Jan left him at Gwen’s door with a kiss the boy did not resent. “Tell your father all you think and feel, Jack, and don’t be afraid of him. He understands and wants to help you. We must all hold on to each other in trouble, you know.” And Jack went slowly on, feeling that they all must hold on to Jan forever.
The library door closed behind him, and no one ever knew precisely what happened in the interview between the poor little culprit and his father. But when, long past his usual bed hour, Nurse Hummel went to hunt Jack up, she found him curled up asleep in his father’s arms in the great leather chair, his legs twined over its arm to supplement his father’s lap, his cheeks flushed and stained with tears, but peace written on the parted lips, which looked very childish in slumber.
As Jan passed into Gwen’s room she found her alone. Her mother, thinking her sleeping, had stolen away, and Jan, for the same reason, seated herself noiselessly in the corner, afraid to open the door again lest she waken Gwen. But Gwen was not asleep. In a few moments she spoke. “Jan,” she said, “please come where I can touch you.”
“How did you know who it was?” asked Jan as she obeyed.
“Blind people have keen hearing,” said Gwen bitterly. “My ears are learning double work.”
“I suppose that’s sensible of them, to improve themselves, but considering you’re not blind they might save themselves the trouble, if they were lazy,” said Jan lightly, not betraying the shock Gwen’s words gave her, for no one had hinted at blindness to Gwen.
“Do you think I don’t know?” asked Gwen, raising herself on one elbow and speaking with such fierceness that Jan was frightened. “Do you suppose I don’t know what makes mamma so loving to me, and why she cries quietly when she thinks I won’t know it? Do you suppose, Janet Howe, that I don’t know why those horrible doctors are so idiotically cheerful with me? If that Doctor Amberton tells me any more silly jokes I won’t answer for what I’ll do or say to him! I am blind—blind—and I’d far rather be dead! Why didn’t Jack kill me if he wanted to do anything to me? Do you suppose I can live without my eyes? How can I write, or paint, or be great—or stand it?”
Jan was dreadfully frightened. “You are not blind, Gwen,” she stammered.
“Now don’t you try to tell me stories, Jan, because I won’t stand it!” said Gwen. “I got the truth out of Viva the other day when mamma let the poor youngster try to read to me. I nearly scared her to death, because she won’t fib, and she didn’t want to tell the truth. Now I’m talking to you, because I trust you, and I can’t keep it to myself any longer. Jan, Jan, for mercy’s sake, say it isn’t so!”
“It isn’t so—or it very likely isn’t so,” said trembling Jan. “If you get all excited and go on like this I don’t know what harm it may do you—the doctors all say to keep you perfectly still for fear of fever. You are not blind, and that’s the truth. But they are anxious about you. Now you see I’m not deceiving you one bit! We didn’t know you were lying there fretting—why didn’t you speak before? You will get well—I’m just as sure as I can be you will—but we all love you so much we feel awfully to have you sick. But if you did have some trouble with your eyes you could be just as great—greater! Isn’t it lovely to have your mother all to yourself like this, and your father never thinking of business, and Gladys and Sydney, and even little Jerry—of course sweet little Viva—all just devoted to you? Don’t fret, Gwen. If you are sick ever so long, you will see!”