Jane Lends A Hand Part 23

"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 st.u.r.dy 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.

CHAPTER XI-CARL SQUARES HIS DEBT

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 ap.r.o.n, his sleeves rolled up and his s.h.i.+rt 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.