His fingers were twitching so I could hardly hold them, and he talked very fast,—almost as if he couldn't stop himself.
"Don't tell them of this, Jack," he begged, in that sharp gasping voice, "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,—