“I guess you’d better let me help you, Carl.”
To Jane’s surprise there was no hostility in her brother’s eyes.
“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 sturdy 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.