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.