 | Mrs. Skaggs's husbands, and other sketches |  |
THE CHRISTMAS GIFT THAT CAME TO
RUPERT.
A STORY FOR LITTLE SOLDIERS.
IT was the Christmas season in California, — a
season of falling rain and springing grasses.
There were intervals when, through driving clouds
and flying scud, the sun visited the haggard hills
with a miracle, and death and resurrection were
as one, and out of the very throes of decay a joyous
life struggled outward and upward. Even the
storms that swept down the dead leaves nurtured
the tender buds that took their places. There
were no episodes of snowy silence; over the quickening
fields the farmer's ploughshare hard followed
the furrows left by the latest rains. Perhaps it
was for this reason that the Christmas evergreens
which decorated the drawing-room took upon
themselves a foreign aspect, and offered a weird
contrast to the roses, seen dimly through the windows,
as the southwest wind beat their soft faces
against the panes.
“Now,” said the Doctor, drawing his chair
closer to the fire, and looking mildly but firmly at
want it distinctly understood before I begin my
story, that I am not to be interrupted by any ridiculous
questions. At the first one I shall stop.
At the second, I shall feel it my duty to administer
a dose of castor-oil, all around. The boy that
moves his legs or arms will be understood to invite
amputation. I have brought my instruments with
me, and never allow pleasure to interfere with my
business. Do you promise?”
“Yes, sir,” said six small voices, simultaneously.
The volley was, however, followed by half a dozen
dropping questions.
“Silence! Bob, put your feet down, and stop
rattling that sword. Flora shall sit by my side,
like a little lady, and be an example to the rest.
Fung Tang shall stay, too, if he likes. Now, turn
down the gas a little; there, that will do, — just
enough to make the fire look brighter, and to show
off the Christmas candles. Silence, everybody!
The boy who cracks an almond, or breathes too
loud over his raisins, will be put out of the room.”
There was a profound silence. Bob laid his
sword tenderly aside, and nursed his leg thoughtfully.
Flora, after coquettishly adjusting the
pocket of her little apron, put her arm upon the
Doctor's shoulder, and permitted herself to be
drawn beside him. Fung Tang, the little heathen
page, who was permitted, on this rare occasion, to
surveyed the group with a smile that was at once
sweet and philosophical. The light ticking of a
French clock on the mantel, supported by a young
shepherdess of bronze complexion and great symmetry
of limb, was the only sound that disturbed
the Christmas-like peace of the apartment, — a
peace which held the odors of evergreens, new toys,
cedar-boxes, glue, and varnish in an harmonious
combination that passed all understanding.
“About four years ago at this time,” began the
Doctor, “I attended a course of lectures in a
certain city. One of the professors, who was a
sociable, kindly man, — though somewhat practical
and hard-headed, — invited me to his house on
Christmas night. I was very glad to go, as I was
anxious to see one of his sons, who, though only
twelve years old, was said to be very clever. I
dare not tell you how many Latin verses this little
fellow could recite, or how many English ones he
had composed. In the first place, you 'd want me
to repeat them; secondly, I 'm not a judge of
poetry, Latin or English. But there were judges
who said they were wonderful for a boy, and
everybody predicted a splendid future for him.
Everybody but his father. He shook his head
doubtingly, whenever it was mentioned, for, as I
have told you, he was a practical, matter-of-fact
man.
“There was a pleasant party at the Professor's
that night. All the children of the neighborhood
were there, and among them the Professor's clever
son, Rupert, as they called him, — a thin little
chap, about as tall as Bobby there, and as fair and
delicate as Flora by my side. His health was
feeble, his father said; he seldom ran about and
played with other boys, preferring to stay at
home and brood over his books, and compose what
he called his verses.
“Well, we had a Christmas-tree just like this,
and we had been laughing and talking, calling off
the names of the children who had presents on
the tree, and everybody was very happy and joyous,
when one of the children suddenly uttered a
cry of mingled surprise and hilarity, and said,
`Here 's something for Rupert; and what do you
think it is?'
“We all guessed. `A desk'; `A copy of Milton';
`A gold pen'; `A rhyming dictionary.'
`No? what then?'
“`A drum!'
“`A what?' asked everybody.
“`A drum! with Rupert's name on it.'
“Sure enough there it was. A good-sized,
bright, new, brass-bound drum, with a slip of paper
on it, with the inscription, `For Rupert.'
“Of course we all laughed, and thought it a
good joke. `You see you 're to make a noise in
for the poet,' said another. `Rupert's last
work in sheepskin covers,' said a third. `Give us
a classical tune, Rupert,' said a fourth; and so on.
But Rupert seemed too mortified to speak; he
changed color, bit his lips, and finally burst into a
passionate fit of crying, and left the room. Then
those who had joked him felt ashamed, and everybody
began to ask who had put the drum there.
But no one knew, or if they did, the unexpected
sympathy awakened for the sensitive boy kept
them silent. Even the servants were called up
and questioned, but no one could give any idea
where it came from. And, what was still more
singular, everybody declared that up to the moment
it was produced, no one had seen it hanging
on the tree. What do I think? Well, I have
my own opinion. But no questions! Enough
for you to know that Rupert did not come down
stairs again that night, and the party soon after
broke up.
“I had almost forgotten those things, for the
war of the Rebellion broke out the next spring,
and I was appointed surgeon in one of the new
regiments, and was on my way to the seat of war.
But I had to pass through the city where the Professor
lived, and there I met him. My first question
was about Rupert. The Professor shook his
head sadly. `He 's not so well,' he said; `he has
him. A very strange case,' he added, giving it a
long Latin name, — `a very singular case. But go
and see him yourself,' he urged; `it may distract
his mind and do him good.'
“I went accordingly to the Professor's house,
and found Rupert lying on a sofa, propped up with
pillows. Around him were scattered his books,
and, what seemed in singular contrast, that drum
I told you about was hanging on a nail, just above
his head. His face was thin and wasted; there
was a red spot on either cheek, and his eyes were
very bright and widely opened. He was glad to
see me, and when I told him where I was going,
he asked a thousand questions about the war. I
thought I had thoroughly diverted his mind from
its sick and languid fancies, when he suddenly
grasped my hand and drew me toward him.
“`Doctor,' said he, in a low whisper, `you won't
laugh at me if I tell you something?'
“`No, certainly not,' I said.
“`You remember that drum?' he said, pointing
to the glittering toy that hung against the wall.
`You know, too, how it came to me. A few weeks
after Christmas, I was lying half asleep here, and
the drum was hanging on the wall, when suddenly
I heard it beaten; at first, low and slowly, then
faster and louder, until its rolling filled the house.
In the middle of the night, I heard it again. I
heard it every night ever since.'
“He paused and looked anxiously in my face.
`Sometimes,' he continued, `it is played softly,
sometimes loudly, but always quickening to a
long-roll, so loud and alarming that I have looked
to see people coming into my room to ask what
was the matter. But I think, Doctor, — I think,'
he repeated slowly, looking up with painful interest
into my face, `that no one hears it but myself.'
“I thought so, too, but I asked him if he had
heard it at any other time.
“`Once or twice in the daytime,' he replied,
`when I have been reading or writing; then very
loudly, as though it were angry, and tried in that
way to attract my attention away from my books.'
“I looked into his face, and placed my hand
upon his pulse. His eyes were very bright, and
his pulse a little flurried and quick. I then tried
to explain to him that he was very weak, and that
his senses were very acute, as most weak people's
are; and how that when he read, or grew interested
and excited, or when he was tired at night, the
throbbing of a big artery made the beating sound
he heard. He listened to me with a sad smile of
unbelief, but thanked me, and in a little while I
went away. But as I was going down stairs, I
met the Professor. I gave him my opinion of the
case, — well, no matter what it was.
“`He wants fresh air and exercise,' said the Professor,
`and some practical experience of life, sir.'
The Professor was not a bad man, but he was a
little worried and impatient, and thought — as
clever people are apt to think — that things which
he did n't understand were either silly or improper.
“I left the city that very day, and in the excitement
of battle-fields and hospitals, I forgot all
about little Rupert, nor did I hear of him again,
until one day, meeting an old classmate in the
army, who had known the Professor, he told me
that Rupert had become quite insane, and that in
one of his paroxysms he had escaped from the
house, and as he had never been found, it was
feared that he had fallen in the river and was
drowned. I was terribly shocked for the moment,
as you may imagine; but, dear me, I was living
just then among scenes as terrible and shocking,
and I had little time to spare to mourn over poor
Rupert.
“It was not long after receiving this intelligence
that we had a terrible battle, in which a portion
of our army was surprised and driven back with
great slaughter. I was detached from my brigade
to ride over to the battle-field and assist the surgeons
of the beaten division, who had more on
their hands than they could attend to. When
I reached the barn that served for a temporary
hospital, I went at once to work. Ah, Bob,” said
from the hands of the half-frightened Bob, and
holding it gravely before him, “these pretty playthings
are symbols of cruel, ugly realities.
“I turned to a tall, stout Vermonter,” he continued
very slowly, tracing a pattern on the rug
with the point of the scabbard, “who was badly
wounded in both thighs, but he held up his hands
and begged me to help others first who needed it
more than he. I did not at first heed his request,
for this kind of unselfishness was very common in
the army; but he went on, `For God's sake, Doctor,
leave me here; there is a drummer-boy of our
regiment — a mere child — dying, if he is n't dead
now. Go, and see him first. He lies over there.
He saved more than one life. He was at his post
in the panic this morning, and saved the honor of
the regiment.' I was so much more impressed by
the man's manner than by the substance of his
speech, which was, however, corroborated by the
other poor fellows stretched around me, that I
passed over to where the drummer lay, with his
drum beside him. I gave one glance at his face
—and — yes, Bob — yes, my children — it was
Rupert.
“Well! well! it needed not the chalked cross
which my brother-surgeons had left upon the rough
board whereon he lay to show how urgent was the
relief he sought; it needed not the prophetic words
the brown curls that clung to his pale forehead, to
show how hopeless it was now. I called him by
name. He opened his eyes — larger, I thought, in
the new vision that was beginning to dawn upon
him — and recognized me. He whispered, `I 'm
glad you are come, but I don't think you can do
me any good.'
“I could not tell him a lie. I could not say
anything. I only pressed his hand in mine, as he
went on.
“`But you will see father, and ask him to forgive
me. Nobody is to blame but myself. It was
a long time before I understood why the drum
came to me that Christmas night, and why it kept
calling to me every night, and what it said. I
know it now. The work is done, and I am content.
Tell father it is better as it is. I should have
lived only to worry and perplex him, and something
in me tells me this is right.'
“He lay still for a moment, and then, grasping
my hand, said, —
“`Hark!'
“I listened, but heard nothing but the suppressed
moans of the wounded men around me.
`The drum,' he said faintly; `don't you hear it?
The drum is calling me.'
“He reached out his arm to where it lay, as
though he would embrace it.
“`Listen,' he went on, `it 's the reveille. There
are the ranks drawn up in review. Don't you see
the sunlight flash down the long line of bayonets?
Their faces are shining, — they present arms, —
there comes the General; but his face I cannot
look at, for the glory round his head. He sees me;
he smiles, it is —' And with a name upon his lips
that he had learned long ago, he stretched himself
wearily upon the planks, and lay quite still.
“That 's all. No questions now; never mind
what became of the drum. Who 's that snivelling?
Bless my soul, where 's my pill-box?”
| Mrs. Skaggs's husbands, and other sketches | |