“That is all I ask of you, Alice,” he had answered gravely.
It was indeed a virtue which most men would have felt with intense appreciation, that Alice was capable of stating her own views upon a question once for all, and, having realized those of her husband, choosing her course, and keeping silence forever thereafter. But the course he had marked out for himself was not so easy to Dr. Richards that he could dispense with the glad and hearty co-operation his wife had always been able to give him, and accept, as a full equivalent therefor, her mere passive acquiescence. It fretted him, like friction upon a raw spot, that from the numerous petty annoyances and privations that had come into her daily life, Alice knew that he could have saved her, and would not. She did not blame him; she recognized it as a question of conscience, and left it there; but the consciousness of it was ever alive and present to his thoughts.
It was little wonder that the once fair, calm face was marked by many a line and furrow, and the quiet, cheerful manner often marred by gloomy impatience.
Matters might indeed have been far worse had not Freddy’s presence been about the house like an angel redeeming from all evil. He was seventeen now, and the treatment inaugurated by Dr. Harrison years ago had been so far successful that he was able to take a few steps about his room by the aid of a pair of crutches. He had long arms, and large, but well-shaped hands, white and blue-veined; and his young face, that should have been brown and rosy, was so pathetically bright, sweet, and merry, that the shrunken limbs and distorted spine appeared by contrast comparatively insignificant.
For Freddy had a wonderfully happy disposition. His soul was like a plant, turning ever from the shadow and reaching out towards every ray of light and happiness. He was very clever, too, with his pencil, and might have been a great artist, Dr. Richards thought, if his spine had been like other people’s; but that view of the case had never occurred to Freddy. So, instead of repining because he was unable to cover a twenty-foot canvas with impossible scenes from historic or poetic fiction, Freddy transferred the turbid waves of his own rushing river, or the changeful clouds that swept across the sky, to graceful, smooth-lined shell or slender water-jar; while his cherub heads were sweet as those immortal angel faces of Fra Angelico.
He was waiting at the dinner-table in his old “Ark of the Covenant,” which, alas! he had never outgrown; and watched with brown eyes, full of mischief, Pinkie’s inspection of the parcels that lay heaped about her plate; for all the gifts had been reserved for dinner-time, since Mr. Randolph was unable to come earlier.
And, after all, the father’s present was of jeweller’s work, though not a “complete parure;” it was a dainty little watch incrusted with diamonds, and a chain of such fairy workmanship that it was hard to believe it could have been wrought by mortal fingers.
“And nothing from Freddy! You ‘vage deceiver!’ Then, what did you mean by ordering me out of the room, whenever you got out your paint-box and palette?”
“I wanted to surprise you, and lo! you are surprised,” said Freddy, laughing. “But I’ve a kiss here for you, if you choose to come and get it.”
“Cool you are! I’ll take it by and by as a corrective to these sugar-plums.”