"I know he wouldn't. God bless him!" Phil answered in a quieter tone, dropping his arms by his sides. "Oh, Jack, it cuts me up awfully to see him lying there so cheerful and serene when he knows that what's happened has just spoiled his whole life—"
"Oh, does he know?" I exclaimed.
"He insisted on knowing, and bore it like a soldier. When I broke down he smiled at me, actually smiled, Jack, with, 'Why, old fellow, it isn't so bad—as all that'—o-oh!" Phil choked up, and, throwing himself on the bed, he buried his face deep in the pillows, that Fee in the next room might not hear his sobs.
That was a miserable day. Dr. Archard came quite early, and after the consultation we heard that, in the main, he agreed with Dr. Gordon. "Still," he said to Nora and me, as he was going, "Felix may surprise us all by recovering much faster and more fully than we expect. The thing is to get him out of town just as soon as we can, and in the mean time to follow directions and keep him quiet and cheerful. Phil seems to have taken charge of the boy, and I do believe he's going to develop into a nurse. I'll send you round a masseur, and I'll write to your father, so he'll not be alarmed. Keep up your spirits, and your roses, my dear," patting Nora's cheek. Then he got into his carriage and drove away.
Because the doctor said that about keeping Fee quiet, no one but Phil or nurse was allowed in his room all day. But late in the afternoon nurse let me take something up to him,—she had to see to the children's dinner, or something or other downstairs; she said if Phil were with him I wasn't to stay.
I knocked, but not very hard,—my hands were pretty full; and then, as nobody answered, I opened the door softly, and went in. Fee was lying sort of hunched up among the pillows, which weren't any whiter than his face. Oh! didn't he look delicate!
He had on his glasses again, and now his eyes were shining through them, and there was a very sweet expression on his lips. Phil was sitting on the edge of the bed, talking in a low, unsteady voice: "I didn't really care for them," he was saying, "and there were times when I fairly loathed them; but somehow they got round me, and—I began to go there regularly. They drank and gambled; they said all young fellows did it, and they laughed at me when I objected. I held out for a good while,—then one night I gave in. I was a fool; I dreaded their ridicule. There were times, though, when I was disgusted with myself. Then I began to win at cards, and—well—I thought I'd save the money for a purpose; though in my heart I knew full well that—the—the—the person I was saving for wouldn't touch a penny got that way. Well, then something happened that made that money I was saving quite unnecessary, and then I just played to lose. I wanted those fellows to have their money back; after that I thought I'd cut loose from 'em. That was the reason I wanted to go back to Chad's that night,—was it only last night? It seems like years ago!"
Phil dropped his face down in his hands for a minute; then he went on: "I started out this morning and gave each of the fellows his money back. They didn't want to take it,—they think me a crazy loon; but I insisted. I've got beyond caring for their opinion. And now, Fee, the rest of my life belongs to you; you've paid an awful price for it, old fellow,—I'm not worth it. Think of your college course—your profession—all the things we planned! I'm not worth it!"
Phil's voice failed, but he cleared his throat quickly, and spoke out clearly and solemnly. "Felix," he said, "I will never play cards again as long as I live; and I will never drink another drop of liquor,—so help me God." He raised his hand as he spoke, as if registering the oath. Then he bent over and buried his face in the bed-clothes.