"_don't_ tell them! they wouldn't understand--they'd worry--and poor
Phil would be wretched. I know what this is to him,--poor old fellow! I
see the misery in his face from day to day, and I've tried--so hard--to
keep everything in--and be cheerful--so he shouldn't guess--until I
thought I _should_ go _mad_! Oh, think of what this _means_ to me,
Jack! College, profession, hopes, ambitions--gone _forever_--nothing
left but to lie here--for the rest of my life--a useless hulk--a
cumberer of the ground. Only seventeen, Jack, and I may live to be
eighty--like _this_! never to go about--never to walk again. Oh, if
I might _die_!"--his voice got shrill,--"if God would _only_ let me
die! I've always been a poor useless creature,--and now, _now_, of
what good am I in the world? Nothing but a burden and a care. Oh,
how shall I ever, _ever_ endure it!"
I was so nervous that I began shaking inside, and I had to speak very
slowly to keep my voice from shaking too. "Don't talk so foolishly,
Fee," I said,--but not unkindly, you know. "Why, I don't know what we'd
all do without you,--having you to ask things of, and to tell us what to
do. I know papa depends on you an awful lot; and Miss Marston said the
day she went away that she wouldn't've gone if she hadn't known you
would be here to look after us and keep things straight; and what
_would_ Nannie do without you? Talk about being of no use,--just think
what you've saved Phil from!"
"I _am_ thankful for that," broke in Felix, "most _thankful_! I don't
regret what I did that night, Jack. I'd do it again if need be, even
knowing that it must end like _this_,"--with a despairing motion of his
hand toward his helpless legs.
Then he added eagerly, breathlessly, "Don't ever tell Phil about this
morning, Jack,--that I feel so terribly about the accident. Don't tell
him,--'twould break his heart. I hope he'll _never_ know. I pretended
to be cheerful, I laughed and talked to cheer him up, but my heart grew
heavier and heavier, and my head felt as if it were being wound up; I
was afraid I'd go mad and tell the whole thing out. Oh, Jack, it's those
dreary days, those endless years of uselessness that terrify me. Oh,
help me to be strong! Oh, Jack, help me! _help_ me!"
His arms began to fly about again; he had thrown off his glasses, and
his big hollow eyes stared at me with a wild, beseeching expression
in them.
"I'm so afraid--I'll scream out--and then they'll all hear me--and
know," he gasped. "Oh, give me something, _quick_--oh, do something
for me before I lose entire control of myself."
I flew to the table and got him some water; I didn't know what else to
do, and he wouldn't let me call anybody,--even just speaking of it made
him wild. Then I fanned him, and knelt by the bed stroking one of his
hands. But nothing seemed to help him. And then--God must have put the
thought into my mind--I said suddenly, "Fee, dear, I'm going to sing to
you;" and before he could say no, I began.
At first I could hardly keep my voice steady,--on account of that
horrid, inward shaking,--but I went right on, and gradually it
got better.
I sang very softly and went from one hymn to the other, just as they
came to my mind: First, "O Mother dear, Jerusalem,"--I love that old
hymn!--then, "And now we fight the battle, but then shall win the
crown;" and then, "The Son of God goes forth to war." That's one of
Fee's favourites, and he sobbed right out when I sang,--
"'Who best can drink his cup of woe,
Triumphant over pain;
Who patient bears his cross below,--
He follows in His train.'"
But I kept on,--really, I felt as if I couldn't stop,--and when I got to
the last line of "For all the saints who from their labours rest," Fee
whispered, "Sing those verses again, Jack."
I knew which he meant; so I sang:--
"'Thou wast their Rock, their Fortress, and their Might;
Thou, Lord, their Captain in the well-fought fight;
Thou, in the darkness drear, the one true Light.
Alleluia!
"O may Thy soldiers, faithful, true, and bold,
Fight as the saints who nobly fought of old,
And win, with them, the victor's crown of gold.
Alleluia!
* * * * *
"And when the strife is fierce, the warfare long,
Steals on the ear the distant triumph-song,
And hearts are brave again, and arms are strong.
Alleluia!'"
Fee lay quiet when I finished. He was still twitching, and tears were
slipping down his cheeks from under his closed lids; but he no longer
made that dreadful gasping sound, and there was a beautiful expression
on his mouth,--so sweet and patient. "I've not been a soldier 'faithful,
true, and bold,'" he said sadly, "but a miserable coward. Ah! how we
must weary God with our grumblings and complainings, our broken
resolutions and weaknesses. I prayed with all my heart and strength for
Phil, that he might be saved from that crowd. And now that God has
granted my prayer, I bewail His way of doing it. I was willing then to
say, 'At any cost to myself,' and here I am shrinking from the share He
has given me! dreading the pain and loneliness. A faithless soldier,
Jack,--not worthy to be called a soldier."
"Oh! not faithless," I put in eagerly; "indeed, Fee, you're _not_
faithless. Even if you do shrink from this--this trouble--it's only
just here between us; you are going to be brave over it,--you know
you are. _Going_ to be! why, Fee, I think you _are_ the _bravest_ boy!
the truest, noblest--" I had to stop; that lump was just swelling up
in my throat.
"No," Fee said mournfully, drawing his breath in as Kathie does hers
sometimes when she's been crying for a long while; "no, Jack, I'm not
really brave,--not yet! I'm going to bear this only because I
must--because I _can't_ escape it. Perhaps, by and by, strength may
come to endure the trial more patiently; but now--I _dread_ it. I would
_fly_ from it if I could; I would _die_ rather than face those awful
years of helplessness! See what a poor creature your 'brave boy' is,
Jack." His lips were quivering, and he folded one arm over his eyes.
Then all at once there came back to me a talk which mamma and I once
had, and I thought perhaps 'twould comfort poor Felix, so I tried to
tell him as well as I could. "Fee, dear," I said, holding his hand tight
in mine, and snuggling my head close up to his on the pillow, so I could
whisper, "once, when mamma and I were talking, she said always to
remember that God knows it's awfully hard for people to bear suffering
and trouble; and that He always helps them and makes allowances for
them, because He's our Father, and for the sake of His own dear Son, who
had to go through so much trouble here on earth.
"And _He_ knows, too, Fee,--Jesus knows _just_ how you feel about this;
don't you remember how He prayed that last night in Gethsemane that--if
God would--He might not have to go through the awful trial of the cross?
He meant to carry it right through, you know, all the time,--that's what
He came on earth for; He meant to do every single thing that God had
given Him to do, and just as _bravely_! But, all the same, He felt, too,
how _awfully_ hard 'twas going to be, and just for a little while
beforehand He _dreaded_ it,--just as you dread the years that'll have to
pass before you can be well. See?
"And He knows your heart, Fee; He knows that you're going to be just as
_brave_ and _patient_ as you can be, and He'll help you every time.
Nannie and I'll ask Him for you--and Betty--and poor old Phil--all of
us. And dear mamma's up there, too; perhaps she's asking Him to comfort
you and make you strong. I feel as if she must be doing it,--she loved
you so!"
Fee drew his hand out of mine, and raising his arm, touched my cheek
softly with his feeble fingers, and for a few minutes we neither of us
said a word.
Then there came a knock at the door; I scrambled to my feet, and going
over, turned the key. Somebody brushed quickly by me with the swish of a
girl's dress, and there was Nannie in the middle of the room! She ran
toward Felix with her arms out, her brown eyes shining with love. "Oh,
my darling!" she cried out, "my _dear_!"
I heard Fee's glad, breathless exclamation, "My _twinnie_!" Then
Phil's arm went over my shoulders and drew me into the hall, and
Phil's voice said softly in my ear, "Come, Rosebud, let's leave
them alone for a while."
XXII.
AUF WIEDERSEHEN.
TOLD BY JACK.
Miss Marston arrived that afternoon, and the next day we started, bag
and baggage, for the Cottage. And here we've been for nearly three
months; in a week or two more we'll be thinking of going back to the
city. Dr. Gordon came up with us, and he and Phil did all they could to
make the journey easier for Felix. But he was dreadfully used up by the
time we got him to the house, and for days no one but Phil and Nannie
were allowed in his room.
Papa came a few days after we did, looking ever so much better than
when he went away, and he settled down to work at once. Betty's here,
too. From what she lets out now and then, I'm pretty sure she's had a
real good time; but, do you know, she _won't_ acknowledge it. Still, I
notice she doesn't make such fun of Hilliard as she used to; and I
will say Betty's improving. She doesn't romp and tear about so much,
nor flare out at people so often, and of course that makes her much
more comfortable to live with. I'm ever so glad she's here; if she
hadn't been, I'm afraid I'd have had an awfully stupid time this
summer. You see Betty and I are in the middle; we come between the
big and the little ones in the family, and we 'most always go together
on that account.
[Illustration: "OUT OF DOORS."]
Nannie's had her hands full, what with helping papa with the Fetich, and
doing all sorts of things for her twin. Nora's looked after Phil and
cheered him up when he got blue about Felix, and Phil has just devoted
himself to Fee. He's with him almost the whole time, and you can't think
how gentle and considerate Phil is these days.
Fee is out of doors a great deal; Phil carries him out on fine days,
and lays him on his bamboo lounge under the big maples; and there you're
sure to find the whole family gathered, some time or other, every day
that he is there.
It seems as if we love Fee more and more dearly every day,--he's so
bright and merry and sweet, and he tries _so_ hard to be patient and
make the best of things. Of course he has times--what he calls his "dark
days"--when his courage sinks, and he gets cranky and sarcastic; but
they don't come as often as at first. And we all make allowances, for we
know there isn't one of us that in his place would be as unselfish and
helpful. We go to him with everything,--even papa has got in the way of
sitting and talking with Fee; anyway, it seems as if papa were more with
us now than he used to be, and he's ever so much nicer,--more like other
people's fathers are, you know!
Felix has got back the use of his fingers since we've been in the
country; he can paint or play his violin for a little while at a time,
but his legs are still useless. The doctor, though, declares he can see
a slight improvement in them. He says now that perhaps--after several
years--Fee may be able to get around on crutches! Betty and I felt
awfully disappointed when we heard this,--we've been so sure Fee would
get perfectly well; but Fee himself was very happy over it. "Once let me
assume the perpendicular, even on crutches," he said, smiling at Phil,
who sat sadly beside him, "and you see if, after a while, these old pegs
don't come up to their duty bravely. I may yet dance at your wedding,
Philippus."
Max comes up to the Cottage quite often, and stays from Saturday to
Monday. He's just as nice and kind as he can be,--why, he doesn't seem
to mind one bit going off on jolly long drives in the old depot-wagon,
or on larks, with only Nannie and us children; and he's teaching Mädel
how to manage G. W. L. Spry and make him go, without being thrown off.
Phil and Felix and Max had a long talk together the first time Max came
up, and I have an idea 'twas about Chad, for Max looked very grave. I
don't know what he did about it, but the other day I heard him tell
Nora that Chad had positively made up his mind to go into business.
"He says he has broken loose from a very bad set he was in," Max said,
"and seems very much in earnest to make the best of himself,--which is,
of course, a great relief to me. I hope his good resolutions will amount
to something."
"Perhaps they will," Nora answered, rather indifferently, but her cheeks
got real red. I shouldn't wonder if she thought Chad'd done it because
she advised him to.
We have a way this summer, on Sunday afternoons, of all sitting with
Felix under the maple-trees, talking, and singing our chants and hymns
there instead of in the parlour. We were all there--the whole ten of
us--one afternoon, when papa came across the lawn and sat down in the
basket-chair that Phil rushed off and got him. We'd just finished
singing, "O Mother dear, Jerusalem," Fee accompanying us on his violin,
and we didn't begin anything else, for there was a queer--sort of
excited--look on papa's face that somehow made us think he had something
to tell us. And sure enough he had.
"My children," he said presently, and his voice wasn't as quiet and even
as it usually is, "I have this to tell you,--that last night I finished
my life work; my History is completed!"
The Fetich finished! we just looked at each other with wide-open eyes.
Then Nannie knelt down by papa's chair and kissed him warmly, and Phil,
who was sitting on the edge of Fee's lounge, leaned over and shook hands
with papa in a kind of grown-up, manly way.
"Allow me to congratulate you, sir," Fee said earnestly, with shining
eyes. "It is a great piece of work, and your children are _very_ proud
of it and of you."
The rest of us didn't know what to say, so we just sat and looked
at papa.
"I began it years ago," papa said after a minute or two, in a dreamy
voice, as if talking more to himself than to us, and looking away at
the sunset with a sad, far-off expression in his eyes, "_years_ ago;
just after I met--Margaret. But for her encouragement--her loving
help--her perfect faith in my ability--it could never have been
accomplished. Now it is finished--I am here alone--and she--is far
away--at peace!" Papa's lips were working; he put his hand up quickly
and shielded his eyes from us.
We were all very still; we older ones felt very sad. And then, soft and
low--almost like an angel's voice--there came from Fee's violin the
sweet strains of Handel's "Largo." The music rose and fell a bar or two,
and then Nannie and Nora and Phil sang together very softly:--
"The souls of the righteous are in the hand of God. There shall
no sorrow touch them. In the sight of the unwise they seemed to
die; but they are in peace, for so He giveth His beloved sleep."