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“How rough, my son? I wish he’d make up his mind to come home.”
“There! I told him this is his home; just as much as it is mine. I’ll write him you said that, mother.”
“Indeed, yes. Bless the boy!”
The Elder looked at his wife and lifted his brows, a sign that it was time the meal should close, and she rose instantly. It was her habit never to rise until the Elder gave the sign. Peter Junior walked down the length of the hall at his father’s side.
“What Richard really wished to do was what I mentioned to you yesterday for myself. He wanted to go to Paris and study, but after visiting his great-aunts he saw that it would be too much. He would not allow them to take from their small income to help him through, so he gave it up for the time being; but if he keeps on as he is, it is my opinion he may go yet. He’s making good money. Then we could be there together.”
The Elder made no reply, but stooped and drew on his india-rubber overshoes,––stamping into them,––and then got himself into his raincoat with sundry liftings and hunchings of his shoulders. Peter Junior stood by waiting, if haply some sort of sign might be given that his remark had been heeded, but his father only carefully adjusted his hat and walked away in the rain, setting his feet down stubbornly at each step, and holding his umbrella as if it were a banner of righteousness. The younger man’s face flushed, and he turned from the door angrily; then he looked to see his mother’s eyes fixed on him sadly.
“At least he might treat me with common decency. He need not be rude, even if I am his son.” He thought he106detected accusation of himself in his mother’s gaze and resented it.
“Be patient, dear.”
“Oh, mother! Patient, patient! What have you got by being patient all these years?”
“Peace of mind, my son.”
“Mother––”
“Try to take your father’s view of this matter. Have you any idea how hard he has worked all his life, and always with the thought of you and your advancement, and welfare? Why, Peter Junior, he is bound up in you. He expected you would one day stand at his side, his mainstay and help and comfort in his business.”
“Then it wasn’t for me; it was for himself that he has worked and built up the bank. It’s his bank, and his wife, and his son, and his ‘Tower of Babel that he has builded,’ and now he wants me to bury myself in it and worship at his idolatry.”
“Hush, Peter. I don’t like to rebuke you, but I must. You can twist facts about and see them in a wrong light, but the truth remains that he has loved you tenderly––always. I know his heart better than you––better than he. It is only that he thinks the line he has taken a lifetime to lay out for you is the best. He is as sure of it as that the days follow each other. He sees only futility in the way you would go. I have no doubt his heart is sore over it at this moment, and that he is grieving in a way that would shock you, could you comprehend it.”
“Enough said, mother, enough said. I’ll try to be fair.”
He went to his room and stood looking out at the rain-washed earth and the falling leaves. The sky was heavy107and drab. He thought of Betty and her picnic and of how gay and sweet she was, and how altogether desirable, and the thought wrought a change in his spirit. He went downstairs and kissed his mother; then he, too, put on his rubber overshoes and shook himself into his raincoat and carefully adjusted his hat and his umbrella. Then with the assistance of the old blackthorn stick he walked away in the rain, limping, it is true, but nevertheless a younger, sturdier edition of the man who had passed out before him.
He found Betty alone as he had hoped, for Mary Ballard had gone to drive her husband to the station. Bertrand was thinking of opening a studio in the city, at his wife’s earnest solicitation, for she thought him buried there in their village. As for the children––they were still in school.
Thus it came about that Peter Junior spent the rest of that day with Betty in her father’s studio. He told Betty all his plans. He made love to her and cajoled her, and was happy indeed. He had a winsome way, and he made her say she loved him––more than once or twice––and his heart was satisfied.
“We’ll be married just as soon as I return from Paris, and you’ll not miss me so much until then?”
“Oh, no.”
“Ah––but––but I hope you will––you know.”
“Of course I shall! What would you suppose?”
“But you said no.”
“Naturally! Didn’t you wish me to say that?”
“I wanted you to tell the truth.”
“Well, I did.”
“There it is again! I’m afraid you don’t really love me.”
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She tilted her head on one side and looked at him a moment. “Would you like me to say I don’t want you to go to Paris?”
“Not that, exactly; but all the time I’m gone I shall be longing for you.”
“I should hope so! It would be pretty bad if you didn’t.”
“Now you see what I mean about you. I want you to be longing for me all the time, until I return.”
“All right. I’ll cry my eyes out, and I’ll keep writing for you to come home.”
“Oh, come now! Tell me what you will do all the time.”
“Oh, lots of things. I’ll paint pictures, too, and––I’ll write––and help mother just as I do now; and I’ll study art without going to Paris.”
“Will you, you rogue! I’d marry you first and take you with me if it were possible, and you should study in Paris, too––that is, if you wished to.”
“Wouldn’t it be wonderful! But I don’t know––I believe I’d rather write than paint.”
“I believe I’d rather have you. They say there are no really great women artists. It isn’t in the woman’s nature. They haven’t the strength. Oh, they have the delicacy and all that; it’s something else they lack.”
“Humph! It’s rather nice to have us lacking in one thing and another, isn’t it? It gives you men something to do to discover and fill in the lacks.”
“I know one little lady who lacks in nothing but years.”
Betty looked out of the window and down into the yard. “There is mother driving in. Let’s go down and have cookies and milk. I’m sure you need cookies and milk.”
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“I’ll need anything you say.”
“Very well, then, you’ll need patience if ever you marry me.”
“I know that well enough. Stop a moment. Kiss me before we go down.” He caught her in his arms, but she slipped away.
“No, I won’t. You’ve had enough kisses. I’ll always give you one when you come, hereafter, and one when you go away, but no more.”
“Then I shall come very often.” He laughed and leaned upon her instead of using his stick, as they slowly descended.
Mary Ballard was chilled after her long drive in the rain, and Betty made her tea. Then, after a pleasant hour of chat and encouragement from the two sweet women, Peter Junior left them, promising to go to the picnic and nutting party on Saturday. It would surely be pleasant, for the sky was already clearing. Yes, truly a glad heart brings pleasant prognostications.
110CHAPTER XTHE NUTTING PARTY
Peter Junior made no attempt the next day to speak further to his father about his plans. It seemed to him better that he should wait until his wise mother had talked the matter over with the Elder. Although he put in most of the day at the studio, painting, he saw very little of Betty and thought she was avoiding him out of girlish coquetry, but she was only very busy. Martha was coming home and everything must be as clean as wax. Martha was such a tidy housekeeper that she would see the least lack and set to work to remedy it, and that Betty could not abide. In these days Martha’s coming marked a semimonthly event in the home, for since completing her course at the high school she had been teaching in the city. Bertrand would return with her, and then all would have to be talked over,––just what he had decided to do, and why.
In the evening a surprise awaited the whole household, for Martha came, accompanied not only by her father, but also by a young professor in the same school where she taught. Mary Ballard greeted him most kindly, but she felt things were happening too rapidly in her family. Jamie and Bobby watched the young man covertly yet eagerly, taking note of his every movement and intonation. Was he one to be emulated or avoided? Only little Janey was quite unabashed by him, and this lightened his embarrassment111greatly and helped him to the ease of manner he strove to establish.
She led him out to the sweet-apple tree, and introduced him to the calf and the bantams, and invited him to go with them nutting the next day. “We’re all going in a great, big picnic wagon. Everybody’s going and we’ll have just lots of fun.” And he accepted, provided she would sit beside him all the way.
Bobby decided at this point that he also would befriend the young man. “If you’re going to sit beside her all the way, you’ll have to be lively. She never sits in one place more than two minutes. You’ll have to sit on papa’s other knee for a while, and then you’ll have to sit on Peter Junior’s.”
“That will be interesting, anyway. Who’s Peter Junior?”
“Oh, he’s a man. He comes to see us a lot.”
“He’s the son of Elder Craigmile,” explained Martha.
“Is he going, too, Betty?”
“Yes. The whole crowd are going. It will be fun. I’m glad now it rained Thursday, for the Deans didn’t want to postpone it till to-morrow, and then, when it rained, Mrs. Dean said it would be too wet to try to have it yesterday; and now we have you. I wanted all the time to wait until you came home.”
That night, when Martha went to their room, Betty followed her, and after closing the door tightly she threw her arms around her sister’s neck.
“Oh, Martha, Martha, dear! Tell me all about him. Why didn’t you let us know? I came near having on my old blue gingham. What if I had? He’s awfully nice112looking. Is he in love with you? Tell me all about it. Does he make love to you? Oh, Martha! It’s so romantic for you to have a lover!”
“Hush, Betty, some one will hear you. Of course he doesn’t make love to me!”
“Why?”
“I wouldn’t let him.”
“Martha! Why not? Do you think it’s bad to let a young man make love to you?”
“Betty! You mustn’t talk so loud. Everything sounds so through this house. It would mortify me to death.”
“What would mortify you to death: to have him make love to you or to have someone hear me?”
“Betty, dear!”
“Well, tell me all about him––please! Why did he come out with you?”
“You shouldn’t always be thinking about love-making––and––such things, Betty, dear. He just came out in the most natural way, just because he––he loves the country, and he was talking to me about it one day and said he’d like to come out some Friday with me––just about asked me to invite him. So when father called at the school yesterday for me, I introduced them, and he said the same thing to father, and of course father invited him over again, and––and––so he’s here. That’s all there is to it.”
“I bet it isn’t. How long have you known him?”
“Why, ever since I’ve been in the school, naturally.”
“What does he teach?”
“He has higher Latin and beginners’ Greek, and then he has charge of the main room when the principal goes out.”
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Betty pondered a little, sitting on the floor in front of her sister. “You have such a lovely way of doing your hair. Is that the way to do hair nowadays––with two long curls hanging down from one side of the coil? You wind one side around the back knot, and then you pin the other up and let the ends hang down in two long curls, don’t you? I’m going to try mine that way; may I?”
“Of course, darling! I’ll help you.”
“What’s his name, Martha? I couldn’t quite catch it, and I did not want to let him know I thought it queer, so wouldn’t ask over.”
“His name is Lucien Thurbyfil. It’s not so queer, Betty.”
“Oh, you pronounce it T’urbyfil, just as if there were no ‘h’ in it. You know I thought father said Mr. Tubfull––or something like that, when he introduced him to mother, and that was why mother looked at him in such an odd way.”
The two girls laughed merrily. “Betty, what if you hadn’t been a dear, and had called him that! And he’s so very correct!”
“Oh, is he? Then I’ll try it to-morrow and we’ll see what he’ll do.”
“Don’t you dare! I’d be so ashamed I’d sink right through the floor. He’d think we’d been making fun of him.”
“Then I’ll wait until we are out in the woods, for I’d hate to have you make a hole in the floor by sinking through it.”
“Betty! You’ll be good to-morrow, won’t you, dear?”
“Good? Am I not always good? Didn’t I scrub and114bake and put flowers all over the ugly what-not in the corner of the parlor, and get the grease spot out of the dining room rug that Jamie stepped butter into––and all for you––without any thought of any Mr. Tubfull or any one but you? All day long I’ve been doing it.”
“Of course you did, and it was perfectly sweet; and the flowers and mother looked so dear––and Janey’s hands were clean––I looked to see. You know usually they are so dirty. I knew you’d been busy; but Betty, dear, you won’t be mischievous to-morrow, will you? He’s our guest, you know, and you never were bashful, not as much as you really ought to be, and we can’t treat strangers just as we do––well––people we have always known, like Peter Junior. They wouldn’t understand it.”
But the admonition seemed to be lost, for Betty’s thoughts were wandering from the point. “Hasn’t he ever––ever––made love to you?” Martha was washing her face and neck at the washstand in the corner, and now she turned a face very rosy, possibly with scrubbing, and threw water over her naughty little sister. “Well, hasn’t he ever put his arm around you or––or anything?”
“I wouldn’t let a man do that.”
“Not if you were engaged?”
“Of course not! That wouldn’t be a nice way to do.”
“Shouldn’t you let a man kiss you or––or––put his arm around you––or anything––even when he’s trying to get engaged to you?”
“Of course not, Betty, dear. You’re asking very silly questions. I’m going to bed.”
“Well, but they do in books. He did in ‘Jane Eyre,’ don’t you remember? And she was proud of it––and115pretended not to be––and very much touched, and treasured his every look in her heart. And in the books they always kiss their lovers. How can Mr. Thurbyfil ever be your lover, if you never let him even put his arm around you?”
“Betty, Betty, come to bed. He isn’t my lover and he doesn’t want to be and we aren’t in books, and you are getting too old to be so silly.”
Then Betty slowly disrobed and bathed her sweet limbs and at last crept in beside her sister. Surely she had not done right. She had let Peter Junior put his arm around her and kiss her, and that even before they were engaged; and all yesterday afternoon he had held her hand whenever she came near, and he had followed her about and had kissed her a great many times. Her cheeks burned with shame in the darkness, not that she had allowed this, but that she had not been as bashful as she ought. But how could she be bashful without pretending?
“Martha,” she said at last, “you are so sweet and pretty, if I were Mr. Thurbyfil, I’d put my arm around you anyway, and make love to you.”
Then Martha drew Betty close and gave her a sleepy kiss. “No you wouldn’t, dear,” she murmured, and soon the two were peacefully sleeping, Betty’s troubles quite forgotten. Still, when morning came, she did not confide to her sister anything about Peter Junior, and she even whispered to her mother not to mention a word of the affair to any one.
At breakfast Jamie and Bobby were turbulent with delight. All outings were a joy to them, no matter how often they came. Martha was neat and rosy and gay. Lucien116Thurbyfil wanted to help her by wiping the dishes, but she sent him out to the sweet-apple tree with a basket, enjoining him to bring only the mellow ones. “Be sure to get enough. We’re all going, father and mother and all.”
“It’s very nice of your people to make room for me on the wagon.”
“And it’s nice of you to go.”
“I see Peter Junior. He’s coming,” shouted Bobby, from the top of the sweet-apple tree.
“Who does he go with?” asked Martha.
“With us. He always does,” said Betty. “I wonder why his mother and the Elder never go out for any fun, the way you and father do!”
“The Elder always has to be at the bank, I suppose,” said Mary Ballard, “and she wouldn’t go without him. Did you put in the salt and pepper for the eggs, dear?”
“Yes, mother. I’m glad father isn’t a banker.”
“It takes a man of more ability than I to be a banker,” said Bertrand, laughing, albeit with concealed pride.
“We don’t care if it does, Dad,” said Jamie, patronizingly. “When I get through the high school, I’m going to hire out to the bank.” He seized the lunch basket and marched manfully out to the wagon.
“I thought Peter Junior always went with Clara Dean. He did when I left,” said Martha, in a low voice to Betty, as they filled bottles with raspberry shrub, and with cream for the coffee. “Did you tie strings on the spoons, dear? They’ll get mixed with the Walters’ if you don’t. You remember theirs are just like ours.”
“Oh, I forgot. Why, he likes Clara a lot, of course, but I guess they just naturally expected him to go with us.117They and the Walters have a wagon together, anyway, and they wouldn’t have room. We have one all to ourselves. Hello, Peter Junior! Mr. Thurbyfil, this is Mr. Junior.”
“Happy to meet you, Mr. Junior,” said the correct Mr. Thurbyfil. The boys laughed uproariously, and the rest all smiled, except Betty, who was grave and really seemed somewhat embarrassed.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Mr. Thurbyfil, this is Mr. Craigmile,” said Martha. “You introduced him as Mr. Junior, Betty.”
“I didn’t! Well, that’s because I’m bashful. Come on, everybody, mother’s in.” So they all climbed into the wagon and began to find their places.
“Oh, father, have you the matches? The bottles are on the kitchen table,” exclaimed Martha.
“Don’t get down, Mr. Ballard,” said Lucien. “I’ll get them. It would never do to forget the bottles. Now, where’s the little girl who was to ride beside me?” and Janey crawled across the hay and settled herself at her new friend’s side. “Now I think we are beautifully arranged,” for Martha was on his other side.
“Very well, we’re off,” and Bertrand gathered up the reins and they started.
“There they are. There’s the other wagon,” shouted Bobby. “We ought to have a flag to wave.”
Then Lucien, the correct, startled the party by putting his two fingers in his mouth and whistling shrilly.
“They have such a load I wish Clara could ride with us,” said Betty. “Peter Junior, won’t you get out and fetch her?”
So they all stopped and there were greetings and introductions118and much laughing and joking, and Peter Junior obediently helped Clara Dean down and into the Ballards’ wagon.
“Clara, Mr. Thurbyfil can whistle as loud as a train, through his fingers, he can. Do it, Mr. Thurbyfil,” said Bobby.
“Oh, I can do that,” said Peter Junior, not to be outdone by the stranger, and they all tried it. Bertrand and his wife, settled comfortably on the high seat in front, had their own pleasure together and paid no heed to the noisy crew behind them.
What a day! Autumn leaves and hazy distances, soft breezes and sunlight, and miles of level road skirting woods and open fields where the pumpkins lay yellow among the shocks of corn, and where the fence corners were filled with flaming sumac, with goldenrod and purple asters adding their softer coloring.
It was a good eight miles to Carter’s woods, but they bordered the river where the bluffs were not so high, and it would be possible to build a fire on the river bank with perfect safety. Bertrand had brought roasting ears from his patch of sweet corn, and as soon as they arrived at their chosen grove, he and Mary leisurely turned their attention to the preparing of the lunch with Mrs. Dean and Mrs. Walters, leaving to the young people the gathering of the nuts.
Mrs. Dean, a slight, wiry woman, who acted and talked easily and unceasingly, spread out a fresh linen cloth and laid a stone on each corner to hold it down, and then looked into each lunch basket in turn, to acquaint herself with its contents.
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“I see you brought cake and cookies and jam, Mrs. Ballard, besides all the corn and cream––you always do too much, and all your own work to look after, too. Well, I brought a lot of ham sandwiches and that brown bread your husband likes so much. I always feel so proud when Mr. Ballard praises anything I do; he’s so clever it makes me feel as if I were really able to do something. And you’re so clever too. I don’t know how it is some folks seem to have all the brains, and then there’s others––good enough––but there! As I tell Mr. Dean, you can’t tell why it is. Now where are the spoons? Every one brings their own, of course; yes, here are yours, Mrs. Walters. It’s good of you to think of that sweet corn, Mr. Ballard.––Oh, he’s gone away; well, anyway, we’re having a lot more than we can eat, and all so good and tempting. I hope Mr. Dean won’t overeat himself; he’s just a boy at a picnic, I always have to remind him––How?”
“Did you bring the cups for the coffee?” It was Mrs. Walters who interrupted the flow of Mrs. Dean’s eloquence. She was portly and inclined to brevity, which made her a good companion for Mrs. Dean.
“I had such a time with my jell this summer, and now this fall my grape jell’s just as bad. This is all running over the glasses. There, I’ll set it on this paper. I do hate to see a clean cloth all spotted with jell, even if it is a picnic when people think it doesn’t make any difference. I see Martha has a friend. Well, that’s nice. I wish Clara cared more for company; but, there, as I tell Mr. Dean––Oh, yes! the cups. Clara, where are the cups? Oh, she’s gone. Well, I’m sure they’re in that willow basket. I told Clara to pack towels around them good. I do hate to see120cups all nicked up; yes, here they are. It’s good of you to always tend the coffee, Mrs. Walters; you know just how to make it. I tell Mr. Dean nobody ever makes coffee like you can at a picnic. Now, if it’s ready, I think everything else is; well, it soon will be with such a fire, and the corn’s not done, anyway. Do you think the sun’ll get round so as to shine on the table? I see it’s creeping this way pretty fast, and they’re all so scattered over the woods there’s no telling when we will get every one here to eat. I see another tablecloth in your basket, Mrs. Ballard. If you’ll be good enough to just hold that corner, we can cover everything up good, so, and then I’ll walk about a bit and call them all together.” And the kindly lady stepped briskly off through the woods, still talking, while Mrs. Ballard and Mrs. Walters sat themselves down in the shade and quietly watched the coffee and chatted.
It was past the noon hour, and the air was drowsy and still. The voices and laughter of the nut gatherers came back to them from the deeper woods in the distance, and the crackling of the fire where Bertrand attended to the roasting of the corn near by, and the gentle sound of the lapping water on the river bank came to them out of the stillness.
“I wonder if Mr. Walters tied the horses good!” said his wife. “Seems as if one’s got loose. Don’t you hear a horse galloping?”
“They’re all there eating,” said Mary, rising and looking about. “Some one’s coming, away off there over the bluff; see?”
“I wonder, now! My, but he rides well. He must be coming here. I hope there’s nothing the matter. It looks like––it might be Peter Junior, only he’s here already.”
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“It’s––it’s––no, it can’t be––it is! It’s––Bertrand, Bertrand! Why, it’s Richard!” cried Mary Ballard, as the horseman came toward them, loping smoothly along under the trees, now in the sunlight and now in the shadow. He leaped from the saddle, and, throwing the rein over a knotted limb, walked rapidly toward them, holding out a hand to each, as Bertrand and Mary hurried forward.
“I couldn’t let you good folks have one of these fine old times without me.”
“Why, when did you come? Oh, Richard! It’s good to see you again,” said Mary.
“I came this morning. I went up to my uncle’s and then to your house and found you all away, and learned that you were here and my twin with you, so here I am. How are the children? All grown up?”
“Almost. Come and sit down and give an account of yourself to Mary, while I try to get hold of the rest,” said Bertrand.
“Mrs. Dean has gone for them, father. Mrs. Walters, the coffee’s all right; come and sit down here and let’s visit until the others come. You remember Richard Kildene, Mrs. Walters?”
“Since he was a baby, but it’s been so long since I’ve seen you, Richard. I don’t believe I’d have known you unless for your likeness to Peter Junior. You look stronger than he now. Redder and browner.”
“I ought to. I’ve been in the open air and sun for weeks. I’m only here now by chance.”
“A happy chance for us, Richard. Where have you been of late?” asked Bertrand.
“Out on the plains––riding and keeping a gang of men122under control, for the most part, and pushing the work as rapidly as possible.” He tossed back his hair with the old movement Mary remembered so well. “Tell me about the children, Martha and Betty; both grown up? Or still ready to play with a comrade?”
“They’re all here to-day. Martha’s teaching in the city, but Betty’s at home helping me, as always. The boys are getting such big fellows, and little Janey’s as sweet as all the rest.”
“There! That’s Betty’s laugh, I know. I’d recognize it if I heard it out on the plains. I have, sometimes––when a homesick fit gets hold of me out under the stars, when the noise of the camp has subsided. A good deal of that work is done by the very refuse of humanity, you know, a mighty tough lot.”
“And you like that sort of thing, Richard?” asked Mary. “I thought when you went to your people in Scotland, you might be leading a very different kind of life by now.”
“I thought so, too, then; but I guess for some reasons this is best. Still, I couldn’t resist stealing a couple of days to run up here and see you all. I got off a carload of supplies yesterday from Chicago, and then I wired back to the end of the line that I’d be two days later myself. No wonder I followed you out here. I couldn’t afford to waste the precious hours. I say! That’s Betty again! I’ll find them and say you’re hungry, shall I?”
“Oh, they’re coming now. I see Martha’s pink dress, and there’s Betty in green over there.”
But Richard was gone, striding over the fallen leaves toward the spot of green which was Betty’s gingham dress. And Betty, spying him, forgot she was grown up. She ran123toward him with outstretched arms, as of old––only––just as he reached her, she drew back and a wave of red suffused her face. She gave him one hand instead of both, and called to Peter Junior to hurry.
“Well, Betty Ballard! I can’t jump you along now over stocks and stones as I used to. And here’s everybody! Why, Jamie, what a great man you are! I’ll have to take you back with me to help build the new road. And here’s Bobby; and this little girl––I wonder if she remembers me well enough to give me a kiss? I have nobody to kiss me now, when I come back. That’s right. That’s what Betty used to do. Why, hello! here’s Clara Dean, and who’s this? John Walters? So you’re a man, too! Mr. Dean, how are you? And Mrs. Dean! You don’t grow any older anyway, so I’ll walk with you. Wait until I’ve pounded this old chap a minute. Why didn’t I write I was coming? Man, I didn’t know it myself. I’m under orders nowadays. To get here at all I had to steal time. So you’re graduated from a crutch to a cane? Good!”
Every one exclaimed at once, while Richard talked right on, until they reached the riverside where the lunch was spread; and then the babble was complete.
That night, as they all drove home in the moonlight, Richard tied his horse to the rear of the Ballards’ wagon and rode home seated on the hay with the rest. He placed himself where Betty sat on his right, and the two boys crowded as close to him as possible on his left. Little Janey, cuddled at Betty’s side, was soon fast asleep with her head in her sister’s lap, while Lucien Thurbyfil was well pleased to have Martha in the corner to himself. Peter Junior sat near Betty and listened with interest to his124cousin, who entertained them all with tales of the plains and the Indians, and the game that supplied them with many a fine meal in camp.
“Say, did you ever see a real herd of wild buffalo just tearing over the ground and kicking up a great dust and stampeding and everything?” said Jamie.
“Oh, yes. And if you are out there all alone on your pony, you’d better keep away from in front of them, too, or you’d be trampled to death in a jiffy.”
“What’s stampeding?” said Bobby.
So Richard explained it, and much more that elicited long breaths of interest. He told them of the miles and miles of land without a single tree or hill, and only a sea of grass as far as the eye could reach, as level as Lake Michigan, and far vaster. And how the great railway was now approaching the desert, and how he had seen the bones of men and cattle and horses bleaching white, lying beside their broken-down wagons half buried in the drifting sand. He told them how the trail that such people had made with so much difficulty stretched far, far away into the desert along the very route, for the most part, that the railroad was taking, and answered their questions so interestingly that the boys were sorry when they reached home at last and they had to bid good-night to Peter Junior’s fascinating cousin, Richard.
125CHAPTER XIBETTY BALLARD’S AWAKENING
Mary and Bertrand always went early to church, for Bertrand led the choir, and it was often necessary for him to gather the singers together and try over the anthem before the service. Sometimes the rector would change the hymns, and then the choir must have one little rehearsal of them. Martha and Mr. Thurbyfil accompanied them this morning, and Betty and the boys were to walk, for four grown-ups with little Janey sandwiched in between more than filled the carryall.
In these days Betty no longer had to wash and dress her brothers, but there were numerous attentions required of her, such as only growing boys can originate, and “sister” was as kind and gay in helping them over their difficulties as of old. So, now, as she stepped out of her room all dressed for church in her white muslin with green rose sprigs over it, with her green parasol, and her prayer book in her hand, Bobby called her.
“Oh, Sis! I’ve broken my shoe string and it’s time to start.”
“I have a new one in my everyday shoes, Bobby, dear; run upstairs and take it out. They’re just inside the closet door. Wait a minute, Jamie; that lock stands straight up on the back of your head. Can’t you make it lie down? Bring me the brush. You look splendid in your new126trousers. Now, you hurry on ahead and leave this at the Deans’. It’s Clara’s sash bow. I found it in the wagon after they left last night. Run, she may want to wear it to church.––Yes, Bobby, dear, I sent him on, but you can catch up. Have you a handkerchief? Yes, I’ll follow in a minute.”
And the boys rushed off, looking very clean in their Sunday clothing, and very old and mannish in their long trousers and stiff hats. Betty looked after them with pride, then she bethought her that the cat had not had her saucer of milk, and ran down to the spring to get it, leaving the doors wide open behind her. The day was quite warm enough for her to wear the summer gown, and she was very winsome and pretty in her starched muslin, with the delicate green buds sprayed over it. She wore a green belt, too, and the parasol she was very proud of, for she had bought it with her own chicken money. It was her heart’s delight. Betty’s skirt reached nearly to the ground, for she was quite in long dresses, and two little ruffles rippled about her feet as she ran down the path to the spring. But, alas! As she turned away after carefully fastening the spring-house door, the cat darted under her feet; and Betty stumbled and the milk streamed down the front of her dress and spattered her shoes––and if there was anything Betty liked, it was to have her shoes very neat.
“Oh, Kitty! I hate your running under my feet that way all the time.” Betty was almost in tears. She set the saucer down and tried to wipe off the milk, while the cat crouched before the dish and began drinking eagerly and unthankfully, after the manner of cats.
Some one stood silently watching her from the kitchen127steps as she walked slowly up the path, gazing down on the ruin of the pretty starched ruffles.
“Why, Richard!” was all she said, for something came up in her throat and choked her. She waited where she stood, and in his eyes, her aspect seemed that of despair. Was it all for the spilled milk?
“Why, Betty dear!” He caught her and kissed her and laughed at her and comforted her all at once. “Not tears, dear? Tears to greet me? You didn’t half greet me last evening, and I came only to see you. Now you will, where there’s no one to see and no one to hear? Yes. Never mind the spilled milk, you know better than that.” But Betty lay in his arms, a little crumpled wisp of sorrow, white and still.
“Away off there in Cheyenne I got to thinking of you, and I went to headquarters and asked to be sent on this commission just to get the chance to run up here and tell you I have been waiting all these years for you to grow up. You have haunted me ever since I left Leauvite. You darling, your laughing face was always with me, on the march––in prison––and wherever I’ve been since. I’ve been trying to keep myself right––for you––so I might dare some day to take you in my arms like this and tell you––so I need not be ashamed before your––”
“Oh, Richard, wait!” wailed Betty, but he would not wait.
“I’ve waited long enough. I see you are grown up before I even dreamed you could be. Thank heaven I came now! You are so sweet some one would surely have won you away from me––but no one can now––no one.”
“Richard, why didn’t you tell me this when you first128came home from the war––before you went to Scotland? I would––”
“Not then, sweetheart; I couldn’t. I didn’t even know then I would ever be worth the love of any woman; and––you were such a child then––I couldn’t intrude my weariness––my worn-out self on you. I was sick at heart when I got out of that terrible prison; but now it is all changed. I am my own man now, dependent on no one, and able to marry you out of hand, Betty, dear. After you’ve told me something, I’ll do whatever you say, wait as long as you say. No, no! Listen! Don’t break away from me. You don’t hate me as you do the cat. I haven’t been running under your feet all the time, have I, dear? Listen. See here, my arms are strong now. They can hold you forever, just like this. I’ve been thinking of you and dreaming of you and loving you through these years. You have never been out of my mind nor out of my heart. I’ve kept the little housewife you made me and bound with your cherry-colored hair ribbon until it is in rags, but I love it still. I love it. They took everything I had about me at the prison; but this––they gave back to me. It was the only thing I begged them to leave me.”
Poor little Betty! She tried to speak and tried again, but she could not utter a word. Her mouth grew dry and her knees would not support her. Richard was so big and strong he did not feel her weight, and only delighted in the thought that she resigned herself to him. “Darling little Betty! Darling little Betty! You do understand, don’t you? Won’t you tell me you do?”
But she only closed her eyes and lay quite still. She longed to lift her arms and put them about his neck, and129the effort not to do so only crushed her spirit the more. Now she knew she was bad, and unworthy such a great love as this. She had let Peter Junior kiss her, and she had told him she loved him––and it was nothing to this. She was not good; she was unworthy, and all the angels in heaven could never bring her comfort any more. She was so still he put his cheek to hers, and it seemed as if she moaned, and that without a sound.
“Have I hurt you, Betty, dear?”
“Oh, no, Richard, no.”
“Do you love me, sweet?”
“Yes, Richard, yes. I love you so I could die of loving you, and I can’t help it. Oh, Richard, I can’t help it.”
“It’s asking too much that you should love me so, and yet that’s what my selfish, hungry heart wants and came here for.”
“Take your face away, Richard; stop. I must talk if it kills me. I have been so bad and wicked. Oh, Richard, I can’t tell you how wicked. Let me stand by myself now. I can.” She fought back the tears and turned her face away from him, but when he let go of her, in her weakness she swayed, and he caught her to him again, with many repeated words of tenderness.
“If you will take me to the steps, Richard, and bring me a glass of water, I think I can talk to you then. You remember where things are in this house?”
Did he remember? Was there anything he had forgotten about this beloved place? He brought her the water and she made him sit beside her, but not near, only that she need not look in his eyes.
“Richard, I thought something was love––that was not––I130didn’t know. It was only liking––and––and now I––I’ve been so wrong––and I want to die––Oh, I want to die! No, don’t. Do you want to make me sin again? Oh, Richard, Richard! If you had only come before! Now it is too late.” She began sobbing bitterly, and her small frame shook with her grief.
He seized her wrists and his hand trembled. She tried to cover her face with her hands, but he took them down and held them.
“Betty, what have you done? Tell me––tell me quick.”
Then she turned her face toward him, wet with tears. “Have pity on me, Richard. Have pity on me, Richard, for my heart is broken, and the thing that hurts me most is that it will hurt you.”
“But it wasn’t yesterday when I came to you out there in the woods. I heard you laughing, and you ran to meet me as happy as ever––”
“You did not hear me laugh once again after you came and looked in my eyes there in the grove. It was in that instant that my heart began to break, and now I know why. Go back to Cheyenne. Go far away and never think of me any more. I am not worthy of you, anyway. I have let you hold me in your arms and kiss me when I ought not. Oh, I have been so bad––so bad! Let me hide my face. I can’t look in your eyes any more.”
But he was cruel. He made her look in his eyes and tell him all the sorrowful truth. Then at last he grew pitiful again and tried brokenly to comfort her, to make her feel that something would intervene to help them, but in his heart he knew that his cause was lost, and his hopes burned within him, a heap of smoldering coals dying in their own ashes.
131
He had always loved Peter Junior too well to blame him especially as Peter could not have known what havoc he was making of his cousin’s hopes. It had all been a terrible mischance, and now they must make the best of it and be brave. Yet a feeling of resentment would creep into his heart in spite of his manful resolve to be fair to his cousin, and let nothing interfere with their lifelong friendship. In vain he told himself that Peter had the same right as he to seek Betty’s love. Why not? Why should he think himself the only one to be considered? But there was Betty! And when he thought of her, his soul seemed to go out of him. Too late! Too late! And so he rose and walked sorrowfully away.
When Mary Ballard came home from church, she found her little daughter up in her room on her knees beside her bed, her arms stretched out over the white counterpane, asleep. She had suffered until nature had taken her into her own soothing arms and put her to sleep through sheer weakness. Her cheeks were still burning and her eyelids red from weeping. Mary thought her in a fever, and gently helped her to remove the pretty muslin dress and got her to bed.
Betty drew a long sigh as her head sank back into the pillow. “My head aches; don’t worry, mother, dear.” She thought her heart was closed forever on her terrible secret.
“Mother’ll bring you something for it, dear. You must have eaten something at the picnic that didn’t agree with you.” She kissed Betty’s cheek, and at the door paused to look back on her, and a strange misgiving smote her.
“I can’t think what ails her,” she said to Martha. “She132seems to be in a high fever. Did she sleep well last night?”
“Perfectly, but we talked a good while before we went to sleep. Perhaps she got too tired yesterday. I thought she seemed excited, too. Mrs. Walters always makes her coffee so strong.”
Peter Junior came in to dinner, buoyant and happy. He was disappointed not to see Betty, and frankly avowed it. He followed Mary into the kitchen and begged to be allowed to go up and speak to Betty for only a minute, but Mary thought sleep would be the best remedy and he would better leave her alone. He had been to church with his father, and all through the morning service as he sat at his father’s side he had meditated how he could persuade the Elder to look on his plans with some degree of favor––enough at least to warrant him in going on with them and trust to his father’s coming around in time.
Neither he nor Richard were at the Elder’s at dinner, and the meal passed in silence, except for a word now and then in regard to the sermon. Hester thought continually of her son and his hopes, but as she glanced from time to time in her husband’s face she realized that silence on her part was still best. Whenever the Elder cleared his throat and looked off out of the window, as was his wont when about to speak of any matter of importance, her heart leaped and her eyes gazed intently at her plate, to hide the emotion she could not restrain. Her hands grew cold and her lips tremulous, but still she waited.
It was the Elder’s custom to sleep after the Sunday’s dinner, which was always a hearty one, lying down on the sofa in the large parlor, where the closed blinds made a133pleasant somberness. Hester passed the door and looked in on him, as he lay apparently asleep, his long, bony frame stretched out and the muscles of his strong face relaxing to a softness they sometimes assumed when sleeping. Her heart went out to him. Oh, if he only knew! If she only dared! His boy ought to love him, and understand him. If they would only understand!
Then she went up into Peter Junior’s room and sat there where she had sat seven years before––where she had often sat since––gazing across at the red-coated old ancestor, her hands in her lap, her thoughts busy with her son’s future even as then. If all the others had lived, would the quandary and the struggle between opposing wills have been as great for each one as for this sole survivor? Where were those little ones now? Playing in happy fields and waiting for her and the stern old man who also suffered, but knew not how to reveal his heart? Again and again the words repeated themselves in her heart mechanically: “Wait on the Lord––Wait on the Lord,” and then, again, “Oh, Lord, how long?”
Peter Junior returned early from the Ballards’, since he could not see Betty, leaving the field open for Martha and her guest, much to the guest’s satisfaction. He went straight to the room occupied by Richard whenever he was with them, but no Richard was there. His valise was all packed ready for his start on the morrow, but there was no line pinned to the frame of the mirror telling Peter Junior where to find him, as was Richard’s way in the past. With a fleeting glance around to see if any bit of paper had been blown away, he went to his own room and there he found his mother, waiting. In an instant that long ago morning134came to his mind, and as then he went swiftly to her, and, kneeling, clasped her in his arms.
“Are you worried, mother mine? It’s all right. I will be careful and restrained. Don’t be troubled.”
Hester clasped her boy’s head to her bosom and rested her face against his soft hair. For a while the silence was deep and the moments burned themselves into the young man’s soul with a purifying fire never to be forgotten. Presently she began speaking to him in low, murmuring tones: “Your father is getting to be an old man, Peter, dear, and I––I am no longer young. Our boy is dear to us––the dearest. In our different ways we long only for what is best for you. If only it might be revealed to you and us alike! Many paths are good paths to walk in, and the way may be happy in any one of them, for happiness is of the spirit. It is in you––not made for you by circumstances. We have been so happy here, since you came home wounded, and to be wounded is not a happy thing, as you well know; but it seemed to bring you and me happiness, nevertheless. Did it not, dear?”
“Indeed yes, mother. Yes. It gave me a chance to have you to myself a lot, and that ought to make any man happy, with a mother like you. And now––a new happiness came to me, the other day, that I meant to speak of yesterday and couldn’t after getting so angry with father. It seemed like sacrilege to speak of it then, and, besides, there was another feeling that made me hesitate.”
“So you are in love with some one, Peter?”
“Yes, mother. How did you guess it?”
“Because only love is a feeling that would make you say135you could not speak of it when your heart is full of anger. Is it Betty, dear?”
“Yes, mother. You are uncanny to read me so.”
She laughed softly and held him closer. “I love Betty, too, Peter. You will always be gentle and kind? You will never be hard and stern with her?”
“Mother! Have I ever been so? Can’t you tell by the way I have always acted toward you that I would be tender and kind? She will be myself––my very own. How could I be otherwise?”
Again Hester smiled her slow, wise smile. “You have always been tender, Peter, but you have always gone right along and done your own way, absolutely. The only reason there has not been more friction between you and your father has been that you have been tactful; also you have never seemed to desire unworthy things. You have been a good son, dear: I am not complaining. And the only reason why I have never––or seldom––felt hurt by your taking your own way has been that my likings have usually responded to yours, and the thing I most desired was that you should be allowed to take your own way. It is good for a man to be decided and to have a way of his own: I have liked it in you. But the matter still stands that it has always been your way and never any one’s else that you have taken. I can see you being stern even with a wife you thought you wholly loved if her will once crossed yours.”
Peter Junior was silent and a little hurt. He rose and paced the room. “I can’t think I could ever cross Betty, or be unkind. It seems preposterous,” he said at last.