A NIGHT IN THE DISSECTING-ROOM.
———
BY MRS. LOUISE PIATT.
———
Fatherly, motherly,
Sisterly, brotherly
Feelings had changed:
Love by harsh evidence
Thrown from its eminence,
Even God’s providence
Seeming estranged. Bridge of Sighs.
Medical students are merry fellows. This is one of the settled convictions of the world. Any one who dare assert that medical students are not lively, reckless youths, would be considered very ignorant, or devoid of truth. And the world in a received opinion is right for once. The majority of them, bred at home, the sons of wealthy parents, are sent to large cities, to pass in crowds the season of lecture; and, being suddenly removed beyond restraint, and countenanced by each other, it is little wonder they break into youthful extravagance, that too often ends in habits of sin and misery. The short passage between the hospital and dissecting-room rings with laughter, and the wild exuberance of youth blooms like a flower, rich and rank among graves. The hotel in which I have passed the winter, is in the neighborhood of a medical college, and my two little rooms look down upon the street along which troups of students pass laughing and chatting—in their queer dresses, made up of sacks, blouses, and caps. From time to time, as my health would permit, I have, reminded by these youths, given the history of a medical student, who came from the same sunny plains upon which I passed three of my happiest years. I give it here much curtailed, and only regret that facts cannot be made more entertaining.
The scenery of the U-na-ka plains is exceedingly beautiful and peculiar. Yet one traveling from early morn till even, over roads level as a railway, may at last become wearied with a sameness of quiet beauty that seems to be without end. But to see the specimens preserved in Frankenstein’s sketches, is to have a life-pension in pictured loveliness. The green sward, cropped close by huge droves of cattle, stretches out for miles and miles, dotted by groves of bur-oak, interlacing their gnarled boughs, upon which the bright green foliage hangs denser than that of any other species of American tree, or threaded by silvery rivulets that glide slowly along between flowery banks, as if they seemed loath to leave the paradise they adorn, or broken by little wood-covered mounds that swell up like islands in a flowery sea; or one sees a little lake calmly mirroring the quiet heavens above, like a beautiful nun in a cloistered convent. No rocks, no distant mountains melting in the hazy noon—no wide seas or sweeping rivers—no swelling uplands, yet in their own, quiet way the U-na-ka plains are as beautiful as they.
As the Frankensteins selected knots of still beauty to immortalize on canvas, so the Hon. William Fletcher selected a scene of exceeding beauty in the midst of which to place his home, and gratify his taste for retirement, where he could look the fairest nature in the face. A dreamy, indolent man of fine intellect, he had struggled for years at the bar with various success, when, through the influence of some friends, he was elevated to the bench, and shortly after, a near relative dying, left him an immense fortune. The judge gave up his judgeship, presented his fine library to a nephew, and, with wife and only child, retired to his U-na-ka farm, to settle down over books and dreams for the remainder of his useless life. He would have certainly accomplished this sleepy purpose, but for the only child—a boy—who acted upon the Hon. Mr. Fletcher like a corn, with the difference that love, not hate, made the young development of himself exceedingly troublesome.
The younger Fletcher, humored by the indolent father and fond mother, had every whim gratified, every wish anticipated. When the educated selfishness proposed breaking his neck by riding a colt that seemed unmanageable, the proposition was acceded to by the foolish parents amid earnest protestations, prayers, and loud lamentations. From the time he fell from the table, in a fit of indigestion, having gorged himself with plum-cake, to his nineteenth year, when he discharged a load of small shot from his double-barrel Manton into the back of John, the coachman, and cost his father a large sum to keep his heir out of jail, Dudley Fletcher had his own way—and a bad way it was. Yet Dudley was popular. He had plenty of money, and no care for it. His selfishness was ignorant thoughtlessness, for he did many generous acts—if they cost him little trouble. His hand went to and from his well-filled purse quite easily—and he flung his father’s money from him like a lord.
When in his nineteenth year, one pair of sparkling black eyes at least saw Dudley dash by upon his blood mare without dislike. These eyes belonged to a little girl, the daughter of one of the Hon. Fletcher’s tenants; and however beautiful the orbs were, the setting was in keeping. A prettier specimen of Heaven’s choicest handiwork never peeped out in hill and woodland. Upon the most exclusive carpets she would have been a distinguished feature, so delicate, graceful and beautiful was she; but in the U-na-ka wilds, she looked like a water-lily turning up its pure, pale face from a marshy pool. Dudley, just at the age when youths, like creepers, stretch out their arms to cling to something, saw and loved the little cottager—the tenant’s daughter. Dudley had ever been gratified with all he sighed for, and, of course, saw no obstacle in the path to obtain what he so earnestly admired. He waded in to pluck the lily, never seeing the slime and earth that might cling to him in the act. To do the youth justice, however, he was as sincere and honest in his hopes, as thoughtless, selfish youths ever are. He paled apace—his appetite came like country cousins, unexpectedly; he read much poetry, and wandered about at unseasonable hours. His fond, good mother, said the private tutor kept Dudley too close at his books. The Hon. Fletcher said the boy had the dyspepsia—the tutor hinted the truth, but no one listened.
How the youth prospered in his wooing, the tutor himself soon had striking proof. This private pedagogue was a large, dirty man, who wore his hair standing on end, and kept his nails in mourning. Somewhat indignant at not being heard when he suggested the real cause of Dudley’s trouble, this mortal made himself a committee of one, to investigate and report. By close watching he discovered that his pupil was in the habit of stealing out at a late hour of the night to stroll past the cottage, whistling as he went a popular melody. By closer observations he discovered that soon after this performance, a white little fairy flitted by and disappeared in the willow grove, that fringed the brook. Ah! ha! thought the tutor, we will have occular proof. He gave himself up to a few days’ hard thinking, which resulted in a plot. One dark night, shortly after he had the Hon. Fletcher and his hopeful closeted in deep discourse, while the mother sat with her knitting close by, throwing in a few maternal remarks upon Dudley’s ill-health and close application, the redoubtable tutor wrapped himself comfortably in the idea of a successful trick, and stalked past the cottage and whistled, well as he was able, the popular melody. Then he stole into the willow grove. The night, as I have said, was dark and stormy. The heavens, veiled by heavy clouds, gave no light, and the willows swung to and fro in the fitful winds that swept through them. The tutor listened—he heard a quick, light step, and turned. Alas! no loving arms were clasped around his neck, no gentle words were whispered in his ears, but, in their place, a cudgel fell upon his nose, breaking down that important feature. The blow knocked the tutor down, but recovering, with a wild cry of murder, he fled—his speed greatly increased by a shower of thumps that for awhile rained upon his back. He reached the house, and, with a face like Banquo’s, rushed through the library, frightening the Hon. Fletcher, wife, and son terribly.
The next morning the elder Mr. Fletcher was wondering what confounded scrape that fool tutor had been in. Thomas Wickley, the father of the pretty Mary, entered his apartment. He came in, as justly indignant fathers always do upon the stage, and told his story very much as Reynolds or Coleman would have had him.
“You say my son has been paying improper attention to your daughter?”
“I do.”
“And that you beat him for it?”
“Yes—and I guess he carries the marks this morning, for I made them last night.”
The Hon. Fletcher opened wide his blue eyes, and then burst into a roar of laughter. Wickley looked at the unseasonable merriment sullen and indignant. The Hon. Fletcher smoothed his wrinkled front immediately.
“Excuse me, sir; my merriment is out of place. I feel deeply for you—but I can soon convince you of a slight mistake.”
“No you can’t,” was the rude response.
“Yes, I think I can; and let me assure you, I give no countenance to such things. If you wish, they shall be married, or this fellow must quit my house. Wait one moment, I have sent for my son.”
“Judge Fletcher, you are an honest man, if you are rich,” began Wickley, when he was interrupted by the entrance of Dudley. The young man started when he saw the visitor; but his face was as smooth as youth and soap could make.
“You say you beat my son last night—he did not leave the house: You say you beat him—he certainly does not look in that plight.”
The man stared, evidently puzzled; but fumbling at his pocket, he pulled out a bundle of letters, and spread them before his honor.
“I don’t know who I did beat last night. I did beat some one, that’s a fact. But maybe you’d tell me who writ them?”
The judge took the first papers. It was Dudley’s writing, and, at arm’s length, looked frightfully like poetry. He examined it closely, and found a lyric of seventeen verses, of an amorous, mystic character. The reader must not think me romancing if I give as specimens a few lines of the best. Men in love will spin out just such gossamer threads, that, floating in the merry sunlight of youth, look very beautiful. A steady member of the bar, who, I doubt not, is at this moment in his dull, grim office, pouring over musty law books, looking as if the jingle of a rhyme would be as annoying as a poor client, did, once upon a time, address volumes of verse to me, until he found that I was in a fair mood to label all as “rejected addresses,” when he suddenly took to special pleading with eminent success. To poor Dudley’s poetry.
’Tis sad, sweet May, to part with thee,
More sad than words may tell;
To give thy form to Memory,
To breathe a last farewell;
How long thy every thought and tone
Of mine have been a part;
And now to tread life’s path alone,
Oh! well may break my heart.
As dew is to the drooping flower,
As night-stars to the sea,
As sunlight to the summer hour,
Is thy sweet voice to me.
Oh! gentle May—soul of my heart—
Oh! wild-bird of the wood;
Thy holier nature grows my part
Of all that’s pure and good.
“Did you write this stuff?” asked the father, after he had, with cruel deliberation, read the seventeen verses, while Dudley stood by, his face covered with blushes.
“I did, sir.”
“And what do you mean by it—am I to understand that you have been secretly addressing this man’s daughter?”
“Yes, sir. I love Mary Wickley, and intend to marry her.”
This little speech had been carefully prepared in anticipation of just such a scene; and Dudley intended to speak it boldly and well, as the preface to an eloquent effort in behalf of virtuous love and a cottage ornée. But, alas! between the resolution and the act lay a wide difference. He faltered out the first sentence, and the last words died, suffocated in his throat; and he stood before the cold, calm face of the judge, more like a criminal than an advocate. Mr. Wickley was quite astonished and puzzled at Judge Fletcher’s not following up his bold, virtuous sentence of marriage or expulsion. Mary’s father was dismissed with vague promises of justice, and Dudley locked in his room. After which, Judge Fletcher, wife, and tutor, went into solemn deliberation with closed doors. The result of that consultation was a determination to send Dudley into honorable exile. “He is old enough to enter upon the study of a profession,” said the judge, “and we will place him in Doctor Calomel’s office, and let him live with his aunt, Mrs. Col. Hays. He will see something of the world, and be cured of absurdities in behalf of love and poverty.”
The dim twilight of the next early dawn saw Dudley seated by the driver upon the stage, and, as he felt the huge affair swing under him, the horses trotting briskly along, the cool fresh breeze fanning his cheeks, and birds making vocal the road-side, the sensation was not that of the utter desolation that fell upon the heart of the little girl who saw the blushing morn and merry birds through tears. The one had change of scene, and elegant solitude, leisure and quiet to minister to his miseries—the other choked down her grief before a harsh unfeeling parent, and turned to weary drudgery, lightened by no kind words, no looks of gentle sympathy. Save us from our friends should read—Lord, save us from our natural guardians.
Dudley, in the midst of the vast city, opened his books under the guidance of Doctor Calomel, and entered society under the guardianship of Mrs. Col. Hays. Dr. Calomel taught him the grand mystery of dosing—Mrs. Col. Hays gave him lessons in the sublime mystery of being dosed. This lady, elegant, beautiful, and rich, had great sway in what is considered “the world.” Her house was thronged with fashionable nonentities—her will undisputed, and her wishes carefully considered by a dozen other families, who held in common with her iron sway over society. She was cold, correct, graceful—in fact, a thoroughbred woman of the world. No stain had ever fallen upon her snowy character; she turned with freezing dignity upon the slightest departure from rectitude, and yet was the most perfect teacher of vice Satan ever commissioned. Dudley was dazzled and delighted; and when he compared the splendor of his aunt’s drawing-room, satined, slippered, powdered and perfumed, the contrast between Mary—poor little Mary—and those fashionables in his mind, was great; and when Mrs. Col. Hays made a casual allusion to that “little love-scrape” in the country, shame entered and took side with love. He did not love her less, but he pitied her more; and the brave thought of an humble home and happy fireside took flight, never, never to return.
Mrs. Col. Hays—lady of Col. Cabell Hays—had some unseen spirit whispered harshly in your ear, while you were sitting in your cushioned pew, listening to that divine man, the Rev. Theodore Smoothe, preach from a marble pulpit, upon the righteousness of right and the sinfulness of sin, that you had opened a rosewood door and shown the downward path carpeted and beautiful to a poor, innocent boy, that, under your care, was hastening on to misery and death—what an awful chill would have fallen upon your soul. Yet this is what you have to answer for; and no beautifully sculptured stone, telling of a virtuous wife and Christian neighbor, will save you!
Dudley continued to love the little May, he could not help that; but it was not with the pure love that once made life so beautiful. He wrote long, burning letters frequently to her, and received long, truthful letters in return. With what a beating heart she stole in the crowd that thronged the village post-office upon the day the great coach came in, and sitting timidly upon a coil of rope, heard her name called out by the greasy postmaster, as he sorted over the letters. With what a trembling hand she gave the pay and hastened away with the dear unopened letter. How she hid herself in retired places, in the woods, in the cellar or garret, and read and read, through tears of joy, the delicious poison. What Dudley received in his gay life he transmitted in letter to the poor girl. How the heart sickens at the miserable lies that line a way like this.
A year rolled by, and Dudley returned to pass a summer’s vacation at his father’s house. How changed they found him. No longer a willful, bashful boy, he now came out in all the colors of an accomplished, impudent, empty-headed scamp. I will not pause to tell of his meetings with Mary—of the many hours passed together without the knowledge of parents or friends. Six weeks fled by, and Dudley returned to his books, to society, to vices he now followed up with an eagerness that can only be accounted for by a restless desire to drown all remembrance of the past. He received letters frequently from Mary, long, sad, wretched letters, blotted with tears. He answered them with hasty scrawls, one note to a dozen letters, and at last ceased to answer them at all. He ceased to study, his nights were passed in brawls, drunken orgies, his days in sleeping off the effect of bad wine and exhausting revelry.
I have not the heart to detail the sufferings of poor little Mary. How she toiled on from day to day, between sleepless nights of agony and shame, until her cheeks seemed washed away by tears. Her parents, suspecting the truth, treated her harshly. Summer had faded into autumn, and autumn into winter. Weeks and weeks had gone by without a word from Dudley. When filled with despair, one night, after a harsh lecture from her misguided father, she promised on the morrow to tell him all. With this promise she was permitted to retire, but not to rest. Soon as the door of her little room was closed, she sat down and wrote for her parents the bitter truth. Then gathering her cloak about her shoulders, she fled into the dark, wintry night. She would go, she would seek Dudley, for what purpose she could not say—but at home there was no hope, no life.
Through the long dismal night the poor girl walked along the rough frozen road that led to the city. Over wide dreary fields that seemed to stretch out in the gloom of night, miles and miles away: through groaning woods, that shrieked in the winds as they rubbed their giant arms together: past farm houses—with windows, from which twinkled little lights, and where the deep-mouthed watch-dog bayed fierce and honestly: through sleeping villages—where the winds swept, making the signs creak dismally, the once timid and delicate girl pushed on. She had no fear, for she had no thought for the present. In the present, there lay a dull, aching pain about her heart; all the rest of her fevered being was far off, in the huge, great city with Dudley. The little, timid, commonplace girl was now a heroine. In her father’s cottage her mother walked quietly about her pleasant duties, singing a low, sad melody that her children might sleep—the fire was sparkling brightly upon the hearth, lighting up the walls and rafters of that holy place, while she, the dearest, loveliest of all, was fleeing alone, in the stormy night, far, far away.
That night wore slowly on, and toward morning the rear-guard of the northern storm came hurrying by. In scattered groups of hosts, as if flying from a foe, the great clouds rolled down over the distant horizon, and left the bright stars sparkling coldly in the clear atmosphere of the winter’s night. Then came morning, and the winds ceased. The earth seemed waiting in breathless silence for the glorious morn. Little Mary—sick, tired Mary—saw nothing of this. She staggered on, sometimes falling; but again getting up and hurrying on. About noon the stage came by, and the driver, seeing a frail creature—almost a child—walking weariedly, invited her to ride. She mechanically accepted. Inside the vehicle—all closed in with carpet lining, that seemed to flap the cold air about, and smelled of old leather—she found two passengers. One, a countryman, shivering in a woolsey over-coat; the other, so lost in the folds of a buffalo robe, he could not be made out. Mary seated herself upon the middle seat, but a lurch of the stage threw her forward upon the buffalo robe, which unrolled, and an old gentleman peered savagely out, displaying a wrinkled front, in which age had more to do than anger. He was about uttering an ugly exclamation, when the sight of Mary’s sad, pale, young face checked him; and, moving over, he not only gave her a seat, but insisted upon folding a part of the warm robe about her.
In a few moments, the poor girl fell wearied upon the shoulder of her companion into sleep. The old man looked kindly down on the pale, thin face, over which he saw traces of tears, and beneath the cross exterior, a heart throbbed kindly for the suffering girl. Wondering what could bring grief to one so young, he saw the lips quiver, and tears well out from the veiled eyes—then sobs that came up like bubbles from drowning hope; and these passed away, and a gentle smile settled upon the fair face, as a mellow sunset upon a wintry scene. She was dreaming—the voice of her mother broke upon her ear, kind, gentle, forgiving; and he was there—the past all forgotten, the future all brightness. Sleep on, poor wretch: let the rough vehicle rock gently, and the strong horses trot evenly along, for she who now, in happy forgetfulness, moves swiftly on to death. Could the impenetrable curtain of the future be lifted from before each of us as we take our last ride, not only the criminal seated in his rude cart would shudder. What gay equipages, flashing along, would be turned to funeral marches, with at least one sincere mourner for the doomed and lost. What humble family groups, with hope in their midst, wending their way to church or home, would see earth darken down in gloom and tears. But, thank kind Heaven! the dread Unknown comes silently on, with all shadows behind; and we laugh or cry, as joys or cares possess us, up to the very second when his iron hand is at our heart, and eternity opens before us.
Through long hours she slumbered—still dreaming—sometimes smiling, oftener in tears; but still sleep sealed up her aching sense. The stage stopped, and driver and horses were changed; and still on rattled the rough stage, now over a wide MacAdamized road, thronged with vehicles of all sorts, going, and coming. The passengers were called to sup in a town possessed of one brick street, two or three frame streets, and then, on every side, thinly populated suburbs, consisting of stables, smoke-houses, and shanties. The old gentleman led his little charge into the dirty-white barn-like hotel, at the door of which a negro began ringing a discordant bell, whereupon a number of slippered gentlemen, who were tilted back on chairs, chewing and smoking, suddenly disposed of their tobacco, and rushed into the dining-room, as if the tough beef-steak, heavy hot bread, and muddy coffee, were positively the last eatables left upon earth. Mary sat down, but could eat nothing; her old friend insisted upon her swallowing a cup of the hot coffee, and they returned to the stage.
Evening found them still upon the road. The stage lamps were lit, and they were whirled past carriages and wagons, through towns, and by glaring forges, where the sparks flew in showers around sinewy arms, to the music of heavy hammers and ringing anvils. This changed as the night stole on, and, in the dark stage, they seemed moving through a slumbering world—all shadows, and so still. Between feverish sleep and long fits of crying, the hours passed slowly away with Mary. About one o’clock the stage stopped, and the old gentleman, who had volunteered his guardianship, said he was at home.
“Won't you stop, and stay all night with us?” he asked kindly.
“O, no,” she responded hastily; “I must go.”
“Remain, and go on to-morrow. You will suffer, I fear.”
“No, no—I must go on. Is it far, now?”
“Yes, ’tis some distance yet. But, see, I must take this robe,” he added, hesitatingly.
“Oh yes, never mind me. I am much obliged, I thank you.”
She could say no more. The old man hesitated—walked a few paces, stopped—then entered the gate, and the stage was driven away. She did suffer, no longer protected by the robe, her little cloak afforded small shelter from the bitter cold night that blew into the stage, and was whirled about; and nestled she ever so close into a corner, still the cold would penetrate, and she shivered, suffering terribly. How long—Oh, how long the painful hours were! Between that midnight and the morn seemed an age. At last it came, and found the stage jolting over the pavements of the city of ——. She looked out in wonder and dread at the tall houses, towering up on either side, and the men and women hurrying to and fro in such strange haste.
The stage stopped in front of a large hotel, and a crowd of servants rushed out and surrounded the frozen vehicle—some mounting to the top like apes, others struggling at straps, pulling out trunks and carpet sacks, putting all in a pile upon the pavement, amidst screams, curses, and cries, perfectly stunning.
“Your baggage, Miss?” asked a clerk, with his pen behind his ears, and a good deal of impudent pomposity before.
“Is there any thing to pay?” answered the poor girl, perfectly bewildered.
“John, the way-bill?” shouted the clerk.
“No—nothing, Miss: marked paid—all right—walk in?”
Mary sat before the glowing grate in the handsome parlor, trying to determine in her own mind what next was to be done. More and more the painful reality of helplessness among strangers in a strange place impressed itself upon her mind. Her head ached dreadfully, her limbs pained her, and while the face was burning as with fever, it seemed impossible to get warm. She at last asked a servant timidly for the office of Dr. Calomel.
“Just round the corner, Miss. Here, I’ll show you,” he answered politely, and running to the corner, pointed out the old tarnished sign of the eminent practitioner.
Mary sought the place designated, entered a wide hall, and knowing nothing about bells, walked in and knocked gently at the first door. The knock was responded to by a thin old man, of very sombre appearance; who, with broom and brush in hand, seemed fresh from cleaning the rooms.
“Come in quick, young female, you’re too early for consultin’, but the doctor will be about directly. Come straight along, you’re lettin’ in considerable atmosphere.”
Thus strangely addressed, Mary was ushered into a large room, well-furnished and adorned with hideous pictures of various diseased heads, arms, legs, etc., that made one shudder. Cases of books, bones and preparations stood against the walls, while upon a rosewood table, in the centre of the room, were piled books and prints, all treating of the same disagreeable topics. Through an open door she saw another room, got up in the same style, and beyond this yet another, and in all three, the polished grates roared with bright coal fires.
Mary sat and waited nearly two hours, while the stately servant went on silently dusting and sweeping, answering the bell every few minutes, but never saying a word to the little visitor. At the end of that time, others came in and sat by her. Pale, wretched, distressed-looking women—some with babes afflicted with sad diseases; while men limped in, almost groaning with pain. Young gentlemen, handsomely dressed, sauntered in, and throwing off cloaks and coats, sat down to books in the adjoining room. They carried on conversation in a low tone, broken by occasional laughs that contrasted strangely with the half-suppressed complainings of the group around her. The doctor at last came hurriedly in. He was a small, spare man, with a gray head, and wrinkled, cross face, that, guarded by a pair of cold blue eyes, looked as unfeeling as the man really was. He passed from patient to patient—scolding this one, abusing that, and treating all as if they were dogs. Having run through his catalogue of poverty-stricken specimens of humanity, he turned abruptly to Mary, and asked—
“What do you want?”
“I wish to see Dudley Fletcher, sir,” was the frightened reply.
The doctor eyed the little visitor with a cold, half-suppressed sneer for a second; and then, making no reply, looked at his watch, and left the house—having thus humanely disposed of his charity patients. As his buggy rattled away, the grim janitor told Mary that Dudley Fletcher was seldom about the office now-a-days—he might be in before dinner, but it was very doubtful. If she would leave a note, he would see that Mr. Fletcher received it. Mary was disposed to wait; but her presence had attracted the attention of the students in the adjoining room, and she noticed they whispered together and stared at her—so writing hastily a note, telling Dudley of her arrival and where she could be found, she sealed and directed it, then with a heavy heart returned to the hotel.
It is difficult to say what the deserted and heart-sickened girl proposed doing when Dudley did see her. She had no definite idea, no realization of aught save fevered suffering; but, if she could only see him once more, hear his voice, feel his arm about her aching form, it seemed as if all would be well again. But time stole slowly on, and no Dudley came: she started at the approach of strangers, expecting the familiar face of her betrayer. She escaped the impertinent stare of servants by going to the window, and looking down the thronged streets until her eyes were dim with tears. The noise of life around fell without a meaning upon her ear—it seemed a continual roar like a senseless rush of waters. She still stood by the window as evening came, and the shades of night fell upon the street, and saw the crowd thin, and the lights twinkle from post and store—still no Dudley came. The servants treated her so rudely, that, at last, she was forced to go; and fearing he might come yet and not find her, for more than an hour she lingered upon the street, in front of the wide flight of steps that led to the hotel.
It was now quite dark, and Mary still hung about the steps, when a man handsomely dressed came down them—passed, looking at her as the lamp-light fell upon her pale face, then turned and asked in a low tone if she wished to see any one. Thinking the questioner might be from Dudley, she answered quickly—
“Yes—I want to see Dudley Fletcher.”
“Ah! yes, yes, you will scarcely find him here.”
“Where can I find him, sir?”
“That is easier asked than answered, my little maiden, unless you know something before hand.”
“I don’t know—I came into town to-day. I wish to see him. Can’t you tell me where to go?”
“I will go with you, little one,” answered the man, looking uneasily at the lights around. “Come, I will take you where you can send for him—come with me.” He walked hastily on, and Mary followed: for some time he continued a few paces before her, but turning down a narrow street in which there were no gas-lamps, he put her arm in his, and said—
“Now, my little girl, tell me all about it. Where did you come from, and what is it about Dudley Fletcher?”
“I came from Un-a-ka, sir—and I wish to see him.”
“A little love-affair now—eh! You’re his little sweetheart?”
To this Mary making no reply, her companion withdrew her arm, and placed his own around her. Frightened at this, she shrunk away, and, as he persisted, she suddenly sunk to the ground, and burst into tears. Had there been sufficient light, a very puzzled expression might have been seen upon the face of the gentleman as he lifted her from the pavement.
“Come,” he said, “don’t cry. I’ll not offend you again—where shall I take you?”
“To Dudley Fletcher,” she sobbed out. “Only show me his house, and then leave me.”
“Why, yes—he lives with his Aunt, Mrs. Hays; but I’ll take you there, so do not cry.”
They moved on in silence, and in a few minutes were in front of the marble mansion, blazing with light.
“Here,” said her companion, “is the house. Mrs. Col. Hays gives a party to-night. Go up those steps, ring the bell, and ask for Mr. Fletcher. I cannot accompany you farther.”
Scarcely stopping to thank her conductor, Mary staggered up the marble steps, while he turned hastily away, as if shunning a denouement. She paused at the door, weak, frightened and doubting, when a carriage stopped, and from it a party ran up the steps. Mary shrank from sight behind a pillar as they came. A gentleman rang the bell, and had scarcely touched the silver knob before the door swung noiselessly open and the party entered. Not daring to follow their example she still hesitated. From the door by which she stood ran a narrow porch of ornamented iron-work, and along this she stole to where the high window came to the floor and looked in. For a second she was dazzled. The magnificent rooms blazed with light from cut-glass chandeliers, the soft light fell upon delicate furniture of the most costly kind—upon pictures rare and beautiful—upon soft carpets over which fairy forms moved so exquisitely, while strains of delicious music came up from some distant room, that to the unexperienced eye of Mary all seemed a fairy scene—a creation of the imagination.
As the poor girl stood shivering in the cold, the snow began to fall, and shrinking closer to the warmth she could not feel, the whole scene presented a realization of Barry Cornwall’s exquisite poem of “Without and Within.” With only that diamond-pane between—a world wide contrast had existence. Upon one side was a piece of God’s exquisite workmanship, shivering, suffering, half-crazed, trampled upon and outcast—while upon the other, wanton luxury rolled in sin. Ah! who comes here, pacing so proudly, while bright eyes turn admiringly—what exceeding loveliness is led by the arm. The blood rushes to the pale face, the little heart throbs aloud, she presses closer to the pane, for it is him—it is Dudley. She of the bright complexion, large, soft eyes and mass of ringlets, is seated near that fated window, and he bends over her. She hears him speak—no, his low voice cannot come through the heavy pane, but she knows too well—ah! too well—the persuasive words that are falling from his lips, for she has learned to read his looks—the lessons have been burned into her heart.
The lights shine on. To strains of witching music forms pass to and fro in the mazes of the dance—jest and song, laughter and wine, flash and ring out for unheeded hours and hours—but she is gone. The pale wretch that pressed shivering against the window pane is gone. Down the dark thoroughfare, with the cold snow beating in her face, maddened, sobbing, sick to death, she flies. Oh! where? What demon leads her on? Why down that silent, deserted street? On, on, past quiet homes where the night-lamp yet gleams on peace and happiness—past shops where low drunkenness revels in late hours—on she unheeded flies. And now she stumbles over loose stones, and the air blows keener. Down the steep bank she reels—poor little Mary—she pauses for a moment. A mighty river, shrouded in darkness, sweeps on before her. Boats, tied to the bank, rub against each other, making a moaning noise, while the waves flap under their bows—this is all she hears, for the great stream sweeps on in silence. From the opposite shore a furnace glares, that glittering out red, sends a long line over the waves and lights her way to death. She steps along the plank to the deck of a boat—over that to the very edge—and then disappears. Disappears in the dark flood silently as the snow-flakes. The mighty river moves on like fate to eternity. Into its deep bosom it took what God had made and man cast out. For many hours after the music still sounded in the marble palace, and dancers gracefully answered the strains, for the silent street had no tale—the great river no revelation for the heartless throng.
A party of medical students were lounging round a billiard-table in a celebrated restaurant, the evening after the event just narrated. They were smoking, drinking, laughing, and at intervals knocking idly the ivory balls over the table. Their light sacks, or black velvet coats, with fancy caps, variously fashioned and tasseled, showed them to be youths whose fathers could pay for something beside the improvement of their brains.
“Will you be at class to-night, Tom?” asked one, of his comrade, as he rattled down his empty glass.
“To be sure, I don’t intend to miss a muscle of Crosstree. We had too much trouble in getting the infernal rascal.”
“We had that, and Cross. is a beauty, besides having been hung.”
“I want to see him carefully dissected,” said a handsome, light-haired youth, joining the group.
“Why, Ned, do you expect ever to undergo the innocent operation of being hung?”
“Can’t say. No telling what a fellow may come to in such a crowd as this. If Strong ever sings another sentimental song in my presence I’ll murder him—now mind.”
“Crosstree is a magnificent subject. I was looking at him to-day—old S. says he never saw a finer.”
“Class B has a finer, they say—a girl. They gave two hundred for her.”
“They wont be outdone. But I believe in the rope yet. Come, fellows—it’s getting late—let’s be off.”
“Where’s Dudley?”
“Drunk as usual.”
“Come, old boy,” said the first speaker, approaching our hero, who, stretched upon a sofa, was looking in the fire with a drunken stare. “Come, we’ll be too late.”
Dudley mechanically started to his feet, drank a quantity of brandy, and rushing forward, was caught by two of his brother students, and the whole party left the house together, laughing, chatting, whistling and singing, they wended their way toward the medical college. Dudley Fletcher, as his comrades afterward remarked, was unusually silent and even morose. Arriving at the college, the party mounted long fights of dark stairs ending in a door, that one of them unlocked and threw open, and all entered the dissecting-room. The janitor had left a bright coal-fire sputtering in the stove, and save this no other light fell upon the ghastly gloom. The large, square windows were open, as gusts of wind making the fire roar indicated, but in spite of this a dreadful, sickening odor of decay filled the room. Several lamps were lighted, and then the frightful reality became apparent.
Upon either side of a large room were placed narrow tables, on each of which lay a specimen of the desecrated dead; over the floor were scattered limbs strangely mutilated, bones with particles of flesh yet hanging to them, snow-white skeletons and grinning skulls. Upon the table nearer the fire was the body of a man lately hung. The frame was heavy and muscular, but the head presented the most awful sight the heart of man ever shuddered over. It was one swollen mass of purple blood, while around the neck lay a red line where the cruel cord had sunk in and disappeared from the force of the struggling weight. He had been found guilty of a fiendish murder, yet no heart could look on this and not shudder at the punishment. Why do the students leave this table and crowd around the next? Why hold up their lights and gaze in breathless awe? Do youth and innocence carry admiration and respect with them to the charnel-house? They whisper as they gaze upon the gentle form, so beautiful and still, that with wild hair disheveled seems to sleep upon the rude couch of death. Where is Dudley—why does he not gaze and whisper too? Upon entering the room he threw himself upon a low seat behind the stove, and falling from that to the floor, sleeps soundly in his drunkenness.
Star-eyed Science walks unmoved among the dead. The students are busy about the table of the murderer. Nothing is heard save the voice of the instructor, or noise of his instruments as he lays bare the hidden mysteries of life. Dudley sleeps on.
The fire burns down—the candles, flickering in the wind, are dim—the lesson is over. Putting out their lights, the students gather their coats and cloaks about them and leave. The last one is gone. The janitor, casting a hasty look at the fire, goes with them. The great bolt is shot into its place—the door is locked, and Dudley, forgotten and alone, sleeps on!
Hour after hour steals by. The fire, dimmer and dimmer, at length goes out, and darkness fills the room. The storm, with its sky of heavy clouds, sweeps away, and now the full moon comes up in silvery brightness. Cold, clear and cheerless the flood of light poured in at the open windows, lighting up like the ghost of day that chamber of death. Chilled through and through, Dudley awakes.
For a moment he gazed in startled wonder at the strange scene around him. Then a dim recollection of the night stole over his now sobered brain, and seizing his cap he strode toward the door—to find it locked! In vain he pulled and knocked, the echoes that rung through the silent room were his only answers. The stout door resisted all attempts to break it open. Foiled and disheartened he returned to the stove. Dudley shook with the cold that had numbed his limbs while sleeping, and now seemed to be penetrating to his very heart. Stooping, he raked among the ashes and found one live coal. Taking this gently up he made many efforts to kindle it to a blaze, but this last spark died out in the midst of his exertions. Nothing daunted, he looked to find some covering to shield him—nothing could be seen save the sheets thrown carelessly over the dead. These he proceeded to gather. Pulling the frail covering from form after form, leaving exposed the emaciated remnants of consumption, the half-destroyed remains of quick disease, without a shudder—why starts he at this over which the moonlight falls so brightly—why gasp for breath and stare so wildly?
This cannot be—this is a hideous dream. He strikes his forehead, wrings his hands, staggers forward. No, no, he cannot look again. A chill horror curdles about his heart and he reels toward the door. He had one look—but one—yet that is frozen into his very soul. How long in dreadful agony he stood gazing down the hall, peopled with the dead. He dared not turn to where she lay—the poor little timid girl—she who so confidingly had trusted him, and now rested among thieves, murderers, and cast-out poverty—claimed by Decay alone. He dared not look again—over her innocent form stood fearful Retribution—silent as the grave—terrible as Death. His eyes wandered from table to table, one by one, slower and slower, until they rested upon that long, grinning monument of consumption, upon which the moonlight fell, silvering the hard and bony points, that seemed like a skeleton covered with yellow parchment.
Oh! how he longed for liberty and life—for some power to lift the awful punishment from his soul. A confused thought of escape crept in—of the dark well running the length of the house down to vaults where the refuse flesh was cast. How deep and dark to his mind it seemed—deeper and deeper, miles and miles into the earth. The hall seems to lengthen out—how huge it is? Again he turns to the body that consumption owns—he tries to look from that to her—in vain. His eyes are fixed, they see no farther. Did that hand move?—it seemed to move. It did—the body turns—it raises and points its long, skinny arm at her—and shakes its horribly mutilated head. Another and another—and all raise slowly up and point at her. And now they speak—what confused blasphemy—what groans and cries! Hark! that well-known, once-loved voice, hear it—hear its gentle tones and die—
“Oh! Dudley, come to me.”
He sees no more, he hears no more—gasping he falls, striking heavily against the oak door.
Early next morning the janitor found him lying senseless where he had fallen. He was carried to his room, and all that medical science could do was done. Slowly he returned to sense, but not health. The cold had perfected its work—his limbs were without life, and after many days he was carried back to his father’s house helpless as a child. So he yet remains, humble, sad and repentant.
In the little church-yard, not far from his home, is a green mound, where the soft falling snow of winter and the wild birds of spring see no name—no marble tomb, but where the long grass whispers in the summer winds, Dudley Fletcher may be frequently seen reading or musing silently, having been carried there, his only haunt from home.