THE BEGINNING OF THE FIGHT.
True to her promise, Bess did go often to see her boy. For several
weeks it was her habit to spend a part of every afternoon with him;
and the lad's evident pleasure at her coming made her feel richly
rewarded for the time she gave up to him. He at once recognized her
step in the hall, and she always found him sitting up on the sofa,
eagerly waiting for her to come to him.
Mrs. Allen rarely appeared, and the two had the room to themselves,
while Bess either read aloud, or talked to Fred as she sewed on some
bit of work she had brought with her. To her mother she confessed
that after her usual call her mind was a blank, for she tried so hard
to think of some bright, interesting conversation for the lonely, sad
boy. Her patient was not an easy one to manage, for though Fred
rarely complained, during the long hours he was alone he brooded over
his trouble until it seemed even harder than before, and the old days
of school and games were like dreams of another and a happier world.
His father was at his office all day, and his mother, absorbed in her
social life, had little time to give to her son; and both of them
regarded the boy as well cared for if he were only supplied with all
sorts of dainties, and had the most comfortable sofa and chair given
up to him.
Sometimes Bess found the child so disconsolate that she knew not how
to comfort him; sometimes he was moody, and slow to respond to her
efforts to be entertaining, but before she left him, her womanly tact
had smoothed away the frown, and forced him to laugh in spite of
himself. And in the worst of his moods he was never cross to her,
but always seemed grateful to her for her coming.
"If you only needn't go home at all!" he said to her one day. "It's
lots more fun when you are here, Miss Bess. The rest of the time I
just lie here and think till I get cross, and everything seems awful."
"Why do you 'just lie here and think,' then?" asked Bess, feeling
that here was a chance to make a good suggestion. "You are strong
enough now to go to drive every pleasant day. Why don't you?"
"I don't know; I don't want to," said Fred, as the quick color came
to his cheeks, that were beginning to have a more healthy look.
Bess was expecting that reply, for several times before now she had
tried to coax the boy into going out. But he had been ill and by
himself for so long, and had dwelt so continually on himself, that he
had become very sensitive about his blindness, a state of mind not at
all improved by his mother's tactless attempts at consolation. With
Bess he could and did talk freely, but with no one else, and he
shrank from meeting any one who called, and obstinately refused to
see his boy friends, although Bess urged him to let them come.
It was such an unnatural life for the boy, who, save in the one
respect, was rapidly returning to his old strength. Once let him
break over this sensitive reserve, and persuade himself to go out and
enjoy the boys, and Bess was sure that his life would be easier to
bear.
To-day they were in their usual place by the fire. Bess was sewing,
and Fred was by her side, playing with the long loops of ribbon that
hung from her belt. Suddenly the girl rose and went to the window.
"Where are you going, Miss Bess?"
"I am going to run away from you, you obstinate boy. I want to see
your mother a minute. I'll come back, so don't you worry."
For Bess had determined on a bold stroke. The air inside the room
was warm and heavy with the fragrance of roses. Outside, all was
bright and bracing, for an inch or two of snow had fallen the night
before, and the air after the storm was clear and sweet. Across the
street, two rosy-cheeked urchins were having a grand snowball fight,
and Bess only wished that she and Fred could join them. She heard
their shouts of laughter as a particularly large snowball struck one
of them, just as he was stooping for more ammunition, and half the
snow was scattered down his neck.
The next moment she had tapped at Mrs. Allen's door.
"Come in," said a languid voice, and in she went.
Mrs. Allen, in a light wrapper, lay on a sofa, while Mary was
kneeling by her side, industriously polishing the nails of her
mistress.
"Mrs. Allen," said Bess abruptly, "may Fred and I have the coupé this
afternoon?"
"Does he want to go out for a drive at last?" asked his mother.
"No, he doesn't," replied Bess, "but I want to have him go, and I
think that if the carriage were all at the door, I could get him
started. May I try?"
"Of course you can have the carriage, Bessie; (a little more on the
thumb, Mary) but why do you tease him, if he doesn't want to go? It
won't be any pleasure to him, and if he is more comfortable at home,
why not let him do as he likes?"
Bess dropped into a chair, and wrinkled her brows with exasperation.
"Why, don't you see, Mrs. Allen," she said, "the boy can't spend all
his life in that one room. He must go out of it sometime, and the
longer he waits the harder it will be for him. He ought to have been
out weeks ago, for he needs the fresh air, and he is getting just
blue and morbid from staying alone in the house all this time."
"Perhaps you are right (now the other hand, Mary). Of course you can
have James and the coupé, if you will order what you want. It will
be pleasanter for you, if not for Fred."
Bess felt her color come. She had not expected much from Mrs. Allen,
but this was too unkind,--to think that she was speaking two words
for herself and one for Fred! But Mrs. Allen was not fine enough to
see how her remark had cut, and Bess resolved to bear anything for
the sake of her boy; so she thanked his mother, a little coldly,
perhaps, and then departed to the kitchen, where she asked the
coachman to bring the coupé to the door as soon as he could, and
requested the plump, ruddy cook, the family tyrant, to get her Fred's
coat and hat.
The good woman's face brightened perceptibly.
"An' is it goin' out he is? Bless the poor dear b'y; it's a long,
long time since he's had a hat on his head, and it's I as am glad to
be gettin' it for you. The air'll do him good, sure!"
Bess thanked the woman warmly as she took the wraps, for she noted
the difference in tone between the mother and the servant. Then she
returned to the parlor, where she dropped Fred's heavy coat and hat
on a chair, and went back to her old place by the fire.
"Seems to me you've been gone a good while," said the boy, as Bess
sat down on the sofa, and pulled his head, pillow and all, into her
lap.
"I just wanted you to find out how charming my society is," she said
playfully, as she twisted his scalp-lock till it stood wildly erect.
"As if I didn't know anyway," responded Fred. "But what are you
trying to do to me?"
"Only beautifying you a little, sonny," said Bess, with one eye on
the window.
In a few moments she saw the carriage drive up to the door and stop.
She took the boy's hand firmly in her own, and said very quietly,
from her position of vantage,--
"Now, Fred, I have a favor to ask of you; it is something I want so
very much. Will you do it for me?"
"What is it?" asked the boy suspiciously.
"The coupé is all ready at the door, and I have brought in your coat
and hat. It is such a lovely day, I want you to come for a drive.
Will you?"
"No, I won't," said the boy, turning his face away from her, and
putting his hand over his eyes.
"Listen, Fred," said Bess firmly; "I know just how you feel about
this, but is it quite right to give up to it? You have all your life
before you, and you can't lie on this sofa all your days. I have
waited until you were stronger, hoping you would feel like starting
out; but the longer you are here, the harder it will be! You will
have to go sometime; why not to-day?"
"What's the use?" asked the boy sadly. "I sha'n't get any good of
going. I don't see why I'm not as well off here."
"It is a beautiful day after the snow, and the air is so fresh it
will do you good. You need some kind of a change. We will only go a
little way, if you say so. Come, Fred." And she waited.
She saw the boy shut his lips tight together, and two great tears
rolled out from under his hand. Then he said slowly,--
"I'll go, Miss Bessie."
"That's my dear, brave boy," said Bess, as she went to get their
wraps. She helped Fred into his hat and coat, quickly put on her
own, and, drawing his hand through her arm, led him to the door,
talking easily all the time to keep up the lad's courage.
Just as they came out of the house, Rob and Phil chanced to be
passing. Turning, as they heard the door open and close, they saw
Bess helping their friend to the carriage, waved their hats to her,
and started to run back to greet Fred. But Bess motioned to them to
keep away, for she felt that her charge was in no condition now to
meet these strong, lively friends, just as he was forced to realize
anew his own helplessness. So the lads stood sadly by, looking on
while their unconscious friend slowly and awkwardly climbed into the
carriage. Bess followed, and, with a wave of her hand to the
watching boys, they drove away.
"That isn't much like Fred," said Phil, as he turned away with a
serious look on his jolly, freckled face. "Just think of the way he
used to skate, and play baseball and hare and hounds! It must be
awful for him. But isn't it funny he won't let us go to see him?"
"I don't know," replied Rob, meditatively patting a snowball into
shape; "I guess if I were like what Fred is, I shouldn't want the
boys round, for 'twould just make me think all the time of the things
I couldn't do. Cousin Bess is awfully good to him; she's down here
ever so much."
"I know it. Wonder if anything happened to me, she'd take me up,"
said Phil, half enviously. "I just wish she was my cousin, Bob.
Why, she's as good as a boy, any day!"
In the mean-time, Fred's first care had been to draw down the
curtains on his side of the carriage, and then he shrank into the
corner, answering as briefly as possible to Bessie's careful
suggestions for his comfort. But her endless good-humor and fun were
never to be long resisted, and he was soon talking away as rapidly as
ever, while the change and the motion and the cool crisp air brought
a glow to his cheeks that made him look like the Fred of former days.
After driving for nearly an hour, the carriage stopped.
"Are we home?" asked Fred, starting to rise.
"At mine, not yours. Mother was going out to tea, to-night, and you
have been such a good boy that, as a reward of merit, I am going back
to dinner with you; only I must stop and tell mother, and send word
to Rob to come down after me. Shall I come?" And Bess paused with a
smile, waiting to see the effect of her new plan.
"Oh, yes, do come!" said Fred eagerly. "And tell Bob not to come for
you too early."
"What fun we'll have," he continued, when Bess had come back from the
house and they were driving away, regardless of the wails of Fuzz,
who surveyed them from a front window. "We'll play--how I wish I
ever could play games any more!" And his face grew dark again.
"You can, ever so many. But will you go home, or shall we drive a
little longer?"
"Home, please: that is, if you are willing, Miss Bessie."
"Fred, do you think me a dragon?" asked Bess, soberly. "Now tell me
truly, are you sorry you came out to-day? Even if you are a little
tired, won't the old sofa feel all the better for the change?" And
while she waited for his reply, she looked with pleasure at the
clear, bright color that the wind had brought into his cheeks.
"No, I don't know as I'm sorry, as long as you came too. But it's no
fun driving alone, and mother's too busy to go with me."
There was a pause, and then he suddenly asked,--
"Miss Bess, what makes you so good to me?"
"Good, to have a pleasant drive with my boy. I didn't suppose that
showed any great virtue. But," added Bess more seriously, "I want to
teach my boy to make the very best of his life. You have one hard,
hard sorrow to bear, dear; but you have ever so many pleasant things
to enjoy, if you only think of it: your home," here Bessie caught her
breath, as a vision of Mrs. Allen crossed her mind, then went on
calmly, "all your friends, who care so much for you; and then there
are so many things you can do, as you get a little more used to
yourself. But this is enough sermon now, for here you are at home.
Just take my arm." And she led the boy into the house and up to the
fire.
Mr. and Mrs. Allen dined out that night, and Fred and Bess had the
house to themselves. Fred was so roused by the little change, and
Bess so pleased at her own success, that their dinner was a merry
one. Fred insisted that it should be served on a small table by
their favorite fire, instead of in the imposing dining-room, and
Mary, rejoiced at anything that could bring Master Fred out of his
languid indifference, was only too glad to make the change, however
much work it might involve for herself.
The boy was in fine spirits, in his delight at having Bess stay to
dinner, all to himself, and the two told stories and asked conundrums
till the room fairly rang with their mirth. At dinner, Bess sent
Mary away and waited on the boy herself, giving him the needed help
in such a matter-of-course fashion that he forgot to feel sensitive
about it until long after his guest had gone.
After dinner, when the table was cleared away, and Fred's sofa moved
again to the fire, they both settled themselves on it for a quiet
chat. The fire shone out on a pretty picture. Bess, in her dark red
gown, sat leaning luxuriously against the dull blue cushions of the
oak sofa, while Fred was close by her side, with his hand through her
arm, his head on her shoulder, listening with a laughing face to his
friend's account of some college frolics. There was no light in the
room but the steady glow from the grate, that plainly showed their
faces, but for the moment kindly hid the sad, blank look in Fred's
once beautiful eyes, and only gave them a dreamy, thoughtful
expression, as from time to time he turned his face up to Bess.
In the midst of their conversation, the bell rang, and the next
moment Mary, privately instructed by Bess, without word of warning
ushered Rob into the room. For a minute he stood, hesitating whether
to speak to Fred or not, but Bess quickly came to the rescue.
"Why, Rob, here so soon? Come up to the fire; there's ever so much
room here on the sofa."
And Fred's voice added,--
"Hullo, Bob!" as he hospitably made room for his guest.
There was another pause as Rob seated himself, for neither boy knew
just what to say. Fred had straightened himself up, and was twirling
his thumbs, while Rob crossed his feet and uncrossed them again, as
he methodically folded up his soft felt hat into a neat bundle.
As both boys declined to break the silence, Bess again took the lead.
"Is it cold to-night?" she asked Rob.
"Yes it's freezing fast, and 'twill be fine skating to-morrow. All
us boys are planning to go"--And Rob came to a sudden halt, as the
idea dawned on him that such subjects were not interesting to Fred,
who asked abruptly,--
"How's Phil?"
"He's well," replied Rob laconically, determined to make no mistake
this time.
"What's Bert Walsh doing with himself?"
"Football, of course." And both the boys laughed, for Bert's chronic
devotion to the game was the joke of all his friends.
But the next moment Bess felt Fred's head come over against her
shoulder. Rob watched him pityingly, not daring to speak his
sympathy, though he read his friend's thought.
"We've been reading 'Story of a Bad Boy,' this afternoon," said Bess,
trying once more to start the boys. Rob caught eagerly at the bait.
"Isn't it fine! That Fourth of July scrape just suits me."
And the boys were all animated as they discussed the details of the
story. Bess sat and watched them, occasionally putting in a word or
two, and soon all constraint had vanished, as the talk ran on from
subject to subject, and the long year of separation was a thing of
the past.
Rob, mindful of what Bess had told him about Fred's sensitive
reserve, tried to seem perfectly unconscious of the change in his boy
friend, but he looked anxious and troubled, between his sympathy for
Fred, and his desire to say just the right thing. But when Bess rose
to go, and Fred was slowly following her to the door, Rob could stand
it no longer,
"Say, Fred, I'm awfully sorry for you!" he blurted out.
Contrary to his expectations, the simple, boyish pity went right to
Fred's heart, and did it a world of good, but he only said,--
"It isn't much fun, Bob, I tell you. But won't you come down again
some day? I wish you would."
And Bess went home, well pleased with her day's work.