STORIES AND SKETCHES.
STORIES AND SKETCHES
BY
OUR BEST AUTHORS.
[Illustration]
BOSTON:
LEE AND SHEPARD.
1867.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1867, by
LEE & SHEPARD,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of
Massachusetts.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
THE SKELETON AT THE BANQUET. _Seeley Regester._ 9
LET THOSE LAUGH WHO WIN. _Samuel W. Tuttle._ 37
THE PROPER USE OF GRANDFATHERS. _Fitz Hugh Ludlow._ 61
AT EVE. _Gertrude Brodé._ 77
BROKEN IDOLS. _Richmond Wolcott._ 93
DR. HUGER'S INTENTIONS. _Louise Chandler Moulton._ 105
THE MAN WHOSE LIFE WAS SAVED. * * * * *. 121
THE ROMANCE OF A WESTERN TRIP. _J. L. Lord._ 157
THE TWO GHOSTS OF NEW LONDON TURNPIKE. _Mrs. Galpin._ 185
DOWN BY THE SEA. _Hattie Tyng Griswold._ 229
WHY MRS. RADNOR FAINTED. * * * * *. 249
UNDER A CLOUD. _William Wirt Sikes._ 265
COMING FROM THE FRONT. _Richmond Wolcott._ 281
A NIGHT IN THE SEWERS. _Chas. Dawson Shanly._ 293
THE SKELETON AT THE BANQUET.
[Illustration]
Dr. Graham sat in his office, his book closed on his knee, and his
eyes fixed upon the street. There was nothing of interest to be seen.
A light snow was falling, making the pavement dreary; but it was
Christmas, and his thoughts had gone back to other days, as people's
thoughts will go on anniversary occasions. He was thinking of the
young wife he had buried three years and three months ago; of the
great fireplace in his boyhood's home, and his mother's face lit up
by the glow; of many things past which were pleasant; and reflecting
sadly upon the fact that life grew duller, more commonplace, as one
grew older. Not that he was an elderly man,--he was, in reality,
but twenty-eight; yet, upon that Christmas day, he felt old, very
old; his wife dead, his practice slender, his prospects far from
promising,--even the slow-moving days daily grew heavier, soberer,
more serious. It was a holiday, but he had not even an invitation for
dinner, where the happiness of friends and the free flow of thought
might lend a momentary sparkle to his own stale spirits.
The doctor was not of a melancholy, despondent nature, nor did he rely
for his pleasures upon others. He was a self-made man, and self-reliant
to an unusual degree, as self-made men are apt to be. His tussle with
circumstances had awakened in him a combative and resistant energy,
which had served him well when means were scant and the rewards of
merit few. But there is something in the festal character of Christmas
which, by luring from the shadows of our struggle-life the boy nature
of us, makes homeless men feel solitary; and, from being forlorn,
the mood soon grows to one of painful unrest; all from beholding
happiness from which we are shut out. On this gray afternoon not
the most fascinating speculations of De Boismont and the hospital
lectures,--not the consciousness of the originality and importance of
his own discoveries in the field of Sensation and Nerve Force,--had any
interest for Dr. Graham.
That he had talent and a good address; that he studied and experimented
many hours every day; that he as thoroughly understood his profession
as was consistent with a six years' actual experience as an actual
practitioner; that there was nothing of the quack or pretender in
him;--all this did not prevent his rent from being high, his patients
few, and his means limited. With no influential friends to recommend
and introduce him, he had resolutely rented a room in a genteel
locality up town, had dressed well, and had worn the "air" of a man
of business, ever ready for duty; but success had not attended upon
his efforts, and the future gave no promise of a change. Of this he
was thinking, somewhat bitterly; for what proud soul is not stung with
unmerited neglect? Then a deep sadness stole over him at thoughts
of the loss which had come upon his early manhood,--a loss like
which there is none other so abiding in strong, wise hearts. A cloud
seemed to be sifting down and closing around him, which, with unusual
passivity, he seemed unable or unwilling to shake off. A carriage
obstructed his view, by passing in front of his window. It stopped;
then the footman descended, opened the carriage-door, and turned to
the office-bell. He was followed by his master, who awaited the answer
to the bell, and was ushered into the practitioner's presence by the
single waiting-servant of his modest establishment. The doctor arose
to receive his guest, who was a man still younger than himself, with
something of a foreign air, and dressed with a quiet richness in
keeping with his evident wealth and position.
"Dr. Graham?"
The doctor bowed assent.
"If you are not otherwise engaged, I would like you to go home with me,
to see my sister, who is not well. There is no great haste about the
matter, but if you can go now, I shall be glad to take you with me. It
will save you a walk through the snow."
"He knows," thought the doctor, "that I do not drive a carriage;" and
that a stranger, of such ability to hire the most noted practitioners,
should call upon him, was a source of unexpressed surprise and
suspicion.
"What do you think is the matter with your sister?" he unconcernedly
asked, taking his overcoat from the wardrobe.
"That is for you to decide. It is a case of no ordinary character--one
which will require study." He led the way at once to the door, as if
unwilling to delay, notwithstanding he had at first stated that no
haste was necessary. "Step in, doctor, and I will give you an inkling
of the case during the drive, which will occupy some fifteen or twenty
minutes."
"In the first place," continued the stranger, as they rolled away,
"I will introduce myself to you as St. Victor Marchand, at present
a resident of your city, but recently from the island of Madeira.
My house is upon the Fifth Avenue, not far from Madison Square. My
household consists only of myself and sister, with our servants. I have
the means to remunerate you amply for any demands we may make upon your
time or skill; and I ought to add, one reason for selecting so young
a physician is, that I think you will be the more able and willing to
devote more time to the case than more famous practitioners. However,
you are not unknown to me. I have heard you well-spoken of; and I
remember that, when you were a student in Paris, you were mentioned
with honor by the college, for an able paper read before the open
section upon the very subject to which I now propose to direct your
attention,--mental disease," he added, after a moment's hesitation.
"A case of insanity?" bluntly asked the doctor.
"Heaven forbid! And yet I must not conceal from you that I fear it."
"Give me some of the symptoms. Insanity in strong development, or
aberration of faculties, or hallucination?"
"I cannot reply. It is one and all, it seems to me. The fact is,
doctor, I wish to introduce you to your patient simply as a friend of
mine, so as to give you an opportunity for studying my sister's case,
unembarrassed by any suspicion on her part. To excite her suspicions is
to frustrate all hopes of doing anything for or with her. Can you--will
you--do me the favor to dine with me this evening? It is now only about
an hour to six, and if you have no other engagement, I will do my best
to entertain you, and you can then meet my sister as her brother's
guest. Shall it be so?"
The young man's tones were almost beseeching, and his manner betrayed
the most intense solicitude. Quite ready to accede to the request,
from curiosity as well as from a desire to reässure the young man, Dr.
Graham did not hesitate to say, "Willingly, sir, if it will assist in a
professional knowledge of the object of my call."
The change from the office to the home into which the physician was
introduced was indeed grateful to the doctor's feelings. The light,
warmth, and splendor of the rooms gave to the home an air of tropical
sensuousness; and yet an exquisite taste seemed to preside over
all. Though not unfamiliar with elegance, this home of the brother
and sister wore, to the visitor, an enchanted look, as well from the
foreign character of many of its adornments and the rare richness of
its works of art, as from the gay, friendly, enthusiastic manner of his
entertainer,--a manner never attained by English or Americans. Sending
word to Miss Marchand that there would be a guest to dinner, St. Victor
fell into a sparkling conversation, discoursing most intelligibly
of Paris, Madeira, the East Indies, and South America, taking his
guest from room to room to show this or that curious specimen of the
productions or handicraft of each country. As the articles exhibited
were rare, and many of them of scientific value, and as the young man's
knowledge kept pace with his eloquence of discourse, Dr. Graham was
agreeably absorbed.
An hour passed rapidly. Then the steward announced dinner; but it
was not until they were about seating themselves at table that _the
patient_ made her appearance. It was now twilight out of doors. The
curtains were drawn and the dining-room lit only by wax tapers, under
whose soft radiance bloomed an abundance of flowers, mostly of exotic
beauty and fragrance. It was evident that the young master of the house
brought with him his early tastes.
"We have an extra allowance of light and flowers, and a little feast,
too, I believe; for neither myself nor my English steward here forget
that this is Christmas. Don't you think it a beautiful holiday? My
mother always kept it with plenty of wax candles and flowers."
"It is a sacred day to me," answered the doctor, sadly, thinking of
his lost wife and of the three times they had kept it together, with
feasting and love's delights.
At this moment Miss Marchand floated into the room and to her place
at the head of the table,--a girlish creature, who gave their guest a
smile when the brother said,--
"Dr. Graham is not entirely a stranger, Edith; he was in Paris when we
were there. You were a child, then. I was indeed glad to meet him in
this strange city, and I mean that we shall be friends upon a visiting
footing, if he will permit it."
It was but natural for the physician to fix a piercing look upon the
face of her whom he had been given to understand was to be his patient,
and whose disease was of a character to command his best skill. His
physician's eye detected no outward tokens of ill health, either of
body or of mind. A serene brow, sweet, steady, loving eyes, cheeks rosy
and full with maiden health, a slender though not thin figure, all
were there before him, giving no indication even of the "nervousness"
assumed to be so common with young ladies of this generation. Exquisite
beauty, allied with perfect health, seemed to "blush and bloom" all
over her; and the medical man would have chosen her, with professional
enthusiasm, as his ideal of what a young woman _ought_ to be. Her
pink-silk robe adapted itself to her soft form as naturally as the
petals of a rose to its curving sweetness. Only to look upon her
gladdened the sad heart of Dr. Graham, the wifeless and childless. He
felt younger than he had felt for years, as thirsty grass feels under
the influence of a June sun after a morning of showers. His spirits
rose, and he talked well, even wittily,--betraying not only his varied
learning as a student and his keen powers of observation as a man of
the world, but also the gentleness and grace which, in his more active,
worldly life, were too much put aside. It was a little festival, in
which the dainty dishes, the fruit, and wine played but a subordinate
part.
Nothing could be more apparent than the pride and affection with which
Mr. Marchand regarded his sister. Was there, indeed, a skeleton at this
feast? The doctor shuddered as he asked himself the question. All his
faculties were on the alert to deny and disprove the possibility of
the presence of the hideous visitor. His sympathies were too keenly
enlisted to be willing to acknowledge its existence even in the
background of that day or the days to come to that household. Yet,
ever and anon, in the midst of their joyousness, a strange look would
leap from the quick, dark eyes of St. Victor, as he fixed them upon
his sister's face, and an expression would flit across his own face
inscrutable to the watchful physician. With a slight motion of his hand
or head he would arrest and direct the doctor's attention, who would
then perceive Miss Marchand's luminous glance changing into a look
expressive of anxiety and terror, the glow of her cheeks fading into
a pallor like that of one in a swoon. But, strange! an instant would
change it all. The pallor, lingering but a moment, would melt away as a
mist before the sun, and the roses would come back to the cheeks again
in all their rosiness. The host would divert his companion's startled
attention by gracefully pressing the viands upon his notice, or by some
brilliant sally, so scintillating with wit or droll wisdom, as to have
brought the smile to an anchorite's eyes.
"I pray you watch her! Did you not notice that slight incoherency?" he
remarked, in a whisper, leaning over toward the doctor.
The doctor had noticed nothing but the playful badinage of a happy girl.
"I am afraid her loveliness blinds my judgment. I _must_ see what there
is in all this," he answered to himself, deprecatingly.
They sat long at table. Not that any one ate to excess, though
the pompous English steward served up one delicious dish after
another, including the time-honored Christmas feast requisite,--the
plum-pudding,--which was tasted and approved, not to wound the Briton's
national and professional vanity, but sent off, but slightly shorn of
its proportions, to grace the servants' table.
The guest noticed that St. Victor partook very sparingly of food,
although he fully enjoyed the occasion. Save tasting of the wild game
and its condiment of real Calcutta currie, he ate nothing of the
leading dishes or _entrées_. Neither did he drink much wine, whose
quality was of the rarest, being of his own stock drawn from his
father's rich store in his Madeira cellar. Of the luscious grapes and
oranges which formed a leading feature of the dessert, he partook more
freely, as if they cooled his tongue. That there was fever, and nervous
excitement, in the young man's frame, was evident. Indeed, to the
doctor's observant eye, the brother appeared more delicate, and of a
temperament more highly nervous than his sister.
The frankness, the almost childish confidence and open-heartedness
of the young people formed one of their greatest attractions to the
usually reticent, thoughtful physician. He felt his own impulses
expanding under the warmth of their sunny natures until the very
romance of his boyhood stirred again, and sprouted through the mould
in which it lay dormant. There was nothing in their past history or
present prospects which, seemingly, they cared to conceal, so that he
had become possessed of a pretty fair history of their lives before
the last course came upon the board. Both were born in the island of
Madeira. St. Victor was twenty-four, Edith nineteen, years of age.
Their mother was the daughter of an American merchant, long resident
on the island; their father was a French gentleman of fortune, who
had retired to the island for his health, had loved and won the fair
American girl, and lived with her a life of almost visionary beauty
and happiness. Their father had joined their grandfather in some of
his mercantile ventures; hence those voyages to the Indies, to South
America, to the Mediterranean in which the children were participants.
They also had spent a couple of years in France, cultivating the
acquaintance of their relatives there, and adding some finishing
touches to St. Victor's education, which, having been conducted under
his father's eye by accomplished tutors, was unusually thorough and
varied for one so young. This fact the doctor surmised during the
progress of the banquet, though he did not ascertain the full extent
of the young man's accomplishments until a future day. Nor was Edith's
education overlooked. She was in a remarkable degree fitted to be the
companion and confidante of her brother,--sympathizing in his tastes,
reading his books, enjoying his pastimes, and sharing his ambitions
to their utmost. It was a beautiful blending of natures,--such as the
world too rarely beholds,--such as our received "systems" of education
and association _cannot_ produce.
Their grandfather had been dead for several years; their father
for three, their mother for two. "She faded rapidly after father's
death,--drooped like a frost-blighted flower," said St. Victor. "They
had been too happy in this world to remain long apart in the next."
"You now see, doctor," the narrator of these family reminiscences at
length said, "why Edith and myself are so unlike. My sister is her
mother over again, fair and bright, like your New York ladies,--among
the most beautiful women, in many respects, I have ever seen. I am
dark and thin,--a very Frenchman in tastes, temperament, and habits."
He toyed a few moments with an orange; then, again leaning toward the
physician, he said, in that sharp whisper which once before during the
evening he had made use of,--
"I will tell you all, doctor. My father died insane. We afterwards
learned that it was one of the inheritances of his haughty and wealthy
family. The peace and delight which he had with his wife and children
long delayed the terrible legacy; but it fell due at last. He died a
maniac,--a raving maniac. _She_ does not know it. It killed her mother.
Imagine, doctor, _imagine_, if you can, how I watch over her! how I
pity! how I dread! O God! to think that I must detect those symptoms,
as I have done during the last six months. I have seen the virus in
her eyes to-night. I have not breathed a word to her of my knowledge
and convictions; but I am as certain of it as that she sits there.
Look at her now, doctor,--_now_!"--with a stealthy side-glance at the
beautiful girl who, at the moment, was smiling absently over a flower
which she had taken from its vase,--smiling only as girls can,--as if
it interpreted something deeper than a passing thought.
It is impossible to describe the strain of agony in the young man's
voice; his sudden pallor; the sweat starting from his forehead; or to
describe the piercing power of his eye, as he turned it from the face
of his sister to that of his guest. Accustomed as he was to every form
of suffering, Dr. Graham shrank from the appeal in that searching look,
which mutely asked him if there were any hope.
The clear whisper in which St. Victor had spoken aroused Edith from her
revery; she darted a glance at both parties, so full of suspicion and
dread, so in contrast with her natural sunny expression, that it was as
if her face had suddenly withered, from that of a child, to the thin
features of the careworn woman of fifty. She half rose in her chair,
faltered, sank back, and sat gazing fixedly at the two men; yet silent
as a statue.
St. Victor was the first to recover himself. He burst into a light
laugh,--sweet as a shower of flowers,--and, taking up a slender-necked
decanter of pale wine, passed it to his guest, remarking,--
"We are forgetting that this is Christmas night. Fill your glass,
my friend, with _this_ wine,--the oldest and rarest of our precious
store,--and I will fill mine. Then, we will both drink joyously to the
health of my only darling--my one beloved--my sister."
He said this so prettily, poured out the wine with such arch pleasantry
of gesture, that the color came back to Edith's cheeks; and when the
two men bowed to her, before drinking, she gave them a smile, steeped
in melancholy, but very sweet, and brimming with affection. It thrilled
Dr. Graham's veins more warmly than the priceless wine.
"After our mother's death," continued St. Victor, in his natural
voice, "we found ourselves quite alone. We had formed no great
attachment to our relatives in France; and, as one branch of our
father's business remained still unsettled in this country, we resolved
to come hither. Then, too, we had a longing to behold the land which
was our mother's. When we had arranged and closed up our affairs in
Madeira, we sailed for France, where we spent one winter only. I
thought"--with a tender glance at his sister--"that a sea voyage would
do Edith good. I was not satisfied about her health; so I drew her
away from Paris, and, last spring, we fulfilled our promise to see our
mother's land, and came hither. I am afraid the climate here does not
agree with her. Do you think she looks well?"
The girl moved uneasily, casting a beseeching look at the speaker.
"It is not I who am not strong," she said; "it is you, St. Victor. If
your friend is a doctor, I wish he would give a little examination
into the state of your health. You are thin and nervous; you have no
appetite,--while he can see, at a glance, that nothing in the world
ails _me_."
Again her brother laughed; not gayly as before, but with a peculiar and
subtle significance; while he gave the doctor another swift glance,
saying to him in a low voice,--
"I have heard that persons threatened with certain mental afflictions
never suspect their own danger."
Dr. Graham did not know if the young lady overheard this remark; he
glanced toward her, but her eyes again were upon the flowers, which she
was pulling to pieces. He perceived that her lips trembled; but she
still smiled, scattering the crimson leaves over the white clothes.
At this period of his novel visit,--just then and there, when St.
Victor laughed that subtle laugh and his sister vacantly destroyed the
red flower,--a conviction rushed into the physician's mind, or rather,
we may say, pierced it through like a ray of light in a darkened room.
Instantly all was clear to him. From that moment he was cool and
watchful, but so pained with this sudden knowledge of the true state of
the case that he wished himself well out of that splendid house, back
in his own dreary office. He wished himself away, because he already
loved these young people, and his sympathy with them was too keen to
allow him further to enjoy himself; yet, in all his medical experience,
he had never been so interested with a professional interest. As a
physician, he felt a keen pleasure; as a friend, a keen pain. His
faculties each sprang to its post, awaiting the next development of the
scene.
While Mr. Marchand was giving some order to his steward, the beautiful
girl at his other hand leaned toward him, and also whispered
confidentially in his ear: "Dr. Graham, if you really are my brother's
friend, I pray you watch him closely, and tell me at some future time
if you have any fears--any suspicions of--Oh, I implore you, sir, do
not deceive me!"
Her eyes were filled with tears, her voice choked.
The thing was absurd. Its ludicrous aspect struck the listener,
almost forcing him to laugh; while the tears, at the same time, arose
responsive in his own eyes.
A clock on the mantel chimed nine. The steward placed on the board the
last delicacies of the feast,--Neapolitan creams and orange-water ice.
"Edith chooses luscious things like creams," remarked her brother.
"Which will you have, doctor? As for me, I prefer ices; they cool my
warm blood, which is fierce like tropic air. Ah, this is delicious! I
am feverish, I believe; and the scent of the orange brings back visions
of our dear island home."
He paused, as if his mind were again on the vine-clad hills of the
"blessed isle." Then he spoke, suddenly,--
"Edith, have some of this?"
She smiled, shaking her head.
"But you _must_. I insist. You need it. Don't you agree with me,
doctor, that it is just what she requires?"
He spoke in a rising key, with a rapid accent. Edith reached forth her
hand, and took the little dish of orange ice. It shook like a lily in
the wind; but she said, softly and with apparent calmness,--
"Anything to please you, brother. I will choose this every day if you
think it good for me."
He gave her a satisfied look. Then there was a brief silence, which
their guest was about to dissipate with a playful remark, when St.
Victor turned abruptly to the steward,--
"Thompson," he cried, "now bring in the skeleton!"
"What, sir?" stammered the astonished servant.
"Bring in the skeleton, I said. Do you not know that the Egyptians
always crown their feasts with a death's head? Bring it in, I say, and
place it--_there_!"
Half-rising in his seat, he pointed to the vacant space behind his
sister's chair.
The man now smiled, thinking his master jested; but his expression
grew more questioning and anxious as the bright eyes turned upon him
glittering in anger.
"Why am I not obeyed? Bring in the skeleton, I repeat, and place
it behind my sister's chair. It is in the house; you will have no
difficulty in finding it. It has lurked here long. I have been aware of
its presence these many months,--always following, following my dear
Edith,--a shadow in her steps. You see how young and fair she is; but
it is all hollow--ashes--coffin-dust! She does not know of it; she has
never even turned her head when it lurked behind her; but to-night she
must make its acquaintance. It will not longer be put off. Our feast is
nearly over. Bring it in, Thompson, and we will salute it."
The steward, with a puzzled look, turned from one to another of the
company. Miss Marchand had risen to her feet, and was regarding her
brother with terrified eyes, stretching out her hands toward him.
The doctor, too, arose, not in excitement, but with commingled pain
and resolution stamped upon his features; while his gaze rested upon
the face of St. Victor until the eyes of the young man were riveted
and arrested by the doctor's demeanor. A flush then diffused itself
gradually over Marchand's pale countenance; his thin nostrils quivered;
his fingers twitched and trembled and sought his bosom, as if in search
of something concealed there. Then he laughed once more that short,
nervous laugh so significant to the physician's ears, and cried, in a
high tone,--
"So, Edith, you did not know that you were going mad? _I_ did. I've
watched you night and day this long time. I have all along been afraid
it would end as it has--on Christmas night. _That_ was the day our
father tried to murder our mother. An anniversary, then, we have
to-night celebrated. Ha, ha! And you didn't know the skeleton was
awaiting admittance to the banquet!"
His eyes gleamed with a light at once of delight and with malice; but
he quietly added,--
"But _I_ shall not harm you, you demented thing, you beautiful
insanity. There! doctor, didn't I tell you to watch her--to read
her--to comprehend the subtle thing? So full of art and duplicity!
But look at her now--_now_! She is as mad as the serpent which has
poisoned itself with its own fangs--mad--mad! O God! has it come to
this? But, I knew it--knew the skeleton was her skeleton--the bones
without her beautiful flesh. We've had enough of it now. Take it away,
Thompson,--hurry it away!"
"Appear to obey him. Pretend that you take something from the room,"
said Dr. Graham, in an undertone, to the servant, while St. Victor's
eyes were fixed glaring and lurid upon his trembling, agonized,
speechless sister.
The skeleton had, in truth, appeared at the Christmas feast.
Laying his hand firmly upon the young man's wrist the doctor said,--
"Mr. Marchand, you're not well, to-night. You are over-fatigued. Shall
we go upstairs?"
St. Victor's quickly flashing gaze was met by that clear, resolute,
almost fierce response in the physician's eye, before which he
hesitated, then shrank. The madman had his master before him.
"You are right. I am not very well; my head aches; I'm worn out with
this trouble about Edith, doctor. _Do_ you think it is hopeless? She
had better come with us. I don't like to leave her alone with that
hideous shape at her back."
Obeying the gentle but firm pull upon his wrist, the brother turned
to leave the room, looking back wistfully upon his sister. She was
following them with clasped hands, and a face from which all youth and
color had fled. St. Victor suddenly paused, gave a scream like the cry
of a panther, wrenched himself quickly from the grasp upon his arm,
and, in an instant, his teeth were buried in the white shoulder of his
sister. But only for an instant, for almost as quickly as the madman's
movement had been the doctor's. One terrible blow of his fist sent the
maniac to the floor like a clod.
"O doctor! why did you do it?"
"To save your life, Miss Marchand."
"Poor St. Victor! His fate is on him at last."
Her voice was calm in its very despair. She sank down beside the
senseless man, lifting the worn, white face to her lap and covering it
with kisses. "I saw it,--yet I did not think it would come so soon. O
God! be pitiful! Have I not prayed enough?"
The lips of the injured man began to quiver. "We must bind him and get
him to bed before he fully recovers," said the doctor, lifting Edith to
her feet. "Here, Thompson, help me to carry him to his bed."
When the maniac recovered consciousness fully, his ravings were
fearful. It was the malady of frenzy in its most appalling condition.
The extent of the mental wreck Dr. Graham had, for the last half hour
of the feast, been trying to fathom. When he dealt that dreadful blow
he knew the wreck was complete: reason had gone out forever with
that panther-like shriek. All that could be done was to secure the
maniac against injury to himself or others, and to administer such
anti-spasmodics or anæsthetics as, in some degree, would control the
paroxysms.
Poor St. Victor! So young, so gifted, so blest with worldly goods; his
fate was upon him, as Edith had said.
From that hour he had but brief respite from torment. Not a gleam of
sanity came from those fiery eyes; all was fierce, untamable, inhuman,
as if the life had been one of storm and crime, instead of peace and
purity. Did there lay upon that racking bed a proof of the natural
depravity of the creature man, when the creature was uncontrolled by
a reasoning, responsible will? Or, was it not rather a proof that the
mental machine was in disorder, by a distention of the blood-vessels
and their engorgement in the brain,--that cerebral excitement was a
purely physical phenomenon, dependent upon simple, physical causes,
which science some day shall define and skill shall counteract?
Happily, the fire in the sufferer's brain scorched and consumed the
sources of his life, as flames drink up the water that is powerless to
quench them. Day by day he wasted; and, in less than a month from that
night,--Christmas evening,--St. Victor Marchand's form was at peace in
death.
During all that time Dr. Graham never left the sufferer's bedside. Day
and night he was there at his post, doing all that was possible to
alleviate the pain. The skill of a physician and the love of a brother
were exhausted in that battle with death in its most dreaded form.
His care was, too, required for Miss Edith. Her life was so interwoven
with that of her brother, that the doctor doubted if she could survive
the shock to her sympathies and affection. When the surprise of the
tragedy was over, on the day following the first outburst of the
malady, she told him that for months she had feared the worst. She had
remarked symptoms so like her father's as to excite her fears; yet,
with the happiness of youth, the sister persuaded herself that her
apprehensions were groundless. His sunny nature seemed proof against
the approach of an evil so blasting; and her momentary fears were
banished by the very mood of heightened vivacity and excitement which
had awakened them. Having no intimate friend in whom to confide, none
to counsel, she had borne the weight of her inward sorrow and dread
alone.
At intervals, during Christmas day, she had observed an incoherency in
her brother's speech, and an unwonted nervousness of manner, which had
inspired her with serious alarm. When he proposed to drive out, she
encouraged the suggestion, hoping that the cold air might restore him
to his usual state. Upon his return with Dr. Graham, he had seemed so
entirely like himself, so happy, so disposed to enjoyment, that she
once more dismissed every thought of danger, until she overheard the
sharp whispers in which he addressed his guest.
"And oh, to think," she cried, while the tears rained down her cheeks,
"that in his love for me, his madness should take the shape of
beholding the conditions of his own brain reflected in mine! He was so
afraid harm would come to me,--thoughtful of me so long as even the
shadow of sanity remained. Dear, dear St. Victor,--so good, so pure,
so wise! Why was not I the victim, if it was fated that there must be
one?" Then lifting her tearful eyes,--"Doctor, perhaps the poison lurks
in my veins, too! Tell me, do you think there is danger that I, too,
shall one day go mad?"
"No, poor child, most emphatically, I do _not_. You must not permit
such a fancy to enter your mind. As St. Victor said, you are your
mother's image and counterpart, in temperament and mental quality,
while he, doubtless, in all active or positive elements of constitution
and temperament, was his father's reflex. Is it not true?"
"I believe so. My dear father used, I know, to think St. Victor nearer
to him than I could be. When together, they looked and acted very much
alike. Poor, dear brother!" and again the tears coursed down her cheeks.
The doctor was deeply moved; this grief was so inexpressibly deep as
to stir in his heart every emotion of tenderness and sympathy it was
possible for a gentle-souled man to feel.
"I loved him," he said, gently, "before I had known him an hour. His
nature was like a magnet, to draw love. Alas! it is sad, when the
promise of such a life is blighted. I would have given my life for his,
could it have averted this terrible blow from this house."
A radiant, soul-full look dwelt in her tear-dimmed eyes. That this
man--a comparative stranger--should manifest this interest in her
brother aroused all the gratitude and affection of her warm nature.
"And I love you, Dr. Graham, for loving him," she said, in the pathos
of the language that never speaks untruthfully,--the pathos of
irrepressible feeling. Then she added: "Do not leave us, doctor. You
are all the friend we have here in this great city. If you leave us I
shall, indeed, be alone."
"I will remain, my dear child, so long as there is need of my services."
He did not tell her, in so many words, that the case was hopeless; but
her eye was quick to see the wasting form and the growing prostration
which followed each paroxysm. How those two faithful attendants
watched and waited for the end! And in the grief for the sister, the
physician's gentleness found that road to a mutual devotion, which is
sure to open before those who love and wait upon a common object of
affection. The doctor and sister became, without a consciousness of
their real feeling, mutually dependent and trusting.
In less than a month, as we have written, the skeleton which came to
the feast on Christmas night departed from the house to abide on St.
Victor Marchand's grave.
At the next meeting of the Institute, Doctor Graham gave a full account
of the case, remarking upon the singular feature in it of the madness
assuming an embodiment in the sanity of another. From much that Edith
told him, as well as from his own observation and knowledge, he was
convinced that, for months, the young man had detected every minute
symptom and development of his disease in his sister; and had a
physician been at hand, he could have traced the insidious progress of
the malady in the strength of the brother's suspicions regarding his
sister. The facts cited to the Institute touched the compassion of the
most practice-hardened physician when Dr. Graham related the strange
and pitying tenderness with which young Marchand had watched his
sister, and strove to divert from her mind the madness which tainted
his blood alone.
"Alone in this great city. If you leave me, I shall be alone indeed."
The words were like an angel's rap upon the heart's door. In his own
great trouble,--the loss of his wife,--the physician deemed himself
afflicted beyond his deserts; but what was his condition compared with
that of this youthful, tender, dependent woman, whose loss isolated her
from all others?
No, not all others. After the first black cloud of her sorrow had
drifted away, she turned to him, whose hand had sustained her, even
when prayer had left her helpless and hopeless,--turned to him with a
love that was more than a love, with an adoration, before which the
physician bent, in wonder and satisfaction. He drew her to his bosom as
something to be kept with all the truth and tenderness of an abiding
love.
The dull office has been exchanged for a home that is like a palace of
dreams; and Edith Graham, never forgetting her great sorrow, yet became
one of the happiest of all who ever loved.
LET THOSE LAUGH WHO WIN.
LET THOSE LAUGH WHO WIN.
[Illustration]
Mr. Pontifex Pompadour was a gentleman whose family record testified
to his having breathed the breath of life sixty years, and yet his
appearance bore witness to not more than forty. Appearances, however,
though they are deceitful, result from causes more or less palpable;
and, in this case, they could be naturally accounted for.
_Ecce testem!_
Mr. Pompadour's complexion was clear and transparent,--but it was not
his own. His teeth were white and regular,--but they were artificial.
His hair was black and glossy,--but it was dyed. His whiskers were
ibid.,--but they were ditto. His dress was the perfection of fashion
and taste, though rather youthful; and withal he carried himself with
a jaunty air, and a light and springing step, smiling blandly on all
he met, as if smiles were dollars and he were dispensing them right
royally.
He had an only son,--Augustus Fitz Clarence Pompadour,--who was
heir-apparent to the very considerable property supposed to belong
to the "said aforesaid." This son was twenty-three, and had graduated
at college with some knowledge of some things, if not of some others.
He was a modern Mithridates in his power to withstand strychnine and
nicotine; and he had devoted much attention to that branch of geometry
which treats of the angles of balls on a cushion. One beautiful trait
in his character, however, was his tender affection for his father,
which showed itself most touchingly--whenever he was in need of money.
In person he was prepossessing, having light-blue eyes, dark-brown
hair, and a drooping moustache. Nor will I allow that he was a vicious
lad. Indolent and useless he certainly was,--an insignificant numeral
in the great sum of humanity, but a _roué_ he certainly was not.
The worst thing about him was his name, and that he received from a
weak, silly novel-reading mother, who gave her life for his, and,
with her dying breath, charged his father to pay this homage to the
yellow-covered world in which she had lived.
If there was anything wanting in the comfortable mansion, where
the Pompadours, father and son, kept bachelor's hall, it was the
refining and softening influence of woman. And this brings us to the
consideration of the skeleton which abode in the closets of Pompadour
and son.
The late Mrs. Pompadour had possessed some property which she had
retained after marriage. Before her death she made a will, leaving
to Augustus the fee, and to his father the income of the estate. In
case, however, Augustus should marry before his father _did_, he was
to enter into full possession of the property. Wives, in dying, do not
generally offer their husbands a premium for replacing them; and so
the judges inferred that the real meaning of the testatrix would be
arrived at by inserting the letter _e_ in the word "_did_;" thus making
the contingency turn upon Augustus' marrying before his father _died_.
Moreover, the lawyer who drew the will (his ancestor was limned by Æsop
in the fable of the Ass in the lion's skin) swore positively to this
rendering being in accordance with the wish of the deceased, and so the
courts decided that in the event of Mr. Pompadour's marrying before his
son, he should retain his interest during life.
Now Mr. Pompadour, aside from mercenary motives, was very uxoriously
inclined; and would doubtless have married years before, had he not set
too high an estimate on himself.
His condition of mind at the beginning of this history might be
expressed logically somewhat as follows:--
First, he must get married.
Second, Augustus must _not_.
And Augustus, by analogous reasoning on identical premises, _mutatis
mutandis_, had arrived at a dual conclusion.
First, he must get married.
Second, his father must _not_.
A vigorous system of espionage had been instituted by father and son,
on the actions of each other. Skirmishes had been frequent; and if
neither gained any decided advantage, neither lost. But the great
battle of the war was yet to be fought, and it has been reserved for my
pen to inscribe its history.
In the suburban village where Mr. Pompadour resided was a handsome
residence; and its owner, "about visiting Europe," offered it for rent.
The house was elegant, and the grounds especially fine. They were
flanked by two shady streets and fronted on a third. A widow lady with
one daughter became the tenant; and, as is usual in such cases, the
whole village called upon her,--three persons prompted by politeness,
and three hundred by curiosity. The cards which did duty for the lady
in returning these calls, announced her to be "Mrs. Telluria Taragon,
_née_ Trelauney." By the same token her daughter was discovered to be
"Miss Terpsichore Taragon."
Mrs. Taragon was one of the most bewitching of widows. About forty (she
acknowledged to thirty-three), she was the very incarnation of matronly
beauty. She was just tall enough to be graceful, and just plump enough
not to be unwieldy. Her eyes were black and dangerous. Her hair was
short, and it clustered over her forehead in little ringlets,--rather
girlish, but very becoming. Her teeth were white and natural, and she
had a most fascinating smile, which showed her teeth in a carefully
unstudied manner, formed a pretty dimple in her chin, and enabled her
to look archly without apparent intention.
Her daughter, Miss Terpsichore, was twenty, with a slender, graceful
form, and a pair of rosy cheeks, before whose downy softness the old
simile of the peach becomes wholly inadequate. She had hazel eyes,
whose liquid depths reflected the brightest and sunniest of tempers,
and dark brown hair, with just a suspicion of golden shimmer filtering
through its wavy folds.
Mrs. Taragon, on the bare charge, could not have escaped conviction
as a "designing widow." She not only was on the lookout, perpetually,
for an investment of her daughter, but she was flying continually from
her cap a white flag of unconditional surrender to the first man bold
enough to attack herself.
Mr. Pontifex Pompadour "availed himself of an early opportunity" to
call upon Mrs. Taragon. His fame had preceded him; and that estimable
lady, who was in her boudoir when he was announced, gave a small
shriek of dismay at her dishevelled appearance. However, no one need
be alarmed at such a manifestation on the part of a "lady of fashion."
It is indicative of perfect satisfaction with her general effect. Mrs.
Taragon flew to her mirror to shake out another curl--and her flounces;
smiled bewitchingly by way of rehearsal; bit her lips frantically to
bring the blood _to_ them, and walked aimlessly about the room for a
few moments with her hands above her head, to send the blood _out_ of
them. Then picking up her handkerchief daintily, and going downstairs
slowly, that her cheeks might not be too much flushed, she acquired
sudden animation at the parlor-door, and burst into the room with
an elaborate rustle, and a thousand apologies for having kept Mr.
Pompadour waiting so long,--and wasn't "the day perfectly lovely?"
If a conversation be interesting, or serve in any way to develop the
plot of a story, I hold that it should be given at full length; but the
polite nothings which were repeated at _this_ interview, came under
neither of these heads. They served only to display Mr. Pompadour's
false teeth, and Mrs. Taragon's real ones (and the dimple) through the
medium of Mr. P.'s real smile and Mrs. T.'s false one.
The two parted mutually pleased, and Mrs. Taragon said to herself, as
she resumed the novel she had dropped at Mr. Pompadour's entrance, "If
I marry _him_, I will have that set of sables, and those diamonds I saw
at Tiffany's."
Mr. Pompadour beheaded a moss rose with his cane, as he stepped
jauntily down the walk, and remarked to his inner self, "A monstrous
fine woman that, and I may say, without vanity, that she was struck
with my appearance. Why, ho! who the devil's that?"
The acute reader will perceive a slight incoherence in the latter
portion of this remark. It was due to a sight which met Mr. Pompadour's
gaze on stepping into the street from Mrs. Taragon's domain. This was
nothing else than Augustus Fitz Clarence walking leisurely up the
street with a young lady whom we know--but the illustrious parent did
not--to be Miss Terpsichore Taragon.
"Confound the boy!" said the old gentleman, "I wonder who he's got
there? Just like his father, though! For I may say, without vanity,
that I was a tremendous fellow among the girls."
Augustus Fitz Clarence was not at all pleased at this chance rencontre.
The intimacy with the charming widow, which it strongly hinted
at, brought vividly to his mind its possible results upon his own
prospects. And, moreover, he was conscious of a peculiar and novel
sensation in regard to the young lady, which made him rather shamefaced
under the paternal eye. In short, he was in love. All the symptoms were
apparent: a rush of blood to the face, and a stammering in the speech,
whenever proximity to the infecting object induced a spasm. He also had
the secondary symptoms,--a sensation of the spinal cord, as if molasses
were being poured down the back, and a general feeling "all over," such
as little boys call "goose-flesh," and which is ordinarily occasioned
by a ghost story, or a cold draught from an open door-way.
To the writer, who stands upon the high level of the philosophic
historian, it is evident that the same feelings warmed the gentle
breast of Terpsichore that burned in the bosom of Augustus. To furnish
food, however, for the unextinguishable laughter of the gods, this fact
is never made clear to the principals themselves till the last moment.
"And so from hour to hour we ripe and ripe ... and thereby hangs a
tale."
With the foregoing paragraph, I bridge over an "hiatus, as it were," of
several months.
Respect for truth obliges me to record the fact, that Mrs. Taragon
regarded her daughter with that unchristian feeling called jealousy.
But, if a heartless, she was a shrewd woman, and she meant to dispose
of Terpsichore advantageously.
There was, at this time, and I believe there is still, in the village
of which I write, an "order of the garter," under the control of one
Mrs. Grundy, the motto of which was: "Those are evil of whom we evil
speak." Its evening meetings were familiarly known as the "nights of
the sewing-circle;" and it was the duty of each member to attend to
everybody's business but his own. An agent of this order promptly put
Mrs. Taragon in possession of everything which had been discovered or
invented concerning Mr. Pompadour, not forgetting to enlarge upon the
conditions of the will. Mrs. Taragon thereupon resolved to marry Mr.
Pompadour; for, in addition to other reasons, she confessed to herself
that she really liked him. As may be supposed, therefore, she looked
with much disfavor on the increasing intimacy between the young people;
but she feared that any violent attempt to rupture it would precipitate
the very result she would avoid. She sat, one day, in a brown study,
regarding the subject in all its bearings, with her comely cheek
resting upon her plump hand, and, at last, arrived at a conclusion.
"I think it would not be wise," she said, consulting the mirror to see
if her hand had left any mark upon her cheek,--"to interfere just at
present; at any rate, not till I am _sure_ of Mr. Pompadour; but I will
keep a close watch upon them."