THE SAME BOY
Mary Ballard stepped down from the open porch where Amalia and the
rest of the family sat behind a screen of vines, interestedly talking,
and walked along the path between the rose bushes that led to the
gate. She knew Richard must be coming when she saw Betty, who sat
where she could glance now and then down the road, drop her sewing and
hurry away through the house and off toward the spring. As Larry knew
the heart of a man, so Mary Ballard knew the heart of a girl. She said
nothing, but quietly strolled along and waited with her hand on the
gate.
"I wanted to be the first to open the gate to you, Richard," she said,
as he approached her with extended arms. Silently he drew her to him
and kissed her. She held him off a moment and gazed into his eyes.
"Yes, I'm the same boy. I think that was what you said to me when I
entered the army--that I should come back to you the same boy? I've
always had it in mind. I'm the same boy."
"I believe you, Richard. They are all out on the front porch, and
Bertrand is with them--if you wish to see him--first--and if you wish
to see Betty, take the path at the side, around the house to the
spring below the garden."
Betty stood with her back to the house under the great Bartlett pear
tree. She was trembling. She would not look around--Oh, no! She would
wait until he asked for her. He might not ask for her! If he did not,
she would not go in--not yet. But she did look around, for she felt
him near her--she was sure--sure--he was near--close--
"Oh, Richard, Richard! Oh, Richard, did you know that I have been
calling you in my heart--so hard, calling you, calling you?"
She was in his arms and his lips were on hers. "The same little Betty!
The same dear little Betty! Lovelier--sweeter--you wore a white dress
with little green sprigs on it--is this the dress?"
"Yes, no. I couldn't wear the same old one all this time." She spoke
between laughing and crying.
"Why is this just like it?"
"Because."
He held her away and gazed at her a moment. "What a lovely reason!
What a lovely Betty!" He drew her to him again. "I heard it all--there
in the court room. I was there and heard. What a load you have borne
for me--my little Betty--all this time--what a load!"
"It was horrible, Richard." She hid her flaming face on his breast.
"There, before the whole town--to tell every one--everything.
I--I--don't even know what I said."
"I do. Every word--dear little Betty! While I have been hiding like a
great coward, you have been bravely bearing my terrible burden,
bearing it for me."
"Oh, Richard! For weeks and weeks my heart has been calling you,
calling you--night and day, calling you to come home. I told them he
was Peter Junior, but they would not believe me--no one would believe
me but mother. Father tried to, but only mother really did."
"I heard you, Betty. I had a dingy little studio up three flights of
stairs in Paris, and I sat there painting one day--and I heard you. I
had sent a picture to the Salon, and was waiting in suspense to know
the result, and I heard your call--"
"Was--was--that what made you come home--or--or was it because you
knew you ought to?" She lifted her head and looked straight into his
eyes.
Richard laughed. "It's the same little Betty! The same Betty with the
same conscience bigger than her head--almost bigger than her heart. I
can't tell you what it was. I heard it again and again, and the last
time I just packed my things and wound up matters there--I had made a
success, Betty, dear--let me say that. It makes me feel just a little
bit more worth your while. I thought to make a success would be sweet,
but it was all worthless--I'll tell you all about it later--but it was
no help and I just followed the call and returned, hurrying as if I
knew all about the thing that was going on, when really I knew
nothing. Sometimes I thought it was you calling me, and sometimes I
thought it was my own conscience, and sometimes I thought it was only
that I could no longer bear my own thoughts--See here, Betty,
darling--don't--don't ever kill any one, for the thought that you have
committed a murder is an awful thing to carry about with you."
She laughed and hid her face again on his breast. "Richard, how can
we laugh--when it has all been so horrible?"
"We can't, Betty--we're crying." She looked up at him again, and
surely his eyes were filled with tears. She put up her hand and
lightly touched his lips with her fingers.
"I know. I know you've suffered, Richard. I see the lines of sorrow
here about your mouth--even when you smile. I saw the same in Peter
Junior's face, and it was so sad--I just hugged him, I was so glad it
was he--I--I--hugged him and kissed him--"
"Bless his heart! Somebody ought to."
"Somebody will. She's beautiful--and so--fascinating! Let's go in so
you can meet her."
"I have met her, and father has told me a great deal about her. I've
had a fine talk with my father. How wonderful that Peter should have
been the means of finding my father for me--and such a splendid
father! I often used to think out what kind of a father I would like
if I could choose one, but I never thought out just such a combination
of delightful qualities as I find in him."
"It's like a story, isn't it? And we'll all live happily ever after.
Shall we go in and see the rest, Richard? They'll be wanting to see
you too."
"Let's go over here and sit down. I don't want to see the rest quite
yet, little one. Why, Betty, do you suppose I can let go of you yet?"
"No," said Betty, meekly, and again Richard laughed. She lifted the
hair from his temple and touched the old scar.
"Yes, it's there, Betty. I'm glad he hit me that welt. I would have
pushed him over but for that. I deserved it."
"You're not so like him--not so like as you used to be. No one would
mistake you now. You don't look so much like yourself as you used
to--and you've a lot of white in your hair. Oh, Richard!"
"Yes. It's been pretty tough, Betty, dear,--pretty tough. Let's talk
of something else."
"And all the time I couldn't help you--even the least bit."
"But you were a help all the time--all the time."
"How, Richard?"
"I had a clean, sweet, perfect, innocent place always in my heart
where you were that kept me from caring for a lot of foolishness that
tempted other men. It was a good, sweet, wholesome place where you sat
always. When I wanted to see you sitting there, I had only to take a
funny little leather housewife, all worn, and tied with cherry-colored
hair ribbons, in my hand and look at it and remember."
Betty sighed a long sigh of contentment and settled herself closer in
his arms. "Yes, I was there, and God heard me praying for you.
Sometimes I felt myself there."
"In the secret chamber of my heart, Betty, dear?"
"Yes." They were silent for a while, one of the blessed silences which
make life worth living. Then Betty lifted her head. "Tell me about
Paris, Richard, and what you did there. It was Peter who was wild to
go and paint in Paris and it was you who went. That was why no one
found you. They never thought that of you--but I would have thought
it. I knew you had it in you."
"Oh, yes, after a fashion I had it in me."
"But you said you met with success. Did that mean you were admitted to
the Salon?"
"Yes, dear."
"Oh, Richard! How tremendous! I've read a lot about it. Oh, Richard!
Did you like the 'Old Masters'?"
"Did I! Betty, I learned a thing about your father, looking at the
work of some of those great old fellows. I learned that he is a better
painter and a greater man than people over here know."
"Mother knew it--all the time."
"Ah, yes, your mother! Would you like to go there, Betty? Then I'll
take you. We'll be married right away, won't we, dear?"
"You know, Richard, I believe I would be perfectly--absolutely--terribly
happy--if--if I could only get over being mad at your uncle. He was so
stubborn, he was just wicked. I hated him--I--I hated him so, and now
it seems as if I had got used to hating him and couldn't stop."
She had been so brave and had not once given way, but now at the
thought of all the bitterness and the fight of her will against that
of the old man, she sobbed in his arms. Her whole frame shook and he
gathered her close and comforted her. "He--he--he was always
saying--saying--"
"Never mind now what he was saying, dear. Listen."
"I--I--I--am afraid--I can never see him--or--or look at him
again--I--I--hate him so!"
"No, no. Don't hate him. Any one would have done the same in his place
who believed as firmly as he did what he believed."
"B--b--but he didn't need to believe it."
"You see he had known through that Dane man--or whatever he is--from
the detective--all I told you that night--how could he help it? I
believed Peter was dead--we all did--you did. He had brooded over it
and slept upon it--no wonder he refused even to look at Peter. If you
had seen Uncle Elder there in the court room after the people had
gone, if you had seen him then, Betty, you would never hate him
again."
"All the same, if--if--you hadn't come home when you did,--and the
law of Wisconsin allowed of hanging--he would have had him,
Peter Junior--he would have had his own son hanged,--and been
glad--glad--because he would have thought he was hanging you. I do
hate--"
"No, no. And as he very tersely said--if all had been as it seemed,
and it had been me--trying to take the place of Peter Junior--I would
have deserved hanging--now wouldn't I, after all the years when Uncle
Elder had been good to me for his sister's sake?"
"That's it--for his sister's sake--n--n--not for yours, always himself
and his came first. And then it wouldn't have been so. Even if it were
so, it wouldn't have been so--I mean--I wouldn't have believed
it--because it couldn't have been you and been so--"
"Darling little Irish Betty! What a fine daughter you will be to my
Irish Dad! Oh, my dear! my dear!"
"But you know such a thing would have been impossible for you to do.
They might have known it, too, if they'd had any sense. And that scar
on Peter's head--that was a new one and yours is an old one. If they
had had any sense, they could have seen that, too."
"Never any man on earth had a sweeter job than I! It's worth all I've
been through to come home here and comfort you. Let's keep it up all
our lives, see? You always stay mad at Uncle Elder, and I'll always
comfort you--just like this."
Then Betty laughed through her tears, and they kissed again, and then
proceeded to settle all their future to Richard's heart's content.
Then, after a long while, they crept in where the family were all
seated at supper, and instantly everything in the way of decorum at
meals was demoralized. Every one jumped up, and Betty and Richard were
surrounded and tumbled about and hugged and kissed by all--until a
shrill, childish voice raised a shout of laughter as little Janey
said: "What are we all kissing Betty for? She hasn't been away; she's
been here all the time."
It was Peter Junior who broke up the rout. He came in upon them,
saying he had left his father asleep, exhausted after the day's
emotion, and that he had come home to the Ballards to get a little
supper. Then it was all to be done over again, and Peter was jumbled
up among outstretched arms, and shaken and pounded and hugged, and
happy he was to be taken once more thus vociferously into the home
that had always meant so much to him. There they all were,--Martha and
Julien--James and Bob, as the boys were called these days,--and little
Janey--and Bertrand as joyous as a boy, and Mary--she who had always
known--even as Betty said, smiling on him in the old way--and there,
watching all with glowing eyes, Amalia at one side, waiting, until
Peter had her, too, in his arms.
Quickly Martha set a place for Peter between Amalia and herself. Yes,
it was all as it should be--the circle now complete--only--"Where is
your father, Richard?" asked Mary.
"He went off for a walk. Isn't he a glorious father for a man to fall
heir to? We're all to meet at Uncle Elder's to-night, and he'll be
there."
"Will he? I'm so glad."
"Yes, Mrs. Ballard." Richard looked gravely into her eyes and from her
to Bertrand. "You left after the verdict. You weren't at the
courthouse at the last. It's all come right, and it's going to stay
so."
The meal progressed and ended amid laughter; and a little later the
family all set out for the banker's home.
"How I wish Hester were here!" said Mary. "I did not wish her here
before--but now we want her." She looked at Peter.
"Yes, now we want her. We're ready for her at last. Father leaves for
New York to-morrow to fetch her. She's coming on the next steamship,
and he'll meet her and bring her back to us all."
"How that is beautiful!" murmured Amalia, as she walked at Peter's
side. He looked down at her and noted a weariness in her manner she
strove to conceal.
"Come back with me a little--just a little while. I can go later to my
father's, and he will excuse you, and I'll take you to him before he
leaves to-morrow. Come, I think I know where we may find Larry
Kildene." So Peter led her away into the dusk, and they walked
slowly--slowly--along the road leading to the river bluff--but not to
the top.
After a long hour Larry came down from the height where he had been
communing with himself and found them in the sweet starlight seated by
the wayside, and passed them, although he knew they were Peter and
Amalia. He walked lingeringly, feeling himself very much alone, until
he was seized by either arm and held.
"It is your blessing, Sir Kildene, we ask it."
And Larry gave them the blessing they asked, and took Amalia in his
arms and kissed her. "I thought from the first that you might be my
son, Peter, and it means no diminution in my love for you that I find
you are not. It's been a great day--a great day--a great day," he said
as if to himself, and they walked on together.
"Yes, yes! Sir Kildene, I am never to know again fear. I am to have
the new name, so strong and fine. Well can I say it. Hear me.
Peter-Craigmile-Junior. A strange, fine name--it is to be mine--given
to me. How all is beautiful here! It is the joy of heaven in my
heart--like--like heaven, is not, Peter?"
"Now you are here--yes, Amalia."
"So have I say to you before--to love is all of heaven--and all of
life, is not?"
Peter held in his hand the little crucifix he had worn on his bosom
since their parting. In the darkness he felt rather than saw it. He
placed it in her hand and drew her close as they walked. "Yes, Amalia,
yes. You have taught me. Hatred destroys like a blast, but love--love
is life itself."