“I shook hands with him, and said I was glad to see him, and he just stared at me as if I were a—a fish,” went on Carl, still dwelling on his own grievances. “I know he’s here to stay, and I’ll try to get on with him, though I’ll tell you right now, it’s not going to be an easy job. And I hope to goodness I won’t have to room with him permanently, mother. Can’t you find somewhere to put him? Can’t you—” Carl broke off abruptly, reddening, for at that moment Paul entered the room. He was scrubbed and brushed, and, dressed in Mr. Lambert’s summer suit, looked vastly better than the young tramp who had entered their midst an hour before. Unfortunately he had overheard Carl’s remark, and his expression had changed from one that was almost friendly to the stony, immobile look that absolutely altered the whole character of his face. The cozy family scene in the dining room, where now the table had been set, and the lamp lighted, and where the firelight shone upon the faces of three generations, from Granny to little Minie, had done much to make Paul feel that he would be happy after all among these simple, happy people—until his quick ears caught Carl’s unkind remark.
Only Jane had seen the look that showed he had overheard; but everyone felt that he had, and an awkward little silence followed his entrance, during which Elise glanced at her brother in distress, and Mrs. Lambert struggled to think of something to say that would mend matters a little. But Carl met his cousin’s eyes defiantly, and from that moment the tacit hostility of the two boys was sealed.
So Paul, who had been on the verge of thawing a little, had frozen up again. He concluded immediately that everyone disliked him, and like many sensitive people, instead of attempting to overcome this imagined dislike, he carefully hid all that was winning in his nature, under his cold, unsympathetic manner. He even fancied that his aunt’s affectionate little attentions were only assumed to hide her real feelings. Poor Aunt Gertrude! No one in the world was less capable of insincerity than she, and her gentle heart ached over the forlorn, taciturn youth.
Supper was a decidedly uncomfortable meal; and Paul, who had felt that he could have eaten the proverbial fatted calf, found it difficult to swallow a mouthful. During the journey there had been too much to occupy him, too many difficulties and strange events for him to think much about the abrupt change that had taken place in his life; but now, as he sat with his eyes on his plate, in the midst of these strange faces, he felt as if the bottom had dropped out of everything. A perfect wave of depression engulfed him, and all he wished for was to get off by himself.
“Well, my boy, are you too tired to have a little talk?” asked Mr. Lambert, at length pushing back his chair.
“No, sir,” muttered Paul, curtly, thinking to himself, “I don’t suppose that they want to have me on their hands any longer than is necessary.”
“Children, you may prepare your lessons in your own rooms to-night. Well, Paul, suppose you and I get over here into my corner,” suggested Mr. Lambert, walking across to his desk. “Sit down.”
Paul sat down, folded his hands in his lap, and fixed his eyes attentively on the window. The rain still rattled on the glass panes, and the wind banged the shutters, and moaned through the leafless trees.
“I am only going to acquaint you with the wishes which your father—my poor brother—expressed in a recent letter,” began Mr. Lambert, rummaging through his orderly pigeon-holes. “It might be best for you to read it for yourself.” But Paul declined the letter with a gesture.
“Ah, well,” said Mr. Lambert, replacing the poor, blotted sheets in the envelope, “I don’t want to pain you, my dear boy, and I would not touch on the subject at all, if I did not feel that it were best for you to find something to occupy your thoughts at this time.” He paused, but as Paul did not seem to think it necessary to make any reply, he continued: