ainslie! as that boat slid by--I was
half lying in the stern of ours, and so close that I could have
touched it--I saw Henry Dunster's face as plainly as I see yours now.
It turned me cold for a minute, and gave me an awful shock. I told the
men to give chase; and they, thinking I was angry at the carelessness,
bent to their oars with a will, and overhauled them. There were two
men on board,--one a negro, and the other an old gray-haired
sailor,--not in the least like Henry. And I said I had been half
asleep, and dreamed it was his face. But there was no mistaking him;
it was the most vivid thing; it was the man himself I saw for that one
horrible minute. And late the next night I was sitting in my own
sleeping-room. I had reasoned myself out of the thing as well as I
could, and said I was tired, and not as well as usual, and all that;
and I had thought of it as calmly as possible. I sat with my back
toward the window; but I was facing a mirror, and suddenly I had a
strange feeling, and looked up to see in the mirror Dunster's face at
the window looking in. It was staring straight at me; and I met the
eyes, and that was the last I knew: I lost my senses. Only a monkey
could have climbed there. There was a frail vine that clung to the
stone, and in the morning there was no trace of any creature.
"And since then he follows me. I saw that haggard, wretched face of
his last night when I sat here at the table; and I see him watching me
if I look among a crowd of people, and, if I look back along a street,
he is always coming towards me; but, when he gets near, he vanishes,
and sometimes at the theatre he will be among the actors all the
evening. Nobody sees him but me, but every month I see him oftener,
and his face grows out of the darkness at night; and sometimes, when I
talk with any one, the face will fade out, and Dunster's comes in its
place. It is killing me, Ainslie. I have fought against it; I have
wandered half over the world trying to get rid of it, but it is no
use. For a few days in a strange place, sometimes for weeks, I did not
see him at first; but I know he is always watching me now, and I see
him every day."
I can give you no idea how thrilling it was to listen to this unhappy
man, who seemed so pitifully cowed and broken, so helpless and
hopeless. Whether there had been any thing supernatural, or whether it
was merely the workings of a diseased brain, it was horribly real to
him; and his life had been spoiled.