A BOY’S REPENTANCE
Danny O’Neil, meanwhile having skated across the lake, had returned to
his work as he had promised Doris that he would.
The Colonel was away and the lad hurriedly did the tasks expected of him.
When these were finished, he went to his barren room over the garage,
and, throwing himself down on his bed, he sobbed and sobbed. “Oh, Mom,”
he said aloud, “I don’t know how I’m going to get on without you. There’s
nobody now that cares, but I promised you I’d be brave and go straight,
and I’ll try, Mom, but it’s hard, hard!”
There was a light tap on the door and the boy sat up and hurriedly drew
his coat sleeve over his eyes. Then he rose and opened it. There stood
the dearest little old lady, dressed in gray. She was smiling at him in a
most loving way and she said: “Danny, I’m the Colonel’s new housekeeper.
I want to look after everyone living on the place, and so I came out to
see what I can do for you.”
The lad wondered if this little woman had heard what he, believing
himself to be alone, had said but a moment before. Mrs. Gray had indeed
heard and she longed to take the lonely, motherless boy in her arms and
try to comfort him, but, since she could not do this, she hurriedly
planned to try in some measure to fill the place of the dear one the lad
had so recently lost.
Mrs. Gray took the Colonel into her confidence and that kindly man said:
“Well, well, I might have known how lonely the boy would be without his
mother. I remember how proud she was of him, and, come to think of it,
she asked me at one time if there wasn’t some school where he could go
without much expense and study drawing. She said he was always making
pictures on his books or on anything that was handy, and it caused a good
deal of trouble between the boy and his father, because Mr. O’Neil
declared that only a shiftless, no account would idle his time away
making pictures. I’m glad you spoke to me about the lad, Mrs. Gray. I’ll
send for him this evening perhaps, and have a talk with him. In the
meantime, do anything you wish to make his quarters more comfortable.”
That very morning, at the housekeeper’s request, the Colonel sent Danny
on an errand which would necessitate his being away for several hours.
During that time two easy chairs that were not needed in the big house
were taken to the boy’s room in the garage. Curtains made of colored
prints were hung at the windows and another piece covered the bureau on
which stood a picture of the mother who had so loved her son.
Mrs. Gray, with the Colonel’s permission, looked through his library and
found several books that a boy would enjoy, “Ivanhoe,” “The Last of the
Mohicans,” and a complete set of the writings of Mark Twain.
These, with a few pictures, gave the room, formerly so barren, a
pleasant, home-like appearance.
The little woman was busily renovating the lad’s bed when Danny returned.
“Mrs. Gray,” he said, and there was a catch in his voice, “have you been
doing all this just for me?”
“Why of course Danny-boy,” that little woman replied brightly. “What is a
housekeeper for, if not to make things cheerful and tidy?” Then she
hurried on to say, “The Colonel would like you to come to his study
tonight at eight.”
When the boy was alone, he stood gazing out at the snowy fields, although
he did not see them. He was wondering if by any chance the Colonel had
heard of the highway robbery, and was going to rebuke him, perhaps
discharge him.
Half an hour later he was called to the house by Mrs. Gray. “You’re
wanted at the phone,” she said. “It’s a lassie with a sweet voice as is
askin’ for you,” she added.
The boy was sure that it must be Doris who wished to speak to him, and he
was right. “Danny, come over to my house tonight at eight o’clock
promptly. I have something important to tell you.”
The lad turned away. Perhaps Doris knew that the sheriff was again on his
trail and wanted to warn him. What should he do, and how could he explain
his absence to the Colonel?
As Danny was leaving the telephone, he met the housekeeper, who smiled at
him pleasantly.
“Mrs. Gray,” the boy said, “a friend has just called up and asked me to
be in town tonight at eight. Do you think the Colonel would be willing to
see me at another hour?”
“I’m sure of it,” the little old lady replied. “He is alone in his study
now. Wait here. Danny, and I will ask him.”
A moment later she returned and told the boy that the Colonel would see
him. Almost fearfully the lad entered the pleasant room, where the walls,
lined with books, statues and paintings, told the artistic and literary
taste of the gentleman who spent there many quiet hours each day. The
kindly welcome that Danny received banished his fear, and when he left
the study half an hour later, in his heart there was a new hope and a
strengthened resolve. He whistled as he tramped into town that evening,
and when Doris opened the door at his ring, his radiant face was so
unlike the one she had last seen in the cabin, she marveled at the
change.
“Do tell me what has happened,” she said as soon as they were seated.
“It’s almost too wonderful to believe,” the boy exclaimed. “It seems that
last year my mother asked the Colonel’s advice about sending me to some
inexpensive art school, and today he told me that if I still desired to
go, he would help me accomplish that end. I’m to prove that I can stick
at a thing by working for him faithfully all winter and then, in the
spring, he will permit me to go to the Dorchester Art Institute. The days
will be long, and I can be up with the birds and work in the garage and
garden before I go to the city and again when I return. I want to do
commercial drawing of some sort.” Then the boy paused and a deep flush
mounted his face. “Good Angel,” he said, “I forgot that you probably
think of me as a criminal and a highwayman.”
“Indeed I do not,” Doris protested. “I’m so happy for you, and I just
know that you will make good, but, Danny, you haven’t asked me about the
gold. I want you to know that it has been returned.”
The boy’s sensitive face expressed his great relief, then, unexpectedly,
tears brimmed his eyes. “Doris,” he said, “the rest of my life will not
be long enough to atone for that terrible wrong. I hope I may be able to
do a real service for that old man some day.”
“I know you will, Danny,” the girl put her hand lightly on his arm. “Now,
I want you to promise me that we will never again mention or even think
of what happened. Promise me, Danny.”
Before the boy could reply, the door bell had pealed and laughing voices
were heard without. The lad rose at once.
“Danny, don’t go!” Doris urged. “Geraldine and Alfred and some of the
others are out there, and they would be glad to meet you.”
The brightness left the boy’s face, and he said bitterly, “You are wrong,
Good Angel. Geraldine Morrison has never spoken a pleasant word to me.
You must remember I am only their gardener.”
The bell was ringing insistently and so Doris swung open the door. A
laughing crowd of girls and boys trooped into the hall. Danny tried to
leave but Bob stopped him.
“Hello, Dan,” he said good-naturedly, “don’t hurry away on our account.
The more the merrier, you know.”
“Have you met Miss Morrison?” he asked, then quickly added: “Of course
you have. I forgot at the minute that you both live at the Colonel’s.”
Geraldine, pretending not to have heard her name, was talking to Doris
and her back was toward the boys.
Bob noticed this, and then he realized that the proud city girl might
consider Danny’s position in the Wainright home a menial one.
“Sorry you are going, Dan,” Alfred now came forward. “Why don’t you wait
and ride home with Sis and me?”
“Thanks,” the other replied as he reached for his great coat. “I think I
would better be going now.”
Suddenly there was a crashing noise in their midst, and a loosely wrapped
bundle containing a pair of skates fell to the floor from beneath Danny’s
coat.
“Why, Doris,” Peggy exclaimed in astonishment, “those are your skates,
aren’t they? This morning when I asked if I might borrow them, you said
you weren’t able to find them.”
Bob hurried to the rescue. “Guess you must have left them in the sleigh.
Good thing Danny found them for you. Well, so long, old man, if you must
go. See you again.”
When the Irish boy had gone Doris glanced at Bob, wondering if he had
surmised that Danny O’Neil was the real highwayman, but that boy said
nothing to confirm her suspicion that evening nor ever after. However,
Bob did know, and he determined that he would do all he could to help
Danny O’Neil.
“Take off your things and stay a while,” Doris urged, but Merry shook her
head. “No, we just came to get you. We’re so noisy when we’re all
together, I know we would disturb your mother. Mums and Dad have gone to
a concert and good old Katie doesn’t mind how much noise we make, so put
on your duds and let’s go through the hedge. Jack shoveled a path today
from your door to ours. One of his daily good deeds.”
The Drexels and Lees were next-door neighbors with a pine hedge between
them, but of course there was a gate in it.
Fifteen minutes later they were in the big comfortable Lee library with
the victrola turned on. Jack at once asked Geraldine to dance with him,
and since she thought him nicest of all the boys, she was pleased to
accept. After a time he led her to the settee in front of the fireplace,
on which a log was burning. “I’d rather talk a while,” he said, but,
instead of talking, he sat looking into the fire. Geraldine, glancing at
him, thought how good-looking he was. At last she asked lightly, “Are
your thoughts worth a penny?” Then she added, “I don’t believe that you
even know that you are here.”
The boy laughed as he replied: “I will have to confess that my thoughts
had taken me far away. I was traveling years into the future when you
recalled me to the present.”
Then, because of the girl’s very evident interest, the lad continued:
“Dad and I had a heart to heart talk this morning. He thinks that if I
plan taking up his business of building and contracting, I would better
begin to specialize along those lines, but I told him that, first of all,
I want to go West and try cattle ranching.”
“Oh, Jack, what a dreadful thing to do!” the girl protested.
The boy’s face was radiant as he replied: “You are mistaken. It’s great
out there!”
But it was quite evident that his companion did not agree with him.
“A man who goes out to live on a desert ranch must expect to be a
bachelor all his life,” Geraldine ventured, “for no girl of our class
would want to live in such a desolate place.”
The boy looked up brightly. “Wrong again, Geraldine!” he said. “The girl
I would want to marry would love it out there.” Then he laughingly added:
“You see, I never intend to marry until I find someone who will be as
fine a little homemaker as my mother is. Mom could be a rich man’s wife
or a poor man’s wife and shine in either position. She can make her own
dresses and hats if need be and enjoy doing it, and, as for cooking, Kate
can’t compare with her. Of course I wouldn’t expect my wife to be a
drudge, but I do want her to know how to do all of the things that make
home a place of solid comfort. None of these pretty, dolled-up, society
girls for me!”
The lad was not looking at his listener and so he did not know that the
rose in her cheeks had deepened, or that she was biting her lips angrily.
Although she had no real reason for thinking so, she was convinced Jack
was expressing his very poor opinion of her, Geraldine Morrison. She rose
and said coldly, “It is late. Alfred and I must be going.”
That night she cried for a long time, though she could not have told why,
and she decided that the very next morning she would ask the Colonel to
permit her to return to the city where the boys admired and understood
her.