The Story of Glass Part 18

And when he left the next morning it was with the understanding that Jean should return to Boston the first of May. Uncle Tom looked pretty grave when he was reminded that the days of his niece's stay with him were numbered; and it was amusing to hear him use the very arguments that Uncle Bob had voiced when Jean had left Boston for Pittsburgh months before.

"It isn't as if the child was never coming back," he told Giusippe.

"Her home is here; she is only going to Boston for her vacation. We should be selfish indeed to grudge her a few weeks at the seash.o.r.e.

Pittsburgh is rather warm in summer."

Thus Uncle Tom consoled himself, and as the days flew past tried to put out of his mind the inevitable day of parting.

Then came May and with it a very unexpected happening. Jean's trunk was packed, and she was all ready to leave for the East, when Uncle Tom was taken sick.

"I doubt if it is anything but overwork and fatigue," said the doctor.

"Mr. Curtis has, I find, been carrying a great deal of care this winter. It is good to do a rushing business, of course, but when one has to rush along with it the wear and tear on the nerves is pretty severe."

"You don't think he will be ill long, do you?" questioned Jean anxiously.

"I cannot tell. Such cases are uncertain. He just needs rest--to give up work for a while and stay at home. Recreation, diversion, amus.e.m.e.nt--that's what he wants. Read to him; motor with him; walk with him; keep him entertained. Things like that will do far more good than medicine."

"But--but--I'm--I'm going away to-morrow for the rest of the summer,"

stammered Jean.

"Away? Humph! That's unfortunate."

"Why, you don't really think I am any use here, do you? Enough use to remain, I mean," the girl inquired in surprise. "Uncle Tom doesn't--you don't mean that he _needs_ me; that I could do good by staying?"

A flush overspread her face. That any one should need her! And most of all such a big strong man as Uncle Tom. The idea was unbelievable.

Hitherto life had been a matter of what others should do for her. She had been a child with no obligations save to do as she was told. Her two uncles whom she loved so much had discussed her fate and decided between them what her course should be. Now, all at once, there was no pilot at the wheel. The directing of the ship fell to her guidance. In the s.p.a.ce of those few moments, as if by a miracle, Jean Cabot ceased to be a child and became a woman.

"Mr. Curtis is very fond of you, isn't he?" asked the physician. "He will miss you if you are not here, I am afraid. Who else is there in the house to be a companion for him?"

"No one but Fraulein, and of course she is getting older and is not very strong."

"Unfortunate!" repeated the doctor.

"It is not at all necessary for me to go to-morrow," Jean said quickly.

"I can postpone it and stay here just as well as not, and I think it would be much better if I did." She spoke with deepening conviction.

"I'll telegraph my uncle in Boston and explain to him that I cannot leave just now."

What a deal of dignity stole into that single word "cannot."

At last there was a duty to fulfil toward some one else--some one who really needed her. Jean repeated the amazing fact over and over to herself. She had a place to fill. She and Uncle Tom had reversed their obligations; he was now the weak one, she the strong.

With a happy heart the girl went back up-stairs.

Uncle Tom was lying very still in bed, his face turned away from the door; but he heard her light step and put out his hand.

"My little girl," he whispered.

Jean slipped her soft palm into his.

"Did I wake you?"

"No, dear. I was not asleep. I cannot sleep these days. Last night I heard the clock strike almost every hour. It has been so right along. I cannot recall when I have had a full night's rest. No sooner do I go to bed than my mind travels like a whirlwind over everything I've done through the day. There is no peace, no stopping it."

"We will stop it, dear. Don't worry, Uncle Tom. The doctor says you are just a little tired, and he is going to give you some medicine that will help you to feel better. Then you are to stay at home and rest for a while. To-morrow you shall have your breakfast in bed and later, when it is sunny and warm, I shall take you for a nice motor ride."

"But--but you forget, girlie, that to-morrow you won't be here."

"Oh, yes I shall. I'm going to stay. There is no law against my changing my mind and not going to Boston, is there?"

Jean smiled down at him.

"I've wired Uncle Bob that I am going to postpone my visit," she added.

A light came into the man's eyes.

"Did the doctor----?"

"No, he didn't. I decided it myself. Do you suppose for a moment I'd leave you just when you are going to be here at home and have some time to entertain me? Indeed, no! Lately you've been so busy that you couldn't take me anywhere. Now you are to desert the office and be under my orders for a while. Oh, we'll do lots of nice things. We'll go off in the motor and see all sorts of places I've wanted to see; and we'll walk; and we'll read some of those books we have been trying to get time to read together. We shall have great fun."

Mr. Curtis looked keenly at the girl for a few seconds.

"Perhaps," he remarked at last, "it won't make much difference to Uncle Bob if you do postpone your visit for a week or two."

"I am sure it won't."

There was a deep sigh of satisfaction from the invalid.

"I'm glad you've decided to stay, little girl. Somehow it would be about the last straw to have you leave now. I'd miss you in any case, of course; but if I have got to be home here and round the house it does not seem as if I could stand it to have you gone."

"I wouldn't think of going and leaving you, dear. Put your mind at rest. I intend to stay right here until you are quite well again."

She bent down and gently kissed her uncle's forehead.

It seemed as if that kiss smoothed every wrinkle of worry from the man's brow.

Quietly Jean tiptoed across the room and drew down the shade; then she dropped into a chair beside the bed and took up a book. For some time she sat very still, her eyes intent upon the page. Then at last she glanced up. Uncle Tom's head had fallen back on the pillows and for the first time in many days he slept.

So did Jean Cabot find her summer planned for her. Instead of joining Uncle Bob and enjoying months of bathing and sailing on the North Sh.o.r.e she helped nurse Uncle Tom Curtis back to health. For the breakdown proved to be of much longer duration than any of them had foreseen. The exhausted system was slow in reacting and it was weeks before the turning point toward recovery was reached. During those tedious hours of waiting Jean was the sole person who could bring a smile to the sick man's face or rouse in him a shadow of interest in what was going on about him. "Her price was above rubies," the doctor said. She was better than sunshine or fresh air; she was, in fact, the only hope of bringing the invalid back to his normal self.

And when those grim days pa.s.sed and Uncle Tom began to be better, how he clung to the girl--clung to her with an affection which neither of them had felt before. It was the realization of his dependence that made Jean send to Uncle Bob that letter, the last lines of which read:

"I feel more strongly than I can tell you, dear Uncle Bob, that for the present my place is here. Uncle Tom needs me and cannot do without me. You have Hannah to help you keep house and you can get on; but he has n.o.body but me. When he is quite strong again I will come to Boston, but until I do I am sure you'll understand that although I cannot be with you, I love you just the same.

"Jean."

A reply came back by wire.

"Goodness!" exclaimed Jean as she opened the long telegram. "I hope nothing is the matter. Uncle Bob never sends telegrams. He must have been reckless to spend his money on such a long message as this."