Fan, Nelly, and Stuart played croquet until it was fairly dusk. There
were shouts of laughter, and much hurrying around, as if no time was to
be lost. Mamma and I went quietly about our duties; and when I had the
children in bed, I came into the nursery and sat down to have a brief
talk with her. By this time the click of the balls had ceased, and the
three were strolling up and down the street.
“How odd it seems!” I said. “I wonder if we shall get along nicely.”
“Don’t begin to fear thus early, Mr. Faint-heart,” returned mamma,
smilingly. “It will not be as nice as having our house to ourselves;
but we are not doing it for pure enjoyment. When we are tired, and
worried, and discouraged we must think of all the nice things we shall
buy in the fall, and be comforted. We shall have papa a new study
carpet, and get his chair freshly covered.”
“And if it _could_ be Russia leather! That would last him all his life.
At all events, we will spend half on him; and I am sure he will deserve
it. He will, likely, be the greatest sufferer by the confusion.”
“The boys will be out of doors much of the time, no doubt. We must try
to improve our invalid as rapidly as possible. Poor boy!”
“Mamma,” I said, “what a great generous heart you have! You always pity
every one. I have a suspicion that Mr. Louis is cross as well as sick.”
“Then we must minister to the mind as well as the body.”
“I am glad that Stuart is bright and cheerful.”
“O, those children must come in!” she said, starting up. “Fanny is so
thoughtless!”
They answered the summons, but sat down on the porch step, where Stuart
finished a story of boyish school-pranks, which was very amusing, to
say the least. Papa came in time to hear the last of it, and shook his
head rather sagely.
“It is past ten,” announced mamma.
“Country bed-time!” said Stuart, gayly. “I suppose, Mrs. Endicott, that
is a hint for me to go stir up my bear, and listen to a few growls. A
menagerie; ten cents admittance. Who’ll venture in? Don’t all speak at
once, or the place may be crowded.”
“Perhaps, since he is not very well, you had better sleep in another
room to-night,” mamma said.
“Because he might eat me up in the night, since he refused his supper.
I am much obliged, Mrs. Endicott.”
Mamma came around a trifle, so that she faced him, and, standing in the
shaded light, raised her soft, dark eyes to his, and said,—
“This is out of consideration to him, and not the fear of what will
happen to you. That will be the thought for you to go to bed with, and
see if you cannot resolve it into a lesson worth the learning. If I
adopt you into my household, I shall train you as one of my children.
And you will be astonished to see what marvels a little care for the
feelings of others will work.”
Stuart blushed and smiled, said good night, and followed papa to the
best guest-chamber, that I had put in such lovely order. And so there
was quiet through the night.
Louis did not make his appearance at breakfast; but Stuart had been
in stirring him up, for we heard the growls. But he was so merry and
good-natured when he came down, that one had not the heart to find any
fault. Indeed, he kept the children laughing all through the meal.
“What is there to do in this queer little town, Mr. Endicott?” he asked
presently. “Fishing, I suppose—the staple amusement of lazy people. Any
hunting?”
“Not at this season; and very little at any. There are some nice
rambles, and the fishing, as you say.”
“Any young fellows that one would like?”
“Yes a number; though some of them keep pretty busy during the day. And
I forgot rowing. There are boats to be had.”
“Thank you. I’ll take a saunter round. I always do have the luck of
finding some one.”
“And there are books in the library. You may like to keep fresh for
fall. So your brother was a good deal disappointed at not passing?”
“Yes. It wouldn’t have troubled me. Steve was not a bit anxious; so I
should have let it go without a sigh. There is nothing like resignation
in this world.”
“You are an admirable pattern of it,” said Fanny. “I feel tempted to
envy you. I have another fortnight of school; and fearful examinations
are hanging over my devoted head.”
“Couldn’t I go in your stead? I am fresh from it all, and might save
you much vanity and vexation of spirit.”
“Especially the vanity. Your kindness is only exceeded by your great
beauty. _Shakespeare._”
“Fanny!” said papa.
Mamma rose from the table, and prepared a dainty breakfast upon a
waiter, pouring the coffee in a pretty medallion cup that had been
given her at Christmas. Then she took it herself. Stuart sprang up with
an instinct of gentlemanliness.
“You are not going to carry that up stairs?” he asked, in surprise.
“Why not?”
“If you are not going to send a servant, I will take it.”
“You may carry it for me, if you like; but I wish to make a call upon
your brother.”
He was her attendant as far as the door; but when her summons was
answered, she dismissed him. Then she walked straight to the bedside,
placing her tray on a small table.
“Are you rested this morning?” she asked, gently. “I think you
will feel better for some breakfast. I am sorry that you should be
so fatigued and ill, for a place seldom looks bright under such
circumstances. But we will do our best for you, and you must try as
well.”
The scowl remained in his forehead. He raised himself on his elbow, and
turned towards her, though his eyes were still averted.
“I am obliged for the trouble, though I do not need any breakfast,” he
said, rather gruffly.
“I think you _do_ need it. Here is a glass of cool spring water, and
some fragrant coffee. A little of both may revive you. Does your head
still ache? If I had known just what to do for you, I should have come
again last night.”
“Was it you who—” and his face flushed a swarthy scarlet.
“Yes;” and mamma looked steadily at him out of her sweet brown eyes.
He moved uneasily, and in his heart wished she were away.
“Was it you who came last evening?” he asked, in a low, wondering tone.
“Yes. I felt anxious about you. I knew you were in a strange place,
and, doubtless, feeling awkward and lonesome. That must be my apology.”
“O,” he exclaimed, “don’t make any—to me. I acted like a boor! I am
sorry and ashamed. And I don’t deserve that you should take all this
trouble for me. But I had been—”
“And I _did_ sympathize with you to the utmost. The disappointment must
have proved great. But I do believe it will be much better for you to
wait. You were not strong enough to take up a college course.”
“Yet I had said those things over and over again. I knew them fairly
well, at least. And to have all those boobies set up and sneer! I could
have killed them!”
He looked so at the moment.
“O,” mamma said, “you must not think of this now. Do not try to keep
the angry flames alive. It is a bright, lovely morning; and if you
could make the effort to come down on the porch, you would feel so much
better! Try this coffee—to please me.”
“You are very kind and solicitous.”
There was a little tremble in his voice; but he made no effort to touch
the food.
“If you appreciate it, you will begin your breakfast before everything
gets cold. You will feel more like rising then. Come, I mean to cheer
you up in spite of yourself. This is not Doubting Castle, and I cannot
take in Giant Despair.”
He smiled faintly then, and sipped his coffee.
“There,” mamma said, in her bright, cheery way, “you have made a small
beginning, and that gives me faith in you. Now I must go back to my
flock. Down stairs there is a cool, pleasant library, and a piano,
which always stands open. I want you to feel at home.”
“You _are_ good,” he returned. “Can I have the library to myself, or
only with Mr. Endicott?”
“Yes; or the parlor, either. Indeed, Mr. Endicott has finished his
sermons, and will be out nearly all day.”
“Thank you.”
Stuart was lying in wait at the foot of the stairs.
“Well,” with a gay little laugh, “did you beard the lion in his den? I
must go up and make him roar.”
“No,” said mamma, laying her hand on his arm, “you must not go up; and
I ask, as a personal favor, that you will not tease him this whole
day.”
“Tease him! The baby! Poor little thing!”
“I have promised him a quiet morning. You will not compel me to break
my word?”
“Then I shall have to go out and hunt up some fun.”
She smiled in her irresistible fashion, that conquered if it did not
convince.
We had made an exception, and done the most of our Saturday’s work on
Friday morning. So now there was only a little dusting, with the usual
making of beds, and all that. I had just finished the other rooms, when
Louis left his, and went quietly down to the study, shutting himself
in. To mamma’s satisfaction, he had eaten nearly all the breakfast she
had prepared.
I put the room in its usual order. Oddly enough, I found a withered
rose under the pillow, and it was still sweet. I remembered that
Stephen was very fond of roses. There were ever so many small articles
strewn about. I thought those big boys were as careless as the children.
Papa came in just before dinner was ready, and had a little chat with
Louis, though the young man was not disposed to be social. At dinner he
seemed dreadfully awkward and embarrassed, his sallow cheeks, flushing
at the least word. Somehow I was glad Stuart was not there. Afterwards
he went up to his room, and spent the whole afternoon alone.
We had rather a funny time. Stuart came in late, and insisted upon
having his dinner in the kitchen, telling Ann two or three such
laughable Irish stories, that they were friends straightway. Then he
would insist upon carrying Fan’s basket when she was ready to start on
her visitation, as she called it.
“It was as good as a play,” he said afterwards. “I thought I should
smile audibly at that old lady—Mrs. Means, I believe you called her.
She is an ungrateful wretch, Mrs. Endicott. ‘She did not like such
light, chaffy bread; it had no heart. You might as well eat sawdust.’
And she wanted to know how many eggs were in the custard; and when
people sent currants, she wished they would send sugar, too. ‘Nasty,
sour things!’ Why, I had half a mind to hustle the gifts back in the
basket, and bring them home.”
“We are not to get weary in well doing,” said mamma.
“I’m not sure but a little wholesome hunger would be good. And then
that old Mrs. Bogert! Doesn’t she look funny there in the bed, with
her little, wrinkled face and that flapping cap-ruffle. And her talk,
and the queer way in which she keeps questioning her maid—‘Betty, how
long is it since I was tuck sick?’ in that high, cracked voice, which
sounds like a smashed hand organ with a monkey grinding it. ‘Betty,
tell the gentleman how I fell down the cellar stairs. Betty, bring me
my snuff-box; mebby the young gentleman will take a pinch.’”
He imitated Mrs. Bogert’s tone so exactly, that we could not help
laughing.
“Did you take a pinch?” asked Nelly.
“Of course I did. And such sneezing!”
“It was dreadful,” said Fan, with a reproachful look. “And not a bit in
earnest.”
“How _did_ you do it?” Nelly questioned.
“This way.”
There isn’t any method of spelling such terrific sneezing. No
combination of letters would do it justice. I thought I wouldn’t laugh;
but I did and the children screamed.
“Good snuff—wasn’t it?” he said, with a droll wink.
“I don’t see how you can do it, all in fun,” said wide-eyed Daisy.
“I do not believe I shall take you out with me again,” commented Fan,
severely.
“But I know the way now. I shall drop in to see the old lady often, and
get a pinch of snuff. O, dear! I am almost worn out with my arduous
duties. Can any one stay me with a glass, and comfort me with cold
water—the literal for apples and love? And then can’t we dissipate
on croquet? If I sit still much longer I shall have the rickets. My
physician prescribed active exercise.”
“You had better take the baby out in her carriage, if you want
exercise,” said Tiny Tim, having heard the two connected some way.
He laughed.
“For—
‘Satan finds some mischief still
For idle hands to do.’
Isn’t that in the hymn book?”
“Not in mine,” returned Fan.
“Well, I am sure it is in the spelling-book. I learned it somewhere;
and it is about a busy bee. Good instructions, like pins, are never
lost.”
“But pins _are_ lost. Your logic is faulty.”
“No they’re always gone before—that is, before you want them.”
“You are too smart for your size,” said Fan. “I am afraid you’ll grow
up a dunce.”
“Well, you cannot have all the virtues for a little money. As it is, I
think of striking for higher wages.”
“You are not worth what you get now,” said Fan, running away.
Stuart did not venture up stairs until just before supper. Louis
declined to come down; so mamma sent him some tea, berries, and
biscuits.
“I am afraid you are beginning in a way to make trouble for yourself,”
papa said, thoughtfully, afterwards.
“I am going to indulge him for a few days. He is nervous, and really
bashful; and I want him to learn to like us. But he cannot be forced to
do anything.”
“I believe I like my girls the best,” said papa, fondly.
Saturday evenings, when no one dropped in, were our choicest time of
all the week. Mamma played, and we all sang. This time no one came to
disturb us. And we never knew, until long afterwards, that Louis Duncan
listened with his eyes full of tears, and had not the courage to join
us. But it always appeared to me like a little bit of heaven below.
Papa’s sweet tenor voice seemed to belong to some particular hymns, and
it took me far above the petty work-day affairs. How good and lovely he
was in his every-day walks and ways!
Louis began to get somewhat acquainted with us on Sunday. He did not
go to church, but lay on the bed reading nearly all day. No one found
any fault with him; and Stuart’s teasing tongue was hushed. I think he
stood a little in awe of my mother, gentle as she was. It was plain
to see that the boys had been brought up with mere outward forms of
religion; that they had no love and very little respect for it. How
different they were from Stephen!
But the enforced quiet was broken on Monday morning, there were some
high words, and then an unmistakable blow, followed by a struggle and a
fall. Papa went up stairs.
“Boys,” he said, with severe but simple dignity, “are you brothers,
and must you quarrel? If you have no respect for yourselves, I implore
you to have a little for my house, that has hitherto been the abode of
harmony. I will not have it.”
The combatants paused, and glared at each other with angry eyes.
Stuart had come off victor, for it was Louis who had fallen. He was
deadly white now, with a blue line about the mouth.
“I won’t be struck as if I was a child,” exclaimed Stuart, with fierce
determination; “and he struck me.”
“I told you to let that brush alone,” said the other, sullenly. “Your
own was there.”
“Stuart, go in the room opposite and finish your toilet. I shall expect
an apology from you both when you come down stairs. Breakfast is ready.”
It seemed as if we were to have neither of them; but when the meal was
about half over Stuart entered the room. His face was flushed, and his
eyes were still sending out fiery rays; but he went straight to papa.
“Mr. Endicott,” he said, making an effort to steady his voice, “I am
truly sorry that I should have been so rude and ungentlemanly in your
house. I ask your pardon.—And yours, Mrs. Endicott.”
“I pardon you on condition that a similar event never happens, while
you are here, at least. You are both too old to fall into such
rough-and-tumble school-boy fights.”
Mamma held out her hand to him as he passed her. He blushed deeply,
but seized it with a thankful eagerness. After that our meal was very
silent.
Ann went up stairs to see if Louis would have any breakfast.
“Sure, he’s crosser than two sticks when the fire is kindlin’. He
doesn’t want sup nor bite; and if he did, it’s little he’d get from me.”
So mamma judged that it was best to pay no further attention to him. He
did not even come down at noon; and then Stuart found that his door was
locked.
Quite late in the afternoon I was hurrying through the hall, when he
opened his door suddenly. His hair was tumbled, his cheeks scarlet, and
his eyes wild and staring.
“For God’s sake, get me a drink of water!” he cried, hoarsely.
I took it up to him, and knocked; but there was no answer. I made some
ado opening the door, and walked in rather timidly. He was laughing and
talking incoherently but clutched at the pitcher of water and drank
great, desperate swallows. Then he sank back on the bed exhausted.
I ran to mamma in affright.
“Louis Duncan is sick and out of his mind!” I cried. “O, mamma, I am
sorry they came. We shall have our hands full of trouble.”
She went to the room with me. He did not appear to know either of us,
and we could not rouse him to any coherency.
“It is a fever. The doctor must be sent for immediately. Tell Nelly to
go. And, Rose, we must arrange the other room, and take him over there,
since it may be a long illness. Well, we must have patience. God knows
what is for the best.”
I soon had everything in order. Papa coming in, he partly led and
partly carried Louis to the best room. Mamma bathed his head and put
some draughts on his wrists and his feet. Now he lay quietly, with his
eyes half open, breathing heavily.
Dr. Hawley called just before supper.
“A bad case,” he said, gravely, “a bad case! Why, the fellow is worn
to skin and bone already, and looks as if he had had the jaundice for
the last month. But we will do our best. He may be stronger than he
appears.”
Stuart felt pretty sober that evening.
“I suppose I ought not to have stirred him up so this morning,” he
said. “But it is such fun! And it was all about a trifle. I used his
hair-brush; and he is as particular as any old maid. Then I tormented
him a little, and he seized the brush and gave me a box on the ear,
which I won’t take from any one without a row. I am not a baby. And
it was awful mean of him! And so we clinched. But he has been in a
dreadful temper for the last month. He was mad because Stephen wouldn’t
let him go to Lake George with a lot of fellows.”
“It was fortunate that he did not,” returned mamma. “And, Stuart, I
hope, in the weeks to come, you will learn your duty towards him. God
has not given you this tie for you to disregard so utterly.”
Stuart looked at her with wondering eyes, but made no answer.
“Our first experience with boys seems to be rather trying,” said Fanny,
as we were going to bed that night. “I hope and pray that he may not
die—and in our house!”
I thought of what Stephen had asked of me.