rising, Nannie said, coaxingly: "Mayn't I go down and explain to papa
about those references? You could tell me, you know, Fee. Then you could
go to your room and lie down for a little while before dinner,--you look
so tired."
"I _am_ tired," I answered slowly, "awfully tired. And I really don't
know why I should feel so. I've not done any more or as much as usual
to-day. No, Nan, I think I'll go down; but first I'll get ready for
dinner, and that will spare another trip up and down the stairs. I'll
go to bed early to-night, and that'll make me all right to-morrow." So
saying, I stood up and took a step forward; just then Alan, who had
escaped from nurse and taken another gallop around the room, came
kicking and prancing up on his restive steed. He rushed by with a great
flourish, whirling the end of the broomstick as he got near me; nurse
made a dive at him, and the next moment I was in a heap on the floor!
I wasn't hurt, except for a sharp rap on one elbow, and my first impulse
was to call out and reassure the family, for they were frightened; but
though I could hear all that went on,--in a far-off way, as if I were
in a dream,--to my great surprise I found that I could neither move nor
speak, nor even open my eyes!
Like a flash, Nannie was beside me on the floor, crying, "Oh, _Fee!_ are
you hurt?" and trying to slip her little hands under my shoulder. Nora
and Betty immediately began scolding Alan, who protested vehemently,
"I _didn't_ hit him; no, I _didn't_, truly I didn't." I heard Jack's
nervous demand, "Oh, do, somebody, tell me what to do for him!" and
Phil's startled exclamation, "Great Cæsar's ghost!" and the thud with
which his Virgil fell on the floor. Then I felt his strong arms under
me, and I was lifted and laid on the sofa.
"Are you hurt, old fellow? are you, Fee?" Phil asked anxiously, bending
over me.
"Mebbe he's faint like; open the window, Master Phil! Children, _don't_
crowd round your brother so," said nurse. "There, now, fan him, an' I'll
bring some water." As she turned away I heard her say,--nurse never can
whisper,--"I don't like his looks; go tell your pa, Master Phil, an' ask
him if you can run for the doctor."
Nannie's fingers tightened round my hand. "O-o-h, my _dear_!" she
whispered.
The quiver in her voice told me that she, too, had heard nurse's remark,
and that she was frightened,--my little twinnie! I think she would
willingly any time suffer pain to spare me. I longed to comfort her,
to tell them all that I was not at all hurt, that I had no pain
whatever,--even the backache, which is my almost daily companion,
having left me since the fall,--yet the terrible languor which
controlled me seemed almost too great to be overcome. Then I thought
of poor Nannie, and the _pater_, and the doctor, and the beastly
fussing and restrictions I'd have to endure, and with a desperate
effort--for my tongue really felt heavy--I managed to get out,
"I'm--not--hurt. Don't--need--doctor."
Nannie gave a little gasp when I spoke, and catching my two hands in
hers, kissed them.
"You old humbug!" cried Phil, gaily,--I could hear the note of relief in
his voice; "I do believe you've been shamming to give us a scare. Open
your eyes this minute."
And then I found that I could raise my lids and look at the dear faces
gathered about me.
"Sure you feel all right, Master Felix?" nurse asked, eyeing me closely.
"Sure," I answered slowly; "only tired."
"Well, if it's only tired you are, the best place is bed, an' we'll not
send for the doctor," she said; and I made no objection, though usually
I hate to go to bed in the day-time.
Not having inherited the good physique of the family, I've spent more
days in bed and on the sofa than I'd be willing to count, and I'm not
anxious for more. Still I would rather do that now than have the doctor
sent for, so without demur I let Phil carry me down to my room, and
undress and put me to bed.
What wouldn't I give to be as strong as he is! And he's gentle with it;
sometimes he provokes me by the way he watches and takes care of me,--as
if I were so fragile I'd go to pieces at a knock,--though in a way I
like it, too, and he doesn't mean to rub it in.
He has an idea that I care less for him than he does for me, because I
am so unfortunately constituted that I can't express what I feel;
but--if he only knew it--life to me wouldn't be worth the living without
him and Nannie,--dear old lion-heart! Sometimes I wonder if he will
always be as good to me, and care as much; I mean when he gets older,
and goes more among people, and they find out what a fine fellow he is,
and what jolly company. He declares now that I'm the good company; but
_I_ know that my good spirits are more dependent on his than his on
mine. In our studies I'm the quicker,--he doesn't love books as I
do,--but he is so kindly and brave and bright and merry, that I'd defy
anybody not to like him.
But--though he thinks he is awfully sharp--Phil is one of the kind that
will be imposed upon; he's so honest and straightforward himself that
he thinks everybody else is also, and I'm constantly afraid that some
fellow or other that he doesn't see through'll get hold of him and get
him into mischief. This was one of the reasons why I was so awfully
disappointed at not going to college; Phil and I've been together all
our lives, and I hated mortally to have him go off alone and meet
people, and make friends there that I would never know. He really
needs me--my cooler judgment, I mean--just as much as I ever need
his protecting strength. I'm almost sure that _she_ thought so, too,
for whenever college was spoken of she would say, "You must go at
the same time, Felix, and help him;" and once she added, "help him
in _everything_," and I understood what she meant.
It won't always be so: I think that by and by, when Phil gets to be a
man, he'll have more judgment; and now it's only because he's so true
himself, and so simple-hearted. I really believe I love him all the
better for these traits, though sometimes, when I get provoked, I tell
him that he is gullible, and a second Dr. Primrose.
When I found that I couldn't possibly go to college, it was a great
relief to know that Murray Unsworth was there, and that they'd be
together. Murray's an A 1 fellow! But I must confess that so far Phil
hasn't changed at all; he depends on me and seems to like to be with
me just as much as ever. And now comes along that snob Chad. I _don't_
like that fellow, and I'll be furious if he gets intimate with Phil.
Phil didn't like him at all at first, but I can see--though he won't
admit it--that Chad is worming himself into his good graces. He's
found out that Phil is first-rate company, and now he is trying to
be very friendly.
Max was called out of town on the evening of Nora's birthday, and he
didn't get back for some time; but that has not prevented Monsieur le
Don_key_ from coming here again and again. He had the assurance to send
his card up to Nora the second time he called,--for her to go down to
the drawing-room and entertain him alone! just like his impudence! But
of course Miss Marston would not let Nora go, and instead, the _pater_
walked in, and squelched Mr. "Shad." We don't know what father said, but
the next time Chad appeared he found the schoolroom good enough for him;
and now, as I said, he is trying to be very friendly with Phil.
I don't want him to get intimate with Phil; I dread it, for I have a
conviction he's not the sort of fellow that it will do anybody any good
to know. From what he has told Nora, it seems that Chad's father was a
miner who "struck a bonanza," as he expresses it, and made a great deal
of money; then, just as he was ready to enjoy the fortune, he and his
wife were killed in a railroad disaster, leaving Chad, who was the only
child, to the guardianship of a fellow miner--another "bonanza" man--and
Max, whose only acquaintance with Mr. Whitcomb, by the way, had been in
successfully conducting a law case for him. The other guardian took the
boy all over the United States, and then to Europe, letting him, I
fancy, do as he pleased,--study or not as suited his own will,--with the
result that Chad is an ignorant, vulgar, conceited cad, with the merest
veneering of refinement, who cares for no one but himself, and whose
sole standard for everything and every one is that of money. When
the other guardian died, of course Max had to assume the charge of
Chad,--who'll not be of age for nearly two years,--though I should think
he must be a serious trial, for Max is so thoroughly nice himself, so
honourable and clever and refined, that this affected, snobbish little
Dresden-china-young-man, as Betty calls him, must jar on him in every
way, though perhaps Chad is on his best behaviour with his guardian.
Chad affects to be quite a man of the world, talks a great deal about
his "bachelor quarters" and the theatres; he drinks and smokes, and
I've heard him swear; he considers all this the proper thing for young
fellows of our age, and more than once he has sneered at Phil and me as
"behind the times." He calls Murray "the Innocent," though I've snubbed
him for it pretty sharply, and whenever he gets a chance, he makes fun
of Hilliard's slow ways, when old Hill is worth a dozen or two of such
blowers as he. I almost wish Murray'd give the bediamonded cad a
thrashing,--only that the fellow's not worth his touching. Phil and
I neither drink nor smoke; we've never spoken about it to each other,
but we know that our--mother--would not have liked us to do any of
these things, so we let them alone.
I think Chad knows that I've no liking for him,--to put it mildly,--and
that he returns the compliment. I try not to quarrel with him; in
fact,--though it goes awfully against the grain,--I make an effort to be
civil, so as to see, hear, and know all that goes on between himself and
Phil, and to be able to guard Phil from him without Phil's knowing it.
I've said a few things to warn Phil; but I had to be careful, for he's
such an old Quixote that, if he thought I was particularly down on Chad,
he'd begin to take up the cudgels for him. But he _sha'n't_ get hold of
Phil, I declare he sha'n't,--not as long as I am here. I wish to
goodness he hadn't ever come near us!
Nannie is the only one to whom I've said anything of my fear, and she
laughs it away. She says Phil is the last person in the world to fall
in with a fellow like Chad; but I'm not so sure of that, for Chad can
be entertaining enough when he chooses to be, telling of his life in
California and the wild West, and in Europe. I know he has invited Phil
to come to his rooms, and twice he has taken him off for a long walk.
Phil _loves_ to walk, with long, swinging strides, that, try to keep up
as I may, wear me out before we've gone many blocks, even with the
support of his arm. So there I can't be with him.
_She_ used to say that it was best to recognise one's limitations, and
to respect them: I recognise mine only too well,--I've _got_ to; but
instead of respecting, I abhor them, and am always striving to get
beyond them. With all the strength of soul that is in me I try to be
patient and contented--to accept myself; but now that she has gone, only
God and I know the miserable failure I make of it day after day. I want
to do so much; I want to amount to something in the world, to have
advantages for study and improvement, and to fit myself to mix with wise
men by and by,--clever men and scholars,--and to hold my own among them.
I could do it, I feel I could, if only I had the opportunity for study,
and the health to improve it; this isn't conceit,--_she_ knew that,--but
a cool, calm gauging of the sort of ability that I know I have.
We--she and I--used to plan great things that I was to do when I went to
college; when I finished college, and went into the world, I was to
become a famous lawyer,--"good, wise, and great, my son Felix," she used
to say, with a look in her eyes that always stirred me to more and
better efforts. She helped me in every way, and it was a delight to
learn, in spite of the drawback of ill-health. But now all is changed:
she is gone, there is no prospect whatever of my getting to college, and
somehow, lately, this miserable old back of mine seems to be getting to
be a wetter and wetter blanket than ever on my ambition. Ah, if I but
had a physique like Phil's! She used to say, "Remember always, Felix,
that your fine mind is a gift from God, a responsibility given you by
Him." Oh, why, then, did He not give me a body to match? All things are
possible to Him; He could have done so.
When I was a little fellow I used to pray most earnestly that God would
let me outgrow this lameness and be strong like other boys; but we had a
talk about it,--just before she went away,--and ever since then I have
asked only to be patient and contented. But with all the trying, it is
_very_ hard to say truthfully that I am thankful for my creation. I have
never spoken of this to Nannie, but perhaps, with that quick intuition
which makes her such a blessing to us, she guesses it; for only last
Sunday, in church, when we came to that part in the General
Thanksgiving, she snuggled closer to me as we knelt, and gave my hand a
quick, warm little squeeze, as if to tell me that she was glad of my
"creation and preservation."
Nannie comforts me more than I can ever express to her; she has many a
time given me courage when my spirits were at a very low ebb.
XI.
AN AFTERNOON RECEPTION.
TOLD BY FELIX.
Though I felt all right the next day, to please nurse I did not get up;
but on Wednesday I did. At first my legs were very shaky, even for me:
my cane was not enough; I had to hold on to the furniture besides to
make my way about the room. But gradually that wore away, and by
afternoon I was quite as well as usual; so on Thursday we went to the
reception in the order first planned.
The Blackwoods live in a large old house, and by the time we got
there--we were rather late--the parlours were quite crowded. I think
the _pater_ was a little nervous as we went up the palm-lined
staircase; he hates an affair of this kind, and only the rare editions
and a strong dislike to hurting the feelings of his old friends could
have induced him to attend it. He kept Nannie close beside him, Nora
and I following behind.
Mrs. Blackwood is a fine-looking old lady, with beautiful white hair,
which she wears turned straight off her face; she gave us a warm
welcome, and after walking father through the rooms, and introducing him
to a number of people,--not one of whom he would have recognised five
minutes after!--and after showing us the Corot, which is a _beauty!_ she
led the way to the library. It was a cosy room, for all it was so large.
The walls were lined with books; a desk stood near one of the windows;
some tables--on which were books, photos, and several handsome glass and
china bowls filled with flowers--and a variety of comfortable chairs
were scattered about; in a space between the book-shelves, and thrown
into bold relief by the dark portière behind it, was an exquisite marble
Laocoön, and in the bay-window the beautiful Venus de Milo.
[Illustration: "IN THE BAY-WINDOW."]
I should have enjoyed staying there, but we'd only been in a short
while when Mrs. Blackwood's daughter came and carried us younger ones
off to the drawing-room again. In vain Nannie and I politely protested
that we should rather stay in the library; Mrs. Endicott was not to be
resisted. "Your father and my mother enjoy looking at books more than
anything else," she said pleasantly, as we made our reluctant way back;
"but I know that young people like to be where there are life and
gaiety,--and you haven't even had a cup of chocolate. Come this way,
and I'll introduce you to Miss Devereaux."
She piloted us rapidly through the crowd to the upper end of the room,
where at a table sat a young lady pouring chocolate, to whom she
introduced us.
Taking my "thimbleful" of chocolate, I retreated to a corner where I
could sit and sip and take observations unobserved. To begin with, I
could not but notice the difference in my two sisters. Nannie had found
a place on a lounge near the tea-table, and was gazing about her with
the deepest interest,--her brown eyes all a-shine, the faintest ripple
of a smile stirring her lips; to my eyes she looked very sweet! Nora
stood, cup in hand, sipping her chocolate, and chatting as easily to
Miss Devereaux and the different ones who came up as if she were in the
habit of going to afternoon receptions every day in the week. I saw
people look and look again at her, and it didn't surprise me, for Nora
is a stunner, and no mistake. As Phil says, she carries herself as if
she owned the whole earth, and she is self-possessed to a degree that is
a constant surprise to us. If she weren't always so dead sure that she
is right and everybody else wrong, we'd all think a great deal more of
her; but as she is, one feels it a positive duty to snub her sometimes.
We are proud of Nora's beauty, but she's the very last one we'd any of
us go to for comfort or in a strait,--why, Betty'd be better, for all
she's so fly-away and blunt.
Miss Devereaux was handsome, too: she was large and statuesque, with
beautifully moulded throat and arms, and hair which rippled like that
of my poor old plaster Juno at home,--in fact, she suggested to my mind
some Greek goddess dressed up in silk and lace; I quite enjoyed looking
at her, and would have liked to make a sketch of her. But she wasn't as
nice as she looked; in her way she was as snobbish as is Chad. A tall,
very richly dressed woman was brought up and introduced; she wore
enormous diamond ear-rings, and her manner was even more condescending
than that of the young goddess herself. She pulled forward a chair,
completely barring the way to the table, and, seating herself, stirred
her chocolate languidly.
Miss Devereaux was all attention; she offered almost everything on the
table, and listened with the deepest interest while the diamond lady
talked loudly and impressively of _her_ last afternoon reception,--the
distinguished people who were present, and what the music and
refreshments cost. Then, suddenly remembering that she was "due at one
of 'Mrs. Judge' Somebody's receptions,--they were always _alagant_
affairs,"--the diamond lady put down her cup, from which she had barely
taken a sip or two, and with a bow, and what Phil calls "a galvanised
smile," sailed off to parts unknown.
"Such a charming woman!" murmured the goddess to Nannie.
Before Nannie could answer, there was a new claimant for
refreshments,--a slender, rather spare little woman this time, dressed
in a severely plain black gown; her hair was parted and pulled tightly
away from her face; her bonnet was a good deal plainer and uglier than
anything that nurse has ever had,--and she has rather distinguished
herself in that line. This little woman was evidently not used to
receptions and young goddesses. She seated herself on the extreme edge
of the chair the diamond lady had just vacated, and after taking off her
gloves, and laying them across her lap, she accepted her chocolate and
cake with a deprecating air, as if apologising for the trouble she was
causing. "Oh, thank you, _thank_ you," she said gratefully; "you are
_very_ kind."
The young goddess gave her a haughty stare, and then assumed a bored
expression that I could see made the poor little woman nervous. She
stirred her chocolate violently, and drank half of the cupful at a
draught; then, evidently considering it her duty to make conversation,
she remarked, "Didn't we have an interesting address yesterday at the
Missions House?" She glanced at Miss Devereaux as she spoke.
"Ah--indeed!" answered that young person, with another haughty glare
that almost overcame the little woman. She got very red, and in her
agitation drained her cup, and sat holding it. She looked thoroughly
uncomfortable.
I'm not fond of addressing strangers, but I couldn't stand that sort
of treatment any longer, and got on my feet with the desperate intention
of immediately starting a lively conversation with this particular
stranger, without regard to Miss Devereaux. But Nannie was ahead of me;
bending forward, she said in her friendliest tone,--and Nancy's
friendliest tone is worth hearing, I tell you,--"I read of it in the
papers; it must have been _very_ interesting."
The little woman's look of gratitude was positively pathetic.
[Illustration: "'IT MUST HAVE BEEN _VERY_ INTERESTING.'"]
"Yes, it was, _very_ fine!" she said,--bending forward, and jerking
her sentences out nervously,--"so many people, and such splendid
speakers! I wish Mrs. Blackwood'd been there!" Then, waxing
confidential, she went on in a lower key: "She and I used to be girls
together,--ages ago. Then her folks took her to Europe to finish her
education,--some people set such store by foreign education! We didn't
meet again--though I heard of her off and on--till here, lately, when I
came to New York to live. Of course--for old times' sake--I looked her
up and called,--handsome house, isn't it? Seems like some people have
everything,"--with a short sigh that sounded almost like a snort,--"but
I must say Tilly isn't a bit stuck up over it,--never was. Say, who's
_she_?" A quick sidelong motion of eyes and thumb in Miss Devereaux's
direction gave point to this last question.
"I think her name--" began Nannie, but she was interrupted by a loud
crash which seemed to come from one of the adjoining rooms. In an
instant my twin was on her feet: "Oh, _Felix_!" she cried breathlessly,
"that came from the library! Papa has knocked over something!"
The _pater_ has an absent-minded way of upsetting things, and Nannie's
tone carried conviction with it; so, as fast as I could, I followed in
her wake as she threaded her way swiftly through the crowded room.
Nora raised her eyebrows with an air of mock resignation. "No use our
_all_ going," she said in an undertone as I went past her, and resumed
her conversation with the gentleman to whom she had been talking.
Some people had collected in the doorway of the library by the time I
got there, and I was delayed a minute or two in getting into the room;
then I saw, at one glance, that our worst fears were realised. There
stood my father, minus his spectacles, peering about him with a most
anxious, bewildered expression on his face,--I was struck with how ill
he looked! and around him on the polished floor lay the fragments of
one of the Doulton bowls! The small table on which it had stood
was-overturned, flowers were scattered in every direction, and among
the ruins shone my father's glasses, broken in several pieces.
Nannie went straight to the _pater's_ side and took his hand. "Felix and
I are here, papa; what can we do for you?" she said. The colour was in
her face; I know she felt embarrassed, but her voice was quite calm.
My father screwed up his eyes in a vain attempt to see the extent of the
mischief: "I--I think--I think, my dear, that I've broken something," he
said. At which very obvious statement there was a sound of smothered
laughter at the door.
Nannie's colour deepened, and I believe I muttered something about
finding Mrs. Blackwood; to tell the truth, I was so rattled--between
sympathy for the _pater_ and embarrassment at the accident--that I
hardly knew what I was saying, but my father caught at it. "Yes, yes,"
he said nervously, "I must speak to our hostess; I must apologise for my
awkwardness. Ask Mrs. Blackwood if she will be kind enough to step here,
Felix--or stay, I will go to her."
"I'll find Mrs. Blackwood for you," volunteered one of the bystanders;
but at that moment the little crowd at the door parted and in came Mrs.
Blackwood, and who should be behind her but _Max_! I was delighted to
see him. I felt that we were all right then, for Max always knows what
to do; and I think Nannie felt as relieved as I did, for she gave a
glad little cry as she held out her hand. Then she turned as red as a
rose,--I suppose she suddenly realised how many people were looking at
her; but evidently Max didn't mind them in the least, for he held on
to Nannie's hand, and smiled, and looked at her just as kindly as if
we were at home,--Max likes us all, but Nannie has always been his
favourite.