“You couldn’t carry me,” he said, thickly, and then drawing a long breath, he added, “but I wish to goodness you could!”
Paul smiled.
“I guess you aren’t much heavier than a keg of olives,” and with that, he lifted Carl quite easily in his arms, and set off at a quicker stride across the field.
An hour later poor Carl was far past caring whether “they” made a fuss over him or not. But indeed the worst part of it was that there was very little fuss made at all. His room was so quiet that the chirping of the birds in the budding trees outside his window, the sound of voices in the street below could all be heard distinctly, and yet Aunt Gertrude and Mr. Lambert sat beside his bed, and Janey was there, clinging to her father’s hand, and Paul sat half hidden in the little window embrasure, staring out soberly at the fading sky. The shock and suddenness of it all had stunned the little family.
It was only Mr. Lambert’s face that Paul could see clearly in the dusk of the room, and the transformation it had undergone since the old man realized the danger of his only son, left an indelible memory on the boy’s mind. All its pompousness had fled—it looked old and helpless and humble. And apart as he was, Paul, looking upon their fear and sorrow, felt that he was being welded to his own people. All his own desires seemed at that moment, small and selfish, and with a thrill of pity, he vowed silently that if the need came, he was ready to lay aside his own hopes forever, without regret, and be their son.
[CHAPTER XI—CARL SQUARES HIS DEBT]
It was not until the nineteenth of May that the burly, grey-haired little doctor could say definitely that Carl would get well. And even then he could not entirely dissolve the cloud that hung over the family. Carl’s eyes which had always been weak and near-sighted had been gravely injured by incessant overstraining, and the doctor said frankly enough that unless he took the greatest care of them there was a strong possibility of his losing his sight.
“No books, Mrs. Lambert. Nothing but rest,” he said, firmly. “Later, he must be out of doors. Plenty of exercise, plenty of sleep, and no study for at least a year.”
This program, so entirely opposed to all Carl’s tastes was not imparted to him until he was well on the road to recovery. He listened to it stoically, propped up among Aunt Gertrude’s downiest feather pillows, in the dark bedroom, a green shade almost bandaging his eyes, and hiding half of his thin white face.
“Does the old boy think there’s a likelihood of my being blind anyway?” he inquired, using the blunt word without a tremor. No one answered him. His face turned a shade paler as he turned helplessly from one side to the other trying to guess where his mother and father were standing. Mr. Lambert attempted to say something, but all he could do was to take his son’s groping hand in his.