"Do you think I'll be able to put it across?" Paul asked, despondently,
stepping back from the half finished picture and eyeing it with his head
on one side and a frown on his brow.
Jane, perched on an old barrel, her chin on her fists, studied the
embryo masterpiece with a grave, judicial air.
"I think it is going to be _very_ good," she observed at length.
"Do you, honestly?" Paul knew of course that Jane was about as capable
of judging as Anna, but he had reached the point where encouragement
from any source was sweet. "Lord, I hope I get it done in time."
"You will," said Jane. Paul grinned at her.
"You're about the most optimistic character I ever knew. I suppose you
think I'm certain to win a first prize."
"Don't _you_ think so?"
"No, my child. I don't think there's a chance in the world."
"Oh, Paul! But you'll win something."
"No, my jovial Jane, I won't. But that's neither here nor there. Whew!
Let's get out of here. I'm melting. How about you?"
"It _is_ pretty hot," Jane admitted. It most certainly was. An attic,
even on coolish days seems able to store up heat as no other place can,
and on a sizzling August afternoon a bakeoven is Iceland in comparison.
The only thing to be said in favor of the Lambert's attic was that it
had a northern light if not a northern temperature, and here Paul had
set to work.
"Want to take a walk?" he suggested, dropping his paintbrushes into a
can of turpentine.
"Can't. I promised Elise I'd help her with some of the mending."
"Well, I think I'll browse around for a while. Tell Aunt Gertrude I'll
be back for supper. She said there wasn't a thing for me to do."
"Where are you going?"
"Nowhere in particular. I feel like doing something rash and reckless,
but there's no danger of anything like _that_--here. Where's Carl?"
"Out in the garden with Elise and the twins."
"Well--good-bye. I'll be back in half an hour or so."
Paul selected for his solitary ramble a certain rough, dusty, shady lane
that led down past the ruins of an old mill. Here on those breathless
afternoons a crowd of little urchins were wont to gather to splash and
paddle in the gurgling stream that tossed over its stony bed on to the
water-fall above the mill. On the opposite side of the road rose a
wooded hill, where the tree-tops were gilded with ruddy sunlight, and
the deep fern scented recesses were always cool and dim.
The shade and freshness of the woods on that hot day were not to be
resisted, and Paul turned into them, following a soft, weed-grown road
that lead along a little tributary of the mill-stream. But he was
feeling restless and even a little rebellious. The calm, uneventful
course of his life during the past nine months had gotten on his nerves,
and he found himself longing for some kind of change or excitement. What
wouldn't he give to see old Bill Tyler coming toward him at that moment!
He stopped, and leaning against an old wooden railing, stared down at
the stream that flowed by at the foot of the steep bank. For more than a
month he had been working as hard as he could at his picture, taking
good care not to let it interfere with his other duties, lest his uncle
should recall his permission; Aunt Gertrude tried to help him, and he
had progressed; but there wasn't a chance in a million of his winning
anything, and he was not sure but that he had made a mistake in
undertaking the task at all. He started on again, walking slowly, with
his hands buried in his pockets, forgetful of the passage of time, and
of his uncle's dislike of having anyone late for a meal. Suddenly he
stopped. It seemed to him that someone had called his name.
Looking back over his shoulder he saw a small man running easily along
the road toward him.
"Hello! Where are you off to?" inquired the newcomer, as he came up,
smiling in a friendly way. "I saw you back there, and thought I
recognized you. How are you?"
It was no other than the notorious Jefferson Roberts, his face beaming
with a friendly, winning smile, and his hand outstretched. Paul shook
the hand, and said that he was off to nowhere--that he was just walking.
"Communing with Nature?" said Jeff, cocking his head on one side, while
his bright brown eyes twinkled merrily. "May I commune with you? I'm
going in your direction."
"Come ahead. That is, unless you're in a hurry. I _won't_ walk fast."
"Oh, I'm never in a hurry. What have you been doing since I saw you
last?"
Paul answered the question briefly without going into any details.
"What an industrious life!" exclaimed Jeff gaily. "How is your good
little cousin, Carl Lambert? Do you remember that day in Allenboro? He
was horrified at you--he thinks I'm the most wicked creature alive. But
then, most of those good souls _do_. And why? simply because I like to
enjoy myself--and succeed at it." And as he said this he laughed so
spontaneously, his face was so full of arch, easy-going good nature that
Paul joined in his laugh, feeling convinced that the tales about Jeff
were mostly absurd exaggerations. In fifteen minutes or so he began to
believe, also, that there was a great deal of good in Jeff that had been
most uncharitably overlooked. There was nothing "smarty" about him; he
seemed frank and boyish, overflowing-with high spirits, impulsive,
enthusiastic, and happy-go-lucky all at once. He was even rather a
confiding soul, and strolling along beside Paul, whose arm he had taken,
chattered naively about himself and his affairs with child-like
frankness.
Presently his mood changed; he began to blame himself for his idleness,
and to talk about his mother. He told Paul that he had decided to get a
good job in the fall, and work hard.
"I'm a lot more serious than anyone thinks, let me tell you," he
remarked gravely. "I like fun, but I'm not like the rest of those chumps
you saw up at Allenboro. _They_ think they know me--but they don't. They
only see one side--so does everyone else. But I'll show 'em. One of
these days I'll be a nice, respectable--Mayor, with three chins, and a
gold watch-chain." This fancy sent him off into a fit of amusement. His
humors changed so rapidly from melancholy to gaiety that there was no
way of being sure that he was not joking when he seemed grave, and
serious when he was laughing; but he was a delightful companion, and the
two boys sauntered along talking as if they had been intimates from
their childhood.
Suddenly, Paul realized that much time must have flown since Jeff
interrupted his meditations.
"Gee! It must be pretty late," he exclaimed looking up through the
trees, trying to guess the time by the sun. "Have you got a watch?"
Jeff laughed, and pulling his watch-chain from his pocket, displayed a
bunch of keys, which he twirled jauntily.
"My watch, I'm sorry to say, is on a short vacation. But you don't have
to bother about the time. Come on with me--I'm going to scare up some of
the fellows, and see what we can find to do."
Paul hesitated. He was decidedly in the mood for falling in with Jeff's
harmless suggestion; besides, he would certainly be late for supper,
and, was consequently, slated for his uncle's reproof anyhow.
"All right. What are you going to do?"
"Oh, sit around and talk most likely. Probably ramble off to get
something to eat, and then we might go up to see Tom Babcock--he's a
nice fellow. You'd like him."
This seemed a mild and agreeable program, and was very much to Paul's
taste. If his uncle should ask him where he'd been--well, hang it, did
he have to give an account of everything he did, as if he were a child
of ten? And all this fuss about Jeff Roberts was such utter nonsense
anyhow.
Accordingly, he accepted Jeff's friendly invitation, and they went off
together following the road on through the woods which led by a short
cut to the neighboring town, of Goldsboro.
Goldsboro was a progressive young community where, unquestionably you
could find more to do than at Frederickstown. The streets were brightly
lighted at night, every Wednesday and Saturday evening during the summer
a band played for two hours in the Square, and the shops stayed open
until ten o'clock, and there was even a theatre where such old classics
as "Uncle Tom's Cabin," "The Old Homestead," and "Billy, the Kid," were
enacted by an ambitious stock company.
Jeff seemed to know everyone, and it was not long before he had
collected a jolly party of five or six boys. He also knew where you
could get a capital sea-food supper, and insisted that Paul should be
his guest. In fact, Paul found the attentions bestowed upon him by this
rather famous youth, decidedly flattering though he was at a loss to
know just why Jeff should suddenly have begun to treat him as if he were
his best friend. The truth was that Jeff was inclined to sudden
friendships, which were often as speedily broken as made.
Supper over, it was suggested that they drop around and see what Tom
Babcock was doing.
Tom was a young man older even than Jeff--two-and-twenty, perhaps, or
twenty-three. He lived magnificently alone in a small room over a corner
drugstore, where they found him smoking his pipe and hanging half way
out of his window to watch the crowd in the Square, and to hear the
strains of the brass-band which at that moment was playing "Kathleen
Mavourneen" with deep pathos.
Upon the arrival of his guests, Tom lighted his gas, and after a little
conversation they all sat down to a game of cards.
Paul enjoyed himself immensely. He liked Jeff, he liked Tom, he liked
Jim, and Jack and Harry. They were "nice fellows," all of them. Why they
should be considered such a dangerous crew was more than he could
understand.
And meantime the night wore on.
In the Lambert household mild wonder at Paul's absence gave way to
anxiety.
"Well, I suppose the boy knows how to take care of himself," remarked
Mr. Lambert, drily.
"Perhaps, Peter, you had better put the latch-key under the doormat,"
suggested Aunt Gertrude, but Mr. Lambert would not agree to this.
"No, my dear. He knows quite well that everything is locked at ten
o'clock. If he prefers to be roaming around the country at that time, he
must be prepared to take the consequences. I hope you do not expect me
to alter all the rules of the household for the boy."
So at ten o'clock, Paul not yet having made his appearance, the front
door was locked, and the family went to bed.
But Jane was not able to take his absence so calmly. Suppose he had got
lost? Suppose he had hurt himself? He might even have been kidnapped.
These fears made it impossible for her to sleep, and so she sat down at
her window, determined to wait up for him all night if necessary. With
the house locked, how could he get in--where could he go?
The time that she waited seemed endless. The tones of the church clock,
striking eleven, boomed solemnly through the stillness that lay over the
town. All the houses were darkened; the street was quiet. Now and then,
solitary footsteps rang out on the bricks, and Jane sat up eagerly only
to hear them die away in a neighboring block.
Where _could_ he be? She was almost in tears when after an eternity of
waiting she heard the sound of whistling far up the street.
"That _must_ be Paul. It _must_ be!" She leaned far out of the window,
trying to get a glimpse of the wanderer, who was in fact coming nearer
to the house. At last he came into the light of the street lamp, and she
recognized him with a great sigh of relief. In another moment she had
flown noiselessly down the stairs, and unbolted the door with as little
squeaking and rattling as possible.
"Hello," said Paul as calmly as if he had just run up to the corner to
mail a letter.
"Oh, _where_ have you been?"
"Where have I been?" Paul was instantly on the defensive. "Why--what's
the matter? What's everything locked up for?"
"Sh! Everyone's asleep but me. Oh, I thought you were _dead_!"
"Good Heaven's--_why_? It isn't late."
"It's nearly twelve. Everyone's been in bed for ages. We couldn't
imagine what had become of you--"
"Well, I must say I don't see why there's so much fuss. I just walked
over to Goldsboro to see what was going on, and fooled around there for
a while. It was later than I thought when I went out, and when I found
out I'd miss supper, I thought I might as well take a good walk, and get
something to eat over there."
"Oh,--well we couldn't imagine--you'd better walk softly, Paul."
For some reason, Paul suddenly chose to think that Jane was reproving
him.
"I don't see why I can't be a little late without everyone's getting so
worked up over it. Do you mean to say that I mustn't leave the house
without telling everyone exactly what time I'll be back?" he grumbled.
"Gee whiz! Life isn't worth living if you have to be worrying every
minute--"
"_Sh-sh_, Paul! You'll wake everybody up," whispered Jane. He subsided a
little, but was still muttering indignantly when he parted from her and
tiptoed cautiously up to his room.
The next morning at breakfast, Mr. Lambert asked him casually what had
delayed him, and appeared quite satisfied at his off-hand answer.
"And how did you get in? Everything is always locked at ten, as you
know."
"I heard him whistling, Daddy, and I let him in," spoke up Jane. Mr.
Lambert merely said,
"Ah! Well, don't let it happen again my boy. It made me very uneasy."
No further reference was made to the matter.
"There was no harm in it," thought Paul. "They have the impression that
Jeff is a black sheep, and it would be a silly thing to go out of my way
to tell 'em that I saw him again. Uncle would have a fit, and it's such
a little thing to deliberately get up a row about."
And so being satisfied that his mild escapade would have no
uncomfortable results he thought no more about it.