“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