If Jim persisted in refusing to accept the position as the head of his
house, then this child was the stake to play for, Petrie decided.
"Well, think of him--of his future. He has the right to the education
of a gentleman, to the surroundings of culture and refinement."
As Petrie spoke, his glances took in the shabby little chaps, the feet
in their worn moccasins, the coarse flannel shirt; and Jim saw the look
and understood. He almost hurt the boy, so tight was his grasp as he
lifted him down and held him in his arms.
"One moment, Mr. Petrie. I see your drift," he savagely answered. "But
you sha'n't do it, sir. You sha'n't. I won't listen."
But Petrie now knew that he had touched Jim's vulnerable point, and that
he was capable of making the sacrifice for the boy.
"I speak as the trusted friend of your family, as the advocate of your
child." He told himself he was justified in asking what he did.
"Before you came," Jim said, "I was a ruined man--stone broke, as we say
out here. I had to begin my life all over again. But I had Hal, his
love and his life to live in day by day, and now you want that, too. I
can't do it. I know it's selfish, but life owes me something, and
that's all I ask. I can't let him go. I can't--I can't!"
But Malcolm Petrie persisted. "You're responsible for that child's
future. You don't want him to grow up to blame you--to look back to his
youth and his father with bitterness, perhaps hate."
Jim, as he held the boy from him and studied the tiny face, cried,
"You'll never do that, will you, Hal, my boy?"
"What, daddy?"
"Think badly of your father?"
"No, daddy, no," and the child's arms were thrown about Jim's shaking
body.
Petrie touched Jim's arm quietly. "You're robbing your child of his
manifest destiny."
"What do you want?"
"Send the little man home with me."
With eyes almost blinded with emotion, Jim looked into Petrie's face.
"Have you any children, Petrie?"
The solicitor shook his head, and in Jim's words, "I knew it--I knew
it," he understood what he meant.
Like a father who sympathizes, yet must be firm in his efforts to
convince his son of his wisdom, Petrie spoke.
"I am thinking of Hal's future, as the friend and adviser of your
family. I am thinking coldly, perhaps, but, believe me, kindly."
Jim could not doubt his sincerity. He buried his head against the
child. "You don't know what a lonely life I led until Hal was born, and
how lonely I'll be when he is gone."
Gone! Could he agree to this separation? The word frightened him.
"Gone! Oh, my God, no!" He could not.
Then Petrie appealed to Jim's conscience. "You know the trite old
saying, 'England expects that every man this day shall do his duty.'"
So simply, so seriously did Petrie quote the well-worn phrase, that its
shaft went home.
Duty! Duty! Ah, one might squander control of one's own destiny, but
for another, for the child whom the parent has brought into life--how
answer that? It was the duty of the parent to the child--in that lay
the whole definition of the word. He held the tiny face in his hands as
he whispered: "Well, Hal, old chap, it's a tough proposition they've put
up to your daddy, son. But what must be must be. You'll be braver than
I am, I hope." He forgot that the child could not understand him. Sobs
shook him as he held the boy tight against his breast. Hal sought to
comfort his father with soft, loving pats.
Jim raised his head. "Petrie, you've nailed me to the cross. He goes
back with you."
"You'll never regret this," and Petrie laid his hand on Jim's shoulder.
"Ask them to teach him that I did this for his sake; but he'll forget
me--you'll see. Some one else will take my place, and he will learn to
love them better than he loves me."
Petrie tried to comfort him. "No, he shall hold you in his memory
always--always."