"I hope I'll not tire or agitate you, sir," Fee said, "but I feel I must tell you, for Phil, Betty, and myself, how utterly ashamed we are of that miserable, heartless joke we got off some months ago,—going to Mr. Erveng about your book; no, father, please let me go on,—this ought to have been said long ago! We earnestly ask your forgiveness for that, sir; the remembrance of it has lain very heavy on our hearts in these last anxious weeks—"
He stopped; I guess there was a lump in his throat,—I know what that is! And presently papa said, very gently: "That did hurt me, Felix; but I have forgiven it. It may be that the experience was needed. I am afraid that I forgot I owed it to my children to finish and make use of my work."
"No, no!" exclaimed Felix, vehemently. "Don't feel that way, father; oh, please don't! We hope you won't ever work on it again as you have been working,—to run yourself down, to make yourself ill. We beg, we implore that you will take better care of yourself. Let the book go; never finish it; what do we care for it, compared to having you with us strong and well once more! Oh, sir, if you really do forgive us, if you really do believe in the love of your children, promise us that you will not work as you've been doing lately!"
He waited a minute or two; then, as papa said nothing, he cried out sharply: "We are—her—children, sir; for her sake do as we ask!"
"Why do you want this—why do you want me to live?" papa asked slowly.
"Why? Because we love you!" exclaimed Fee, in surprise.
And then I heard papa say, "My son!" in such a tender voice; and then,—after a while,—"I am under a contract to finish my book, and I must do it; but I will endeavour to work less arduously, and to look more after my health."
Here I think Fee must have kissed him,—it sounded so. "I shall have good news for the others," he said. "You know, sir, Phil and Betty feel as keenly about this as I do, but, for fear it would tire you, it was thought best for only one of us to speak to you about the matter. You don't feel any worse for our talk,—do you, father?" He said this anxiously, but papa said no, it hadn't done him any harm; still, he added, Felix had better go, and so he did in a few minutes. I felt so sorry when I thought of all the steps he'd have to climb to the schoolroom; I wondered how he'd ever get up them.
Well, after that I think papa had a nap; anyway, he was very quiet. It was pretty stupid for me behind that curtain, and I was just wishing for about the tenth time that Miss Appleton would put in an appearance, when the door opened suddenly, and who should come walking in but Phil!
He went straight up to papa, and began rather loud, and in a quick, excited sort of way,—I could tell he was awfully nervous,—"How d'you feel to-day, sir?" Then, before papa had time to answer, he went on: "We were talking things over last evening, and—and we—well, sir, we—that is, Felix, Betty, and I—feel that we're at the bottom of this illness of yours, through our getting up the scheme about the Fet—your book, you know—in going to Mr. Erveng. It was the cheekiest thing on our part! I deserve to be kicked for that, sir,—I know I do. And we're afraid—we think—you're just killing yourself! I'm a blundering idiot at talking, I know, so I might's well cut it short. What I want to say is this: We'd rather have you living, sir, and the—history—never finished, than have it finished, with no end of money, and you dead. Oh, father, if you could know how we felt that night when your life hung in the balance!" He broke right down with a great sob.