THE BANKER'S POINT OF VIEW
There was no picnic and nutting party the next day, owing to a
downpour of rain. Betty had time to think quietly over what had
happened the day before and her mind misgave her. What was it that so
filled her heart and mind? That so stirred her imagination? Was it
romance or love? She wished she knew how other girls felt who had
lovers. Was it easy or hard for them to say yes? Should a girl let her
lover kiss her the way Peter Junior had done? Some of the questions
which perplexed her she would have liked to ask her mother, but in
spite of their charming intimacy she could not bring herself to speak
of them. She wished she had a friend with a lover, and could talk it
all over with her, but although she had girl friends, none of them had
lovers, and to have one herself made her feel much older than any of
them.
So Betty thought matters out for herself. Of course she liked Peter
Junior--she had always liked him--and he was masterful--and she had
always known she would marry a soldier--and one who had been wounded
and been brave--that was the kind of a soldier to love. But she was
more subdued than usual and sewed steadily on gingham aprons for
Janey, making the buttonholes and binding them about the neck with
contrasting stuff.
"Anyway, I'm glad there is no picnic to-day. The boys may eat up the
cookies, and I didn't get the cake made after all," she said to her
mother, as she lingered a moment in the kitchen and looked out of the
window at the pouring rain. But she did not see the rain; she saw
again a gray-clad youth limping down the path between the lilacs and
away along the grassy roadside.
Well, what if she had said yes? It was all as it should be, according
to her dreams, only--only--he had not allowed her to say what she had
meant to say. She wished her mother had not happened to come just then
before she could explain to Peter Junior; that it was "yes" only if
when he came back he still wanted her and still loved her, and was
sure he had not made a mistake about it. It was often so in books. Men
went away, and when they returned, they found they no longer loved
their sweethearts. If such a terrible thing should happen to her! Oh,
dear! Or maybe he would be too honorable to say he no longer loved
her, and would marry her in spite of it; and she would find out
afterward, when it was too late, that he loved some one else; that
would be very terrible, and they would be miserable all their lives.
"I don't think I would let the boys eat up the cookies, dear; it may
clear off by sundown, and be fine to-morrow, and they'll be all as
glad as to go to-day. You make your cake."
"But Martha's coming home to-morrow night, and I'd rather wait now
until Saturday; that will be only one day longer, and it will be more
fun with her along." Betty spoke brightly and tried to make herself
feel that no momentous thing had happened. She hated the constraint of
it. "By that time Peter Junior will think that he can go, too. He's
so funny!" She laughed self-consciously, and carried the gingham
aprons back to her room.
"Bless her dear little heart." Mary Ballard understood.
Peter Junior also profited by the rainy morning. He had a long hour
alone with his mother to tell her of his wish to go to Paris; and her
way of receiving his news was a surprise to him. He had thought it
would be a struggle and that he would have to argue with her, setting
forth his hopes and plans, bringing her slowly to think with
quiescence of their long separation: but no. She rose and began to
pace the floor, and her eyes grew bright with eagerness.
"Oh, Peter, Peter!" She came and placed her two hands on his shoulders
and gazed into his eyes. "Peter Junior, you are a boy after my own
heart. You are going to be something worth while. I always knew you
would. It is Bertrand Ballard who has waked you up, who has taught you
to see that there is much outside of Leauvite for a man to do. I'm not
objecting to those who live here and have found their work here; it is
only that you are different. Go! Go!--It is--has your father--have you
asked his consent?"
"Oh, yes."
"Has he given it?"
"I think he is considering it seriously."
"Peter Junior, I hope you won't go without it--as you went once,
without mine." Never before had she mentioned it to him, or recalled
to his mind that terrible parting.
"Why not, mother? It would be as fair to him now as it was then to
you. It would be fairer; for this is a question of progress, and then
it was a matter of life and death."
"Ah, that was different, I admit. But I never could retaliate, or seem
to, even in the smallest thing. I don't want him to suffer as I
suffered."
It was almost a cry for pity, and Peter Junior wondered in his heart
at the depth of anguish she must have endured in those days, when he
had thrust the thought of her opposition to one side as merely an
obstacle overcome, and had felt the triumph of winning out in the
contest, as one step toward independent manhood. Now, indeed, their
viewpoints had changed. He felt almost a sense of pique that she had
yielded so joyously and so suddenly, although confronted with the
prospect of a long separation from him. Did she love him less than in
the past? Had his former disregard of her wishes lessened even a
trifle her mother love for him?
"I'm glad you can take the thought of my going as you do, mother." He
spoke coldly, as an only son may, but he was to be excused. He was
less spoiled than most only sons.
"In what way, my son?"
"Why--in being glad to have me go--instead of feeling as you did
then."
"Glad? Glad to have you go? It isn't that, dear. Understand me. I'm
sorry I spoke of that old time. It was only to spare your father. You
see we look at things differently. He loves to have us follow out his
plans. It is almost--death to him to have to give up; and with me--it
was not then as it is now. I don't like to think or speak of that
time."
"Don't, mother, don't!" cried Peter, contritely.
"But I must to make you see this as you should. It was love for you
then that made me cling to you, and want to hold you back from going;
just the same it is love for you now that makes me want you to go out
and find your right place in the world. I was letting you go then to
be shot at--to suffer fatigue, and cold, and imprisonment, who could
know, perhaps to be cruelly killed--and I did not believe in war. I
suppose your father was the nobler in his way of thinking, but I could
not see it his way. Angels from heaven couldn't have made me believe
it right; but it's over. Now I know your life will be made broader by
going, and you'll have scope, at least, to know what you really wish
to do with yourself and what you are worth, as you would not have, to
sit down in your father's bank, although you would be safer there, no
doubt. But you went through all the temptations of the army safely,
and I have no fear for you now, dear, no fear."
Peter Junior's heart melted. He took his mother in his arms and
stroked her beautiful white hair. "I love you, mother, dear," was all
he could say. Should he tell her of Betty now? The question died in
his heart. It was too much. He would be all hers for a little, nor
intrude the new love that she might think divided his heart. He
returned to the question of his father's consent. "Mother, what shall
I do if he will not give it?"
"Wait. Try to be patient and do what he wishes. It may help him to
yield in the end."
"Never! I know Dad better than that. He will only think all the more
that he is in the right, and that I have come to my senses. He never
takes any viewpoint but his own." His mother was silent. Never would
she open her lips against her husband. "I say, mother, naturally I
would rather go with his consent, but if he won't give it--How long
must a man be obedient just for the sake of obedience? Does such
bondage never end? Am I not of age?"
"I will speak to him. Wait and see. Talk it over with him again to-day
after banking hours."
"I--I--have something I must--must do to-day." He was thinking he
would go out to the Ballards' in spite of the rain.
The dinner hour passed without constraint. In these days Peter Junior
would not allow the long silences to occur that used often to cast a
gloom over the meals in his boyhood. He knew that in this way his
mother would sadly miss him. It was the Elder's way to keep his
thoughts for the most part to himself, and especially when there was
an issue of importance before him. It was supposed that his wife could
not take an interest in matters of business, or in things of interest
to men, so silence was the rule when they were alone.
This time Peter Junior mentioned the topic of the wonderful new
railroad that was being pushed across the plains and through the
unexplored desert to the Pacific.
"The mere thought of it is inspiring," said Hester.
"How so?" queried the Elder, with a lift of his brows. He deprecated
any thought connecting sentiment with achievement. Sentiment was of
the heart and only hindered achievement, which was purely of the
brain.
"It's just the wonder of it. Think of the two great oceans being
brought so near together! Only two weeks apart! Don't they estimate
that the time to cross will be only two weeks?"
"Yes, mother, and we have those splendid old pioneers who made the
first trail across the desert to thank for its being possible. It
isn't the capitalists who have done this. It's the ones who had faith
in themselves and dared the dangers and the hardships. They are the
ones I honor."
"They never went for love of humanity. It was mere love of wandering
and migratory instinct," said his father, grimly.
Peter Junior laughed merrily. "What did old grandfather Craigmile pull
up and come over to this country for? They had to cross in sailing
vessels then and take weeks for the journey."
"Progress, my son, progress. Your grandfather had the idea of
establishing his family in honorable business over here, and he did
it."
"Well, I say these people who have been crossing the plains and
crawling over the desert behind ox teams in 'prairie schooners' for
the last twenty or thirty years, braving all the dangers of the
unknown, have really paved the way for progress and civilization. The
railroad is being laid along the trail they made. Do you know
Richard's out there at the end of the line--nearly?"
"He would be likely to be. Roving boy! What's he doing there?"
"Poor boy! He almost died in that terrible southern prison. He was the
mere shadow of himself when he came home," said Hester.
"The young men of the present day have little use for beaten paths and
safe ways. I offered him a position in the bank, but no--he must go to
Scotland first to make the acquaintance of our aunts. If he had been
satisfied with that! But no, again, he must go to Ireland on a fool's
errand to learn something of his father." The Elder paused and bit his
lip, and a vein stood out on his forehead. "He's never seen fit to
write me of late."
"Of course such a big scheme as this road across the plains would
appeal to a man like Richard. He's doing very well, father. I wouldn't
be disturbed about him."
"Humph! I might as well be disturbed about the course of the Wisconsin
River. I might as well worry over the rush of a cataract. The lad has
no stability."
"He never fails to write to me, and I must say that he was considered
the most dependable man in the regiment."
"What is he doing? I should like to see the boy again." Hester looked
across at her son with a warm, loving light in her eyes.
"I don't know exactly, but it's something worth while, and calls for
lots of energy. He says they are striking out into the dust and alkali
now--right into the desert."
"And doesn't he say a word about when he is coming back?"
"Not a word, mother. He really has no home, you know. He says Scotland
has no opening for him, and he has no one to depend on but himself."
"He has relatives who are fairly well to do in Ireland."
The Elder frowned. "So I've heard, and my aunts in Scotland talked of
making him their heir, when I was last there."
"He knows that, father, but he says he's not one to stand round
waiting for two old women to die. He says they're fine, decorous old
ladies, too, who made a lot of him. I warrant they'd hold up their
hands in horror if they knew what a rough life he's leading now."
"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 he detected 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 heavy and 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."
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."
"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.