A Christmas Child Part 18

A day or two later--a damp, rainy day it had been, there were a good many such about this time--Ted's mother, entering the drawing-room in the evening, heard some one softly singing to himself, gently touching the piano at the same time. It was already dusk, and she went in very quietly. The little musician did not hear her, and she sat down in silence for a moment to listen, for it was Ted, and the song in his sweet, clear tones--tones with a strange touch of sadness in them like the church bells, was "Home, sweet home."

It brought the tears to her eyes.

"Ted," she said at last.

"O mother," he said, "I didn't know you were there."

"But you don't mind _me_," she said.

Ted hesitated.

"I don't know how it is, mother," he said, frankly. "It isn't as if I _could_ sing, you know. But I can't even try to do it when anybody's there. Is it silly, mother?"

"It's very natural," she said, kindly. "But if it gives me pleasure to hear you?"

"Yes," he said, gently.

"And when you're a man I hope and think you may have a nice voice."

"Yes," he said again, rather absently.

Something in his tone struck his mother; it sounded _tired_.

"You're quite well, Ted, aren't you?" she said.

"Oh yes, mother--just a very little tired. It's been such a rainy day; it isn't like Christmas coming so soon, is it? There's no snow and no skating."

"No, dear."

"There was no snow the Christmas I was born, was there, mother?"

"No, dear," said his mother again.

Ted gave a little sigh.

"You're going to Rex's to-night; it is his party, isn't it?" she asked.

"Yes," he replied, "but I don't seem to care much to go."

"But you're quite well, I think," said his mother cheerfully. "It would be unkind not to go when they are all expecting you."

"Yes," said Ted. "It would be."

So he went off to get ready; and his mother felt pleased, thinking the dull weather had, for a wonder, affected his spirits, and that the merry evening with his friends would do him good.

CHAPTER XII.

THE WHITE CROSS.

"It is not growing like a tree In bulk, doth make man better be, Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere.

The lily of a day Is fairer far in May, Although it fade and die that night It was the plant and flower of light; In small proportions we just beauties see, And in short measures life may perfect be."

"Early Ripe."--BEN JONSON.

It seemed as if she had been right. Ted came home with bright eyes and glowing cheeks, and said they had had an "awfully" merry evening. And his mother went to bed with an easy mind.

But the next morning she felt less happy again, for Ted was evidently not well. He was not very ill, but just not very well, and he hung about in an uninterested, unsettled way, quite unlike his usual busy briskness.

"He excites himself too much when he goes out, I think," said his father; "we really shall have to leave off ever letting him go out in the evening unless we are there ourselves;" and he looked a little anxiously at Ted as he spoke, though the boy had not heard what he said.

But again this slight anxiety pa.s.sed by. Then came a change in the weather, and a sudden frost set in. Ted seemed to revive at once, and when he heard that there was to be a whole holiday for skating, no one was more eager about it than he. And, a little against her own feelings, his mother let him go.

"You must be careful, Ted," she said; "you are not yet looking as well as usual. And the ice cannot be very firm. Indeed, I almost doubt its bearing at all. A bath in icy water would not do you any good just now."

But Ted promised to be careful, and his mother knew she could trust him.

Besides, several big boys were to be there, who would, she knew, look after him. So Ted went, and came home saying it had been as usual "awfully jolly;" but he did look tired, and owned himself rather so, even though well enough to go out again in the evening with the others, and to be one of the merriest at what the children called "a penny reading" together, at which each in turn of the little party of friends read or repeated or acted some story or piece of poetry for the amus.e.m.e.nt of the others. And once again, but this was the last time she could do so, Ted's mother felt able to throw off the slight vague anxiety which had kept coming and going for the last few days about her little boy, and to go to sleep with an easy mind.

But the next morning, to his own and her disappointment, he woke "tired"

again. Only tired--he complained of nothing else, but he said he wished he need not go to school. And that was _so_ unlike Ted.

"Need I go, mother?" he asked gently.

She looked at him doubtfully.

"It seems such a pity, dear--so near the examinations too. And sometimes, you know, when you haven't felt quite well in the morning you have come back quite right again."

"Very well," said Ted, and he went off cheerfully enough.

But when he came back he was not all right as his mother had hoped; the "tiredness" was greater, and he seemed to have caught cold, and the next morning, after a restless night, there was no longer any doubt that Ted was ill. Our dear little Ted--how quickly illness does its work--above all with children! Almost before one has realised its presence the rosy cheeks are pale and the bright eyes dimmed; the st.u.r.dy legs grow weak and trembling, and the merry chatter ceases. Ah dear!

what a sad, strange hush comes over a house where "one of the children"

is ill.

The hush and the sadness came but gradually. Still, for a day or two, they hoped it was nothing very serious. On this first afternoon of Ted's really owning himself ill, two girl friends of Mabel's came, as had been arranged, to see the famous museum, usually such a pleasure to its owner to exhibit. But already how different all seemed!

"Mother, dear," he said, as if half reproaching himself for selfishness, "it sometimes almost seems a bother to have to show my museum;" but as it was considered better not to let him yield to the depression coming over him, he bravely roused himself and went through the little exhibition with his usual gentle courtesy. But this was the last effort of the kind possible for him.

Sunday and Monday found him weaker, and the doctor's kind face grew graver. Still he was not _very_ ill; only it began to seem as if he had not strength to resist what had not, at first, threatened seriously. And one day he made his mother's heart seem, for an instant, to stop beating, when, looking up wistfully, he said to her,

"Mother, I don't _think_ I shall ever get better."

And the sad days and sadder nights went slowly on. Now and then there seemed a little sparkle of hope. Once Ted began to talk about meeting his dear Percy at the station, when he came home for the holidays, which made those about him hope he was feeling stronger; then, at another time, he said what a pity it would be not to be well by Christmas and by his birthday, and he smiled when his father told him, as was the case, that the doctor quite hoped he would be well by then; and one day when the post brought him his great wish--a beautiful book of travels--his face lighted up with pleasure, and, though not able to read it, the welcome present lay on his bed where he could see it and smile to himself to think it was there. There were happy times through his illness, weak and wearied though he grew, and now and then he seemed so bright that it was difficult, for a little, not to think him much better. But the illness which Ted had is a very deceitful one--it invisibly saps away the strength even when the worst sharp suffering is over--and slowly, slowly it came to be seen that his own feeling had been true; our Ted was not to get better.

One day a travelling merchant brought to the door a case of pretty Parian ornaments. White and pure they shone in the winter sunshine, and some one had the thought that "one of these might please Ted." So they were brought up for him to choose from. Poor Cissy! she would fain have carried them in; but alas! for fear of infection, she could not be allowed to see her brother, which made of these last days a double sorrow to her, though she did not know how ill he was. Ted touched the pretty things with his little thin hand.

"They are very pretty," he said. "I like this one best, please, mother."