“Yes, and soon they’ll take an older set, and then they’ll take the small and frail and near-sighted ones, and then–” She stopped suddenly, with a contrite glance at her husband’s face. He hated to be small and frail and near-sighted. She stepped round to his side and put her hand in his. “I’m thankful you are, Bertrand,” she said quietly. “You’ll stay to tea with us, won’t you, Peter? We’ll have it out of doors.”
“Yes, I’ll stay–thank you. It may be the last time, and mother–I came to see if you’d go up home and see mother, Mrs. Ballard. I kind of thought you’d think as father and Mr. Ballard do about it, and I thought you might be able to help mother to see it that way, too. You see, mother–she–I always thought you were kind of strong and would see things sort of–well–big, you know, more–as we men do.” He held his head high and looked off as he spoke.
She exchanged a half-smiling glance with her husband, and their hands clasped tighter. “Maybe, though–if you feel this way–you can’t help mother–but what shall I do?” The big boy looked wistfully down at her.
“I may not be able to help her to see things you want, Peter Junior. Maybe she would be happier in seeing things her own way; but I can sympathize with her. Perhaps I can help her to hope for the best, and anyway–we can–just talk it over.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Ballard, thank you. I don’t care how she sees it, if–if–she’ll only be happier–and–give her consent. I can’t bear to go away without that; but if she won’t give it, I must go anyway,–you know.”
“Yes,” she said, smiling, “I suppose we women have to be forced sometimes, or we never would allow some things to be done. You enlisted first and then went to her for her consent? Yes, you are a man, Peter Junior. But I tell you, if you were my son, I would never give my consent–nor have it forced from me–still–I would love you better for doing this.”
“My love, your inconsistency is my joy,” said her husband, as she passed into the house and left them together.
The sun still shone hotly down, but the shadows were growing longer, and Betty left baby asleep under the Harvest apple tree where she had been staying patiently during the long, warm hours, and sat at her father’s feet on the edge of the porch, where apparently she was wholly occupied in tracing patterns with her bare toes in the sand of the path. Now and then she ran out to the Harvest apple tree and back, her golden head darting among the green shrubbery like a sunbeam. She wished to do her full duty by the bees and the baby, and at the same time hear all the talk of the older ones, and watch the fascinating young soldier in his new uniform.
As bright as the sunbeam, and as silent, she watched and listened. Her heart beat fast with excitement, as it often did these days, when she heard them talk of the war and the men who went away, perhaps never to return, or to return with great glory. Now here was Peter Junior going. He already had his beautiful new uniform, and he would march and drill and carry a gun, and halt and present arms, along with the older men she had seen in the great camp out on the high bluffs which overlooked the wide, sweeping, rushing, willful Wisconsin River.
Oh, if she were only a man and as old as Peter Junior, she would go with him; but it was very grand to know him even. Why was she a girl? If God had only asked her which she would rather be when he had made her out of dust, she would have told him to make her a man, so she might be a soldier. It was not fair. There was Bobby; he would be a man some day, and he could ride on a large black horse like the knights of old, and go to wars, and rescue people, and do deeds of arms. What deeds of arms were, she little knew, but it was something very strong and wonderful that only knights and soldiers did.
Betty heaved a deep sigh, and put out her hand and softly touched Peter Junior’s trousers. He thought it was the kitten purring about. No, God had not treated her fairly. Now she must grow up and be only a woman, and wash dishes, and sweep and dust, and get very tired, and wear dresses–and oh, dear! But then perhaps God had to do that way, for if he had given everybody a choice, everybody would choose to be men, and there would be no women to mind the home and take care of the little children, and it would be a very sad kind of world, as she had often heard her father say. Perhaps God had to do with them as Peter Junior had done with his mother when he enlisted first and asked her consent afterwards; just make them girls, and then try to convince them afterwards that it was a fine thing to be a girl. She wished she were Bobby instead of Betty–but then–Bobby might not have liked that.
She glanced wistfully at the sleeping child and saw him toss his arms about, and knew she ought to be there to sway a green branch over him to keep the little gnats and flies from bothering him and waking him; and the bees might swarm and no one see them.
“Father, is it three o’clock yet?”
“Yes, deary, why?”
“Goody! The bees won’t swarm now, will they? Will you bring Bobby in, father?”
“He is very well there; we won’t disturb him.”
Peter Junior looked down on the little girl, so full of vitality and life and inspiration, so vibrant with enthusiasm, and saw her vaguely as a slightly disturbing element, but otherwise of little moment in the world’s economy. His thoughts were on greater things.
Betty accepted her father’s decision without protest, as she accepted most things,–a finality to be endured and made the best of,–so she continued to run back and forth between the sleeping child and the porch, thereby losing much interesting dialogue,–all about camps and fighting and scout duty,–until at last her mother returned and with a glance at her small daughter’s face said:–
“Father, will you bring baby in now and put him in his cradle? Betty has had him nearly all day.” And father went. Oh, beautiful mother! How did she know!
Then Betty settled herself at Peter Junior’s feet and looked up in his eyes gravely. “What will you be, now you are a soldier?” she asked.
“Why, a soldier.”
“No, I mean, will you be a general–or a flag carrier–or will you drum? I’d be a general if I were you–or else a drummer. I think you would be very handsome for a general.”
Peter Junior threw back his head and laughed. It was the first time he had laughed that day, and yet he was both proud and happy. “Would you like to be a soldier?”
“Yes.”
“But you might be killed, or have your leg shot off–or–”
“I know. So might you–but you would go, anyway–wouldn’t you?”
“Certainly.”
“Well, then you understand how I feel. I’d like to be a man, and go to war, and ‘Have a part to tear a cat in,’ too.”
“What’s that? What’s that? Mary, do you hear that?” said her father, resuming his seat at Peter’s side, and hearing her remark.
“Why, father, wouldn’t you? You know you’d like to go to war. I heard what you said to mother, and, anyway–I’d just like to be a man and ‘Have a part to tear a cat in,’ the way men have.”
Bertrand Ballard looked down and patted his little daughter’s head, then caught her up and placed her on his knee. He realized suddenly that his child was an entity unfathomed, separate from himself, working out her own individuality almost without guidance, except such as he and his Mary were unconsciously giving to her by their daily acts and words.
“What books are those you have there? Don’t you know you mustn’t take father’s Shakespeare out and leave it on the grass?”
Betty laughed. “How did you know I had Shakespeare?”
“Didn’t you say you ‘Would like a part to tear a cat in’?”
“Oh, have you read ‘Midsummer Night’s Dream’?” She lifted her head from his bosom and eyed him gravely a moment, then snuggled comfortably down again. “But then, I suppose you have read everything.” Her father and Peter both laughed.
“Were