Jane Lends A Hand Part 21

"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 pa.s.sed 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 st.u.r.dy 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 Sat.u.r.day 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! n.o.body 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.