Paul, in his heavy canvas apron, his sleeves rolled up, flour in his
hair, on his eyelashes, and on the end of his nose, sat on a
three-legged stool in front of the door of the big oven. There was an
expression of such dogged concentration on his face, such fierce
intensity in the grim frown between his eyebrows, that one might have
thought he was expecting to draw forth a new universe, remodelled nearer
to his heart's desire, from the roasting bakeoven. The event he was
anticipating was indeed of great moment not only to him but to at least
four other members of the household who had gathered in the
kitchen--Aunt Gertrude, Jane, Elise, and ruddy little Anna, the bouncing
little assistant cook and shop-keeper, who never could watch Paul's
culinary struggles without going into a fit of giggling.
"It's been in twenty minutes," announced Jane, glancing at the clock.
Paul raised his head and glowered at her.
"Can you or can you not hold your tongue?"
"I can not," answered Jane, frankly.
"Who's making this cake?"
"Come, Janey, leave Paul alone and don't bother him," said Elise. "Come
over here and let me try this sleeve to see if it fits." Elise was
engaged in making over one of her mother's gowns into a school-dress for
Jane. Jane obediently stood through the process of a fitting, but
craning around to keep her eye on Paul.
Suddenly, taking hold of the hot handle of the oven-door with his apron,
he flung it open; and reaching in, pulled forth the huge cake pan.
"There! Now, Aunt Gertrude, come and look at this fellow! How's _that_
for a blooming success?" His face simply beamed with pride as a chorus
of "Oh's" and "Ah's" greeted his first real triumph. Five big disks of
cake, delicately, perfectly browned, light as a feather, he turned out
onto the wooden board.
"Beautiful!" cried Aunt Gertrude. "I've never made a better one myself,
have I Elise? No, not even your grandfather could make that cake more
perfectly."
Paul swelled out his broad chest.
"Now I am a Baker!" he announced. "_I'm_ the boss around here, and I
think I'll begin by firing--Jane!"
Jane, delighted and quite as triumphant as he, made a spring for him,
and flinging both arms around his waist hugged him ecstatically,
shouting,
"I knew you could do it! _I_ said you could!"
Paul tweaked her nose.
"I suppose you'll be saying _you_ made that cake, next. You couldn't
learn to bake an article like that in a life time. Unhand me, woman,
I've got to fix the frosting."
His satisfaction sprang from a deeper source than that of the mere
success. Some people might think it quite a trivial matter to make a
good cake, but Paul, during weeks of abject failure, had come to
consider that it required superhuman powers. It must be remembered of
course, that Winkler's cakes were not like any others, and that into the
mixing and baking of those delectable goodies there had to go a skill
and care that not many people could give. Repeated failure had made Paul
moody; he had even begun to think that his lack of success was
attributable to some deep-rooted weakness in himself. He had, in fact,
begun to give it quite an important significance; and, in his
earnestness, had even gone to the length of making a curious pact with
himself. He had determined not to touch a pencil, not even to open the
precious box of paints that Jane had given him, until he had learned to
make cakes and bread that should be an honor to the venerable traditions
of his family. Moreover, considerable reflection had convinced him that
Jane had been right in advising him to try to win his uncle's good will;
and he had not liked to have Mr. Lambert believe that he was
deliberately trying _not_ to make good.
Jane understood very well the real cause of his satisfaction; and she
was as pleased as if he had accomplished a Herculean task.
That night Mr. Lambert expressed his satisfaction in Paul's final
success. He was a very just man, and he did not fail to commend his
nephew for his patience.
"I am glad to see, my boy, that you have taken a reasonable view of your
situation; and have so fully realized your peculiar responsibilities."
Thereafter he began to treat Paul with a marked difference of manner; he
consulted him quite as often as he consulted Carl, discussed domestic
and public business with him, entrusted important errands to him, and,
in a word, no longer treated him as if he were an eccentric and willful
child.
Within the three months that had passed since Paul had come to live with
his relatives his position had changed astonishingly. At the beginning
of February he found himself looked up to by the "women-folk" as if he
were a prime minister. He suggested, and was allowed to carry into
effect several important changes in the simple business system of the
Bakery; and customers with special requests were now referred to the big
boy, who handled their concerns and their temperaments with perfect tact
and good sense.
But if Paul seemed at last to have given in to his uncle's wishes, he
was in truth no more reconciled to the lot which destiny had flung in
his way than before. He simply kept his own counsel.
On the other hand two things had contributed to teach patience to the
impetuous boy, who never in his life before had known anything like
restraint. At first he had consoled himself for his repeated defeats in
the simple matter of cake-baking by the thought that he was designed for
more impressive things. But the impressive things were not ready to be
done yet, and he was being measured by his failure in that which _was_
at hand. And so it came about that he put all his will to the simple,
woman's task, until he had mastered it. In the process, he had come,
also, to take a more personal interest in the family affairs; and no
longer to think of himself as an outsider, to whom the interests of his
kindly relatives were matters of total indifference. He was proud, too,
to bear the name of one of the first inhabitants of Frederickstown. It
made him feel that he had some share in the little community; he was no
longer a boy "without a country," as he had told his farmer
acquaintance. He knew everyone; and he was more or less interested in
their various affairs. Once, after he had been listening to some of the
older men discussing, in his uncle's warehouse, a question which had
arisen concerning the matter of running the state highway through the
town, or turning it off from one of the outlying roads, he had said
laughingly to Jane that he was getting a mild attack of "civic
interest"; and then after a moment's thought, he had added more
seriously, "But it's true. I've gotten pretty fond of this place. I
almost feel as if I belong to it, and it belongs to me. I'd like to make
it proud of me some day. It's all very nice and fine to say that you're
an independent citizen, and don't hail from anywhere in particular, but
you _do_ feel lonely and left-out, and there are lots of things you
never can understand. Lots of things," he repeated, with more emphasis.
"I've seen dozens of fellows knocking around the world, coming from
nowhere in particular, and going nowhere in particular. Some of 'em were
pretty clever, I guess--I'd hear 'em talking, sometimes on board ship,
sometimes around the tables in the taverns. I used to listen to
them--they talked as if they knew a lot, and were usually worked up over
something,--Americans, and Italians and down-and-out Englishmen. Lord,
how they used to shout and argue and pound their fists. But, now that I
think of it, all they said was nothing much but a lot of noise. They
were like sea-weed floating around without its roots sticking anywhere.
They sounded awfully fiery and patriotic, but I don't think they
honestly cared much about any place under the sun, or about any _thing_.
And that's a bad way to be. It would be better, I think, to spend all
your days in one place and to love that place, even if you got kind of
narrowed down--than to belong nowhere." These grave views surprised
Jane, and perhaps she did not wholly understand Paul's meaning. He was
older than she, and was beginning to think like a man, and sometimes she
could not quite follow his thoughts. But she hoped that he meant that he
would find it possible to work out his own ambitions without going away.
Sometimes she wondered--he spoke so little now about his plans--whether
he had given them up altogether; and this she did not like to believe.
But Jane, inquisitive as she was, could hold her peace very patiently
when she felt that it was better so.
In the second place, Paul had become very conscious of his almost total
lack of education. He could read, and write, and figure well enough to
cast up the accounts with accuracy; but beyond these elements he knew
nothing save what he had gleaned from his rough contact with the world.
His ignorance of many things which even the twins had learned, sometimes
startled even Jane; and Carl had never left off making sly fun of him
for counting on his fingers like a kindergarten child when he had to
calculate a simple problem in multiplication.
At first he had pretended to scorn his cousin's book-learning, but
little by little he found himself envying Carl's extensive knowledge,
which that youth was rather overfond of airing. Every generation of
Winklers had seen to it that the young ones acquired a sound, simple,
thorough education; and among them poor Uncle Franz had stood out as the
"dunce."
There was something quite pathetic in the sight of the big boy sitting
on those winter evenings, listening to the twins lisp out their next
day's lessons to Elise, and storing away as well as he could the simple
things he heard; and many times, he sat up until after midnight, over
the ashes of the fire, poring over an old "Elementary History of the
United States," humbly beginning where Janey had long since finished;
and stumbling over words that even Lottie could spell easily.
In the midst of these occupation, Paul spent little time in dwelling
upon plans for departure. He seemed content to bide his time, if
necessary, for an indefinite period; and had settled into a state of
peace and amity toward all the world, with one and only one exception.
That exception was Carl. Just where the rub came between the two boys it
would be hard to say; but hard as he tried to hold his temper in check,
Paul found it impossible either to hit it off with Carl, or to discover
the root of his cousin's grudge against him; and it often seemed to him
that Carl deliberately tried to rouse the old Adam in him. Every day
Carl's disposition became more acid, and as the spring progressed he
became positively intolerable. Paul had put up with his ill-humors as
well as he could, partly because, during the latter part of the winter,
Carl, who was the least sturdy of his cousins had not been very well. He
suffered frequently from severe headaches, and his constant studying,
which he doubled as the spring examinations approached, certainly did
not improve either his health or his disposition. Aunt Gertrude was
worried about him, and tried to coax him to spend more of his time out
of doors, for by the end of March the snow had melted away from the
hills, the sun was growing warmer, and the trees already turning green
with buds opening in the genial warmth of an early southern spring. He
resisted these gentle efforts, however, and even when the long Easter
holiday came, settled down to a process of cramming, utterly indifferent
to the delicious weather. Even his father had one or two slight
difficulties with him, so uncertain was his temper, and the other
members of his family treated him with kid gloves, but with Paul he
squabbled almost continually. Now Paul had mislaid some of his papers;
now he had left the stopper off the inkwell, now he had put his shoes
where he couldn't find them. More than once it occurred to Paul that
Carl was actually trying to goad him into leaving. "But what on earth
have I ever done to the idiot?" he wondered. That Carl was jealous of
him never dawned on his mind; and yet it was the case. Carl was jealous
of the position his cousin had taken in the household; he was jealous of
his physical strength; he was even jealous of the self-control with
which Paul curbed his anything but mild temper, under his continual
nagging.
One day, flying into a rage over some trivial matter, Carl informed him
that the trouble with him was "his confounded swell-head." By this time,
Paul had reached the end of his tether; he retaliated, with a sudden
thrust that went home to Carl's most vulnerable spot.
"What's the matter with you, anyway?" he demanded whirling upon his
cousin. There was a black frown on his face; and suddenly losing his
temper altogether, he seized Carl's shoulder fiercely. "I'm sick of your
eternal whining, and snarling. You snap at me at every chance you
get,--but nothing on earth would make you fight like a--a man! Would it?
Hey?"
Carl wrenched himself out of his grip, and backed toward the door,
trembling with fury.
"You've a swell-head," he repeated, stubbornly, his eyes flashing, "and
you're a--don't you dare to touch me! I hate you! You're a bully--that's
what you are!"
"A bully! It's you that's the bully. You know darn well that _you're_
safe in nagging the life out of me--you're pretty sure that I wouldn't
hurt a little fellow like you. You're a little coward, Carl Lambert, but
I tell you now that if you don't stop your eternal whining,
I'll--I'll--"
"You'll what?" sneered Carl.
"I'll thrash you until you can't stand up. Do you understand me?" And
once more Paul's big hand clamped down on his shoulder. Carl's face went
white, and a look of such utter terror superseded the one of rage, that
Paul was astonished.
"What on earth is the matter with you?" he repeated, in a milder tone.
"Will you tell me what I've ever done to you?"
"I hate you! I've hated you ever since you came here! Thrash me if you
want to! Nothing will ever make me hate you any worse than I do now!"
Paul frowning more in bewilderment than anger stared into his cousin's
pale, distorted face. Then suddenly he asked,
"If you hate me so much, why didn't _you_ tell Uncle Peter about my
playing billiards--for money--with Jeff Roberts?"
Carl did not answer.
"I can't make you out," went on Paul, as if he were talking to himself.
"You bother the life out of me, you squabble and row from morning to
night, and you never say _what_ you're down on me for. I honestly
believe that until recently you had a lot to do with Uncle Peter's bad
opinion of me, and yet--somehow, I _don't_ believe you hate me as much
as you think you do. If _you_ had told Uncle Peter about that business
with Jeff Roberts he would certainly--not certainly, perhaps, but very
likely--have sent me packing, and you would have been rid of me, and yet
you didn't do it. And it wasn't as if you weren't a tell-tale, because
you are. And what under the sun makes you say I've got a swell-head?"
"It's the truth," repeated Carl, doggedly, and not another word would he
say. There was nothing to do but to leave him alone; but the strain of
putting up with his sullen silence--which he maintained for a full
week--wore on Paul's patience, until more than once he was on the point
of declaring his definite intention to put up with it no longer. It was
at the end of that week--the last in a warm, summery April--that matters
changed suddenly, bringing the first trouble that Paul had yet had to
share with his kinsfolk.
One warm Saturday afternoon, when it was May in everything but name,
Jane revelling in the last days of the spring vacation proposed a long
walk into the country. The twins, Paul, and Elise approved heartily.
"And try to coax Carl out, too, Lisa," said Aunt Gertrude, who wanted to
stay at home to do some mending while she took charge of the shop. "He
doesn't take any exercise at all these days."
At first Carl growled, and said he wished they'd leave him alone, but
just as Elise had given up trying to persuade him, he suddenly changed
his mind; though still grumbling as if they were making him do something
against his will, joined the jolly little party. But it cannot be said
that he was a particularly lively member of it. He looked pale and
sulky, walked by himself, and with a moody expression kept his eyes on
Jane and Paul as if their high spirits, their perfect camaraderie
angered him. And in fact, not the least of his grievances against Paul
was Jane's affection for him; for cold and selfish as Carl might be, he
loved Jane in his own way, and in addition, he hated not to be the chief
object of interest. Besides, he was feeling half ill again.
"Shall we ask Lily to come with us?" suggested Elise, as they reached
the top of Sheridan Lane.
"Let's ask everyone we meet," said Jane, "everybody! Nobody ought to
stay cooped up indoors to-day. Poor Lily--she's practising again."
And in fact Lily's voice, a little listless and monotonous to-day came
sweetly through the quiet air; there did not seem to be much joy in
Schubert's beautiful little spring song as she sang it--"And winking
Mary-buds begin, to ope their golden eyes--" she broke off in the middle
of the second part.
"Lily!"
A moment later she appeared at the window.
"Come along! You've got to come along with us!"
"Where are you going?"
"A-maying."
"But it isn't May," said Lily trying to sound merry. Nevertheless, in
another minute she was with them, swinging her straw hat on her arm. On
down the lane they went, under the light shade of the budding trees,
past the old iron fountain.
"Whoa. Where are you off to?" shouted the voice of some invisible being;
there was a scrambling, scraping sound in the branches of a tree that,
growing inside of the wall around the Sheridan place, extended its
patriarchal boughs across the road; and presently the lord of the manor,
hot, and red, with a three foot saw in his hand swung gracefully into
view.
"Are you going to have a party without _me_?" he asked in an injured
tone. "Can't I come, too?"
"There!" said Jane in a low tone, giving Paul a surreptitious pinch,
"what did I tell you?"
"Are you going to begin meddling with that again?" demanded Paul, also
in a low tone, remembering bitterly the unhappy part he had been called
upon to play at the Webster's party. "Because if so, I'm going home."
"I'll meddle if I think it's necessary," returned Jane, calmly, "but I
don't believe it will be."
And, indeed, from the first it seemed quite plain that her valuable
services were not required. With the air of one who feels that her small
tasks have been well done, she watched Lily and Mr. Sheridan who
wandered on ahead, leading the way across the old wooden bridge, and up
the hill.
Jane said frankly to Paul that she would "sort of like to hear what they
were talking about," but Paul was pained, and undertook to lecture her
on the spot for her deplorable habits.
On each side of the road lay the broad fields, where, in the furrows of
dark earth, freshly ploughed, young corn was already thrusting upwards
its vivid green blades.
"How do you like my scare-crow?" Mr. Sheridan called back, waving gaily
toward the grotesque figure which bore an absurd resemblance to
Peterson. "I made Peterson dress him up in his winter suit. Isn't he a
fine, impressive fellow, though. How do you think he'd strike you if you
were a crow?" Then without waiting for an answer, he went on talking to
Lily, describing all his late activities in the line of agriculture, his
plans for new buildings on his land, and airing, boyishly all his newly
acquired--and perhaps not entirely assimilated--knowledge of farming.
Jane might have found this talk distinctly disappointing, but to Lily
everything that he said seemed remarkable.
"And then, perhaps, you are going to live here--a good deal of the
time?" she asked timidly. "I very glad that you have found so much to
interest you."
Mr. Sheridan turned to help her over a stile. For some reason, her
words, so simply said, and without the slightest tinge of coquetry,
seemed to disconcert him.
"I--yes. I--have grown very much attached to Frederickstown--and farming
is interesting because--because--" But for the life of him he could not
think of any reason _why_.
The little party trailed across the field, all walking together now,
laughing and talking. Only Carl hung behind. To begin with, he was not
yet on speaking terms with Paul, and he was piqued at Jane, and the
sunlight made his over-strained eyes ache, and he was thoroughly tired
out already. Lily was walking arm in arm with Elise, and both were
talking to Mr. Sheridan, the twins were running ahead, trying to catch
the yellow butterflies that they frightened away from the early
field-flowers; and Paul and Jane strolled along side by side sometimes
joining in the talk of the others, sometimes discussing their own
affairs. But at last Jane turned around, and noticing for the first time
how Carl was lagging, called to him.
"Why don't you come and walk with us, Carl?"
"I'm all right as I am, amn't I?" he returned. Jane shrugged her
shoulders.
"What's the matter with him?" she asked Paul. "Have you had another
quarrel?"
"Not since Monday,--haven't had a chance. He won't speak to me. I don't
know what's the matter with him," Paul shook his head. "I _have_ tried
to get along with him, but I can't seem to work it. He says he hates me,
and that he's always hated me--and maybe its true, though I don't see
why. I mean that I've never given him any cause that I know of. I've
been thinking about it a lot lately. I seem to make him downright
unhappy--he acts as if I had slipped into his shoes, and I've never
taken anything he wanted, have I?" and after a short pause, he added,
"And I'm sure that I don't want anything he has. It seems to get worse
with him all the time. Perhaps, Janey, his feelings may be hurt because
you and I get along so well. Maybe I'd feel the same way if I were your
brother, and he were a 'swell-head' cousin from nowhere. After a bit,
why don't you drop back with him?"
"Why should he hate you?" wondered Jane. "I could understand if you were
really--"
"What?"
"If you were like what you _seemed_ to be like the first night you were
here," she said frankly. "I didn't like you then either. I didn't like
you for quite a long time. I didn't like you until you said that you
were going away."
"Maybe Carl would like me better if I told him that," said Paul,
laughing, but with a rather sad expression in his eyes. "And I've been
thinking lately--"
"What?" asked Jane, quickly, looking up into his face.
"I've been thinking that I--perhaps I ought to, Janey."
"No, no, no, _no_! Not yet, Paul! You said, just the other day--and what
a silly little thing to make so much of. Lots of _brothers_ squabble and
call each other names--"
"But it doesn't make a particularly happy household, does it? I don't
want to go, Janey--not yet. J don't want to go until--it's a hard thing
to explain exactly, but this is the way it is. When I first came, I was
thinking only of one thing--father was gone, and I didn't care for
anyone in the world, and I didn't want to. I wanted to work by myself
and for myself, in the way that seemed most to my liking--and when I
found that Uncle had other plans for me, and intended to force me into
them, it made me furious--and what was worse was the thought that I had
to do either as Uncle wanted or--well, _starve_, if I was out of luck.
And I was afraid of starving, being an ordinary human being. I started
to run away the first night I was here--Carl knows that--and I didn't
because I was afraid to. He knows that, too. And so I stayed on,
planning to make a break as soon as I could. And I hated everything--I
was perfectly miserable--until that night, do you remember, when we had
that talk by the fire. After that, I began to look at things
differently. It seemed to me that I'd been acting like a donkey, and so
I decided to do as you said--make the best of things as I found them,
and see what would happen. And now--I don't know how it is--but you've
all been so good to me, and it makes a difference not to be all alone.
Now, when I think of the fine things I may do some day, I think of how
you all may be proud of me, and how--perhaps--maybe Frederickstown would
be proud of--all that seems silly, doesn't it--but anyway that's the
reason why I'd hate to go away now--why I'd hate to go away with any
hard feeling behind me. That is, unless it simply _had_ to be. Men
_have_ lived alone, and worked and done great things with no one to care
whether they lived or died--and I could do it, too. But, over and above
cake-baking--" he laughed, as if a little ashamed of his own
seriousness, "I've learned that--I've learned that it is a better thing
not to be all alone."
Jane made no reply, and presently Paul went on,
"I daresay I made myself pretty disagreeable at first, and I don't
wonder that Carl hated me then--but I _have_ tried to be decent to him,
and to make him like me. If he doesn't, it certainly isn't his fault--it
can't be helped. Only, I haven't any right--I mean, if he's going to be
miserable while I'm around, if I get on his nerves every minute--it
isn't as if we were little kids, we'll soon be men, and two men
quarrelling with each other in one family can make an awful mess of
things. You were all happy together before I came." As he said this he
looked down gravely into the round, sober little face beside him. "Don't
you see, Janey?"
Janey did not answer; but a little later as they all turned into the
cool shade of the woods, she dropped back until she was walking near
Carl. She had too much instinctive wisdom to seem to do so deliberately,
and she did not talk to him until the twins started to hunt for violets
and jacks-in-the-pulpit, when she began to remind him of the places they
had explored the summer before, and the grotto they had found the summer
before that until he began to feel as if he were receiving the attention
which was his brotherly due.
The beautiful afternoon wore on happily. For a long time they all sat
talking and laughing under the trees, sorting the white and purple
violets that they had picked. Once or twice Tim Sheridan thought of what
Phil Blackstone and Johnny Everett and Mary and all the rest of them
would say to his bucolic pleasures, and grinned at the thought of the
expressions they would wear; and he wondered himself at his own
enjoyment in the company of these simple young people--but he was having
a better time than he had ever had in his life, and even Peterson was
beginning to show some interest in his eccentric master's latest
occupations.
And for a time, Carl, too, joined in the chatter, as poor little Janey,
inwardly saddened by what Paul had told her so simply, tried to coax him
out of his sullen humor.
When, at length they all started homeward, he even linked his arm
through hers. Now, she thought, was the time to ask him what was the
root of his ill-feeling against Paul, now was the time to tell him what
Paul had said--she hated so for people to be unhappy for no reason, or
for silly reasons.
"Carl, listen," she began, "I want to--" but he suddenly interrupted
her.
"Look here, Jane--I don't know what's the matter with me. But I--I feel
like the dickens."
She did not quite understand him.
"What about?" she asked.
"What about? About nothing--my head aches like all get-out, and every
now and then everything gets to jiggling in front of my eyes." She
looked at him in alarm, and saw that his face was terribly pale.
"Carl! You mean you're ill? Let me--oh, what's the matter?"
"For heaven's sake, don't kick up a fuss now. No, don't tell Elise," he
said, impatiently. "I'll get home all right. And don't scare mother to
death when we get there. I guess it's the sun or something. And--don't
walk so fast."
Jane, more frightened by the look of his face, than by his words,
obediently slackened her pace. The others were eight or ten yards ahead
of them.
"Hurry up, Janey--we'll be late for supper," called Elise, glancing back
at them. Jane looked pleadingly at Carl.
"I _have_ to tell Elise. Please, Carl, dear, don't be foolish."
"No, you must _not_. I tell you I won't have them all fussing over me,
and talking, and asking questions!" he exclaimed, with a sudden flash of
temper. "Let 'em go ahead if they want to."
They dropped farther and farther behind, until the others were already
crossing the bridge as they were just gaining the road. But Paul,
strolling along with his hands in his pockets whistling an accompaniment
to his own thoughts was midway between the two divisions of the party.
Suddenly Carl declared that he had to rest until his head stopped
throbbing a bit. Just then Paul happened to glance back.
"Hey! Are you going to spend the summer back there?" he shouted,
cheerfully, but the next moment he seemed to guess that something was
wrong, for after a little hesitation, he turned and started to walk
toward them.
"We're coming," said Jane, "only Carl has a little headache, and he
wanted to rest a minute."
Paul looked critically at his cousin's white face. He did not waste any
time in asking the well-meant questions that Carl found so
objectionable, but said simply,
"I guess you'd better let me help you, Carl."
To Jane's surprise there was no hostility in her brother's eyes.
"I won't have _them_ make a fuss over me, do you hear," he said in a
dull voice. Paul glanced at Jane.
"You cut along with the others, Janey. There's a short cut through this
field. Carl and I'll go this way."
"Good idea," muttered Carl. "Guess we'll--try that, Jane." And with an
effort, he got to his feet.
"Take my arm," said Paul.
Jane watched them as they started across the field, and then obediently
ran at full speed to catch up with the laughing, chattering group ahead.
As for the two sworn enemies, they made their way slowly along the
little, meandering footpath, that cut through the field, Carl leaning
more and more heavily on Paul's sturdy arm, frankly, if silently
grateful for its solid support. They said nothing, and Paul, who
realized more than Jane had that Carl was seriously ill, wore a grave
expression. He was thinking, not of the many bitter words that Carl had
showered on him, but of the angry threat he himself had uttered, and the
memory of it made him wince.
"We've only a little way to go, now, cousin," he said gently. "Would you
like me to give you a lift?"
Carl, quite exhausted by now only looked at his cousin incredulously.
"_You_ couldn't carry me," he said, thickly, and then drawing a long
breath, he added, "but I wish to goodness you could!"
Paul smiled.
"I guess you aren't much heavier than a keg of olives," and with that,
he lifted Carl quite easily in his arms, and set off at a quicker stride
across the field.
An hour later poor Carl was far past caring whether "they" made a fuss
over him or not. But indeed the worst part of it was that there was very
little fuss made at all. His room was so quiet that the chirping of the
birds in the budding trees outside his window, the sound of voices in
the street below could all be heard distinctly, and yet Aunt Gertrude
and Mr. Lambert sat beside his bed, and Janey was there, clinging to her
father's hand, and Paul sat half hidden in the little window embrasure,
staring out soberly at the fading sky. The shock and suddenness of it
all had stunned the little family.
It was only Mr. Lambert's face that Paul could see clearly in the dusk
of the room, and the transformation it had undergone since the old man
realized the danger of his only son, left an indelible memory on the
boy's mind. All its pompousness had fled--it looked old and helpless and
humble. And apart as he was, Paul, looking upon their fear and sorrow,
felt that he was being welded to his own people. All his own desires
seemed at that moment, small and selfish, and with a thrill of pity, he
vowed silently that if the need came, he was ready to lay aside his own
hopes forever, without regret, and be their son.