AMONG THE INVALIDS.
John stood in front of a square building which was a few paces from
the street. From the rear of the square part, at either side,
branched wings, which turned and joined in a large structure after
proceeding back for some distance. Wrengell subsequently learned that
the wing at the left was the men's ward, that at the right was the
women's, and the part where they joined in the rear was the clinical
amphitheater, in which surgical operations were performed.
The man to whom the student had alluded had gone inside the yard, and
was about to enter the men's ward. He was a sandy-haired man of about
fifty, with very thin, sandy whiskers. A defective mustache and a
beardless strip on either side of his under-lip exposed in its full
ugliness his mouth, which was repulsive in the extreme. His face was
red and unprepossessing, as if liquor had swollen its veins and
thoughts of crime had governed its expression.
"How do you do?" he said with a smile, which he meant to be affable,
but which lifted the few hairs on his upper lip and uncovered his
mouth in a way which seemed hideous to John. "Come here for
treatment, have you?"
"Yes," answered John shortly.
The man opened the door.
"Come right in," he said, as if he were inviting a guest to enter his
mansion. "You must make yourself at home here."
A long hall separated the two divisions which were allotted to the
respective sexes. The men's ward was a large room with a row of
narrow beds on each side, which were capable of holding comfortably
but one occupant. By the head of every bed was a stand on which was a
wash-bowl and a pitcher. The white face of one invalid rested on a
pillow near the door. The rest of the patients were able to sit up;
most of them, indeed, were apparently healthy. The diseases treated
were, as a rule, of a chronic nature and, with the exception of
deformed limbs and abnormal growths, few of them gave to an
unpracticed observer any indication of their existence. Several men
were reading. A number were sitting down, engaged in no visible
occupation. Some were conversing in pairs. One man was entertaining
several listeners with an anecdote of the civil war.
"They come from all over," said John's new acquaintance, "from New
York and Massachusetts and from California, and one from Texas. This
is a great university, and we ought to be proud of it. Let me see,
where do you hail from?"
"I have no permanent home," replied John, "I stay where I happen to
be called by business."
"Very good plan," said his new acquaintance. "Make the best of your
lot, wherever you be. Let me see, what is your name?"
"Wrengell," answered John.
"Is that so," said his companion. "Was you ever in Branch County?"
"I have traveled around the state some, and I may have been there,"
replied John, his countenance reddening.
"Is your name John?" the man inquired.
"What if it is?" said Wrengell in desperation. "What do you know of
me?"
"I guess we're pretty near relatives," said the man, again lifting
his thin mustache. "I'm sure of it. Wasn't your father's name
Archibald?"
"What do you know of him?" asked John, growing sick at heart.
"Quite a bit," said the disagreeable stranger, "as much as any man
knows about his brother. We was twins. You don't say he wasn't your
father. Now, tell me honest, isn't your name John?"
"It is," admitted John.
"I was sure of it," said the elder Wrengell, grasping John's hand.
"I've found my nephew that I haven't heard anything of for eight
years. You're just the picture of Archie when he was of your age.
Your mother was dark. Here comes a doctor. He'll take down your name,
and you'll have to give an account of your disease. Doctor Webb, this
is my nephew, Mr. Wrengell."
"May I see you alone?" asked John.
"Certainly," replied the doctor.
John, in an embarrassed way, explained to the medical man that he
wished a deformity removed. He was assured that on the morrow the
sixth toe would be amputated. He was returning from the consultation
when he saw approaching him a middle-aged lady who carried a
lead-pencil and a note-book. The officious uncle, also espying her,
came toward John.
"Mrs. May," he said, "I'll introduce my nephew, Mr. Wrengell, John
Wrengell."
"I suppose you know the rules of this establishment, Mr. Wrengell?"
said the lady.
"No, I do not," said John, afraid that in his ignorance he had broken
some rule of the hospital.
"Oh, he isn't used to this place, you know," said the elder Wrengell
apologetically. "He means all right. Johnny's a good boy."
"The rule is to pay a week's board in advance," said Mrs. May, "three
dollars and a half. I suppose that you will be willing to be governed
by it."
"Perfectly," answered John, "I will pay you now."
Hereafter in speaking of John we will omit his surname, applying it
in distinction only to the elder Wrengell. John's spirits sank to a
low ebb after his entrance to the hospital. He, of all men, proud,
sensitive and aspiring, could least afford to be hampered by so
objectionable a clog as Wrengell. The very clothes which the man wore
looked to John to be the fitting garb of the sot and convict. The
sand-colored coat was of the same hue as one which John had warn when
he attended district school. He well remembered that garment, which
had awakened so much ridicule. The boys had jerked him down by it.
Once they had stripped it from him, torn it and almost buried it in
the dirt, in which it had been hardly distinguishable. Some of them
had held him so that he could not see where they put it and it had
taken him a long lime to find it. Ever since then he had hated
sand-colored coats.
His history was being repeated. He was leaving behind him shameful
associations, ignorance was loosing its grip, poverty had already
parted with much of its evil power, they were all about to slacken
their influence and allow him the esteem of men, when another
disgrace bound him to them anew. What would Manie say when she saw
his uncle and heard him give his affectionate regards to his nephew
"Johnny"? Had he known, as he stood before the hospital, the
vexatious surprise which awaited him, he could have turned from it
and gone his way. He thought now of leaving the city, but he
concluded to wait until the operation had been performed.
"Johnny," said Wrengell, "you didn't tell me whether you'd ever lived
in Branch or not."
"Let us take a walk," said John, not wishing his companion's
speculations to be overheard.
"All right," responded Wrengell, "that'll please me. Where had we
better go now, to the museum?"
"No, I do not care to go there," answered John.
"We can just walk then," said Wrengell. "I ain't particular. I've
seen everything they have there anyway. I didn't know but you might
have some curiosity. I see you don't think we're any relation."
"I suppose every member of the human family is related to every other
member," replied John. "If we could trace it to Adam, we might prove
our relationship."
"I can do it without," said Wrengell, with a pleased look which made
him appear particularly villainous, "I know all about you, as much as
a man ought to know about his nephew. You lived with a man by the
name of Norris. He was in the township of Terry. I don't remember the
section, but there's a swamp in the northeast corner of his farm, a
little swamp. Now, you won't say you never picked huckleberries in
that swamp."
John was silent.
"I thought you wouldn't," said Wrengell. "You must have heard Norris
speak about your Uncle Arthur, Art, sometimes they call me. We was
twins, but Archie didn't look so much like me as Reuben. Your father
was tall, like you. Now, I can tell you how old you are. You was born
twenty-two years ago last February. You are a month younger than my
boy, Dan. Dan looks some like you, too. You're both regular
Wrengells."
"Where does he live?" asked John, too miserable to resent Wrengell's
persistence in enforcing his society.
"He's in trouble now," replied Wrengell. "He's in the House of
Correction at Ionia. The way of it was, a fellow Dan was intimate
with stole a box of cigars. Then he bet a box of cigars with Dan. Dan
he's sharp if he is my boy, he won 'em. They found the cigars with
him. Now, Johnny, are you going to disown me, your uncle, the only
uncle you've got? You don't seem so glad to see me as I expected you
to. If you don't want me to, I won't say anything more to you."
"Let me think it over," said John. "I want to do right. But let us
say nothing of our family affairs before listeners."
"That's a good plan," assented Wrengell. "We've been unlucky, the
Wrengells have."
The following day surgical operations were performed in the clinical
amphitheater, and John parted with his sixth toe. He felt no
reluctance at the separation. The member had rendered him no service,
had given him no comfort. He could not help reflecting, however that
he had exchanged a concealed for an open disgrace.
Wrengell was disagreeably kind during John's recovery from the
amputation. He brought him water and tried to smile encouragingly on
him. It seemed to John that he kept the coat which awakened such
detested recollections constantly before his eyes. Several days after
the operation was performed, he waked into the ward with a pair of
crutches. "I thought you'd need these, Johnny," he said. "You see
your uncle don't forget you."
"What did they cost?" asked John.
"We don't care anything about the cost," answered Wrengell. "They're
a present."
"But I care," said John. "I do not want you to pay out your money for
me."
"Now, Johnny, I feel as though I'd like to," said Wrengell. "You will
let your uncle do this for you, won't you?"
John, disliking to wound Wrengell's feelings, accepted the gift. His
maimed foot made rapid progress toward recovery. It was, no doubt,
fortunate on account of his sprained ankle, which was not entirely
well, that he was for a season kept from stepping on his left foot.
At times the thought occurred to him that he might be followed and
identified as the suspected horse-thief who had fled from Break
o'Day. He had hesitated to give his real name at the hospital, but
the reported change of popular sentiment in his favor and his
aversion to adopting a subterfuge which was worthy of his ignoble
parentage induced him to pursue the more open course.
One day in the hospital he was sitting in an arm-chair by his bed.
Near him was a man who had a hard bunch, about as large as a walnut,
on one side of his neck.
"This is the dullest place I ever got into," was the observation of
this latter individual, as he laid down a newspaper with a yawn.
"Read, mope, talk, walk around, sleep, that's all there is to it. I
don't see as I'm any better than I was when I come. I come far enough
so I ought to get help, from old Genesee County, New York, They had
good doctors there, first-rate. I wanted to try them. But I'd heard a
good deal about Ann Arbor. My friends they kept harping, 'Ann Arbor,
Ann Arbor. Go to Ann Arbor. They can do big things to Ann Arbor.' And
now I've got here, I wish I was back. They had a better doctor right
there in Batavia; he's dead now, but he was a better doctor than
they've got in this whole institution. He could tell what was the
matter with you as quick as he saw you. These fellows don't know
anything about it. They only guess. They're just as apt to get it
wrong as right."
The dissatisfied New Yorker picked up his paper and scanned a column
which he had previously overlooked.
"Well, now," he exclaimed, "if these Michigan folks don't beat all.
Roughest set I ever see. Here's a man stole some money, got shot and
then went back and set a big house afire.'
"Where did that happen?" asked John.
"Maybe you'd like to read it," said the New Yorker, handing John the
paper.
John could hardly repress his excitement as he learned the tragic
story of Montcalm's death and the burning of Ratke's house. He
sincerely mourned Montcalm, and his sympathy for the unfortunate
family of the major was unbounded. He tried, to smother the thought
that the event, so disastrous to his friends, had raised his prospect
of success merely by lowering the standard to which he was aspiring.
For this selfish consolation he detested himself, and the remorse
which he felt for harboring it more than equaled the satisfaction
which it afforded.
He immediately wrote a letter to Manie, expressing his sorrow for
their loss. Ignorant of the extent of the major's misfortunes, he
supposed that he would remain on his farm where he would erect a new
house. He was now able to wear slippers and to walk about with the
aid of his crutches. Putting the letter, which was not yet stamped,
on the stand by his bed, he prepared to go to the street.
"Going up town?" queried Wrengell.
"Yes," said John.
"Guess I'll go too," said Wrengell, "if you've no objections. Maybe
you think rather hard of me, Johnny," he began when they were on the
sidewalk. "Of course you've heard Norris tell something about me."
"I have heard something of you," said John.
"I reckoned likely," pursued Wrengell. "I've been slandered. I was
unfortunate, as he told you, of course, and got behind the bars in
Jackson. But, Johnny, I wasn't guilty. I swear to you on my word of
honor, the word of honor of your uncle, I wasn't guilty. I don't
blame the jury nor the judge. My freedom was swore away, and it was
done by a fellow I'd helped a good deal. Some things was took from a
jewelry store in Detroit, that wasn't a great ways from where I
lived, just about four blocks. It didn't worry me much when an
officer arrested me for it, for I knew I could prove my good
character. I said, 'All right, sir, you won't keep me long.' I was a
little worried when they brought in the jewelry and said they found
it tucked away in my house. My lawyer said to me, 'That looks bad,
Wrengell. If you hadn't bore an awful good character, you wouldn't
never get out of this.'
'Let 'em work,' I said. 'My reputation is too good for me to be hurt
much. Anybody that knows Arthur Wrengell knows he won't steal.' Why,
I've had rich men, the best men there was in Detroit and the most
influential there was Zack Chandler, said to me, 'Wrengell, if I had
warning that I was going to die to-morrow, I'd will my property to
you and write you a note telling you how I wanted it divided. I'd be
sure you wouldn't keep a cent.' But I was beat when Bill Weeks swore
he met me on the stairs in my house the night the things was stole. I
knew that settled it, and I might as well throw up the sponge. I'd
helped Bill to get the position he had as clerk, and pushed him along
every way I could. He was intimate with my folks. The day I was
arrested, it was raining. He spent his money as fast as he earned it
and was hard up. He come and wanted to borrow my rubber coat. I
didn't think but what he was all right, and I said, 'Go right
upstairs and get it yourself, Bill.' He must have left the things up
there then.
The jury brought in a verdict of guilty. The judge didn't believe I
took the things, but he had to sentence me, according to the
evidence. He was in tears when he done it. Chandler, he was mad. He
said it was the biggest outrage he ever heard of. He worked a long
time, trying to get a pardon from the governor. When he couldn't make
it out, he told him it would be his last term and so it was. Lots of
folks wonder how the governor come to be defeated in the convention.
Old Zack can tell 'em, and so can I."
"I have forgotten my letter," said John. "I must go back."
"That's bad, to have to make two trips," said Wrengell. "You haven't
heard from your father lately, Johnny?"
"No," was John's brief answer.
"Neither have I," said Wrengell, "not for some years. Between you and
me, I'm afraid Archie got into a bad scrape in Minnesota. I'm afraid
he did. They proved it right up. I wouldn't tell anybody else so, but
this is in the family. Your mother never comes to see you?"
"No," said John.
"She was peculiar," remarked Wrengell, after they had walked two
blocks in silence. "I don't say as there was anything bad about her,
only she was peculiar. She would drink hard. I think maybe that was
what got her into trouble. When she was under the influence of
liquor, she didn't think how wrong it was to take what didn't belong
to her."
Imagine the sensations of John while he was listening to the
protracted account of his family from one of its members. How long
must he be tied to this man, whose tongue was an incessant torture.