Jane Lends A Hand Part 10

"But what of Samuel's children?" stammered Paul. "Maybe he has a son or a grandson-"

"However that may be they have forfeited their claims," replied Mr.

Lambert. "No, you need have no fears of any disputes, my boy. Surely, your father must have acquainted you with all these matters which relate to you so closely."

"My father never even mentioned anything of the sort!" exclaimed Paul, pus.h.i.+ng back his chair, as if he were thinking of sudden flight.

"I need hardly tell you that you are doubly welcome, my dear boy,"

continued Mr. Lambert placidly, totally misunderstanding Paul's astonishment.

"But, sir! One moment! I don't understand! You surely can't mean that you think I am going to learn how to _bake bread_, and make _pies_!"

burst out Paul at last. "Great heavens! My father couldn't have dreamed-_I_! Making biscuits!"

"And why not, pray?" demanded Mr. Lambert, sharply. "Am I to understand that you consider yourself too good for a profession that the great Johann Winkler thought worthy of his genius? Is it that you do not consider it _manly_? Surely, you do not mean me to understand this?" Mr.

Lambert's face hardened a little; the expression of bland benevolence left his eyes, which now grew cold and piercing. He had not expected rebellion, but recovering quickly from his surprise he prepared to cope with it as only he could.

"Of course I don't mean that, sir!" exclaimed Paul. "But don't you see-I can't-I'm not fitted for such work. I couldn't learn how to bake a pie in a life time. I-"

"Oh, I am sure you underrate your intelligence, my boy. Don't give way to discouragement so soon. A little patience, a little industry-"

Paul began to laugh, almost hysterically. Even in the midst of his serious anxiety, the idea of himself demurely kneading dough was too much for his gravity.

"But I'd poison everyone in town in twenty-four hours! Bake bread!

Rolls! Tarts! Sir, I could far more easily learn how to trim hats!"

"I don't doubt it. Any silly schoolgirl can learn that. I freely admit that the art of a great baker is not readily acquired. I admit that in some measure it requires an inborn gift, and a gift that is by no means a common one. Great cooks are far rarer, believe me, than great orators, or great artists, although the world in general does not rank them as it should. There was a time when a fine pastry or a sauce composed with genius called forth the applause of kings, and when eminent bakers were honored by the n.o.blest in the land. But to-day, through the ignorance and indifference of the world, the profession is fallen in value, because, forsooth, it is fancied that it caters to the less n.o.ble tastes of mankind. My dear boy, it is for you, in whose veins flows the blood of the King of Bakers, to maintain the fame and dignity of your profession. Do not imagine that you lack the gift. It has lain idle, but a little practice will soon prove that it is in your possession."

Paul, feeling that he had come up against a wall of adamant, got up and began to pace the floor. Here he was with exactly twenty-five cents in his pocket, without even a suit of clothes that deserved the name, without a friend within three thousand miles, nor the faintest idea of where he could go, if he rashly broke away from the family roof-tree.

"It seems that you had other ideas," remarked Mr. Lambert in a politely interested tone, which said, "I don't mind _listening_ to any of your fantastic notions." Paul hesitated. He most certainly _had_ had other ideas, and, what was more, he did not have the slightest intention of relinquis.h.i.+ng them. The question was, could he lay them simply before his uncle? One glance at Mr. Lambert's smooth, practical face was sufficient to make him feel that anything of the sort was not to be considered; certainly not at this time, in any case. Mr. Lambert had fixed his mind on one idea, and tenacity was his most striking characteristic. It was his boast that he never changed his mind, and the truth of this statement was recognized by everyone who had any dealings with him.

"I should like to think over all that you have said, Uncle Peter," Paul at length said warily. "All this has been very unexpected, and I don't know just what to say."

"You mean that you are still doubtful as to whether you will accept or reject the position, to which Providence has called you, and which it is plainly your Duty to accept?" inquired Mr. Lambert, raising his eyebrows. He was surprised and annoyed by his nephew's resistance, but knowing the boy's circ.u.mstances he had no fear that Paul would decide against his own wishes.

Paul was quick to perceive this underlying c.o.c.ksureness, and his whole soul rose in rebellion.

"I don't see that either Providence or Duty has anything to do with the case," he retorted, instantly firing up.

Mr. Lambert shrugged his shoulders.

"You do not feel that you are under obligations to your Family? I don't like to believe that you have so slight a sense of your responsibilities. No, I am sure that a few moments reflection will convince you to the contrary. By all means consider the matter. I should, however, like to have your answer to-night, if it is convenient for you. I have several letters to write, and shall be here when you have reached your decision." And with a curt nod, he swung around to his desk, and took up the old-fas.h.i.+oned goose-quill pen, which he was in the habit of using under the impression that it lent him an air of business solidity.

Paul, lost in thought, went up to Carl's room for the "few moments of reflection" that his uncle had advised.

His cousin, wearing a brown dressing gown, with a hideous pattern of yellow fleurs-de-lis, was sitting at the table, with a book in his hands, and a greenshade over his nearsighted eyes, engrossed in his studies. The two boys glanced at each other, and nodded brusquely without speaking.

Paul threw himself across the bed.

"Duty! Providence!" All he could see in the matter was that he had got into a pretty kettle of fish. "And uncle thinks that just because I'm broke, I'll knuckle under without a murmur."

Obligations! That was a nice thing to preach to him.

"Would you mind not kicking the bed?" said Carl's thin, querulous voice.

"It makes it rather hard to concentrate." This pet.i.tion, uttered in a studiedly polite tone, was accompanied by a dark look, which this time, however, Paul failed to see.

"Sorry," said Paul, gruffly, and got up.

Now he began to walk the floor; but at length stopped at the window, pressing his face to the gla.s.s so that he could see something besides the reflection of his cousin's mouse-colored head, and monotonous rocking in his chair.

He peered out over the roofs of the town, up the street, all sleek and s.h.i.+ning with the rain, in the direction of the cross-roads at which he had stood, less than four hours ago. Why hadn't he taken the Other One, anyway? He had been perfectly free to choose-no one had been preaching Duty and all the rest of it to him then. He hadn't taken it, because he had been tired and hungry, and almost penniless-and lonely, too, and the farmer had turned up. Perhaps he had been a coward. It had led to the City, where, even if he were penniless, he would at least have been his own master, free to work according to his own ideas, and not Uncle Peter's.

"Would you mind not whistling!" snapped Carl. "It's the most maddening sound. Hang it! I'm trying to study."

Paul's mournful whistling stopped.

Baking pies! So that was to be his future, was it? Well, he still had something to say. It wasn't too late to take the other road yet. He'd walk a _thousand_ miles before he would let himself be trussed up in a canvas ap.r.o.n, and put to kneading dough for the rest of his days.

He glanced around for his cast off clothes, and saw them hanging, still dismally wet over a chair. But not even the cheerless prospect of a clammy s.h.i.+rt dampened his resolution. He began to fling off his dry clothing, sending collar, necktie, socks and shoes flying in all directions.

Presently Carl, aroused by the commotion, put down his book. Then he stared in astonishment, at the sight of his cousin rapidly climbing into the soaking, muddy garments. But he felt that it was not in keeping with the dignity he had a.s.sumed, to inquire into the reasons for this strange proceeding. All he said was,

"Would you mind not shaking that mud over my things?"

Without replying, Paul shouldered his ridiculous bundle, felt in his pocket to make sure that his quarter was still there, and marched out of the room, down the stairs, and to the door.

Then it occurred to him that this abrupt departure, without a word of farewell to anyone was rather a shabby way of returning the hospitality he had received, and he hesitated.

"Well, if I don't get out now, it'll mean a lot of argument and explanation. I could write a note." But he had no paper, and he did not want to go back to Carl's room. So there he stood uneasily enough, wriggling in his damp clothes, and glancing uncertainly toward the closed door of the dining room behind which his uncle sat waiting for his decision. Overhead, he heard the low murmur of his aunt's voice, and the thudding of the twins' little bare feet as they romped and squealed in a pillow fight. Paul felt his resolution waver, and then anger at his own weakness steadied his determination. He opened the door, strode out, and pulled it to quietly behind him.

A wild gust of wind nearly robbed him of his breath, and made him stagger. The rain had gathered up its forces, and now came down in a solid sheet, swept this way and that by the wind.

"Whew!" Paul bent his head, and ploughed his way against it, without looking to the right or to the left. The branches groaned and tossed, creaking as if they were being torn from the trunks of the swaying trees.

Then all at once, with a crash a dead bough fell in front of him, missing him by not more than fifteen inches. Paul stopped. The very elements seemed opposed to his unmannerly flight, and again he hesitated, looked back, and saw the friendly, ruddy windows of the Bakery. Thirty miles in this tempest! He smiled sheepishly, and then frowned. His impetuousness had put him in a very ridiculous position.

His pride rebelled at the idea of returning, and with the thought of Carl's smothered amus.e.m.e.nt, came the memory of his cousin's inhospitable speech. On the other hand, he saw that it was no less absurd to follow up his plan of flight, and the streak of common sense underlying his hasty, high-handed nature told him that it was less foolish to go back and undertake the immediate problem that had been thrust upon him, than to plunge himself into the serious difficulties that his adventure would entail. And at length, inwardly raging at his own folly, he retraced his steps.

As the dining room door opened, Mr. Lambert looked up, started to remove his spectacles, and then with a start, adjusted them more accurately.

Paul, who had left his cap and bundle in the hall tried to stand in the shadow so that his clothes would not be noticed. After a short silence, Mr. Lambert preferring to observe nothing extraordinary in his nephew's appearance, folded up his spectacles, put them in the breast pocket of his frock coat and said, pleasantly,

"Well? What have you decided?"

Paul cleared his throat.

"I have decided-I have decided-" he finished by spreading his hands and shrugging his shoulders.

"To undertake your-er-responsibilities?" prompted Mr. Lambert, as if he were administering an oath.

"To learn how to bake pies," said Paul, feebly, and then mumbling some vague excuse he backed out of the room, leaving Mr. Lambert to indulge in a short chuckle.