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WE TEN
Or
The Story of the Roses
by
BARBARA YECHTON
Author of
"Ingleside," "A Matter of Honor,"
"Gentle-Heart Stories," "Two Knights-Errant,"
"Little Saint Hilary," "Christine's Inspiration"
With Illustrations by Minna Brown
[Illustration: "'OH, PAPA! _PAPA_! SURELY YOU ARE NOT GOING TO _BURN_
THE _FETICH_!'"]
New York
Dodd, Mead and Company
1896
Copyright, 1896,
by Dodd, Mead and Co.
All rights reserved.
University Press:
John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U.S.A.
TO
MY DEAR ONES.
_"Thou hast done well thy part, if
Thou hast done thy best;
As sure as I am God, I answer
For the rest."_
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. ROSES AND ROSES 1
II. IN THE STUDY 17
III. CONCERNING A PERFORMANCE 25
IV. AND A FETICH 43
V. A FRACAS AND AN ARRIVAL 53
VI. DISPOSING OF A FETICH 72
VII. NEW FRIENDS 92
VIII. A RESOLUTION 109
IX. MAX'S WARD 123
X. IN THE SCHOOLROOM 145
XI. AN AFTERNOON RECEPTION 165
XII. IN THE SHADOW 182
XIII. THROUGH THE SHADOW 200
XIV. A MISSION OF THREE 213
XV. SOME MINORS 230
XVI. AND A MAJOR 254
XVII. NORA'S SECRET 274
XVIII. EXPERIENCES AT ENDICOTT BEACH 283
XIX. HIS BROTHER'S KEEPER 322
XX. A SOLEMN PROMISE 346
XXI. THROUGH THE SLOUGH OF DESPOND 367
XXII. AUF WIEDERSEHEN 378
WE TEN,
OR THE
STORY OF THE ROSES.
I.
ROSES AND ROSES.
TOLD BY JACK.
When papa said positively that only Phil could go to college, we all
felt so badly for Felix that we held a council in the schoolroom that
very afternoon. At least, six of us did; the other four had been ruled
out by Felix, who declared that "kids were not allowed in council." Paul
and Mädel didn't mind so much,--they're the twins, they're only seven
years old; nor did Alan,--he's the baby; but Kathie was awfully mad: you
see, she's nearly ten, and she does love to hear all that's going on.
When she gets crying, there's no stopping her, and I tell you she made
things pretty lively round that schoolroom for a little while. How she
did howl! We were so afraid she'd start Alan, and that the noise would
reach papa's study; good-bye then to our council. We got provoked with
Kathie; it was so silly of her to stand there crying like a big baby,
and keeping us back that way.
First Phil called out, "You just stop, this minute, Kathie!" and then,
when she kept right on, he threw the old sofa pillow at her, and told
her to go smother herself; Nora said, "Horrid child!" in her most
disgusted tone, and Nannie and Betty coaxed and coaxed, trying to
quiet her.
[Illustration: "THE SCHOOLROOM VIXEN."]
But nothing had any effect until Felix limped over to his easel. Felix
is lame,--dear old Fee!--but my! isn't he clever! Greek and Latin are
just as easy as--as--anything to him, and he writes stories and
poems,--though nobody knows this 'cept us children and Miss Marston, and
we wouldn't tell for the world,--and he paints the most _beautiful_
pictures you ever saw. Well, as I was telling you, he limped over to his
easel, and took up his brush. "Just keep that charming expression on
your face a few minutes longer, Kathie," he said, "until I get it on
canvas; and I'll paint your picture as the 'Schoolroom Vixen,' and send
it to the Academy. That's right, open your mouth _just_ a little
wider--what a wonderful cavern!--hullo! why'd you stop crying? I'm not
half through."
That quieted my lady! You see she was afraid he was in earnest; and
after Nannie had wiped her eyes for her, and given her the last piece of
chocolate in her box, off she went to the other end of the room, and
began playing house with the twins and Alan under the schoolroom table,
as nicely as you please.
Then the council began. Nannie said it was called to discuss "ways and
means." I suppose by that she meant to see if there was any way that
Felix could go to college too; but, as usual, in a very little while
everybody began to take "sides," and then, the first thing we knew, we
were all talking at the same time, and just as loud as ever we could.
That's a way we have,--all talking and nobody listening. What a din
there was, until Felix scrambled up on a chair and pounded on the floor
with his cane, and shouted out louder than anybody else: "Who _am_ I
talking to? I _will_ be heard!" That made everybody laugh, and brought
us back to business; but in a few minutes we were just as bad again.
We're the greatest family for taking sides that you ever heard of, and
we do get so excited over things! Anybody that didn't know would surely
think we were quarrelling, when really we'd just be having a discussion.
I can't see where we got it from, for dear mamma was always just as
sweet and gentle, and goodness knows papa doesn't say ten words in a
day, and those in the very quietest voice. I can't explain it, but it's
a fact all the same that we are a noisy family,--even Nora. Miss
Marston--she's our governess--says it's very vulgar to be noisy, and
that we ought to be ashamed to be so boisterous; but nurse declares--and
I think she's right--that the reason is 'cause "the whole kit an' crew"
(she means us) "come just like steps, one after the other, an' one ain't
got any more right to rule than the other." You see Phil is seventeen
and Alan is five, and between them we eight come in; so we are "just
like steps," as she says.
[Illustration: "PLAYING HOUSE WITH THE TWINS AND ALAN UNDER THE
SCHOOLROOM TABLE."]
Perhaps I'd better tell you a little about each of us, so you'll
understand as I go on: Well, to begin, Phil is a big strong fellow, and
just as full of fun and mischief as he can stick; he just _loves_ to
play practical jokes, but he isn't so fond of study, I can tell you, and
that vexes papa, 'cause he's got it all laid out that Phil's to be a
lawyer. Being the eldest, he seems to think he can order us children
round as he pleases, and of course we won't stand it, and that makes
trouble sometimes. But Phil's generous; he'd give us anything he's got,
particularly to Felix, he thinks so much of him,--though of course he
wouldn't say so,--so we get along pretty well with him.
Next come Felix and Nannie; they're twins too. I've told you 'most
everything about Fee already. He's awfully cross sometimes, when he
isn't well, and, as Nora says, he really orders us about more than Phil
does; but somehow we don't mind it, 'cause, with all his queerness, he's
the life of the house, and he's got some ways that just make us love him
dearly: mamma used to call him her "lovable crank." Nannie is devoted to
Felix; they're always together. They're trying to teach themselves the
violin, and she reads the same books and studies the same lessons as he
does, to keep up with him; she's clever, too, now I tell you,--- I'd
never get my Greek and Latin perfect if she didn't help me,--though she
doesn't make any fuss over it. Nannie is an awfully nice girl,--I don't
know what we'd do without her; since mamma died, she's all the time
looking after us children, and making things go smoothly. She doesn't
"boss" us a bit, and yet, somehow, she gets us to do lots of things.
She is real pretty, too,--her eyes are so brown and shiny. It's queer,
but we don't any of us mind telling Nannie when we get into scrapes;
she talks to us at the time, and makes us feel sorry and ashamed, but
she never makes us feel small while she's doing it, and we never hear
of it again.
But you wouldn't catch us doing that to Nora! She comes next, you know,
and she's really _very_ pretty, though we never tell her so, 'cause
she's so stuck up already. Felix puts her into lots of his pictures, and
I heard Max Derwent say once that she was beautiful. Max is papa's
friend; he is a grown-up man, though he isn't as old as papa. He used to
come here a lot, and we children like him first-rate; but now he's in
Europe. Well, to come back to Nora: she likes to be called Eleanor, but
we don't do it; she is so fussy and so very proper that Felix has
nick-named her Miss Prim, and we _do_ call her that. Miss Marston thinks
Nora is the best behaved of us all; and sometimes, when Nannie is in
papa's study, she lets her go in the drawing-room and entertain people
that call. You should see the airs that Nora puts on when she comes
upstairs after these occasions; it's too killing for anything! We boys
make lots of fun of her, but she doesn't care a jot. And yet, isn't it
queer! with all her primness and fine airs, of us all, Nora cares most
for Phil, and he's so untidy and rough; she almost runs her legs off
waiting on him, and half the time he doesn't even say thank you!
The next after Nora is Betty, our "long-legged tomboy," as Felix calls
her, 'cause she is so tall and so full of mischief. Just to look at her
you'd think she was as mild as a lamb; but in reality she's wilder than
all of us boys put together. I've seen her slide down the banisters of
three flights of stairs, one flight after the other, balancing papa's
breakfast tray on one palm; and for warwhoops and the ability to make
the most hideous faces, she goes ahead of anything I've ever heard or
seen. She is as bad as Phil for playing jokes, and when she gets in one
of her wild moods, the only way Miss Marston can manage her is to
threaten to take her to papa's study; that brings her to terms every
time. For that matter, we none of us like to go there, though I'm sure
papa never scolds, as some people's fathers do,--I almost wish he would
sometimes; he just looks at us; but, all the same, we don't like to go
to the study.
I hope you won't think from what I've said that Betty is a disagreeable
girl, for she isn't at all; I'm really very fond of her, and we're
together a great deal, because I am the next in age to her. She's
awfully quick-tempered, and flies into a rage for almost nothing; but
she's very honest, and she'll own up to a fault like a soldier. Once in
a while we have a falling out, but not often, 'cause I won't quarrel.
Nannie says that I give in sometimes when I oughtn't to,--she means when
it isn't right to; I guess that's my fault, but I do hate to squabble
with any one,--it's such a bother. I don't know what to tell you about
myself, except that I'm not very bright at my books, though I love to
read stories. It does seem so strange that we shouldn't all be smart,
when papa, as everybody knows, is such a wonderfully clever man. I'm
Jack, or, rather,--to give my full name,--John Minot Rose. I think
that's rather a nice name, but you can't think what fun the whole family
make of it; they call me "a Jack rose," and "Jacqueminot," and
"Rosebud," and a "sweet-scented flower," and all sorts of absurd names.
Of course it's very silly of them. Betty gets furious over it; but I
don't really care, so what's the use of being angry.
Kathie comes next to me; she is a nice little girl, only she does love
to tattle things, and that makes trouble sometimes. She's very gentle,
and just as pretty as a picture, with her long light curls and pretty,
big blue eyes; but my! isn't she obstinate! She doesn't fly into rages,
like Betty, but she keeps persisting and persisting till she carries
her point, and when she once starts in crying, you may make up your
mind she isn't going to stop in a hurry. But she doesn't mean to be
naughty, I'm sure; and she's the most polite child, and so willing
to do things for people!
Then come the other twins, Paul and Mädel. Paul is a standing joke with
us, he's so solemn; and yet he says such bright, funny things, in his
slow way, that we have to laugh: we call him the "Judge." Mädel is a
little darling, just as jolly and round and sweet as she can be; nurse
says she's going to be a second Nannie. We all make a great deal of
her,--much more than we do of Alan; for though he's the baby, he's so
independent that he doesn't like to be petted.
So now you know all about the Roses; it does seem as if I'd been a long
time telling about them, but you see there are such a lot of us.
Well, to go back to the council. Fee was awfully cut up over his
disappointment, and cranky too; but nobody minded what he said, until,
all at once, Nora got in a tantrum, and declared he was "acting _very_
mean to Phil," that he needn't always expect to have things his own way,
and that papa was perfectly right to give Phil the first chance. That
set Fee off, and in about two minutes we were all mixed up in the
fuss,--taking "sides," you know; that is, all but Phil,--he just sat
hunched up on the arm of the old sofa, swinging one of his long legs,
and scowling, and chewing away on a piece of straw he'd pulled out of
the whisk-broom, and he didn't say a word until Nora turned on him, and
asked him, very indignantly, how he could sit there and let Felix bully
her in that way. Then all at once he seemed to get very mad and just
pitched into Fee.
I don't remember what he said, and I'm glad that I don't, 'cause I
_know_ Phil didn't mean a word of it; but Felix felt awfully hurt. He
got two bright red spots on his cheeks, and he set his lips tight
together, and when Phil stopped to catch his breath, after an unusually
long speech, he got up and pushed his chair back. "It is so pleasant to
hear one's family's honest opinion of one's self," he remarked, in that
sarcastic way he has. "I shall try to remember all that you've said,"
bowing to Phil and Nora, "and I shall endeavour to profit by it. And as
long as I'm such a contemptible and useless member of the community,
I'll relieve you of my company." His voice shook so he could hardly say
the last words, and he started for the door, stumbling over the
furniture as he went. Between you and me, I think his eyes were full of
tears, and that they blurred his glasses so he couldn't see,--did I tell
you that Felix is near-sighted? Well, he is.
"Oh, Phil, how _could_ you say such mean things to your own brother!"
cried out Nannie; and with that she flew after Felix.
That cooled Phil down, and if he didn't turn on Nora! "It's all your
fault," he said angrily; "you just nagged me on to it. You're never
happy unless you're quarrelling."
This was pretty true, but I don't think it was at all nice of Phil to
say so, and I felt very sorry for Nonie when she burst out crying. Betty
and I were trying to quiet her, when in walked Miss Marston, to know
what all that loud noise and banging of doors meant. We didn't tell her
about the _fracas_, 'cause, though she's pretty good in a way, she isn't
at all the person one would want to tell things to. She carried the
little ones off for their early dinner, and Nora and Betty too,--"to
help," she said. But I stayed in the schoolroom. I knew if I went down
stairs they'd just keep me trotting about waiting on them all, and
that's such a nuisance! so I curled up on the sofa and read for a while.
The fire was so bright, and everything was so cozy, that I did wish some
of the others would come in and enjoy it. I was really pleased when
Major and Whiskers came walking in and settled down near me. They're our
dog and cat, and they're good playfellows with us; but they will fight
with each other now and then. At first I enjoyed my story immensely; it
was about a boy who was having the wildest kind of adventures among the
Indians. I wouldn't go through such exciting times for anything; but I
enjoy reading about 'em, when I'm all safe and comfortable at home.
Well, when it grew too dark to read, I laid my book down and began to
think, and presently it seemed as if a whole pack of Indians were
dancing like wild round me, in full war-paint and feathers, and nipping
little pieces out of my arms and legs. I stood it as long as I could,
and then I began to hit out at 'em. All at once one of the creatures
commenced flourishing his tomahawk at me, getting nearer and nearer all
the time. "I _have_ tried, but I can't get in," he said, grinning
horribly, and the voice sounded just like Phil's; "he's locked his door,
and he won't even answer me,--he's madder than hornets."
[Illustration: "'WHY, _JACK_!' SAID NANNIE."]
"I'm sure you can't blame him: what you said was very unkind, Phil; I
didn't think it of you!" The voice was certainly Nannie's; and yet there
was that horrid old Indian still nipping me.
"I know it, Nan; you needn't rub it in," groaned Phil,--the Indian. "But
really, I didn't mean one word of it, and he ought to have known that.
Why, Fee's got more brains than the whole crowd of us put together, and
if only one of us can go to college, he ought to be that one. I've
screwed up my courage, and I'm going to speak to father about it."
"Oh, Phil, don't, please don't; it'll be no use. You know there is no
changing papa when his mind is made up. Better let things stand as they
are until Max gets home; it won't be very long, you know. And besides,
I'm sure Felix wouldn't let you give up college for him. But you're a
dear, generous boy, to propose it."
"No, I'm not; I'm a great clumsy, cantankerous animal. Now if I could
only talk as Felix can, I wouldn't mind interviewing the _pater_
to-morrow; but just as sure as I undertake to say anything to him, I get
so nervous and confused that I act like a fool, and that provokes him.
He seems to paralyse me. But, all the same, I'm going to talk to him
about this matter to-morrow, Nannie,"--the Indian's voice sank so low
that I could hardly hear it; "I have a feeling that mother would want
Fee to go to college."
I sat up and rubbed my arms that had gone to sleep, and looked around; I
was still on the old sofa, and just a few feet away from me sat Phil, on
the edge of the schoolroom table, and Nannie in a chair beside him.
Confused and only half awake as I was, my one idea was to slip away
quietly and not let 'em know I'd heard what they had been saying, for I
was sure they wouldn't like that. Nannie says I ought to have spoken
right out; but I do hate to make people feel uncomfortable. So I swung
myself softly to my feet, and--landed hard on Whiskers's tail!
Of course, after that, there was no hiding that I was there. Poor
Whiskers gave a howl of pain, and, flying at Major, boxed the solemn old
doggie's ears, much to his surprise and wrath, and they had a free fight
on the spot.
"Why, _Jack_!" said Nannie; and I got hot all over, for I just felt by
her tone that she thought I'd been listening.
"Our Jacqueminot, I declare!" cried Phil. "You are a nice young rosebud,
I must say, to be snooping around this way! Come here, sir!"
He made a dive for me, but I drew back. "I _didn't_ listen!" I called
out. And then I remembered that I really had, only I thought it was the
Indians talking; and, dipping under his arm, I rushed out of the room as
hard as I could go, before he could catch me.
II.
IN THE STUDY.
TOLD BY JACK.
I thought very often of what Phil had said, I couldn't help it; but I
don't suppose I would ever have really understood what he meant if I
hadn't heard something more the next day. Poor me! it just seemed for
those two days as if I did nothing but get into people's way and keep
hearing things that they didn't want me to. This time it was partly
Betty's fault,--at least, she was what Phil calls the "primary cause."
I suppose it was because it was such a lovely day out-of-doors, that I
couldn't seem to put my mind on my books at all, and when Betty pulled
two feather-tops out of her pocket, and offered me one, I took it very
willingly, and we began to play on the sly. Of course we got caught: my
feather-top must needs fly away from the leg of the table, which was our
mark, and stick itself into Kathie's leg. I don't think it hurt her so
very much, but she was startled, and didn't she howl! Miss Marston was
all out of patience with me already, and when, soon after that, I made
a mess of my Latin, she got very angry, and walked me right down to
the study.
Papa listened in dead silence to all she told him; then he just lifted
his eyes from his writing, and pointed to a chair a good way from him:
"Sit there," he said, "and study your lesson, and don't disturb me." So
I took my seat, and Miss Marston shut the door and went away.
My! how quiet it was in that room! Not a sound except a faint scrabbling
noise now and then from the L behind the portière,--where some very old
reference books are kept,--and papa's pen scratching across the paper,
and even that stopped presently, and he began to read a book that lay
open beside him. As he sat there reading, with sheets upon sheets of the
Fetich scattered all round him, I looked and looked at him; I don't know
why it is, but somehow, when I'm anywhere alone with papa, I just have
to keep looking at him instead of anything else. He's a tall man, and
thin, and he stoops round his shoulders; he wears glasses, too, like
Felix, and he always looks as if he were thinking of something 'way off
in his mind. Nurse says she's sure he'd forget to eat, if the things
weren't put right under his nose; you see that's because he's all the
time thinking of books. Oh, papa's awfully clever!
[Illustration: "PLAYING FEATHERTOP."]
After a while I found a lollipop in my pocket, and I began to suck
it,--just for company, you know; and truly the room was so quiet I was
afraid papa'd hear me swallow. Every now and then there was that little
scrabble behind the portière; I made up my mind papa must have some one
there making references for him, and I wondered who. But just then came
a quite loud knock at the study door, and before papa had finished
saying "Come!"--he never does say it right away,--the door flew open,
and in bounced Phil, as if he were in an awful hurry. He marched
straight to papa's desk, and began, very quickly, "Father, I'd like--"
But papa just waved his hand at him, without looking up: "In a few
minutes," he said, and went right on reading.
You should have seen Phil fidget: he stood on one foot, then on the
other; he put his hands in his pockets and jingled the things he had
there, till he remembered that papa doesn't like us to do that, then he
took his hands out. He straightened up, and shook his coat collar into
place, and he cleared his throat; but nothing had any effect until he
accidentally knocked a book off the desk. Then papa started, and peered
up at him in the near-sighted way that Felix does sometimes: "H'm, too
bad!" he said, taking the book from Phil; then he sighed, put his finger
on the page of his book to mark the place, and said, in a resigned sort
of way, "Well, what is it you want?"
And I tell you, Phil didn't take long to come to the point; he pitched
right in, in that quick, headlong way he has when he's awfully in
earnest. "I want to ask you, father, please to let Felix go to college
in my place. As long as we can't both go, I think he ought to be the
one. You know, sir, he's a thousand times cleverer than I am, and he'll
be sure to do you twice the credit that I shall. I do wish you'd
consider the change."
"And what do _you_ propose to do in that case?" papa asked, peering up
at him again.
"Go into business,--lots of fellows do at my age,--if I can get anything
at all," answered Phil, squaring his shoulders.
Papa sat and thought and thought for several minutes, without a word;
then he said, in that quiet tone of voice that we children know always
settles a question, "No, I prefer that the present arrangement should be
carried out." Then he began reading again.
I thought Phil would have gone, after that; but no, he got quite
excited: "It isn't fair to Felix," he cried, thumping his hand down
on the desk with such force that the pages of the Fetich just
danced,--you'll hear more about the Fetich by and by,--"indeed it
isn't! He's got the most brains of the whole lot of us put together,
and he _ought_ to have some advantages. And besides, sir, you know
he was mother's boy." Phil's voice shook so that a big lump came in
my throat. "I'm sure she would want him to go to college; for her
sake, let us change places."
Papa put up his hand quickly, and shielded his eyes from the light, and
he didn't answer right away. "It was--her wish--that you should go," he
said presently, stopping between the words.
"Because she expected there'd be money enough for us both," Phil began
eagerly; but all of a sudden the portière that hung over the L was
pushed aside, and who should come limping up to them but Felix!
His eyes were shining, even through his glasses, and he didn't seem to
mind papa one bit. "So that's what you're up to, is it?" he said to
Phil, "trying to give me your birthright!" By this time he'd reached
Phil's side, and he threw his arm right across Phil's shoulders. "_Dear_
old Lion-heart!" he said,--how his voice did ring out! "And I thought
you didn't care!"
And papa just sat there and looked at them, without a word, from under
his hand.
Now I suppose you think I was a very mean sort of a boy to sit there and
take in all this that wasn't intended for me to hear; but really it
wasn't my fault. You see, I was so surprised when Phil walked in and
began to talk like that, that I never thought of saying anything; but
pretty soon I remembered, and I felt very uncomfortable. I got up then,
and walked a few steps forward, but nobody noticed me. And when Phil got
so excited, I _couldn't_ get a word out. Then Felix came out, and I
really got desperate,--I felt I _must_ let 'em know I was there; so I
just called out twice, quite loud, "Please, I'm here!"
They all jumped, they were so surprised, and Phil wheeled round on me
in a minute. "That ubiquitous 'Jack rose' _again_!" he exclaimed; and
taking me by the collar,--that was really _very_ mean of Phil,--he
walked me very fast over to the door. Then he opened the door, and said,
"_Skip!_" and gave me quite a hard shove into the hall, and shut the
door again. I tell you what now, my feelings were awfully hurt; I just
wished Betty were there; I know she'd have given it to Phil!
"Jack!" somebody called just then, and there was Nannie seated in the
niche at the head of the stairs. I ran up and squeezed in alongside
of her, and she snuggled me up to her, and made me feel ever so much
better. I told her the whole story, and somehow, by the time I got
through, instead of being angry any more, I really felt sorry for the
boys. "Oh, Nannie," I said, "I do wish Fee _could_ go to college!"
Nannie caught my hand tight between her two palms. "Jack," she said
softly, "say our verse for the day, will you?"
So I repeated it: "'I say unto you, that if two of you shall agree on
earth as touching anything that they shall ask, it shall be done for
them of my Father which is in heaven. For where two or three are
gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them.'"
"That has comforted me all day," whispered Nannie. "That's what we can
do for Felix: we can pray--you and I--that God will make a way for him
to go to college. Will you, Jackie-boy?"
"Yes," I said presently; "but--but--perhaps, Nannie, you'd better not
say anything to Betty about it, 'cause--well, you know she _might_ make
fun of me."
"Oh, no, she won't," said Nannie, "because you and I are the 'two,'
Jack, and she's the 'three'; she's praying for Felix, too."
Well, I _was_ dumfounded,--Betty, of all people!
Just then the study door opened, and Phil and Felix came out; Phil had
his arm over Fee's shoulder, and he began helping him up the steps. I
felt they'd want Nannie to themselves,--and, besides, Phil might just
have said something to tease me again; so I ran up stairs alone, and
left them to talk together.
All this happened some weeks ago, and though Phil has commenced college,
no way has come yet for Felix to go; but we "three" still keep on
praying for it.
III.
CONCERNING A PERFORMANCE.
TOLD BY NANNIE.
So many and such unexpected things have happened lately that I scarcely
know where to begin, or how to tell everything.
The very first surprise was two letters that came for Felix and me from
our godmother, aunt Lindsay. She is not really our aunt, though we call
her so, and I'm named Nancy after her; but she knew dear mamma when she
was a girl, and she is the only person except mamma that we ever heard
call papa "Jack." Aunt Lindsay is quite an old lady, and she's very
eccentric. She lives in a big old house in Boston, and very seldom
comes to New York; but twice a year, on our birthday and at Christmas,
she sends us a letter and a present,--generally a book,--and Fee and I
have to write and thank her. How we dread those letters! It was hard
enough when we had mamma to talk them over with before we began them;
but now it's a great deal worse, for Miss Marston does not help us in
the least.
She says we are quite old enough now to do them alone, and I suppose we
are. But we can't express ourselves in the same way time after time, and
it is so difficult to think of new things to say that are interesting
and not frivolous,--for aunt Lindsay wouldn't permit that. Sometimes we
really get low-spirited over our efforts, and I'd be ashamed to tell how
many sheets of paper and envelopes are spoilt in the undertaking. Once,
in a fit of desperation, Felix bought a "Complete Letter-Writer," and
we hunted through it; but there seemed to be nothing in it suitable
for an occasion such as ours, and besides, the language used in the
"Letter-Writer" was so very fine and unlike our former efforts that we
were afraid aunt Lindsay would, as Phil vulgarly puts it, "smell a
mice." So that had to be given up, and finally, after many and great
struggles, with the help of the whole family, we would manage to write
something that Miss Marston allowed us to send. On the principle that
brevity is wit, some of these productions of ours are really remarkable.
And now, though it was neither Christmas nor our birthday, here came two
letters from our godmother which would have to be answered. We groaned
as we received them, and the family, even to Kathie, gave us their
sympathy,--Phil suggesting that perhaps "the old lady" had sent us a
whole library this time, which would of course call for a special
expression of gratitude.
Think, then, how we felt when we opened the letters and found that our
godmother wrote to tell us she had made arrangements for Felix to take
painting lessons for one term, and for me, violin lessons for the same
length of time! To say we were astonished doesn't at all express our
state of mind. The questions that occurred to us when we got over the
first shock were, how could aunt Lindsay have known just what would best
please each of us, and why had she remembered us at this time of the
year, which was no particular occasion? And then we thought of her
kindness, and were _so_ ashamed! Fee and I looked at each other, and
though we didn't say it, the same thought came to us both,--that we
would write her the nicest letter of thanks that we could compose, if
it took every sheet of note-paper we owned.
Of course we read aunt Lindsay's letter aloud,--that and talking them
over is the best part of receiving letters,--and of course we all got
very much excited over our unexpected good fortune. Felix said right
away that he would give Nora lessons in drawing two afternoons in
the week,--she really draws very nicely, and is so anxious to get
on,--provided she'd promise not to "put on any airs or frills;"
and I told Fee I'd help him--in the same way--with his violin
playing. Then Phil proposed, and the whole family approved, that
we should on the following evening--which was papa's night at the
Archæological Society--celebrate the happy event by what we call
"a musical performance."
Though we are very fond of these "performances," we have not had one for
quite a while, because some of us older ones haven't felt up to it; for,
as Fee truly says, "it really requires very good spirits indeed to make
a festive occasion go off successfully." Since that day in papa's study
that Jack has told about, nothing more has been said of Fee's going to
college,--though we all want it just as much as ever, and Jack and I
feel that it _will_ come,--and Felix himself seems to have quite given
up the idea.
He laughs and jokes again in his old merry way, particularly when Phil
is at home; Nora and he have made friends, and Betty and Jack have got
over staring at Fee with big round eyes of sympathy, and dear old Phil
no longer skulks in and out of the house as if he were ashamed of
himself; now he tells us bits of his college experience, and--as of
old--gets Felix to help him with his studies. Things look as if
everybody was satisfied; but, though he never alludes to it, I know
Fee's heart is sore over his disappointment,--you see, he is my own
twin, and, while I love all my brothers and sisters, Felix is more dear
to me than any one else in the whole wide world, and I understand him
better than anybody else does.
Fee is not like the rest of us; in the first place, he is more delicate,
and his lameness makes him very sensitive. Then, too, though we all,
from Phil to Alan, confide in him our troubles and pleasures, he rarely,
if ever, opens his heart to any of us. And when we talk things over
among ourselves, and so in a way help one another along, Fee keeps his
deepest feelings to himself. Very often we children talk of dear mamma,
particularly when we're together in the firelight Sunday afternoons and
evenings,--it's a comfort to us; but Felix simply listens,--he never
speaks of her, though he was mother's boy. But I know, all the same,
that he misses her every day of his life, and that as long as he
lives he'll never forget one tone of her voice, or one word she
has said to him.
Fee used to have a dreadful temper; he'd say such cutting, sarcastic
things! and when mamma would speak to him about it, he'd declare that he
_couldn't_ help it, and that the sharp ugly words _would_ come. But now,
since she's gone, he is so much better, and I'm sure that he's trying to
control himself, because he remembers how grieved she used to be when he
got into a rage. I don't mean to say that he has entirely gotten over
it,--I don't suppose that will ever be; but he doesn't flash out as he
used to, and sometimes when he is very angry, he sets his lips tight
together, and limps out of the room just as fast as ever he can go, to
keep the ugly words from being spoken.
Once in a great while, if I am alone in the schoolroom, he'll come and
throw himself down on the old sofa beside me, and, putting his head in
my lap, lay my hand over his eyes. I know then, as well as if he had
told me, that he is thinking of dear mamma and longing for her; and such
a rush of love comes into my heart for him that I think he must feel it
in my very finger-tips as they touch him.
He was more with mamma at the last than any of us, because he is so
gentle and helpful in a sick-room; but when the end had come, and we
children were standing about the bed, crying bitterly, with our arms
around one another, I missed Felix. From room to room I hunted, and
at last I found him, huddled up in a heap on the floor of the old
store-room at the top of the house. And never shall I forget the
white, utterly wretched face that he turned on me, as I knelt down
by him and put my arms round his neck. He held my shoulders with his
two thin hands so tight that I could feel his finger-nails through my
sleeves. "Oh, Nannie!" he said, in such a hoarse whisper I'd never
have known it for Fee's sweet voice, "if I could only _die_ this
very night!" Then he sank down, and lay there trembling from head
to foot, and sobbing, sobbing!
I pulled a quilt down from one of the shelves and threw it over him;
then I sat on the floor and drew his head into my lap and just
smoothed his forehead and hair for the longest while, without a word,
until he quieted down. I felt, somehow, that he would rather not have
me say anything.
Don't imagine, from what I've said, that Fee is a dismal sort of person,
for indeed he isn't; he's the merriest of us all, and the prime leader
in all the mischief and fun that goes on; and just as soon as it was
settled that we should have a performance, he began to plan what each
person should do, and to arrange the programme. We always have a
programme: it saves confusion and people's feelings getting hurt; for,
of course, then one can only go on in one's turn and for the special
part set down; otherwise, everybody would be on the stage at once, and
there'd be no audience.
The large closet in the schoolroom is our dressing-room on these
occasions, and as we have no way of making a stage, the younger
children, Paul and Mädel and Alan,--Kathie is too big for that
now,--stand on a table near the closet and deliver their parts. Felix
makes up the funniest names for us on the programme, and we answer to
them as readily as if we were in the habit of doing so every day.
We were all very busy that afternoon and evening and the next afternoon
preparing our parts for the performance; but, with all that, Fee and I
got our letters off to our godmother. I felt so truly grateful both for
him and for myself, that I didn't have nearly as much trouble composing
it as I had expected. But all day I was in a perfect fever to get up to
the Conservatory, where aunt Lindsay had entered my name, and to make
arrangements for taking my violin lessons. Miss Marston and I talked
the matter over, and found that when all the little home duties and
my regular studies were finished, there was but one hour that I could
set aside regularly for my new work. For though I should only take two
lessons a week, I should have to have time to practise, or I'd be able
to make no progress at all.
She said I might go up that afternoon; so right after school Nora and I
started out to the Conservatory. I was very nervous, and my violin is
not a very good one; Phil says it's nothing but a fiddle, and that
the old second-hand dealer from whom we bought them--Fee has one,
too,--cheated us. They certainly do squeak dreadfully, at times, when
you least expect it; but then we didn't pay much for them,--you may know
that, when we saved for them out of our allowance!--and, as nurse says,
"If you want a good article, you've got to pay for it;" still, they're a
great deal better than nothing. But to go back to my story: Nora says
that, considering how very nervous I was, and the poor instrument I had,
she thinks I did fairly well. I love violin music! I can't express what
a delight it is to me to play; and the prospect of being able to improve
myself in it made me very happy. The professor that aunt Lindsay wanted
to be my teacher told us his classes were very full, and that the hour I
named for Wednesday and Saturday afternoons was the only time he could
give me; then he said something kind about my playing, that gave me a
little confidence, and sent me home quite radiant.
As I came out of the room which Betty and I share, after putting away my
things, nurse opened the nursery door and beckoned me in: "Miss Nannie,"
she said impressively, "I'm kinder worried 'bout your pa. He's never had
no appetite to brag of; but for a week past he's been eatin' like a
bird. Mornin' after mornin' he ain't touched nothin' but his tea, an'
I'm afraid something's wrong. I don't want to frighten you, my dear, but
I thought by tellin' you, maybe you could find out if anything ails him,
and get him to send for the doctor. I think he looks kinder bad,
and--lors! child, if anything happened to him, what _would_ become o'
you all!"
I got very nervous, until I remembered how easily nurse gets alarmed; if
the children feel the least under the weather, she is apt to imagine
that they are going to be seriously ill. "No," I said, "I haven't
noticed that he looks badly; but thank you, nursie, for telling me. I'll
look closely at him this evening at dinner, and I'll try my best to find
out if he isn't well."
Papa always has his breakfast and lunch in the study, and dines with us.
We older ones think that he does this as a duty, for we are pretty sure
that he doesn't enjoy it; you see, papa does not really care for
children, and there is no grown person now for him to talk to,--except
Miss Marston, and she is not very interesting. Poor papa!
He sits at the head of the table, but Phil does the carving; and though
very often he does not say a dozen words throughout the entire meal, yet
even our daring Betty is subdued into good behaviour by his presence.
There is no reason for it that we know of,--papa has never forbidden our
talking at table,--but somehow, since dear mamma has gone, we have very
little conversation at dinner; though we make up for it at other meals,
I assure you. I sit in mamma's place now, and this evening, as I looked
carefully at papa across the long table, I could see that he did look
thinner: there was a tired expression on his face, too, that troubled
me. As I passed through the hall, about half an hour later, he stood
there in overcoat and hat, putting on his gloves before starting out for
a meeting of the Archæological Society; and when I asked, "Papa, are you
feeling well? really quite well?" he put on that bored expression that
always makes me feel miles away from him.
"Well? Oh, yes!" then he added, with more animation, "Nannie, I wish
you would get me that pamphlet that is lying on my desk. I nearly
forgot it."
[Illustration: "ALAN MADE HIS BOW."]
He took the pamphlet when I brought it, and began fingering it
aimlessly, giving me a disagreeable feeling of being in the way; and as
I turned and ran up the stairs, he went into the drawing-room. He wasn't
there but a minute or two,--before I reached the second floor I heard
the front door close behind him,--and the next morning, when Nora and I
were dusting the drawing-room, we found the pamphlet on the floor before
mamma's picture. After all, he had forgotten it.
I ran on up to the schoolroom, and there everybody was in a great state
of excitement, preparing for the performance, which was to begin and
end early on account of the younger children. There was no attempt
at costume, but we girls wore a ribbon--they belong to our "stage
property"--tied from shoulder to waist, the boys carried a paper rose in
their button-holes, and Kathie and the twins and Alan were decorated
with huge paper-muslin sashes and fancy caps, so that we all presented
quite a festive and unusual appearance. The chairs were ranged in rows;
the invited guests--Murray Unsworth, and his cousin, Helen Vassah (they
always come to our "festive occasions")--arrived; nurse, and Hannah, our
maid, came in and took their places at the back, cook stealing in a
little later; a bell tinkled; Alan walked out of the closet, was
assisted to the table by Felix,--who was master of ceremonies,--and made
his bow to the audience with one hand on his heart and a trumpet in the
other, and the performance began.
[Illustration: "VIOLIN DUO, RENDERED BY THE WORLD-RENOWNED VIOLINISTS,
MLLE. NANINA AND MONS. FELIX."]
The programme was elaborately printed in two or three colours, on heavy
light-brown paper, and it was tacked up on the schoolroom wall in full
view of all, so that each person would know when his or her turn had
come, and could disappear in the dark closet,--no lights were allowed
there for fear of fire,--to reappear immediately before the audience,
amid a storm of applause. This is the way the programme read:--
"Yankibus Doodlum," trumpet solo by the Infant Prodigy, Master
Alano Enrico Rosie.
"Eight White Sheep," vocal duet, rendered with appropriate
finger-play by the Celebrated Twin Singers, Fräulein Mädel and
Herr Paulus.
"Little White Lily," charming vocal solo by the Famous Prima
Donna, Mlle. Kathé.
"Charge of the Six Hundred," favourite recitation by the
Distinguished Elocutionist, Prof. Jacqueminot.
Extraordinary exhibition with Indian clubs by the Remarkable
Strong Girl, Signorina Bettina, with piano accompaniment by
Signorina Eleanora Nonie.
"Serenade," Gounod, violin duo, rendered by the World-Renowned
Violinists, Mlle. Nanina and Mons. Felix.
"Le Soupir," piano solo by the Brilliant Pianist, Signorina
Eleanora Nonie.
{ "Swanee River."
{ "Feniculi."
{ "Good-night, Ladies," college songs, with banjo accompaniment,
by the Wonderful Tenor Singer and Banjoist, Prof. Philipo.
Curtain down! Lights out!
Everything went off beautifully, from Alan's opening bow to Phil's
parting obeisance, with two exceptions,--the small boy fell off the
table and scraped his shin, and so had to be comforted, and Kathie got
so excited when she knew her turn was coming that she jumped up from her
chair and raced round and round the schoolroom table, scuffing her feet
on the floor and making her hand squeak on the wooden surface of the
table, thereby interfering with the effect of Fräulein Mädel and Herr
Paulus's vocal efforts. She was captured, however, and brought to reason
and good behaviour by the threat of having her name crossed off the
programme. With these two trifling exceptions, the performance was most
creditable, the _artistes_ were warmly received and enthusiastically
applauded,--in one or two instances they even applauded themselves.
Hastily manufactured bouquets of newspaper and paper-muslin were
showered upon the stage, and when all was over nurse and cook surprised
us by refreshments of cookies and lemonade, served on the schoolroom
table. How we enjoyed it! Not a cake was left, nor a drop of lemonade.
Nora was shocked, and I was so glad Miss Marston had not accepted our
invitation to be present!
When it was all over, and we were putting away the things, I told
Felix what nurse had said, and asked him if he had noticed that
papa wasn't well.
Fee looked at me with reflective eyes for a moment or two. "Yes," he
said slowly, "come to think of it, the _pater_ _has_ looked rather seedy
lately. And another thing," he added, "he hasn't let me make a single
reference for him this whole week; and yesterday, when I went in
somewhat abruptly, he was sitting at his desk with pages of the Fetich
before him, but not writing or reading, just resting his head on his
hand. I don't think I've ever seen him do that before."
Again that horrid apprehension came over me.
"Oh, Fee," I said nervously, "do you suppose he is ill,--that anything
is going to happen to him? _Do_ tell me frankly what you think!"
Felix bent over the stage property he was doing up, as he answered:
"I've thought for some time past that he misses--mother--more than
ever." Then he walked off with his bundle.
How utterly ashamed I felt! Nurse had noticed how badly he looked; Felix
had, too,--and perhaps he had guessed the trouble truly; Phil, even,
might have seen it, and I, papa's eldest daughter, who had promised
mamma to take care of him, had been too selfishly absorbed in my own
affairs to even think of him! It was no comfort to tell myself that papa
was hard to get at; I felt I had neglected him.
"Don't worry, twinnie," Felix said, kindly, coming back to me. "You know
care once killed a feline, in spite of his nine lives; so don't you go
in for that sort of thing, or you'll get the worst of it. Go to bed
now, and have a good sleep; by daylight things will look very much
brighter; and at any rate you have your violin lessons ahead of you,
and the performance behind you,--two good things. Good-night."
IV.
AND A FETICH.
TOLD BY NANNIE.
BUT my first thought in the morning was of papa, and I wondered what I
ought to do for him; how I longed for dear mamma! If even Max were
home!--for he was a great favourite with papa, and might be able to
persuade him to see Dr. Archard. Though papa is so quiet and gentle, he
is really a very difficult person to get to do things that he doesn't
want to; and he never wants to have a physician for himself. I was
feeling very blue, when something Betty said reminded me of my violin
lessons, and then the very thought made me more cheerful.
Betty and I room together, and Nora and Kathie have the next
apartment; and what did Nora and Betty do but put their heads together
while we were dressing to think of a place in the house where I might
go to practise every afternoon without disturbing papa. One or the
other of the girls practises every afternoon, and the combination of
violin squeaks and piano exercises would, we knew, disturb papa very
much. Miss Marston, we were sure, would not permit them to neglect
their music,--Nora is a fine musician, and Betty would be if she'd
only put the same interest into that that she does into some other
things, such as Indian clubs, and sliding down banisters, and playing
practical jokes,--and we couldn't plan where my violin hour could best
come in, when Nora thought of the old store-room at the top of the
house. That was a good idea, because, by closing the door and hanging
a thick quilt over it, not much of my scraping would escape to mingle
with the piano scale-running, and so annoy papa. The girls' arranging
for me in this way quite cheered me up,--the question of practising
having troubled me a good deal, for I knew a noise of that kind would
seriously interfere with papa's writing, and delay still longer the
completion of the Fetich.