"See here, what's the matter with Felix?" As he spoke, Phil went over and threw himself into a chair, where he could see me. "He's never been very much of a walker, but seems to me that he's worse than ever at it lately. Why, last evening—this evening I mean" (he gave me a funny look)—"we hadn't gone three blocks before he began to drag, and took hold of my arm; he hung on it, too, I can tell you. We didn't go very far, not nearly as far as we used to last winter; and I'd have made it still shorter, for I could see he was most awfully used up, but Fee wouldn't give in,—you know he can be obstinate. And when he came into the drawing-room to sing, he looked wretched,—white as a ghost! Since I've been home, I've noticed, in a good many little ways, that he doesn't do as much as he used to,—in the way of moving around; yet, when I speak to him 'bout it, he either—puts me off, or turns—cranky; I can't get a thing—out—of—him." Phil's voice had been getting slower and slower, and almost before he finished the last word he was asleep.
I thought he was making believe at first,—he's such a tease,—but I soon found out that he wasn't. Well, I was astonished; for a minute I couldn't say a word; I just lay there and looked at him. Then I remembered how late it was, and called him,—not loud, though, for fear of waking Felix. "Phil, Phil, aren't you coming to bed? it's awfully late."
"Oh, let me alone," he muttered sleepily; then presently he roused up and began to talk real crossly, but in the same slow voice, and with his eyes shut: "I'm not a child—and I'm not going—to be treated—like one—you needn't—think so—I'm a man—all—the fellows—do it—'tisn't—any harm—" His head drooped and he was off again.
I had got awfully nervous when he first began, I mean about Felix; you see Fee hadn't given me back my promise not to speak of his attack when papa was so ill, so I couldn't have told Phil, and I shouldn't have known what to say. Oh, that promise! that miserable promise! if only I had never made it!
Well, as I said, I was thankful I didn't have to answer Phil; but when he acted so queerly, I didn't like that either, and jumping out of bed, I went at him, and just talked and coaxed and pulled at him, until at last I got him to get up and undress and go to bed.
Phil was as cross as a bear the next morning; he said he had a headache, and didn't get up until late. He lay in bed with his face to the wall, and just snapped up everybody that spoke to him; when I took him up some tea and toast,—that was all he'd take,—he turned on me. "I suppose you've told them about last night," he said sharply, "and you've all had a grand pow-wow over me!"
"Indeed, I haven't" I answered; "I haven't said one single word about it to anybody; we've got other things to talk of, I can tell you, besides your being such a sleepy-head." Perhaps this was a little snippy, but I couldn't help it,—just as if I couldn't keep a thing to myself. You see I didn't understand then what it all meant.
Phil looked straight at me for a minute, and it seemed to me there was a kind of sorry expression came in his face; then he laughed. "Great head! keep on being mum!" he said, in that teasing way of his, nodding at me. "Now, Mr. Moses Primrose, suppose you set that tray down and vacate the apartment—shut the door."
But I could see that he wasn't sorry I hadn't spoken of it; I've wondered sometimes, since, whether things would have been different if I had told Felix the whole business.