"About four years ago at this time," began the doctor, "I attended acourse of lectures in a certain city. One of the professors, who was asociable, kindly man--though somewhat practical and hard-headed--invitedme to his house on Christmas night. I was very glad to go, as I wasanxious to see one of his sons, who, though only twelve years old, wassaid to be very clever. I dare not tell you how many Latin verses thislittle fellow could recite, or how many English ones he had composed. Inthe first place, you'd want me to repeat them; secondly, I'm not a judgeof poetry--Latin or English. But there were judges who said they werewonderful for a boy, and everybody predicted a splendid future for him.Everybody but his father. He shook his head doubtingly whenever it wasmentioned, for, as I have told you, he was a practical, matter-of-factman.
"There was a pleasant party at the professor's that night. All thechildren of the neighborhood were there, and among them the professor'sclever son, Rupert, as they called him--a thin little chap, about astall as Bobby there, and fair and delicate as Flora by my side. Hishealth was feeble, his father said; he seldom ran about and played withother boys--preferring to stay at home and brood over his books, andcompose what he called his verses.
"Well, we had a Christmas-tree just like this, and we had been laughingand talking, calling the names of the children who had presents on thetree, and everybody was very happy and joyous, when one of the childrensuddenly 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 rhymingdictionary.' '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'reto make a noise in the world, Rupert!' said one. 'Here's parchment forthe poet,' said another. 'Rupert's last work in sheepskin covers,' saida third. 'Give us a classical tune, Rupert,' said a fourth, and so on.But Rupert seemed too mortified to speak; he changed color, bit hislips, and finally burst into a passionate fit of crying and left theroom. Then those who had joked him felt ashamed, and everybody began toask who had put the drum there. But no one knew, or, if they did, theunexpected sympathy awakened for the sensitive boy kept them silent.Even the servants were called up and questioned, but no one could giveany idea where it came from. And what was still more singular, everybodydeclared that up to the moment it was produced, no one had seen ithanging on the tree. What do I think? Well, I have my own opinion. Butno questions! Enough for you to know that Rupert did not come downstairsagain that night, and the party soon after broke up.
"I had almost forgotten those things, for the war of the Rebellionbroke out the next spring, and I was appointed surgeon in one of thenew regiments, and was on my way to the seat of war. But I had to passthrough the city where the professor lived, and there I met him. Myfirst question was about Rupert. The professor shook his head sadly.'He's not so well' he said; 'he has been declining since last Christmas,when you saw him. A very strange case,' he added, giving it a long Latinname, 'a very singular case. But go and see him yourself' he urged; 'itmay distract his mind and do him good.'
"I went accordingly to the professor's house, and found Eupert lyingon a sofa propped up with pillows. Around him were scattered his books,and, what seemed in singular contrast, that drum I told you about washanging 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 andwidely opened. He was glad to see me, and when I told him where I wasgoing, he asked a thousand questions about the war. I thought I hadthoroughly diverted his mind from its sick and languid fancies, when hesuddenly grasped my hand and drew me towards him.
"'Doctor,' said he, in a low whisper, 'you won't laugh at me if I tellyou something?'
"'No, certainly not,' I said.
"'You remember that drum?' he said, pointing to the glittering toy thathung against the wall. 'You know, too, how it came to me. A few weeksafter Christmas I was lying half asleep here, and the drum was hangingon the wall, when suddenly I heard it beaten; at first low and slowly,then faster and louder, until its rolling filled the house. In themiddle of the night I heard it again. I did not dare to tell anybodyabout it, but I have 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 longroll, so loud and alarming that I have looked to see people coming intomy room to ask what was the matter. But I think, doctor--I think,' herepeated slowly, looking up with painful interest into my face, 'that noone hears it but myself.'
"I thought so, too, but I asked him if he had heard it at any othertime.
"'Once or twice in the daytime,' he replied, 'when I have been readingor writing; then very loudly, as though it were angry, and tried in thatway to attract my attention away from my books.'
"I looked into his face and placed my hand upon his pulse. His eyes werevery bright and his pulse a little flurried and quick. I then triedto explain to him that he was very weak, and that his senses were veryacute, as most weak people's are; and how that when he read, or grewinterested and excited, or when he was tired at night, the throbbing ofa big artery made the beating sound he heard. He listened to me witha sad smile of unbelief, but thanked me, and in a little while I wentaway. But as I was going downstairs I met the professor. I gave him myopinion of the case--well, no matter what it was.
"'He wants fresh air and exercise' said the professor, 'and somepractical experience of life, sir.' The professor was not a bad man, buthe was a little worried and impatient, and thought--as clever people areapt to think--that things which he didn't understand were either sillyor improper.
"I left the city that very day, and in the excitement of battlefieldsand hospitals I forgot all about little Rupert, nor did I hear of himagain, until one day, meeting an old classmate in the army, who hadknown the professor, he told me that Rupert had become quite insane, andthat in one of his paroxysms he had escaped from the house, and as hehad never been found, it was feared that he had fallen into the riverand was drowned. I was terribly shocked for the moment, as you mayimagine; but, dear me, I was living just then among scenes as terribleand shocking, and I had little time to spare to mourn over poor Rupert.
"It was not long after receiving this intelligence that we had aterrible battle, in which a portion of our army was slaughtered. I wasdetached from my brigade to ride over to the battlefield and assist thesurgeons of the beaten division, who had more on their hands than theycould attend to. When I reached the barn that served for a temporaryhospital, I went at once to work. Ah! Bob," said the doctorthoughtfully, taking the bright sword from the hands of thehalf-frightened Bob, and holding it gravely before him, "these prettyplaythings 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 wasbadly wounded in both thighs, but he held up his hands and begged me tohelp others first who needed it more than he. I did not at first heedhis request, for this kind of unselfishness was very common in thearmy; but he went on, 'For God's sake, doctor, leave me here; there is adrummer boy of our regiment--a mere child--dying, if he isn'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 of this morning, and saved the honor ofthe regiment.' I was so much more impressed by the man's manner thanby the substance of his speech, which was, however, corroborated by theother poor fellows stretched around me, that I passed over to wherethe drummer lay, with his drum beside him. I gave one glance at hisface--and--yes, Bob--yes, my children--it _was_ Rupert.
"Well! well! it needed not the chalked cross which my brother surgeonshad left upon the rough board whereon he lay
to show how urgent was therelief he sought; it needed not the prophetic words of the Vermonter,nor the damp that mingled with the brown curls that clung to his paleforehead, to show how hopeless it was now. I called him by name. Heopened his eyes--larger, I thought, in the new vision that was beginningto dawn upon him--and recognized me. He whispered, 'I'm glad you arecome, 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 pressedhis hand in mine as he went on.
"'But you will see father, and ask him to forgive me. Nobody is to blamebut myself. It was a long time before I understood why the drum came tome that Christmas night, and why it kept calling to me every night, andwhat it said. I know it now. The work is done, and I am content. Tellfather it is better as it is. I should have lived only to worry andperplex 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 woundedmen around me. 'The drum' he said faintly; 'don't you hear it?--the drumis 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 drawnup in review. Don't you see the sunlight flash down the long line ofbayonets? Their faces are shining--they present arms--there comes theGeneral--but his face I cannot look at for the glory round his head. Hesees me; he smiles, it is '--and with a name upon his lips that he hadlearned long ago, he stretched himself wearily upon the planks and layquite still.
"That's all.
"No questions now--never mind what became of the drum.
"Who's that sniveling?
"Bless my soul! where's my pill-box?"
THE END
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