"Poor child, you are dripping wet! You'll catch your death of cold!"
cried Mrs. Lambert, noticing Paul's state for the first time. "What can
I be thinking of! You must have a hot bath and some dry things at once.
Carl, take Paul up to your room, dear, and see that he makes himself
_very_ comfortable. I must see to supper. You must be starving, too!"
Accordingly, Carl undertook his duties as host as hospitably as he
could, and Paul followed him upstairs.
In a moment or two Carl returned, wearing the prim expression of one who
would like to express his opinion, and is merely waiting to be asked,
and at length, one by one, the family began, naturally enough, to
discuss the impression that the newcomer had made on them, severally.
The criticisms were very kindly, but at the same time, it soon became
clear that so far no one felt any great enthusiasm for the stranger. His
curt manner had hurt his aunt and his grandmother, who had been so eager
in their welcome to the fatherless boy, and had irritated Mr. Lambert.
The short, brusque answers he had given to the endless kindly questions
with which he had been plied, had discouraged the well-meant, and very
natural curiosity of his relatives, and had made them feel rather
uncomfortable.
Grandmother Winkler and Mrs. Lambert staunchly insisted that the poor
boy was only lonely and unhappy; but down in their hearts they had been
sadly disappointed in Franz's son. Elise also ranged herself in his
defense, feeling that any disapproval, expressed or unexpressed, of the
new head of the clan, was a form of treason.
"Think how you would feel, Carl," she said, "if you had lost your
father, and had landed in a strange country among strangers--for after
all we _are_ strangers to Paul."
"That's all right," returned Carl, "I could understand it if he were
just gloomy. But I don't see any reason why he has to be downright
disagreeable."
"I'm sure he doesn't mean to be disagreeable, my dear," said Mrs.
Lambert.
"Well, we mustn't lose any time in getting the boy settled down to his
work," said Mr. Lambert. "That will take his mind off his own troubles.
I shall have a talk with him after supper."
"I shook hands with him, and said I was glad to see him, and he just
stared at me as if I were a--a fish," went on Carl, still dwelling on
his own grievances. "I know he's here to stay, and I'll try to get on
with him, though I'll tell you right now, it's not going to be an easy
job. And I hope to goodness I won't have to room with him permanently,
mother. Can't you find somewhere to put him? Can't you--" Carl broke off
abruptly, reddening, for at that moment Paul entered the room. He was
scrubbed and brushed, and, dressed in Mr. Lambert's summer suit, looked
vastly better than the young tramp who had entered their midst an hour
before. Unfortunately he had overheard Carl's remark, and his expression
had changed from one that was almost friendly to the stony, immobile
look that absolutely altered the whole character of his face. The cozy
family scene in the dining room, where now the table had been set, and
the lamp lighted, and where the firelight shone upon the faces of three
generations, from Granny to little Minie, had done much to make Paul
feel that he would be happy after all among these simple, happy
people--until his quick ears caught Carl's unkind remark.
Only Jane had seen the look that showed he had overheard; but everyone
felt that he had, and an awkward little silence followed his entrance,
during which Elise glanced at her brother in distress, and Mrs. Lambert
struggled to think of something to say that would mend matters a little.
But Carl met his cousin's eyes defiantly, and from that moment the tacit
hostility of the two boys was sealed.
So Paul, who had been on the verge of thawing a little, had frozen up
again. He concluded immediately that _everyone_ disliked him, and like
many sensitive people, instead of attempting to overcome this imagined
dislike, he carefully hid all that was winning in his nature, under his
cold, unsympathetic manner. He even fancied that his aunt's affectionate
little attentions were only assumed to hide her real feelings. Poor Aunt
Gertrude! No one in the world was less capable of insincerity than she,
and her gentle heart ached over the forlorn, taciturn youth.
Supper was a decidedly uncomfortable meal; and Paul, who had felt that
he could have eaten the proverbial fatted calf, found it difficult to
swallow a mouthful. During the journey there had been too much to occupy
him, too many difficulties and strange events for him to think much
about the abrupt change that had taken place in his life; but now, as he
sat with his eyes on his plate, in the midst of these strange faces, he
felt as if the bottom had dropped out of everything. A perfect wave of
depression engulfed him, and all he wished for was to get off by
himself.
"Well, my boy, are you too tired to have a little talk?" asked Mr.
Lambert, at length pushing back his chair.
"No, sir," muttered Paul, curtly, thinking to himself, "I don't suppose
that they want to have me on their hands any longer than is necessary."
"Children, you may prepare your lessons in your own rooms to-night.
Well, Paul, suppose you and I get over here into my corner," suggested
Mr. Lambert, walking across to his desk. "Sit down."
Paul sat down, folded his hands in his lap, and fixed his eyes
attentively on the window. The rain still rattled on the glass panes,
and the wind banged the shutters, and moaned through the leafless trees.
"I am only going to acquaint you with the wishes which your father--my
poor brother--expressed in a recent letter," began Mr. Lambert,
rummaging through his orderly pigeon-holes. "It might be best for you to
read it for yourself." But Paul declined the letter with a gesture.
"Ah, well," said Mr. Lambert, replacing the poor, blotted sheets in the
envelope, "I don't want to pain you, my dear boy, and I would not touch
on the subject at all, if I did not feel that it were best for you to
find something to occupy your thoughts at this time." He paused, but as
Paul did not seem to think it necessary to make any reply, he continued:
"You must understand how deeply I am interested in your affairs. Er--how
old are you?"
"Seventeen, sir."
"Seventeen? I should have thought you were older. But seventeen is not
an age of childhood, and in any event I feel that you are fully capable
of assuming the responsibilities which must fall upon you as the
only--living--male descendant--of--the Winkler Family." Mr. Lambert
uttered these last words with an impressiveness that cannot be
described. Paul looked up, suddenly interested, and with a wary,
defensive expression.
"No doubt your father acquainted you with his wishes?"
"My father told me to come to you, and that you would help me," said
Paul.
"Help you? Indeed I will help you. I would help you in any event because
you are my nephew, and blood runs thicker than water, my boy. Always
remember that. But believe me, it is not family duty alone that impels
me to give you all the assistance I can,--I feel that you are a young
man who is _worthy_--worthy to enter upon the duties of your position."
Paul was puzzled. He could not understand these allusions to his
"position," and his "responsibilities."
"Never hesitate to come to me for any advice. Do not allow little
discouragements to overwhelm you," continued Mr. Lambert. "Your aunt, of
course, will be your real teacher--"
"My _aunt_?" echoed Paul, completely bewildered. "I don't understand--"
"Ah," said Mr. Lambert, smiling, "perhaps you are not familiar with the
traditions of your family. Then, I will tell you; your
great-great-grandfather, on your father's side, Johann Winkler, was, as
you surely know, the founder of this Bakery. He was, moreover, the
inventor of certain delicacies which have made it famous, and which
cannot possibly be made by any other baker in this country--in the
world, I may say. It was his wish that the fruits of his labors should
be the heritage of his descendants, and that only those who bore the
name of Winkler, should learn the secret recipes by which those cakes
are mixed. A moment's thought will make it clear to you that you are the
next in line to be initiated into these secrets, which are sealed from
me, and my children. In a word, you are the only living heir to this
business. Your aunt, of course, is the present proprietor, and she and
she alone can instruct you in the work in which you must follow her."
Paul was speechless, and Mr. Lambert, mistaking his astonished silence,
for a calm acceptance of what he had said, now drew forth a large
parchment from a drawer of his desk, and spread it out with a pompous
air.
"This, my boy, is the family tree of the Winklers, which establishes
your claim to your inheritance. Here, you see--" his broad forefinger
began to trace the branches, "Johann Winkler had two sons, Frederick and
Samuel. Frederick, the elder had two sons, also Samuel and Johann. In
this case, the younger became the Baker, and Samuel became a hardware
merchant in Missouri. Thus, Johann was the father of your Aunt Gertrude,
and _your_ father, who also relinquished his inheritance, like Esau--"
"But what of Samuel's children?" stammered Paul. "Maybe he has a son or
a grandson--"
"However that may be they have forfeited their claims," replied Mr.
Lambert. "No, you need have no fears of any disputes, my boy. Surely,
your father must have acquainted you with all these matters which relate
to you so closely."
"My father never even mentioned anything of the sort!" exclaimed Paul,
pushing back his chair, as if he were thinking of sudden flight.
"I need hardly tell you that you are doubly welcome, my dear boy,"
continued Mr. Lambert placidly, totally misunderstanding Paul's
astonishment.
"But, sir! One moment! I don't understand! You surely can't mean that
you think I am going to learn how to _bake bread_, and make _pies_!"
burst out Paul at last. "Great heavens! My father couldn't have
dreamed--_I_! Making biscuits!"
"And why not, pray?" demanded Mr. Lambert, sharply. "Am I to understand
that you consider yourself too good for a profession that the great
Johann Winkler thought worthy of his genius? Is it that you do not
consider it _manly_? Surely, you do not mean me to understand this?" Mr.
Lambert's face hardened a little; the expression of bland benevolence
left his eyes, which now grew cold and piercing. He had not expected
rebellion, but recovering quickly from his surprise he prepared to cope
with it as only he could.
"Of course I don't mean that, sir!" exclaimed Paul. "But don't you
see--I can't--I'm not fitted for such work. I couldn't learn how to bake
a pie in a life time. I--"
"Oh, I am sure you underrate your intelligence, my boy. Don't give way
to discouragement so soon. A little patience, a little industry--"
Paul began to laugh, almost hysterically. Even in the midst of his
serious anxiety, the idea of himself demurely kneading dough was too
much for his gravity.
"But I'd poison everyone in town in twenty-four hours! Bake bread!
Rolls! Tarts! Sir, I could far more easily learn how to trim hats!"
"I don't doubt it. Any silly schoolgirl can learn that. I freely admit
that the art of a great baker is not readily acquired. I admit that in
some measure it requires an inborn gift, and a gift that is by no means
a common one. Great cooks are far rarer, believe me, than great orators,
or great artists, although the world in general does not rank them as it
should. There was a time when a fine pastry or a sauce composed with
genius called forth the applause of kings, and when eminent bakers were
honored by the noblest in the land. But to-day, through the ignorance
and indifference of the world, the profession is fallen in value,
because, forsooth, it is fancied that it caters to the less noble tastes
of mankind. My dear boy, it is for you, in whose veins flows the blood
of the King of Bakers, to maintain the fame and dignity of your
profession. Do not imagine that you lack the gift. It has lain idle, but
a little practice will soon prove that it is in your possession."
Paul, feeling that he had come up against a wall of adamant, got up and
began to pace the floor. Here he was with exactly twenty-five cents in
his pocket, without even a suit of clothes that deserved the name,
without a friend within three thousand miles, nor the faintest idea of
where he could go, if he rashly broke away from the family roof-tree.
"It seems that you had other ideas," remarked Mr. Lambert in a politely
interested tone, which said, "I don't mind _listening_ to any of your
fantastic notions." Paul hesitated. He most certainly _had_ had other
ideas, and, what was more, he did not have the slightest intention of
relinquishing them. The question was, could he lay them simply before
his uncle? One glance at Mr. Lambert's smooth, practical face was
sufficient to make him feel that anything of the sort was not to be
considered; certainly not at this time, in any case. Mr. Lambert had
fixed his mind on one idea, and tenacity was his most striking
characteristic. It was his boast that he never changed his mind, and the
truth of this statement was recognized by everyone who had any dealings
with him.
"I should like to think over all that you have said, Uncle Peter," Paul
at length said warily. "All this has been very unexpected, and I don't
know just what to say."
"You mean that you are still doubtful as to whether you will accept or
reject the position, to which Providence has called you, and which it is
plainly your Duty to accept?" inquired Mr. Lambert, raising his
eyebrows. He was surprised and annoyed by his nephew's resistance, but
knowing the boy's circumstances he had no fear that Paul would decide
against his own wishes.
Paul was quick to perceive this underlying cocksureness, and his whole
soul rose in rebellion.
"I don't see that either Providence or Duty has anything to do with the
case," he retorted, instantly firing up.
Mr. Lambert shrugged his shoulders.
"You do not feel that you are under obligations to your Family? I don't
like to believe that you have so slight a sense of your
responsibilities. No, I am sure that a few moments reflection will
convince you to the contrary. By all means consider the matter. I
should, however, like to have your answer to-night, if it is convenient
for you. I have several letters to write, and shall be here when you
have reached your decision." And with a curt nod, he swung around to his
desk, and took up the old-fashioned goose-quill pen, which he was in the
habit of using under the impression that it lent him an air of business
solidity.
Paul, lost in thought, went up to Carl's room for the "few moments of
reflection" that his uncle had advised.
His cousin, wearing a brown dressing gown, with a hideous pattern of
yellow fleurs-de-lis, was sitting at the table, with a book in his
hands, and a greenshade over his nearsighted eyes, engrossed in his
studies. The two boys glanced at each other, and nodded brusquely
without speaking.
Paul threw himself across the bed.
"Duty! Providence!" All he could see in the matter was that he had got
into a pretty kettle of fish. "And uncle thinks that just because I'm
broke, I'll knuckle under without a murmur."
Obligations! That was a nice thing to preach to him.
"Would you mind not kicking the bed?" said Carl's thin, querulous voice.
"It makes it rather hard to concentrate." This petition, uttered in a
studiedly polite tone, was accompanied by a dark look, which this time,
however, Paul failed to see.
"Sorry," said Paul, gruffly, and got up.
Now he began to walk the floor; but at length stopped at the window,
pressing his face to the glass so that he could see something besides
the reflection of his cousin's mouse-colored head, and monotonous
rocking in his chair.
He peered out over the roofs of the town, up the street, all sleek and
shining with the rain, in the direction of the cross-roads at which he
had stood, less than four hours ago. Why hadn't he taken the Other One,
anyway? He had been perfectly free to choose--no one had been preaching
Duty and all the rest of it to him then. He hadn't taken it, because he
had been tired and hungry, and almost penniless--and lonely, too, and
the farmer had turned up. Perhaps he had been a coward. It had led to
the City, where, even if he were penniless, he would at least have been
his own master, free to work according to his own ideas, and not Uncle
Peter's.
"Would you mind not whistling!" snapped Carl. "It's the most maddening
sound. Hang it! I'm trying to study."
Paul's mournful whistling stopped.
Baking pies! So that was to be his future, was it? Well, he still had
something to say. It wasn't too late to take the other road yet. He'd
walk a _thousand_ miles before he would let himself be trussed up in a
canvas apron, and put to kneading dough for the rest of his days.
He glanced around for his cast off clothes, and saw them hanging, still
dismally wet over a chair. But not even the cheerless prospect of a
clammy shirt dampened his resolution. He began to fling off his dry
clothing, sending collar, necktie, socks and shoes flying in all
directions.
Presently Carl, aroused by the commotion, put down his book. Then he
stared in astonishment, at the sight of his cousin rapidly climbing into
the soaking, muddy garments. But he felt that it was not in keeping with
the dignity he had assumed, to inquire into the reasons for this strange
proceeding. All he said was,
"Would you mind not shaking that mud over my things?"
Without replying, Paul shouldered his ridiculous bundle, felt in his
pocket to make sure that his quarter was still there, and marched out of
the room, down the stairs, and to the door.
Then it occurred to him that this abrupt departure, without a word of
farewell to anyone was rather a shabby way of returning the hospitality
he had received, and he hesitated.
"Well, if I don't get out now, it'll mean a lot of argument and
explanation. I could write a note." But he had no paper, and he did not
want to go back to Carl's room. So there he stood uneasily enough,
wriggling in his damp clothes, and glancing uncertainly toward the
closed door of the dining room behind which his uncle sat waiting for
his decision. Overhead, he heard the low murmur of his aunt's voice, and
the thudding of the twins' little bare feet as they romped and squealed
in a pillow fight. Paul felt his resolution waver, and then anger at his
own weakness steadied his determination. He opened the door, strode out,
and pulled it to quietly behind him.
A wild gust of wind nearly robbed him of his breath, and made him
stagger. The rain had gathered up its forces, and now came down in a
solid sheet, swept this way and that by the wind.
"Whew!" Paul bent his head, and ploughed his way against it, without
looking to the right or to the left. The branches groaned and tossed,
creaking as if they were being torn from the trunks of the swaying
trees.
Then all at once, with a crash a dead bough fell in front of him,
missing him by not more than fifteen inches. Paul stopped. The very
elements seemed opposed to his unmannerly flight, and again he
hesitated, looked back, and saw the friendly, ruddy windows of the
Bakery. Thirty miles in this tempest! He smiled sheepishly, and then
frowned. His impetuousness had put him in a very ridiculous position.
His pride rebelled at the idea of returning, and with the thought of
Carl's smothered amusement, came the memory of his cousin's inhospitable
speech. On the other hand, he saw that it was no less absurd to follow
up his plan of flight, and the streak of common sense underlying his
hasty, high-handed nature told him that it was less foolish to go back
and undertake the immediate problem that had been thrust upon him, than
to plunge himself into the serious difficulties that his adventure would
entail. And at length, inwardly raging at his own folly, he retraced his
steps.
As the dining room door opened, Mr. Lambert looked up, started to remove
his spectacles, and then with a start, adjusted them more accurately.
Paul, who had left his cap and bundle in the hall tried to stand in the
shadow so that his clothes would not be noticed. After a short silence,
Mr. Lambert preferring to observe nothing extraordinary in his nephew's
appearance, folded up his spectacles, put them in the breast pocket of
his frock coat and said, pleasantly,
"Well? What have you decided?"
Paul cleared his throat.
"I have decided--I have decided--" he finished by spreading his hands
and shrugging his shoulders.
"To undertake your--er--responsibilities?" prompted Mr. Lambert, as if
he were administering an oath.
"To learn how to bake pies," said Paul, feebly, and then mumbling some
vague excuse he backed out of the room, leaving Mr. Lambert to indulge
in a short chuckle.
Paul hid himself in the bakeshop until he felt reasonably sure that his
cousin had gone to bed, and then, boots in hand tiptoed shamefacedly up
to the bedroom, and began to undress in the dark. But Carl was not
asleep, and after listening to Paul's smothered exclamations as he
struggled with wet button holes and laces, could not resist a polite
jibe.
"Oh," came in interested tones from the bed, "where did you go, cousin?"
"For a walk," replied Paul, laconically, and a certain note in his voice
warned Carl that it would be wiser not to refer to the delicate subject
again.