It was not until the nineteenth of May that the burly, grey-haired
little doctor could say definitely that Carl would get well. And even
then he could not entirely dissolve the cloud that hung over the family.
Carl's eyes which had always been weak and near-sighted had been gravely
injured by incessant overstraining, and the doctor said frankly enough
that unless he took the greatest care of them there was a strong
possibility of his losing his sight.
"No books, Mrs. Lambert. Nothing but rest," he said, firmly. "Later, he
must be out of doors. Plenty of exercise, plenty of sleep, and no study
for at least a year."
This program, so entirely opposed to all Carl's tastes was not imparted
to him until he was well on the road to recovery. He listened to it
stoically, propped up among Aunt Gertrude's downiest feather pillows, in
the dark bedroom, a green shade almost bandaging his eyes, and hiding
half of his thin white face.
"Does the old boy think there's a likelihood of my being blind anyway?"
he inquired, using the blunt word without a tremor. No one answered him.
His face turned a shade paler as he turned helplessly from one side to
the other trying to guess where his mother and father were standing. Mr.
Lambert attempted to say something, but all he could do was to take his
son's groping hand in his.
"Well--that's all right, father. I guess I'll go to sleep now," said
Carl, after a short pause. "There's no good kicking up a fuss about that
yet." And drawing his hand away he lay down quietly, turning his face to
the wall. He was quite still, until, thinking that he was asleep, his
father and mother left the room noiselessly, Mr. Lambert with his arm
around his wife's shoulders.
Then, wide-awake, Carl almost savagely worked himself up on his pillows,
and sat alone, thinking.
He wondered what time it was. He did not know whether it was morning or
afternoon. That it was day and not night he could guess from the busy
rumbling of wagons on the street, and the soft chattering of the twins'
voices in the little garden below. Then he heard the solemn, monotonous
tones of the old church clock.
"Just noon-day," he thought. "The twins have been home all morning, so
school must have closed. And it must be fair, or they wouldn't be
playing in the garden."
At that moment he heard careful, tiptoeing footsteps outside his door.
He had already become quick at recognizing the tread of different
members of the family, and without the least uncertainty he called out,
"Paul!"
Then he heard the door open.
"I thought you were asleep," said Paul's voice.
"Well, I'm not." Then in a jocose tone, Carl said, "It's a beautiful
day, isn't it?"
"Why, yes," answered Paul, in some surprise. "Look here--have you been
taking off that bandage?"
"No. But it _is_ a beautiful day isn't it? I just wanted to be sure I
guessed right."
Paul said nothing. To him there was something indescribably terrible and
touching in Carl's cheerfulness, and in the sight of that half-hidden
face turned nearly but not exactly in his direction.
"_You_ heard what the doctor said," said Carl abruptly, "there's a
chance that I may be blind, isn't there? Come on, and tell me. You
certainly can't keep me from knowing sooner or later. _Did_ he say
that?"
"Yes. He did," Paul replied briefly. Carl seemed to think this over
quite calmly for a moment or two; then with a dignity that he had never
shown before, he said slowly,
"You once said I was a coward, cousin. And you were right. I _am_ a
coward in the way you big fellows think of it. But maybe I'm not a
coward in _every_ way. Maybe I'm not. I don't know. Maybe I am." Paul
said nothing, but stood helplessly with his hands on the back of the
chair.
"Sit down--that is, if you want to," Carl suggested rather awkwardly.
"It isn't time for your lunch yet, is it? Where's Janey?"
"She's helping Elise." Paul sat down, crossed his legs and looked at his
cousin, not knowing exactly what else to say. He looked odd enough
sitting there, in his apron, his sleeves rolled up and his shirt open at
the neck, sunburnt and strong in contrast to the bony, pallid boy in the
bed.
Carl fingered his eyeshade wistfully.
"Lord, I wish I could take this confounded thing off for just a minute,"
he muttered moving his head restlessly. "Do _you_ believe what the
doctor says?"
"I believe you'll be all right in six months," said Paul. Carl sat bolt
upright.
"_Do_ you think so? Do you really. You aren't saying that just to cheer
me up? No, _you_ wouldn't do that, would you?"
"No," said Paul, "I wouldn't."
"Do you think I'll be able to go back to school next year?"
"No," said Paul, "I don't."
"You don't?" Then Carl laughed. "Well, I'm glad you say what you think."
"It's very likely, though, that you'll be able to study a little, and a
fellow as clever as you are won't be behind long," went on Paul,
gravely. Carl was vastly pleased at the compliment.
"What makes you think I'm--clever?" he asked presently.
"Why, you _are_," answered Paul in a surprised tone, and then with a
rather sad little laugh, he added, "I wish I knew one tenth--one
_hundredth_ as much as you do. I'm a dunce, I don't know as much as
Lottie does--not nearly."
In the face of this humble remark, Carl remembered rather uncomfortably
the innumerable jibes he had directed at his cousin's ignorance.
"Well, you can teach yourself a lot," he said a little patronizingly.
Paul laughed.
"I try to. But I--I can't even read decently, and it takes the dickens
of a long time."
"Can't _read_!" cried Carl.
"Well, not enough to boast of. I never went to school in my life. A long
time ago my mother or somebody must have taught me something, and then I
picked up what I could here and there. There was an old fellow I knew
years ago,--he was a passenger on a little coast trading vessel--we were
going from Marseilles down to the south of Italy, and on the voyage,
which was pretty slow,--because we sometimes stayed for two or three
days at different ports,--he taught me a few things. And then I learned
to read French pretty well, and a little Italian, and a young
Englishman--a college fellow, who'd given up studying for the ministry
and run away to sea--even taught me some Latin, though what under Heaven
he thought I'd do with it I don't know. He was a funny one," said Paul,
chuckling reminiscently, "a thin little chap, with a long nose. He used
to say that every gentleman should have a knowledge of the classics, and
you'd see him washing the deck, with copy of some old Latin fellow's
poetry sticking out of his back pocket."
"What did he go to sea for?" inquired Carl; for the first time he had
deigned to listen to some of Paul's adventures, and he found himself
getting very much interested.
"I don't know. His uncle was a lord or something--at least he told me
so, and I daresay it was true. He said he was a younger son, though what
that had to do with it I don't know. Anyway it seemed to be an awfully
important thing for me to remember. He wanted to make something of
himself, he said. I told him he'd do better as--well, anything but a
cabin boy, or deck hand or whatever he was. But he said he loved the
sea--though he was just about the worst sailor I ever saw."
"What happened to him?"
"I don't remember. Oh, yes, I do. The poor little cuss died--got typhus
or something and off he went. Bill Tyler told me about it. They buried
him at sea."
"Who was Bill Tyler?"
"Bill was--everything! He was an old bird--older than father. He'd done
everything, seen everything--you never knew such a man! He couldn't
write his own name, but he was the canniest, drollest--and talk about
strength! Next to father, I guess I liked him better than anyone on
earth!" Paul's face glowed, and he launched forth into an animated
account of his friend's virtues and exploits, urged on eagerly by Carl,
who made him go on every time he stopped. There were no absurd
exaggerations, a la Munchausen, in his tales that day. He was thinking
only of amusing the sick, feeble boy, and making him forget his own
dreary thoughts. Nor did he once reflect that it was this same boy who
had told him so passionately that he "hated him, and always would."
Elise appearing at the door with Carl's tray stopped short at the sound
of his laugh--the first spontaneous laugh she had heard from him in many
a day.
"How much better you seem, dear," she said, setting the tray on his
knees, and shaking up his pillows. "Paul, your lunch is waiting for
you." She sent him a grateful glance.
"If you haven't anything special to do, come on up when you've fed,"
suggested Carl elegantly. Elise nodded eagerly, and following Paul to
the door, said in a low voice,
"I wish you would, cousin. There isn't much to be done to-day--I can
take care of it, and it seems to have done him so much good."
So Paul spent the afternoon, a long, sunny afternoon, in that dark room,
talking to his cousin, telling him about people he had seen--and what a
heterogeneous collection they were!--places he had visited, adventures
he and his father had had together. A whole new world he opened to the
young bookworm, who listened with his hands folded, and a keen but
detached interest, to all these tales of action and happy-go-lucky
wanderings.
"All that's great to hear about," remarked Carl, "but I don't think I'd
like to live that way. Too much hopping about, and too--uncomfortable."
"I suppose it was uncomfortable--but I never knew what it was to _be_
comfortable--that is, to be sure of a good bed to sleep in, and plenty
to eat, and all that--so I never minded."
"It must bore you to be cooped up here--baking cakes! Ha-ha!" Carl
laughed outright. "I never thought before of how funny that was!"
"I have," remarked Paul, drily.
"What do you suppose that Bill Tyler would say?"
"I can't imagine," replied Paul, smiling glumly. "He'd probably say it
was a good job, and that I ought to thank Heaven for it. He was a
practical old egg, or he pretended to be. He was forever preaching what
he called 'hard sense'--and getting himself into more tight squeezes--he
was worse than father. He had more common sense and used it less than
any man I ever saw."
"Do you really want to be a painter?" asked Carl suddenly. "That's such
a queer thing to want to be."
"Oh, well," said Paul, evidently not anxious to pursue the subject.
"And so--_useless_."
"That's what Bill Tyler used to say. And yet _he_ was the one who took
me to a picture gallery for the first time in my life--I was only eleven
or twelve years old. And it was there that I met old Peguignot--so it
was partly Bill's fault that I began to think about painting at all. The
old duffer! He'd spend an entire afternoon rambling around some gallery,
going into raptures over this picture and that, pointing out what he
liked and what he didn't like--and then when we'd come out, he'd say,
'but that's all nonsense, and waste of time.'"
"Who was Peguignot?"
"Why, he was a little artist--a funny, shabby, excitable little guy,
with a perfectly enormous moustache that looked as if it were made out
of a lot of black hairpins; and his eyebrows were just like it. When he
talked and got enthusiastic about something, they'd all work up and
down. Bill and I came upon him one day in some gallery or other. He was
sitting up on a high stool making a copy of a big religious painting.
Bill began to talk to him, and, I suppose, just to tease him, started on
his favorite line about what nonsense it all was. I thought Peguignot
would blow up. He shook a whole handful of wet paint-brushes in Bill's
face, called him every name he could think of--I began to laugh and then
he turned on me, and told me I was a miserable boy, and please both of
us to go far away from him. But I said I agreed with him altogether, and
then we both started in on Bill. Well, anyhow it wound up by all of us
getting to be the best of friends; and after that Bill and I used to go
around and see him quite often. And he taught me all I ever learned
about painting. He wasn't very good himself, and he certainly wasn't
successful, but he knew a lot, and when he wasn't exploding about
something, he could tell what he knew very clearly. Poor little beggar,
he had a hard time of it--he was as poverty-stricken as Job most of the
time." And then Paul began to laugh. "I remember one day his landlady
came up to get his rent. He heard her coming, and got into a perfect
panic, and was actually trying to crawl under his bed when she knocked
at the door. Then he got very calm and dignified, and told me to let her
in. So in she came, and then an argument began, and finally both of them
started to weep and wring their hands--you never heard such a rumpus.
Finally he said to her, 'Madam, put me out. Put me out on the
streets--it is what I deserve,' and he began to hunt for his bedroom
slippers which were the things that were most precious to him I suppose.
And then she threw her apron over her head and wailed, and said she
couldn't do that because he was so 'leetle.' Well, at last he took a
picture that I had painted down from his easel, and said to her, 'Madam,
I give you this. Sell it, and keep the money.' Well, she stood there
glowering as if she simply couldn't think of anything strong enough to
say; until she suddenly roared out, 'Ah-h-h! You leetle _moustache_! Why
don't you sell it _yourself_! Then I should have my money.' And she took
the picture with both hands, and banged him over the head with it. But
at last she said she'd wait another month, and then she would have him
imprisoned--and off she went with my picture."
Carl laughed.
"And did he pay her the next month?"
"I don't know. In any case, he certainly wasn't imprisoned. But don't
think he took his debts lightly. He was ashamed of them and he was
ashamed of himself; and he worked for money in the only way he could,
and never tried to shirk his responsibilities. People knew that, and
they were lenient with him, because he was honest and good and they
loved him."
There was a pause, then Carl asked curiously, but with some hesitation,
"If I--if my eyes _don't_ get all right, what will you do?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean--will you stay on in the business?"
"In any case, it's my job, isn't it?" returned Paul evasively. Then
suddenly, he dropped his face in his hands. For so many nights, in the
little room to which he had been relegated since Carl's illness, he had
been wrestling with that problem. A hundred times he had decided that
there would be only one course open to him in the event that Carl should
not get well; he would stay with his family and help them. His uncle was
getting old, and the silent, tragic appeal in the poor man's eyes, and
his dreadful anxiety about his son had touched Paul even more than Aunt
Gertrude's sorrow.
"Ah, well, what's the use of trying to settle the whole course of your
life," he said aloud, but more as if he were speaking to himself. "You
get worked up, and start pitying yourself before there's anything
definite to pity yourself for." Then suddenly, he said, "Tell me,
cousin, I have wanted to ask you--why is it that you hated me? If you
don't want to answer never mind. We seem to be friends now--or I may be
mistaken."
Carl was silent for several moments, then he said rather gruffly,
"I--there was no reason perhaps. Let that be. You were right--when you
said that I didn't hate you as much as I thought I did."
That was the last reference that was made to their former enmity. They
were too different, perhaps, ever to be really intimate, but the hatchet
was buried between them.
During Carl's convalescence Paul was with him a great deal. His stock of
stories seemed inexhaustible, and in lieu of books Carl found them the
only source of novel entertainment to be had; and for the time being
Paul was exempted from his duties in the Bakery to amuse his cousin. It
was not any too amusing for _him_; but he willingly passed hour after
hour at Carl's bedside. It was the sight of the bandaged eyes that kept
his sympathy keen and made him gentle and patient even when Carl was
fretful and hard to please.
One day Carl said to him,
"Why don't you read aloud to me? The doctor says it'll be all right now.
I've a mountain of stuff to make up for school, and we'll both gain
something."
Paul blushed. He was not particularly keen on displaying his
shortcomings outright to Carl, even if he did confess them. But oh
second thoughts, he got the book that his cousin asked for, and opening
it, plunged in bravely. It was a humiliating experience for him, to have
to stop before a long word, and pronounce it syllable by syllable, and
although Carl did not laugh at him, he corrected him with an air of
grave superiority that was even more trying. But the very fact that he
did not shine in this particular province, increased Carl's good will
toward him.
"You are getting on very well," he said in a patronizing tone. "Keep it
up."
The books that they read frequently led to arguments--friendly debates,
and these were Carl's special delight. He liked to pretend that he was
addressing a jury, and would launch forth into a flood of eloquence, to
which Paul listened very respectfully, usually taking care not to
contradict his cousin or to wound his vanity by remaining unconvinced by
his oratory. But sometimes he would get carried away himself, and a
vigorous battle would follow, in which Paul had only his clear, simple
reasoning to pit against Carl's confusing knowledge. But both of them
enjoyed it; Carl loved to dispute any point at all, and Paul "liked the
exercise."
But in the long run, Paul found Carl's favorite occupations very little
to his taste. He grew weary of his cousin's books, with their
long-winded dissertations, he positively hated the dim room; and the
innumerable games of checkers that they played, when Carl's eyes finally
began to improve, gradually developed in him a profound detestation of
that pastime. His only satisfaction came to him from his aunt's and
uncle's gratitude.
By the end of the month Carl was well enough to sit up in a chair by the
window for three or four hours a clay, and even to take off his eyeshade
for a little while in the evening when the light was softer. The family
happiness over this improvement was boundless, and in the late
afternoons everyone gathered in Carl's room. These were gay occasions,
and even Mr. Lambert, who always sat beside his son, and never took his
eyes from his face, cracked jokes, and laughed and was in the best humor
imaginable.
One Sunday afternoon they were thus collected--all of them, including
Granny, who sat rocking serenely back and forth, smiling benignly and a
little absent-mindedly upon them all, winding a skein of deep magenta
wool, which Lottie held for her. The whole room was in pleasant
disorder, books and games lay scattered around, for Mr. Lambert had
relaxed his usual strict Sabbath rules while Carl was ill, and permitted
all sorts of uncustomary amusements. Minie was cutting new paper dolls
out of the Sunday paper, and painting them in glorious hues. Everyone
was gossiping and chattering--everyone, that is except Jane and Paul,
who sat on the little bench that made a seat in the embrasure of the
casement window.
Jane, who had missed her cousin severely during the last weeks, was
content to have him with her again, and sat beside him, looking through
the section of the newspaper that Minie had graciously spared. Paul, a
trifle out of spirits, was staring out of the window. It was open,
admitting a gentle evening breeze, which rustled through the full-blown
foliage of Jane's beloved nut-tree. Below, on the other side of the
street some children were playing hop-scotch. And from somewhere came
the sound of boyish voices singing in "close harmony"--"I was seeing
Nelly ho-ome, I was seeing Nelly home, It was from Aunt Dinah's quilting
party, I was seeing Nel-ly home."
Suddenly Jane laid her hand on Paul's to attract his attention. "Look!
Look at this, Paul," she said in a low voice, putting the paper on his
knee, and pointing to a paragraph.
He glanced down and read,
"C----. June 1st. The Academy of Arts announces that it will offer a
series of prizes for painting and sculpture, to be competed for
according to the following rules." Then followed a list of regulations,
after which the notice went on to say that, "All work must be submitted
on or before September 1st. Three prizes will be awarded in each
department. No work will be considered unless etc., etc."
"Well, what of it?" said Paul, shortly.
"Can't you--why don't you--"
"You know I can't. Look at that kid down there, will you--"
"Paul, why not?"
"Because I can't, I tell you," he repeated, irritably.
"But why don't you try," persisted Jane, undaunted. "If you don't win
anything, there's no harm done, and if you _should_, Paul--if you
_should_--"
"When and where would I be able to do any work, will you tell me?" He
spoke almost angrily, but he took the paper from her hand and looked at
it again.
"What are you two whispering about?" inquired Carl. He still felt a
twinge of jealousy when he saw Jane and Paul talking without taking him
into their confidence.
"Nothing," said Paul. "Just something Jane saw in the paper." And
picking up Minie's rubber ball he began to bounce and catch it
monotonously.
"What is it?"
With a shrug of his shoulders, Paul handed the paper over to Carl,
pointing out the paragraph. Carl gave it to Mr. Lambert.
"Read it, father." So Mr. Lambert put on his spectacles, while Jane
looked uneasily at Paul.
Mr. Lambert read it aloud, and then without making any comment, laid the
paper aside. He looked displeased.
"Why don't you compete, Paul?" said Carl suddenly. "There'd be no harm
in trying."
Then Aunt Gertrude, glancing timidly at her husband, found courage to
put in a word.
There was a silence, during which everyone waited for Mr. Lambert to say
something; but no remark from him was forthcoming. That he was annoyed
could be seen plainly, but because the suggestion had come from Carl he
maintained his silence.
"Do you think you'd stand any chance of winning, Paul?" Carl asked
secure in his peculiar privileges of free speech.
"I don't know. How should I?"
Jane was simply on tenter-hooks. If only Carl would take up the case!
"Would you like to try it?"
"Yes. I would."
"Well, why don't you? You could find some place--"
"That isn't the point," interrupted Paul, looking directly at his uncle,
"it's up to you, Uncle Peter. You told me that I wasn't to touch a
paint-brush while I was in your house. And I haven't. But I--"
"Well, you'll let him, won't you, father? He might as well have a go at
it."
"My boy, I think it is hardly--"
"But it's only a little matter, father. I'd like to see how he'd make
out. We'd feel pretty fine if he _should_ win anything, and if he
doesn't, there's nothing lost."
Mr. Lambert bit his lip. But at that time he could no more have refused
his son's slightest wish than he could have struck him.
"Well, well--go ahead if you want, Paul. I am sure I wish you every
success." It was stiffly and unwillingly said, but it was a victory
nonetheless, and Paul did not know whether to be more amazed at his
uncle's concession or at Carl's intercession. Jane, her face beaming
with delight, started to clap her hands, and then realizing that any
evidences of unseemly joy might have unpleasant results, quickly folded
them in her lap.
And so it came about, through the play of circumstances, that the one
member of the Lambert family who had been so bitterly inimical to Paul
for eight months assumed the role of benefactor, and gallantly squared
his debt by a few right words spoken at exactly the right moment.