"AND WHEN THE FIGHT IS FIERCE."
After a week or two spent in making Fred feel at home and settled in
his new quarters, Bess suggested her next plan. It was after church
one Sunday night, and Bess was sitting with her hat still on, by the
parlor fire, while Fred and the Dominie were in a promiscuous pile on
the rug, where Fred had been eagerly listening for the familiar step
on the walk outside. Since he had been at the Carters', he had lost
much of his fretful look, and seemed better and brighter in every
way. Mrs. Carter petted him, and talked with him, giving him many
little hints of the way in which he might even yet be a useful, happy
man; while her husband laughed and joked with him, and occasionally
teased him a little. But, after all, it was neither gentle Mrs.
Carter, nor her genial husband, to whom the boy turned for advice and
sympathy in every question that came up. To him, Miss Bess was the
one person in the world, and well might he feel so, for she was most
unselfishly kind to him. From the moment when, on leaving his room
in the morning, he met her at the door, ready to guide him down the
unfamiliar stairs, until, after he was all in bed, she came in to say
a last good-night, she was constant in her attentions to him, and
adapted herself to his every mood, bright and full of fun when he was
blue, encouraging when he was despondent, and with apparently nothing
to do but read to him or talk with him. When she went out, as she
did nearly every afternoon, she always came in with some amusing
adventure or bit of boy news to tell him; and while she was gone, he
spent the time petting the dogs, and counting the moments until her
return. When her step was heard, he always started to the door, and,
as she reached it, he opened it before her, and stood smiling up at
her as she closed it, and, with an arm around his shoulders, swung
him about, and marched him back to the fire. And Bess learned to
watch for this greeting, and stepped more heavily as she came up the
walk. Adoration, even from a child, is pleasant to have.
To-night, as Bess sat there with Fuzz in her lap and Fred at her
feet, she was thinking back to that ill-fated day, just a year ago,
when Rob had come home and announced that Fred had won the school
prize. Such a change in the year! But the boy must not grow up in
ignorance, even if he were blind. At her suggestion, it had been
agreed with his father that Fred was to begin to have a few simple
lessons again, of which Bess was to have the care.
"You know as well as I do, Miss Carter, what will make Fred happiest
and best. I leave him wholly to you," Mr. Allen had said.
The boy lay, his head pillowed on the dog's shaggy side, his face
anxiously turned towards Bess, as if trying to read her thoughts.
Suddenly she said,--
"Well, Fred, what do you say to our starting on our lessons
to-morrow?"
"What do you mean, Miss Bess?" said the boy, sitting up.
"Only just this, that I think it is time you went back and took up a
few lessons again."
Fred rose to his feet and began to walk slowly up and down the room.
"How can I?" he asked sadly. "I don't see how I can study any more."
"This way, Fred," said Bess, as, putting down the dog, she went to
join him in his march; "from nine till twelve every day, I have time
to give up to it. We will shut ourselves up in a corner by
ourselves, and I will read your lessons over to you a few times, and
then ask you questions about them. You can do ever so much in that
way; and we don't want you to stop all study, even if you can't read
to yourself. How does the idea strike you?"
"I like it," said the boy, whose face had been brightening again;
"only it won't be much fun for you."
"Never you mind about me, my laddie," said Bess cheerfully, "I will
look out for myself."
And so it came about that for two or three hours each morning, while
Mrs. Carter was busy about the household cares that not even her
delicate health had made her willing to resign to her daughter, Bess
and the boy settled themselves in the library, where Bess read aloud
to the child, explaining as she read, and he listened eagerly,
delighted at being able to break away from his forced inaction. Bess
found him an apt pupil, and added to their other studies many simple
lessons in the natural sciences, teaching the boy to understand the
world around him, as well as to see it through her eyes. As college
was out of the question for the lad, she tried to teach him just
those facts that would be of the most interest and use to him,
throwing aside any formal "course" of study, and only endeavoring to
answer the questions that came up in the course of their readings.
And such questions! Any young, healthy boy of ordinary intelligence
can ask a surprising and perplexing number of questions; but Fred,
shut up within himself as he was, with plenty of time for quiet
thought, surpassed them all, and often sent his tutor on a wild
search through encyclopædias and dictionaries, for a clear
explanation of some knotty point.
All this time Rob had been very neighborly, for it had always been
his habit to run in to see his cousin nearly every day; and for some
time after Fred came the two boys were on most harmonious terms. In
spite of everything, Rob was jealous of Fred, and would gladly have
changed places with him for the next year; but he kept this feeling
to himself, with an instinctive fear that it might make cousin Bess
feel badly.
For Fred's own good, it seemed to Bessie that, first of all, his
shyness must be overcome; for, in spite of all her efforts to
encourage him, he still showed his aversion to going out or meeting
people, and always fled to his room when any one came to call.
Accordingly, one evening Bess asked the boys, Rob and his four
friends, to come in for an hour, thinking that Fred would enjoy it
when once they were there. As the boys came in, with all their
laughter and fun, she turned to speak to Fred, but no Fred was there.
"I heard him go up-stairs a few moments ago," said her mother. "I
will go up and call him." She returned presently, looking rather
anxious.
"He says he doesn't feel well, and has gone to bed. He doesn't want
anything," she said to Bess.
"Oh, dear!" said Bess, almost impatiently. "What will the boys
think, when I invited them to see him?"
But the boys were ready to forgive everything, and the evening's
games were pronounced a great success. As they went away, Rob
lingered behind for a moment, to ask Bess if she thought Fred really
ill.
"Oh, no; nothing serious, if it is anything at all. He may have some
little headache, but I suspect it was just because he dreaded meeting
you boys."
An hour later, as Bess went to her room, she stopped to listen at
Fred's door. All was quiet, and she concluded that the boy was
asleep. But just as she was falling into her first doze, she thought
she heard a noise from the next room. Raising herself on her elbow,
she listened intently, and soon caught the sound of a smothered sob.
She quickly put on a wrapper and slippers, and went into Fred's room.
"What is it, my boy? Are you ill?" she asked anxiously.
"Oh, Miss Bess"--and Fred's voice broke.
"What is it, dear?" asked Bess again.
"Nothing--only--I couldn't see the boys to-night--and--and"--
Bess sat down on the edge of the bed, and took the child's hand in
hers.
"Is that the reason you ran away?"
"Yes."
"But, Fred, the boys came to see you."
"I know, Miss Bess, but when I heard them, I just couldn't stand it.
They are all so different from me, and I can't do anything at all,
and--and I didn't want them round. They didn't care."
"They did care, Fred; and I cared very, very much. It worries me to
have you hide when any one comes here. And I had asked the boys, you
know."
"I know it; but, Miss Bess, you don't know how hard it is! That
night at church I just felt as if they were all looking at me, and
would talk about me as soon as I went home. It's the not knowing
that's the worst. And when I hear the boys, it seems as if I
couldn't always be different from them."
"My poor little Fred," said Bess, as she passed her hand gently
across the boy's forehead, and hot, tear-swollen eyes, "I wish so
much, as much as you do, that it need not be so. But, Fred, half the
battle lies, not in bearing your trouble, but in making the best of
it. It is so hard, but each time you try it will grow easier. I
read once of an old blind woman who called all the good things that
came to her 'chinks of light;' and perhaps, if we try very hard, we
shall find some 'chinks' for you."
"I wish you could," said the child, with a long, sobbing breath.
"It's all so dark."
"Well, dear, isn't Rob a 'chink'? You dreaded him at first, just as
you do Phil and Teddy now. But, now you are used to him, you enjoy
his coming in. Wouldn't it be so with the other boys?"
"'Tisn't so bad with just one, but when they are all here"--
"Yes, but if you had once seen them, Fred, to wear off a little of
the strangeness? It is a year that you have been away from them, but
they are just the same dear boys that you used to enjoy so much. And
they are fonder of you than ever, for they are all so sorry for you,
and want to help you."
"That's the worst of it," said Fred impatiently; "nobody can forget
I'm blind one single minute!"
"Do you remember, Fred," asked Bess, "when Bert sprained his ankle
two years ago? You boys went often to see him, and he enjoyed your
running in. He didn't expect you to forget that he couldn't step on
his foot for three or four weeks, did he?"
"Yes, I know that," admitted Fred; "but, after all, 'tisn't the same
thing a bit. He was going to get right over it, and be as well as
ever, and I can't ever do anything any more. Oh, Miss Bessie, I wish
I could die and be through with it!" And the hot tears rolled down
on her hand, as it lay against his cheek.
Poor Bess was at her wit's end. The boy was nervous and excited, and
she felt that she must quiet him, but she knew not what to say. His
trouble was too great, too real, to make light of it; and yet, now
was the time, if ever, to impress on him the idea that he could and
must be a man, in spite of it.
"'And win with them the victor's crown of gold,'"
she thought to herself, as she listened to Fred's convulsive sobs.
"My dear boy," she said very gently but firmly, as she put her arm
around him and drew him over against her shoulder, "I want you to try
to stop crying and listen to me. You say you can't ever do anything
more, like the rest of the boys, but you have one chance that Rob and
the others have not. One thing you can be now, while their turn
hasn't come yet."
"What is it?" asked Fred wonderingly.
"A hero, dear. A brave boy, who will grow to be a braver man. We
know too well that you can never see again, but because you can't
see, that is no reason you should be a coward and want to die. We
aren't put here, Fred, just to have a good time; but instead, we are
to make just as much of ourselves as we can, with what is given us.
Because you can't go to college, or play baseball, or skate, you need
not think there is nothing you can do. Which is better, to be a
great scholar and a strong, active man, or to bear bravely a sorrow
like yours, be cheerful in spite of it, and, in thinking how to make
people around you a little happier and better, forget your own loss?
I'm not hard in saying this, Fred, but I am looking years ahead, and
telling you what will make you the best and happiest man. Do you
believe me?"
The boy's gesture was answer enough.
"What would you think, Fred," she went on, "of a soldier who, in his
first fight, ran away because he feared he might be hurt? I know you
would call him a coward, but isn't that about what you did to-night?
It would, perhaps, have hurt a little at first, but isn't it braver
to face the pain now, than to run away from it, and put it off till
another time? And the next time it would be just as hard, and a
little bit harder. The boys had come up here to see you, thinking
you were all going to have a bright, pleasant time together once
more. In a way, they were as much your company as mine; but you went
off and left them, with never a thought of their disappointment, you
were so anxious to escape being hurt. Was that quite worthy of my
boy?"
"I suppose I'm cowardly and selfish," said Fred rather bitterly.
"What else?"
"A thoroughly wretched little boy," answered Bess quickly. "I am not
scolding you, Fred; only trying to help you. Now answer me frankly;
if you had come down to see the boys, even if you did find it hard,
wouldn't you have been happier now than you are as it is?"
"I suppose so," admitted Fred reluctantly. "But, truly, I didn't
mean to be hateful."
"Neither does the soldier who runs away from his place, but he isn't
as brave a man as the one who stays. But, Fred, you can do these
very boys a world of good, if you only try in the right way."
"How?"
"This way. If they can see you going about with them, patient and
uncomplaining in your great trouble, it will teach them to bear their
little ones in the same way. If they see you bright and cheerful,
the old jolly Fred they used to know and love, they will feel there
is something worth living for besides school and games. They will be
more thoughtful and considerate, and through helping you and each
other they will come to help every one who is in trouble. And you
will be so much more happy, too. If all this shyness were gone, so
you needn't be in constant dread of meeting some one besides
ourselves and Rob, you could go out freely, take long walks with me,
and be with the boys. I want you to live, my boy, not so that people
will pity you for what you have lost, but admire you for what you are
in spite of it all. Isn't that the truer way for our hero to live?"
"I will try, Miss Bess," said Fred slowly. "I know I am a baby, but
I really do want to be brave."
"That is my dear Fred! The old Greeks used to say, 'Not to live, but
to live well.' We will take that for our motto, and hope that the
day will come when you can feel that your life has done as much good
in the world as it might have done if you could have seen us all."
As Bessie paused, the old clock in the hall slowly struck twelve.
She counted the strokes, and then said gently,--
"Now, my hero, beginning with this new day, we will try to live
bravely and well, and to make the very best of our lives. And when
it is harder than you can bear, come right to me, and we will talk it
all over together and see if we can't make it easier. I don't like
to have you go off by yourself in this way, as you did to-night.
Haven't you been asleep at all?"
"I couldn't. I heard you come to the door, and I tried to keep
still, for fear you'd worry. I'm sorry I disturbed you, but I am so
glad you came. You do make things batter, somehow!"
"I am so glad," said Bess; "that is what I am for. But now I want
you to stop talking and go to sleep. Do you think you will?"
"I'll try," said the child, "but I don't feel much like it. My head
aches a little."
Bess laid her hand on his throbbing forehead.
"Your head feels so warm," she said. "You lie down and don't talk
any more, and I will bathe it a little. Perhaps that will make you
sleepy."
She turned and shook up the pillows, and the child lay back with a
grateful sigh, as she gently rubbed and patted his face. For a time
he was in constant nervous motion, but he gradually became quiet. At
length she fancied he was asleep, and was just slipping noiselessly
from the bed, when he asked,--
"May I say one thing more, Miss Bess?"
"What is it, Fred?"
"I'd like to go for a little walk to-morrow; and may the boys come up
again next week?"
At breakfast the next morning, both Fred and Bess looked rather the
worse for their vigil; but, except for an increased gentleness on
Fred's part, and a little more careful attention on Bessie's, there
was nothing to show what had occurred, and the secret of their long
talk remained all their own. As they went to their lessons, Fred
said,--
"I had such a good dream last night."
"What was it?" inquired Bess, as she opened the history they were
reading.
"It was after our talk, you know," Fred answered slowly, as if trying
to bring it back again. "I was at home once more, lying on the sofa
crying, for everything went wrong, and I was all alone. All of a
sudden you came into the room, and as you walked towards me, it grew
lighter and lighter, till I could see you just as well as
ever,--nothing else in the room, only just you. You looked exactly
the way you did the last afternoon before I went to Boston. You
remember how you went down to see me, don't you? Well, you had on
the same dress and hat and everything you wore then, and you stood
looking down at me, kind of laughing. And then you said 'Come,' and
put out your hand to help me up. I stood up and felt so much better.
I kept looking at you, because that was all I could see, and it
seemed so good to see you again. Then you took my hand and led me
out into the street, and along ever so far, to a strange place; and
then, all at once, I could see again just the way I used to. But
just as I was holding on to you, and looking at the trees and houses
and people, I waked up, and it was only a dream."
"Only a dream!" said Bess regretfully. "How I wish it were all true!"
"But it was just like seeing you once more," answered Fred, as he
slowly drew his chair to the fire; "and I feel just as if I had seen
you yesterday." Then, as he settled himself comfortably, he added,
with a flash of fun that reminded Bess of the old Fred,--
"Well, I s'pose if I were as well as I used to be, I shouldn't be
here now. That's one good thing!"