Some people are so afflicted with energy that their days are
twenty-five and a half hours long. Mine are twenty-six just now. If it
were not for the fact that several hours each day I am under the
influence of Roxanne's repose, I suspect I would run down like a clock
that has exhausted its mainspring. Mamie Sue says that Belle says
Roxanne is shiftless, but Belle is unable to distinguish shiftlessness
from noble composure under difficulties. I told Mamie Sue that it
would be best for her to forget all that Belle has ever said to her;
and she is trying.
Still, though I understand it perfectly, it is positively queer to
hear Roxanne talk about what the great doctor is going to do for
Lovelace Peyton's eyes, and they haven't done one thing about getting
him here from Cincinnati. The Idol has gone back to the obscurity of
the shed, and I suppose he is making up some plan about the doctor,
while he is working with his furnaces and retorts and things, but he
hasn't told one yet, and it is two whole days. I do hope and pray that
my plan will succeed without his having to bother with a common thing
like money.
I have had to go to school these two days and then I have to study
medicine with Lovelace Peyton almost all of every afternoon, so I
haven't much time; but I think by to-morrow night I will have told
about a thousand dollars' worth of things about my father and I can
send it all off to Cousin Gilmore Lewis. The time the butler in our
North Shore cottage, summer before last, told the newspapers so many
things about the way Father and his family lived, he got three hundred
dollars for it; so it does seem that if his own daughter told almost a
whole small book about Father it would be worth at least a thousand
dollars to a big magazine that prints things about everything in the
world.
I heard Cousin Gilmore tell Father last spring that it wouldn't be
long before he got to him in his magazine, and I have two reasons for
wanting to beat the one who is going to write Father up. One is that I
need the money for Lovelace Peyton's eyes, and the other is that
before all this comes out about Father and the stolen steel patent, I
want to write about him like he might be, and ignore what the world
may consider him. I want to tell about him like I feel toward him and
not like I know people will think he is. If the weekly comes out every
week, they ought to print what I say about a week from Saturday, and
maybe it will take Judge Luttrell that long to get his prosecution
ready. The Judge doesn't work much harder than others in Byrdsville,
and I can trust him to be slow. Of course, I couldn't write a thousand
dollars' worth of things about just Father himself, but I am telling
all about Byrdsville, which is his present home, and how distinguished
and beloved he is in it.
A lot I have written I have just copied down from you, Louise--who are
a better friend than I knew when I bought you--such as the
descriptions of the apple-trees and landscape and Father's charity to
Mr. and Mrs. Satterwhite. It filled up two pages just to mention the
things he gave them, and it was a page more when I told a few of the
grateful things they said to me. I left myself out and had them say
the things right to him. What his generosity in the matter of buying
jewelry from Mr. Snider did for the seven children--with just three of
the names mentioned, because I think Sally Geraldine, Judy Claudia,
and Tom Roderick are interesting as names--made more than a page more.
I wrote until nearly twelve o'clock last night about the Byrds and
their family history and how wonderful it is for Father to have made
such friends as they are. I just described the Idol as he really is
and told what a great inventor he is without dwelling on what he
invented, because that will be published when Judge Luttrell gets out
the injunction.
I mentioned Lovelace Peyton's accident in detail, because some day
when he is a world-famous surgeon a good account of it will be
valuable. That took up fourteen pages. I am going to send that kodak
picture Tony took of Roxanne, with a good description of her to be
printed under it.
Nobody could really give a good history of the Byrd cottage without at
least a half dozen pages of Uncle Pompey and what he cooks. I am going
to get the nutcake recipe and paste it on the margin. All women
readers will like that if they try it once.
And just as I was so tired that I was about to fall into the ink-well
it occurred to me to describe faithfully the great-grandmother Byrd
portrait, especially about her being such a friend of George
Washington's wife and about the English earl who fell in love with
her, but grandfather Byrd was the victor to carry off the prize. It
gave Father credit just to have bought the house they lived in.
I got up early this morning and wrote about what good friends he has
made of Judge Luttrell and Mr. Chadwell, and some of the other
gentlemen. I told what a great lawyer the Judge is and I here
mentioned Tony's Scout medal, too, for if a Scout medal is not
distinguished, I don't know what is.
And writing about Tony's medal reminded me that I would have to write
something about myself, or seem to be prudish. I left that until
to-night, and I have just finished it. I had to get in two pages about
Miss Priscilla and the Colonel before I began on myself. I defended
her for not marrying him unless she wants to, and I moralized five
sentences on a woman's right not to marry.
Then I thought that when it is published all over the United States,
Mamie Sue might accidentally see a copy and be hurt that she was not
in it, so I put her recipe for fudge in with her name signed to it. I
grouped Pink and Sam and the two Willises and some others as prominent
citizens who were all Father's friends, with just slight mention of
their being his guest on the hay-ride. I left Belle and Helena and the
Petway silk-tie-boy out. I thought it was kindness.
Then when I got to myself I hadn't a word to say because I had used
all the words in the dictionary several times over about the others,
so I just wrote this that I copy down in order to see again how it
looks: "Mr. Forsythe has one child, Phyllis. She is a tall, strong
girl with tan hair, and she shares his friendship for Byrdsville
enthusiastically." Now, if that isn't the truth, I don't know what is,
and what more could I say about myself? That is a very dignified and
correct account of me.
I have only to write the note to Cousin Gilmore to tell him that a
thousand dollars is the price and not to let it come out later than
next Saturday, and tie it up in a box for the express. As I say, I
think just lately I have worked more than twenty-four hours a day.
Good-night!
* * * * *
I am glad that article for the weekly was finished yesterday, and
expressed, for if I hadn't finished it, I might have had to wait some
time. I must study hard now, for examinations begin next week, and I
am so far behind that it is difficult for me to even understand what
they are talking about in class, and I have been able to recite purely
by accident. It is one of the strange and unaccountable things that
happen in a person's life that hard study or the lack of it has no
real influence on the way a girl or boy recites. If I am well prepared
on a lesson, the teacher always asks me something that had slipped my
most diligent hunt, and if I don't know a thing about the lesson she
asks me a question about something I do know about. Such is school
life!
And it is a fortunate thing for me that next week is examination, for
everybody is too worried and busy to notice me and my affairs, and
they don't talk Scouts or parties or anything that I might be
embarrassed about on account of my position. Quadratics are
embarrassing to everybody. I have to study. Good-night.
* * * * *
I did the Idol a dreadful injustice when I felt that he had gone to
work on another of his inventions and had not made a plan for Lovelace
Peyton's eyes. I didn't write down that I had felt hard toward him,
for that would have seemed disloyal, but I did. He wrote right up to
the doctor in Cincinnati and asked him to come on the next train and
the heartless man telegraphed that it would cost a thousand dollars
for him to come and it would have to be guaranteed. No wonder the Idol
was white and still for a whole day. Now he has thought up a plan and
it is a sacrifice, but he and Roxanne are going to do it, if I can't
get the thousand by telegram, as I asked Cousin Gilmore to send it by
Monday morning--which they don't know about yet. I hate to write the
sacrifice down--it seems a desecration! They are going to sell one of
the foundation stones of the Byrd family pride for this vulgar money
they need for the doctor from Cincinnati. I can't bear to think about
it, though I have never seen the ancestral stone, and it is only a few
musty papers, kept in the vault at the Byrdsville County Bank. They
are letters from George Washington and other generals to one of the
Byrd ancestors, written during the Revolution about some of the great
stratagems they wanted him to execute for them with his regiment,
which was a very fine one. They hope that they're worth much more than
any thousand dollars, and they are to be the price of Lovelace
Peyton's eyes. The Idol has written about them and he hopes to get the
money immediately by telegraph, and send for the doctor the first of
next week. That is, if God doesn't let me get my telegram before
theirs. He is going to, my faith makes me believe.
And Oh! I do want my composition to be printed so the world may know
what a good man my father could be, if he would just give up his
thirst for money. It may keep other young men from following in his
footsteps, instead of doing like Judge Luttrell and other Byrdsville
men.
"Of course, Phyllis, it is an awful thing to give up a part of your
inheritance like those papers are, but then Lovey's eyes are still
more valuable to the Byrd family," Roxanne said, as we were discussing
the sacrifice. "He is going to be such a great doctor that he will
make history himself and, of course, we will have copies of the
originals; and when people are writing Douglass's and Lovey's
biographies they can go and see the originals. And after the
eye-doctor is paid, we will have a lot left over for this new thing
Douglass is inventing. He just told me about it last night, and I can
tell you now."
"Don't tell me, Roxanne, don't!" I interrupted her quickly. The blood
dyed my face so red that I felt as if I could wipe it off with my
handkerchief, if I tried.
And Roxanne, instead of blushing, got pale and put her arm around my
neck. Real love always has the right thing to say at the right time.
"Phyllis," she whispered in a tickling fashion right against my ear,
"when Douglass told me about it last night he came back in my room to
say, 'Don't tell a single soul but Phyllis.'"
If some accident should happen to make me famous, I wish the person
that writes my biography could put down how I felt when Roxanne
whispered that to me. I choked a little bit and Roxanne hugged the
choke and was just beginning to tell me about the experiment when
Lovelace Peyton called us to come to him.
He is dreadfully spoiled since he has had to keep so still all the
time, but we try to do just as he says. He lies there in bed and
thinks up all the impossible things that might be done and then asks
us to do them. He longed so for "squirms" that Tony got a wooden box
and made little divisions and brings him in a lot of new ones almost
every day. They fill Roxanne's days and nights with terror. And it is
upsetting to see the fishing-worms in the dirt, while the hop-toad
stays out on the bed a good deal of the time; but we have to stand it
and smile at it in our voices while talking to him, even if we have
terror in our faces. Yesterday Uncle Pompey spent most of his time
catching the chickens and bringing them in for him to feel, and
Lovelace Peyton has a box of straw on a chair by the bed, with a hen
tied in it, setting on a dozen eggs.
But a thing that stops my breath with pain is, that I am fraid that
Lovelace Peyton is beginning to think about being blind, and my throat
aches while I write what happened when Roxanne left him with me after
he had called us.
"Do you want me to read the medicine book, now, Lovelace Peyton? Mumps
comes next," I said, as I sat down by the head of the bed, nearer than
I liked to the setting hen.
"No, Phyllie," he answered in a queer, unlifelike way. "Please find
blind eyes and read all about them to me."
"Oh, they are not interesting," I said, and the lump rose so I could
hardly breathe. "Let me read measles, if you don't think you will like
mumps. Do you remember that experiment about cutting away a piece of
the heart itself that the man tried? Let me read that again." I was
pleading with him so that my voice began to tremble.
"Please let me put my hand on your face, Phyllie, so if I kin git you
to tell the truth to me, I kin feel if you cry," he said as he reached
up and put one little hand that is getting white and weak against my
cheek. I forced my eyes to drink up the tears that they had let get as
far as my lashes, and put my arm under his head and cuddled him
against my shoulder, my shoulder that has had to learn to cuddle since
he got hurt.
"Is I going to be blind, Phyllie, and kin they be a blind doctor, if I
am?" he asked, with his baby mouth set with the Byrd family
expression, the first time I had ever seen it on his face.
"Oh, no, Lovelace Peyton, No!" I exclaimed, hugging him up closer. "A
great big doctor is coming on the cars in just a few days to make you
well."
"But _kin_ a doctor be a blind man, Phyllie," he asked again, with
his mouth still set.
"Yes, Lovelace Peyton, if you are the blind man," I answered as
positively as I felt. It is true for if he is blind, then there will
be a blind doctor in the world and a famous one at that.
"Will you always go with me to tell me how the folks and sores and
blood and things look, Phyllie, so I kin give the right medicine?" he
asked, curling his fingers around mine in a still tighter grasp.
"Yes, I will, indeed I will," I answered, with words that pushed their
way from my heart.
And just then Tony came in with Pink, in such a dejected manner that I
hardly knew them. I knew from their looks and my own feelings that it
was the quadratics we were going to have on examination Tuesday, and
my deepest sympathy went out to them.
"Say, Dr. Snakes," said Tony solemnly, as he sat down almost upon the
toad on the bed by Lovey, "I've brought Pink, the Rosebud, to be
operated on at my expense entirely. I have been trying to put algebra
into his head for a solid hour, and now I want it split open so I can
just chuck the book in whole to save my time. Shall I go get the axe?"
And Lovelace Peyton laughed just as much at Tony as the rest of us
did, though the hen got frightened and began to squawk so that both
Tony and Pink had to work to tie her down tighter. They didn't need me
right then, so I slipped out and went home through the garden.
Oh, that doctor must come down here quick to see about those valuable
eyes! I don't dare think what I will do if the article about Father
fails, but I feel sure it won't. Still my heart beats as if it
couldn't get all the blood it needs--and that reminds me that
physiology comes on Wednesday. I ought to study, but I can't.
And another thing that is worrying me is, that I didn't go to see what
Mrs. Satterwhite wanted when she sent for me, and it might be that I
could have spent some money if I had found out what she would like to
have. I have been so busy and so scared that I haven't been down to
the Public Square this week, and now I will have to go and shop all
morning if I am to keep up the amount of the monthly bills.
I wonder if Miss Priscilla would let me express my admiration for her
by buying her one of those lovely boxes of paper with gold letters on
each piece. I don't know anybody else in Byrdsville that they seem to
match, and they cost five dollars, which the postmaster needs badly
from the looks of his fringed cuffs and collars. Accepting a present
is bestowing affectionate regard on the person that offers it, and I
believe Miss Prissy feels that way about me. She must feel in her
heart that I do not blame her course of conduct to the Colonel like
the rest of Byrdsville does. I am more charitable to faults than
others. I have to be. I believe I will risk the box of paper.
But on the other hand, I am very fond of the Colonel and I feel that I
would like him to know that I think he is very noble not to desert
Miss Priscilla, even if she doesn't want to marry him. He is a
faithful friend. I wonder if he would like that lovely long-stemmed
pipe that is in the drug store? And I feel like I ought to do it, not
to be partial. I won't buy him tobacco, for I feel sure that is a
thing that women ought to fear to do for a man.
This is a very lonely night, and I can't write any more because it
reminds me to be uneasy about the express package in which I sent the
article to Gilmore's Weekly.
I am going down to sit in my mother's room in a dark corner to be
comforted. That is my right and hers, too. I wonder if girls that have
mothers that can be real mothers, tell them all their troubles and
perplexities and anxieties, or do girls that have mothers not have the
other things to tell them?
But one thing before I close the ink-well I must record to my own
satisfaction, though it seems mean to write it down. The Idol has no
idea of paying any kind of attentions to Helena Kirby and it is all
settled that he doesn't like her; or, rather, doesn't know she is
living on the earth, which is still better. His lovely new gray suit
didn't affect him at all in regard to her. Roxanne told me all about
it several days ago.
Of course, everybody in Byrdsville has been very much interested and
sorry over Lovelace Peyton's explosion and his eyes, and they have all
come and said so, and they hardly ever come empty-handed. Roxanne has
got nice and plump eating the things, and so has Uncle Pompey, after
their long cornmeal fast during the time of invention number one.
But Belle's mother, Mrs. Kirby, and Helena hadn't come or done a
single thing, until this occurred day before yesterday. Helena
happened of her own accord to meet the Idol right at the cottage gate
when he came home from the furnace, and she was most untastefully
beautifully dressed. She had a large pink rose in her hand like a girl
in a story-book. She stopped to smile on him with extreme favor and
give him the rose, also out of a book. Roxanne saw and heard it all,
because she couldn't help it, from the window.
"Thank you, Miss Helena," he said with a grand bow. "I know Lovey will
feel complimented at your thinking about him, and the rose will be
lovely for him to smell and feel. He is better to-day, we hope--at
least not so nervous."
Roxanne says Helena's expression was of one completely surprised, and
she went on down the street without any more use of the smile or the
red silk and lace dress. If a man is at all interested in a girl, he
would be sure to get more pleasure and conversation than that out of a
rose, I feel sure. Oh, a genius has to be guarded from so many things!
This is unkindness I've written, but I'm so nervous to-night over the
thousand dollars that might not come for the article that I cannot
control my pen. Good-night again, Louise.