Poor Janey was feeling very blue indeed. During the last week it seemed
to her that Paul had somehow grown so different--rather inclined to be
cross and uncommunicative, and even to avoid her company. That very
afternoon he had told her please not to bother him while he was
painting, or he never would get his picture done, and twice when she had
offered to take a walk with him, he had refused her company with no very
gracious excuse.
Thus ignored and rebuffed, she had sadly devoted herself to deeds of
charity, and on that sultry afternoon sat with Carl reading aloud to him
from a fat dull book about the ancient Britons. They were sitting in the
little garden, where the shadow of the house offered some protection
from the sun; Carl reposing like a Sultan in his easy chair, gazing up
at the motionless weathervane on the gable of the attic, and
occasionally begging Jane "_not_ to mumble her words." The attic was on
the third floor just above Granny's room, in a part of the house that
formed an ell, bounding the garden on the south side with its
ivy-covered wall.
"I say, Jane, do you suppose that Paul is _smoking_?" said Carl
suddenly, interrupting the monotonous flow of Jane's reading.
"What?"
"Well, that's smoke, isn't it? coming out of the attic window--and cigar
smoke, too, or I'll eat my hat!"
Jane looked up. It was an undeniable fact that a blue spiral issued from
the attic, and, caught by the faint breeze, was wafted gracefully
upwards, and dissolved. A very faint scent drifted down to the garden,
and that scent--if such it could be called--was of tobacco. Paul,
happily ignorant of the dismayed interest he had roused in the garden
below, was sampling a cigar that Jeff had lavishly bestowed on him.
"Well, all I've got to say is that if he knows what is good for him,
he'll cut _that_ out," observed Carl drily.
"I guess--I guess he's just doing it for fun," said Jane.
"He won't think it fun if father catches him. But it's none of _my_
business, I suppose. Go on."
Jane went on reading, furtively glancing aloft every now and then to see
if the tell-tale puffs of smoke were still issuing from the open window.
To her intense relief they had stopped after a few minutes, and
presently she heard Paul talking to her mother in the kitchen.
"Do you really like this book?" she asked at last, looking at her
brother pathetically.
"Very much. But you needn't read any more if you're tired. Here's Elise,
now, anyway."
Elise had just entered by the garden gate.
"Carl! Jane! What do you think! The most exciting thing--"
"Lily Deacon is engaged to Mr. Sheridan," said Jane promptly. Elise
stared at her, her round blue eyes wide with amazement.
"How did you know?"
"I put two and two together. Aren't I clever?"
"No, how _did_ you guess, Janey? Lily hasn't told anyone but me."
"Well, I knew it _was_ going to happen, and I knew that you'd been up to
see Lily this afternoon, and I guessed the rest. Isn't it _nice_,
though!" cried Jane, clapping her hands. "And you know _I'm_ really
responsible for it."
"_You_!" hooted Carl derisively.
"Yes, me. When did it happen, Elise, and when are they going to be
married? I do so love a wedding, and there hasn't been one here for
ages. Do you suppose she'll wear a veil?"
Elise, who under her placid exterior had the most romantic of souls, sat
down to recount all the details that she had gleaned from her best
friend.
"And she's going to live in that lovely house, and she'll travel, and
she--goodness, do you suppose Paul has burned up _another_ batch of
cakes?" she broke off short in her rhapsody over Lily's prospects to
sniff the air.
"Don't you smell smoke? I do hope he hasn't had another disaster--he's
been getting along so well. Well, anyway--where was I?"
"You said she was going to travel. What _I_ want to know is when the
wedding is going to be," said Jane.
"Oh, that isn't decided yet--in the spring, I think. You know, that
doesn't smell like cake burning. It smells like rags. I suppose
somebody's burning trash."
Carl laughed and looked at Jane; but the burning smell did not resemble
tobacco at all, and besides, Paul was still in the kitchen with Aunt
Gertrude.
"Go on and tell some more, Elise," said Jane.
"I've told you all I know. I must get you your milk, Carl."
A minute later Elise reappeared at the dining room door, bearing a tray
well stocked with milk and cookies, and followed by Paul and Aunt
Gertrude.
"Dear me, who _can_ be burning rubbish?" exclaimed Mrs. Lambert. "Don't
you smell smoke, children?"
"_I_ do, I can tell you," said Carl. "By Jove, Paul, what's going on up
in your den?"
Everyone looked up in consternation to the attic window. Paul had closed
it before he came down, but smoke was coming slowly from under the pane.
"Good heavens! It couldn't be on fire!" cried Elise. "Run, Paul! Run,
_quickly_!"
But Paul had not waited to be urged. Up the stairs he was flying, as
fast as his long legs could carry him, followed by Jane, Elise and poor
Aunt Gertrude, whose only thought was for Granny, the twins having gone
out to play early in the afternoon.
The smoke was already thick on the second floor.
"Elise, you and Aunt Gertrude take Granny downstairs," ordered Paul.
"Jane, you'd better not come up."
"I'll get a bucket of water. Oh, Paul! Your _picture_!"
"Never mind my picture--get the water _quick_!" And Paul dashed on up
the stairs.
With his heart in his boots, he made his way to the attic, trying to
hold his breath so that he would not swallow the smoke.
It turned out that so far as danger was concerned there was no great
cause for excitement. Although the attic was dense with smoke, the cause
of it was only a small blaze in the heap of rags near the window, which
subsided under two bucketfuls of water.
Jane, whom Paul had not allowed to come up, waited for news at the foot
of the stairs; but after he had informed her that the fire was out, she
heard nothing more from him. After a few moments she shouted,
"Paul! Are you all right?"
"Oh, _I'm_ all right," replied a muffled voice, in a tone of the utmost
despair.
"Well, come on down, or you'll smother. What's happened?"
"I'll be down in a second," and then through the fog Paul appeared
slowly, descending the stairs carrying a square of canvas.
"Is it hurt?" asked Jane, fearfully. "Oh, Paul!"
"I don't know. I can't see it properly yet." But his face showed that he
expected the worst Neither of them spoke a word until they reached the
garden again, where Aunt Gertrude pounced upon Jane.
"Oh, _child_, how you frightened me! Paul, are you quite sure
everything's all right? Oh, how did it start--was there really a
_blaze_?"
"Just a little one--it's all out--a few rags. I pitched 'em all out of
the window. I'm--sorry, Aunt Gertrude."
"Oh, my poor boy--your picture!"
"What's the matter? Is it ruined?" asked Carl. Jane said nothing, but
stood looking first at her cousin's face, and then at the smoke-begrimed
and blistered canvas on which there was hardly a semblance of the
picture that had been so nearly completed.
"Yes," said Paul, with the calmness of despair, "it's ruined. It's
ruined all right."
No one knew what to say, and a silence followed, until Elise asked
timidly if he didn't have time to do another.
"In four days? This is the twenty-seventh. No, cousin, I couldn't--and
besides, even if I could, I haven't anything to do it with. So I guess
that's all there is to that." He tried to sound cheerful, and turning
the picture against the wall of the house, announced that he was going
back to the attic to see if everything was calm up there.
"Well, that's pretty hard luck," remarked Carl. "I daresay he's more
broken up than he lets on."
Jane had begun to cry, hiding her face in Granny's lap. Not even Paul
could have been as cruelly disappointed as she.
"Oh, he _would_ have won something! I'm sure he would have!" she wept,
disconsolately. "He said he didn't think so, but he _did_, and I know he
did."
"Well, one way or the other, it's his affair," said Carl, "and I
certainly don't see why _you_ should be in such a stew over it."
"It is my affair, too," wailed Jane, and at this characteristic remark
no one could help smiling.
"Come, Janey, darling, there's no use in taking it so to heart," said
Mrs. Lambert, laying her hand softly on the curly head. "We are all
dreadfully distressed about Paul, but he has taken his misfortune
bravely, and after all he will have many more chances. Elise, isn't that
the bell in the bakeshop? Dear me, what can people think coming in to
all that smoke. I wonder if it's clearing out at all. Come now, Janey,
cheer up."
Janey lifted her face from Granny's knees, and wiped her wet cheeks with
the palms of her hands, leaving long smudges.
"There now. We must all be thankful that there was no worse harm done,"
said her mother, kissing her. "Come along, Elise. You come with me too,
Janey. We mustn't keep anyone waiting."
But Paul was already in the bakeshop, and was calmly counting out change
to the customer when his aunt came in. He was rather pale, but
apparently quite cheerful.
"I looked around in the attic again, Aunt Gertrude. It's all right up
there," he said calmly, when the customer had gone. "The floor is
charred a bit where the rags were--but that's all the damage. And the
smoke's clearing out. It didn't get into the rooms much, because all the
doors were closed."
"We're all so distressed about your picture, my dear," said Aunt
Gertrude, laying her hands on his arm. "I know what disappointment you
must feel--and you are a very plucky boy."
Paul looked down at her, started to say something, and then abruptly
left the shop.
"But how in the world could it have started?" wondered Aunt Gertrude,
for the first time. "He surely couldn't have had the oil-stove lighted
in this weather, and it couldn't have started by itself."
But Elise had no theory to offer, and Jane was in tears again, so Aunt
Gertrude carried her mystification out to the kitchen, to see whether
Anna had returned with the groceries.
At six o'clock, Mr. Lambert returned to the bosom of a highly excited
family, and, at the supper table, listened with a peculiarly austere
expression to the incoherent accounts of the disaster. Presently, he
held up his hand.
"Come, come! I cannot find the beginning or end of all this," he said,
and then bending his gaze on Paul, added, slowly and sternly, "there was
a fire to-day in the attic--where you, Paul, have been--er--working. So
much I understand. But what I do _not_ understand is--how this fire
started."
There was a silence. Jane glanced at Carl, and Carl took a drink of
water.
"We hear of such things as spontaneous combustion," pursued Mr. Lambert,
"but for anything of the sort to take place, there must be certain
conditions. I do not imagine that such conditions could exist--in a pile
of rags--under an open window. No," said Mr. Lambert, shaking his head,
"I must discard that theory."
Again the unpleasant silence followed these remarks. Paul, who had eaten
nothing, drummed nervously on the table.
"You were there, were you not? a short time before the fire started?"
inquired Mr. Lambert. "Did you notice any--er--odor of burning?"
"Why, Paul was with me in the kitchen for quite a little while before
any of us noticed anything, Peter," Aunt Gertrude broke in innocently.
"Well," said Mr. Lambert, shaking his head, but still keeping his eyes
fixed immovably on his nephew's face, "it is quite beyond my
comprehension. How anything of the sort--"
At this point Paul suddenly interrupted.
"There isn't anything so very queer about it, uncle," he said coolly
enough, at first, though once he had spoken his courage seemed to leave
him a little. "I--I was smoking up there, and I suppose I threw a
match--or maybe--"
"Ah-h-h!" said Mr. Lambert slowly. Then he pressed his lips together,
and for a moment or two said nothing. At length he observed,
"There are one or two matters I should like to take up with you after
supper, Paul. However, we won't go into them just now." And then he
changed the subject with an abruptness that so far from drawing the
thoughts of his family _away_ from speculations upon what was in store
for Paul, only made them more dismally foreboding. And when after supper
the family showed a desire to disperse before the coming storm, Mr.
Lambert solemnly asked them to remain while he asked Paul a few
questions.
"Peter, don't scold the poor boy to-night," said Aunt Gertrude in a low
voice. "He has--he is very much distressed and disappointed."
"It is true that he brought his own punishment upon himself," returned
Mr. Lambert, "and I should, perhaps, overlook the matter of his smoking
this time, although he knew quite as well as Carl that I have absolutely
forbidden that. It is a far more serious matter that I have to speak
of."
And with this he turned to Paul, who had been trying to collect his
thoughts. He was not ignorant of what the serious matter might be, but
it seemed to him that his uncle was making a good deal more out of it
than it was worth, and he had begun to wonder whether he had been guilty
of some crime that so far he knew nothing of.
"I have heard to-day--from a source that I fear is only too
reliable--certain reports concerning you, which in justice to you I must
ask you to deny or confirm," said Mr. Lambert.
"What are they, uncle?" asked Paul.
"I was told--and by one of my most respected fellow-citizens--that you
have been seen not once, but at least half a dozen time of late with a
young man of a most undesirable character and reputation--Jefferson
Roberts. Could my informant have been mistaken? Have you or have you not
seen this young man several times--recently?"
Paul swallowed. The entire family was aghast, for it was very plain that
Mr. Lambert was deeply angered.
"Well?" said the old merchant. "Is this true?"
"Yes, uncle."
"You knew what my feelings would be if I learned that this _was_ true?"
"Yes, uncle."
"Yes," repeated Mr. Lambert, "I think you knew very well that you were
disobeying my strictest injunctions. Just before Christmas you were--or
could have been--seen with this notorious youth--a gambler, a rascal, a
shameless loafer. When I learned of this, I pardoned you, thinking that
you might not have known how deeply outraged I should feel at
discovering that any member of my household should wish to associate
with such a person. But now you have disobeyed me without such excuse.
What am I to think? You give me no choice but to believe that you find
pleasure in disobeying me, and mortifying me."
After a pause, he went on,
"Yes, mortifying me. You have treated me as I have not deserved to be
treated. I have given you a home, I have considered your welfare as
attentively as I have considered the welfare of my own children; I have
been lenient with you, though you would, perhaps, not be willing to
admit as much--and in return I find you willing to--perhaps you are not
aware that in associating with this Roberts and his crew you not only
injure your own standing in this town, but injure me also. For more than
a hundred years the family whose name you bear, and my own have stood
for every principle of good citizenship; and that honorable reputation
is to be marred through the willfulness of a youth who counts such a
thing so lightly that he will toss it away for a few hours' idle
amusement!"
This grave, stern accusation was not what Paul had expected. He turned
white and then blushed crimson. His vocal chords felt stiff, but at last
he managed to speak.
"I--I didn't think that Jeff Roberts was judged fairly, sir," he
stammered.
"Ah!"
"And what have I done that's so terrible?" cried Paul, "I only--"
"You knew that you were disobeying me?"
"Yes, sir."
"Perhaps you think that at eighteen years of age you are a better judge
of character than grey headed men and women? Perhaps you think that you
are old enough to be your own master?" Mr. Lambert got up. "I cannot
allow willful disobedience in my house. You have been guilty of it too
often. I feel now that it would be best for all concerned--for you
especially--to--let you _be_ your own master. You are free now to go
where you like, make friends with whom you will, direct your own life as
you please." He stopped. There was not a sound in the room--indeed no
one quite realized that Mr. Lambert's words actually constituted a
dismissal.
"Your father," continued the old man immovably, "left with me a small
amount of money, which I shall turn over to you at once. It should be
sufficient to maintain you until you are able to support yourself, and I
am willing to add to it if necessary. I think--I believe that in the
course of time experience will show you that I have been just with you,
and if you show yourself worthy I shall always be ready to help you to
the best of my ability."
Aunt Gertrude looked pleadingly at her husband, but he did not see her.
No one else had courage to say anything, and indeed to do so would have
been worse than useless; for whether Mr. Lambert had judged his nephew
too harshly or not, it was certain that he could not be made to look at
the facts of the case in a different light. To him two things were of
paramount importance,--obedience to his wishes, and respect for public
opinion, and Paul had offended against both of these fundamental
statutes. The old merchant had not exaggerated when he said that his
nephew's conduct had mortified him.
Paul made no attempt to defend himself; he was too much dazed by all
that the day had brought forth to find a word to say.
Well, he was free. He should have been glad--and only a few months
before he would have been. But looking helplessly around the table, from
one face to the other he realized suddenly that he was _not_ glad. Why,
he had grown to love them all--he had even a certain fondness for Carl.
Who was there now to care whether he got into scrapes or out of them,
whether he won prizes or burnt his pictures to cinders, whether he was
defeated or triumphant. But his face showed nothing of what was passing
in his mind. Somewhere in the distance Mr. Lambert was saying,
"I wished for all of you to hear what I had to say to my nephew, so that
you would understand that I judged him by nothing but what he himself
admitted. And I believe, Gertrude, that when you have considered the
matter as carefully as I have you will feel that I am doing only what is
just, and, I hope, wise. Paul is not a child, but a young man, quite
able to think for himself. It is plain that our ways and customs are
disagreeable to him, and I have come to believe that it is only fair to
him to let him go his own way as he thinks best. And--er--that is all."
One by one the others rose from the table, and left the room. Only Paul
and his uncle remained.
"Have I made myself quite clear?" asked Mr. Lambert, sitting down at his
desk, and putting up the roll-top.
"Yes, uncle. I--when do you want me to--go?"
"That I leave entirely to your convenience," returned Mr. Lambert. He
opened a drawer and took out an envelope with a rubber band around it,
which he gave to his nephew. "If you should find that this is not
sufficient for your needs you may let me know. I am very sorry that you
have forced this painful duty upon me--I had hoped that you--I still
hope that you will realize--"
"My responsibilities," said Paul absently. "Oh, I have--but never mind.
I'm sorry, uncle. I didn't understand--"
"Quite so. I want you to know that I am not acting with any thought of
punishing you. I am doing only what I believe to be best."
"Yes, sir."
Mr. Lambert looked curiously at his nephew's face, and saw that the
contrition in it was sincere. He did not for a moment waver in his
decision, but after a moment he held out his hand.
"I hope you do not harbor any hard feelings against me?"
Paul slowly and wonderingly took the proffered hand. His uncle's cold,
immovable justice was something that he had never been able to
understand. Not for a moment did he dream of asking for pardon, but he
could not "harbor any hard feelings" against the austere old man, who
judged everything according to an inflexible standard of right and
wrong--who saw all conduct as either black or white, and to whom the
crime of disobedience was equally unpardonable whether it affected the
routine of a little household or the affairs of a nation.