Noble in Reason Read Free Page A

penetrate to our parents’ ears downstairs. Sure enough the door of the dining-room was abruptly thrown open and my father called in his sharp impatient tones:
    â€œWhat is the matter up there?”
    â€œNothing!” shouted John, smothering Netta’s cries
by
burying her face against his shoulder.
    â€œDon’t be absurd, John—we must tell, and get the doctor to Netta,” said Henry.
    â€œThe doctor? Don’t be such a fool. You are a
fool,
Henry,” shouted John as Henry tore open the nursery door and ran down the stairs.
    We heard Henry’s explanation in passing to my father: “Netta’s hurt her head—I’m going for the doctor,” and then the bang of the front door.
    â€œBring the child here!” cried out my father, at the same time beginning to run upstairs.
    â€œThis is all your fault, you silly little fathead,” said John crossly to me as he went out of the room.
    I followed, sunk in shame and anxiety, and witnessed the meeting of father and son on the half-landing. My father snatched Netta from John’s arms; frightened by the serious view taken by her family of her accident, Netta screamed, and large tears rolled down her rosy cheeks.
    â€œBring her here, Edward,” cried my mother in sleepy tones.
    Exclaiming angrily—which made Netta cry the louder—my father hurried into our front room. John scowling, and myself trembling, followed him. My mother lay on a settee pulled in front of the fire, her dark hair (as usual) flowing in disorder over the cushions behind her head. She held out her arms.
    â€œCome to me, my darling,” she drawled in her slow rich tones.
    My father frowned and hesitated, but those outstretched arms could not be denied; he handed Netta over. My mother making soft sounds of comfort drew Netta to her breast; the child’s wail sank to a soft whimper and by the time the new doctor from next door, the huge bearded Dr. Darrell, came in —at the run, led by a breathless and snow-covered Henry— she was asleep. Not for the first time I admired my mother’s aristocratic calm as opposed to my father’s vehement fuss, which struck me as excessive, useless, vulgar. (How I hated scenes in those days!)
    Netta was unhurt save for a small bruise, said Dr. Darrell as he bent over her; the only casualty was Henry, who caught a severe cold. He was already sneezing as we three brothers returned to the nursery upstairs. My father followed, and harangued us sharply.
    â€œTo think that sons of mine care so little for their sister that she injures herself under their very eyes! I’m disgusted—yes, disgusted!” concluded my father. He turned and stalked from the room, leaving the door open behind him.
    I hung my head; Henry and John glared at each other in anger.
    â€œIt’s hardly fair to blame me, however,” said Henry in a low tone of suppressed rage. “I did all I could to help Netta.”
    â€œNone of this row need have happened if you hadn’t been such a prig,” said John. “You like yourself too much, Henry Jarmayne. You always want to be better than everybody else. There was no need to rush off and tell father.”
    â€œYou’d rather Netta’s skull had been cracked, I suppose,” returned Henry.
    â€œNo, I would not!” shouted John, crimsoning, and suddenly snatching up Henry’s pencil which lay on the table, he dashed it back and forth in great scrawls across the sheet of music paper just laboriously ruled by Henry.
    â€œYou are an unmannerly boor, John,” said Henry contemptuously.
    John, his heavy lower lip protruding with rage, threw down the pencil and raised his fist. I gave a cry of alarm. My two brothers turned on me.
    â€œCome to that,” said John in a much milder tone, “the whole thing was Christopher’s fault, really.”
    Both my brothers turned and gazed at me. I stood and suffered.
    â€œYes, I’m