FRED.
A cold, dreary November rain was driving against the windows, and the
heavy, dull drops chased one another down the glass. Within the room
all was bright and warm, with a cheerful fire in the grate. The
double parlors were richly and tastefully furnished, yet they were
far from attractive, for their very elegance made more noticeable
their lack of homelike cosiness. No pets were ever allowed to invade
their sanctity, no work-basket of mending ever encumbered one of
their tables. The very books and papers were always carefully
returned to their accustomed places, though they were to be taken up
again ten minutes later. The glowing coals shone on only one object
in any way suggestive that the room was ever entered except to sweep
and dust it.
In the back parlor a low, broad sofa was drawn up before the fire,
and on it lay a boy of twelve, so quiet that one coming suddenly into
the room might have fancied him sleeping. But with a sudden weary
sigh he turned his head on the pillow, and pulled the gay afghan more
closely around his shoulders, dropping, as he did so, two or three
chocolate creams left from some previous feast.
"Oh, dear!" he said, half aloud, half to himself, "mother'll scold if
those get smashed on the carpet." And, slowly getting down on the
floor, he felt carefully about, evidently trying to find the missing
candy, which lay, plainly visible, near the fender. At last his hand
touched it, and, putting it on a table that stood close to the sofa,
loaded with fruit, flowers, and candy, he impatiently threw himself
down and covered himself again.
He was a handsome boy, with his light brown hair, swarthy skin, and
great, dreamy, brown eyes; but his dark skin had no flush of health,
and the beautiful eyes had a vacant, blank look, while the boy face
wore a fretful, discontented expression, rarely seen in one so young.
This was Fred Allen, who, ten months before, had been a leading
spirit among the lads of his age. Bright, frank, and full of fun,
though rather quick-tempered and imperious, his friends had bowed
before him, both for his skill in all the field games so dear to
boyish hearts, and for the ease with which he kept at the head of his
classes in school. Equally devoted to his baseball bat and his
books, petted by his teacher, and adored by his boy friends, Fred was
in a fair way to become spoiled and headstrong. Just at this time a
prize was offered to his class for the best set of examinations, and
Fred worked early and late over his lessons, that the prize might be
his. It was a proud and happy moment for him when, after the teacher
had announced that the prize was awarded to Frederic Hunter Allen,
for general excellence in his studies, a boy voice called out: "Three
cheers for Fred Allen," and the cheers were given with a will.
But the boy had overstudied, and within a week or two signs of
intense nervousness showed themselves, and soon settled into a severe
case of chorea, or, as the cook called it, "Saint Vitus's twitches."
For three months the boy was very ill, seeing no one but his parents
and Bess Carter, who spent two or three afternoons of each week with
him. Then his mother declared that her own nerves were getting so
unstrung, and Fred was not gaining any, why not have him go to Boston
to a specialist?
So a private car was ordered, and the boy was taken to Boston, where
he was left in charge of a noted doctor and a professional nurse of
undeniable reputation and heart of iron, who presided over her
patients with a clock in one hand and a thermometer in the other,
with no allowance made for personal variations.
His mother, in the mean time, was free to recuperate her nervous
system by a round of calls, shopping, teas, and theatre-going, to
which the illness of her only son had been a serious hinderance.
People talked a little, as well they might, but Mrs. Allen spoke so
regretfully of her own poor health, and wiped her eyes so daintily
when any one asked for Fred, that it was the general opinion that she
was more to be pitied than her little son.
As the months passed, and the boy did not return, inquiries for him
grew fewer, and to these few Mrs. Allen responded with indifference.
Mr. Allen went occasionally to see his son, but he was a cold, proud
man, whose chief ambition was that Fred should make a fine appearance
in society, as a worthy heir to the fortune that he would one day
leave him.
But the reports of the specialist were not encouraging. The chorea
was a little better, but something seemed wrong about the boy's
sight. A well-known oculist was called, and he ordered word at once
sent to Mr. Allen that the trouble had all centred in the optic
nerve, which was rapidly being destroyed, and that his only son must
be blind forever, with no hope of any cure.
It was a terrible blow to the father, whose hopes and plans for the
future were all destroyed. His feeling for his son had been pride,
rather than love, and this pride was sorely wounded. A sudden press
of business had kept him for some days from going to his boy, and by
the time he reached him, the disease had made such rapid advances
that Fred could no longer see his father, except as a dark shadow
against the sun-lighted window. In other respects he was much
better, and so anxious to be at home that the next afternoon the
journey of a few hours was taken, and in the early November twilight
he was helped up the familiar steps into the hall, where his mother
met him with convulsive kisses and sobs, called him her poor, dear
little Freddie, and then--went away to dress for a dinner-party,
leaving the boy to the tender mercies of the servants, who were
thoroughly rejoiced to have him at home once more.
This afternoon, directly after lunch, she had helped Fred to the sofa
where we found him, put a plate of Malaga grapes and a dish of candy
on a table beside him, and, telling him to ring for Mary in case he
needed anything, she had gone away "to take forty winks," she said.
But the forty winks lasted a long time, and for more than an hour
Fred had lain there, listening to the dashes of rain against the
window, and counting the street cars that jingled on their way past
the house.
Suddenly the door-bell rang, and, at the sound, a dark red flush
mounted to the boy's cheek, and a frown gathered on his face.
"Somebody coming to look at me!" he muttered; and then lay very
still, listening to Mary's steps as she answered the summons.
But when he heard a familiar voice ask,--
"Well, Mary, is Master Fred in?" his face grew suddenly glad, and,
sitting up on the sofa, he turned his head eagerly towards the door.
Mary's reply was inaudible to him, as she said,--
"Oh, Miss Carter, I'm so glad you've come. Master Fred's all alone
out in the back parlor, and he's sad enough, poor boy!"
Then he heard Bess speak again: "Please take my cloak, Mary, it is so
wet; and ask him if I may go right in there."
"Oh, do come quick, Miss Bessie!" he called out. "I'm so glad you
have come." And as he heard the door open, and the light, quick
steps advancing towards him, he stood up and put out both hands to
greet his guest, with no trace of his old fretful look.
With a hasty glance Bess noted the helplessness that prevented his
meeting her at the door, but she only said, as she kissed him,--
"Well, Fred, I am so glad to have you back within reach once more."
"You have missed me, then?" asked the child anxiously, as she drew
him to the sofa and seated herself by his side.
"Missed you, you silly boy! What a question! Of course I have. 'We
boys,' as Rob says, have been longing for you to be back again. I
have felt quite lost without you."
"How is Rob,--and all the other boys?" inquired Fred, relieved that
Bess seemed so unconscious of his condition.
"Well, all of them. Rob is coming down as soon as you feel like
seeing him. I see more of him than I do of any of the others. Phil
runs in once in a while, but he is so busy all the time. Teddy was
at the house one day last week, the same dear, slangy boy as ever.
But tell me, am I not crazy to come down such a day?"
"It's a kind of crazy I like," said Fred. "You were awfully good to
come, and I've been alone here ever so long."
"So much the better," said Bess, mentally abusing the mother who
could leave her boy under such circumstances; "we can have a real
good, old-fashioned visit, and when you get tired of me, you may send
me off."
Fred's hand moved about in search of hers, as he asked,--
"How did you know I'd come?"
"Rob told me last night."
"Did he tell you"--
Fred could go no farther. Bess pulled the appealing little face over
against her shoulder, and gently smoothed his hair, as she answered,
using all her self-control to speak quietly,--
"Yes, dear, he did. I can't tell you how sorry we all felt for our
boy. That doesn't make it any easier to bear, I know; but perhaps in
time we can help you a little."
For the first time since his learning the sad truth, the boy broke
down. He had listened to the words of the oculist without a tear,
too much stunned even to speak, and he had met his father and mother
with perfect quiet. But the few gentle, loving words had broken his
firm resolve not to be a baby; and the tears gathered fast and fell,
as he sat with his head on Bessie's shoulder, her arm about his
quivering little body.
"Oh, don't tell the boys!" he sobbed at last. "Don't tell them I
cried. I didn't mean to; but it's all so dreadful, here in the dark."
The tears stood in the girl's eyes as she answered,--
"My dear little boy, we all know how terrible it must be; but I won't
tell the boys if you say so. Just cry it all out; you have tried to
be too brave. Rob almost cried for you last night."
The sobs came less often, but the look of sadness on the boyish face
made Bessie's heart ache for the child, but she said cheerfully,--
"Now, my son, I am going to take my old place as nurse to-day. You
aren't very strong yet, and I want you to lie down again here on the
sofa, and if you can spare a little of this lunch--I don't approve of
candy between meals, you know--I'll move the table away, pull up this
low chair, and tell you all the news."
Suiting the action to the word, Bess tucked the afghan round Fred's
feet, drew a willow chair up to the place of the despised table, and
sat down close to the child, who once more reached out for her hand.
For an hour she sat there chatting to the boy, telling him of the
scrapes his friends had been in, of the pranks they had played, until
she began to see traces of the old merry Fred, as the look of sorrow
gave place to a smile, and then to a hearty laugh, while she
described Rob's recent attempts to climb a picket fence too hastily,
and his being caught by his shoe and hung head downward, from which
position he was ignominiously rescued by a passing Irishman.
In the mean time, Bess was glad that her little friend could not see
her expression, as she sat looking at the worn, sad face, and the
great vacant eyes, that used to have such bright mischief dancing in
them. But she forced herself to talk on, as easily as she could,
more than rewarded by the pleasure in Fred's face, and his tight grip
of her hand.
At length a step was heard on the stairs, and Mrs. Allen, daintily
dressed and looking provokingly fresh and unruffled, Bess thought,
came into the room.
"Why, Bessie, when did you come? How stupid of Mary not to tell me
you were here!"
"I told her I came to see Fred, and not to disturb you," said Bess,
as Mrs. Allen swept to the sofa and bent over her son.
"I am quite jealous of Fred, for you have hardly been here all the
time he was away," she said. "But he needs you now badly enough,
poor boy!" putting a delicately embroidered handkerchief to her eyes.
"Isn't it hard to see him in this condition?"
Again the burning flush rolled up to Fred's hair, and the hand that
was tightly clasping Bessie's grew suddenly cold. Bess gently kissed
him before she answered,--
"You ought to know of my sympathy for Fred, Mrs. Allen. No words can
express it. But I am glad to have him here again. We were having
such a good talk, just like old times."
With an air of relief, Mrs. Allen took the hint, and left them alone
again. When she was gone, the boy settled back on his pillow, saying
gratefully,--
"It is awfully nice to have you here. Tell some more about the
fellows."
So Bess talked on, racking her brains for any bright, funny bit of
gossip that could rouse the lad from his depression, and give him
something to think of during the many sad, lonely hours that she saw
were in store for him. But the dreamy chime of the cathedral clock
on the mantel, as it struck four, reminded her of her promise to see
Rob after school, and she rose to go, saying brightly,--
"Now, my boy, I have worn you all out with such a long visit, for a
first one. I must go now, for Rob is coming up after school, and I
must be at home in time to see him. I hope I sha'n't drown on the
way," she added, as a fresh gust of wind brought a flurry of rain
against the windows.
"I wish you needn't go," said the child. "It has been so jolly to
see you again. You haven't been here but a few minutes."
"An hour and a half, exactly," answered Bess, "but I'm coming again
real soon."
In the early twilight of the stormy day, the room was growing dark.
As Bess stooped to say good-by to the boy, she was surprised to feel
the hot tears on his cheeks. Sitting down on the edge of the sofa,
she drew his head over into her lap, and stroked his face in silence,
for she felt no words could comfort the little lad.
"If you only needn't go," he said. "It all seems so much easier when
you are here. Miss Bessie, I can't stand it! What shall I do?"
"Fred, I know it is hard, so very hard. I wish I could stay with you
always, if you want me. But I will truly come again in a day or two.
We are all so sorry for you, and long to help you." Then she asked,
"May Rob come some day to see you? He is such a good little nurse."
Fred shook his head.
"Not yet," said he. "I'd rather not have the boys round just yet.
But I mustn't keep you. Good-by." And, getting up, he moved a few
steps towards the door.
"Don't be in too much of a hurry, my dear," said Bess. "I must ring
for Mary to bring my cloak. Don't try to come to the door, you will
only tire yourself for nothing." And, putting him back on the sofa
with a gentle force, she kissed him and was gone.
Later, when Bess, her parents, and Rob, who had been prevailed upon
to stay, sat at their dinner-table, the young lady, after silently
pondering some question in her own mind, suddenly announced with
considerable energy,--
"I think Mrs. Allen is the most selfish woman I ever saw!"
Mrs. Carter, in her surprise at the outburst, dropped the biscuit
that she was feeding to Fuzz, under cover of the tablecloth; for it
was the rule of the family, agreed to by each, and broken by all,
that Fuzz should not be fed at meal-times. The biscuit was at once
appropriated by the dog, who trotted off to a corner with it in his
mouth, and there proceeded to devour it, with sundry growls at the
shaggy collie who gazed with longing eyes on the tempting morsel.
"Bess, my daughter," began Mrs. Carter, "don't be too severe. She
may not be very strong."
"Strong, mother! How much strength does it take to entertain one's
son who is ill? She'd better give up a few dinners and theatres.
The idea of her leaving Fred alone all the afternoon. Rob, the next
time you come up here, when you are tired and cross and headache-y, I
am going to take a nap, so there!"