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.
CHAPTER X
THE NUTTING PARTY
Peter Junior made no attempt the next day to speak further to his father about his plans. It seemed to him better that he should wait until his wise mother had talked the matter over with the Elder. Although he put in most of the day at the studio, painting, he saw very little of Betty and thought she was avoiding him out of girlish coquetry, but she was only very busy. Martha was coming home and everything must be as clean as wax. Martha was such a tidy housekeeper that she would see the least lack and set to work to remedy it, and that Betty could not abide. In these days Martha’s coming marked a semimonthly event in the home, for since completing her course at the high school she had been teaching in the city. Bertrand would return with her, and then all would have to be talked over,–just what he had decided to do, and why.
In the evening a surprise awaited the whole household, for Martha came, accompanied not only by her father, but also by a young professor in the same school where she taught. Mary Ballard greeted him most kindly, but she felt things were happening too rapidly in her family. Jamie and Bobby watched the young man covertly yet eagerly, taking note of his every movement and intonation. Was he one to be emulated or avoided? Only little Janey was quite unabashed by him, and this lightened his embarrassment greatly and helped him to the ease of manner he strove to establish.
She