The Eye of Dread Part 63

They talked quietly and happily of things nearest their hearts, as they had need to do, until they came to a certain fork of the road, when Larry paused, standing a moment with his arm across his son's shoulder.

"I'll go on a piece by myself, Richard. I'm thinking you'll be wanting to make a little visit."

Richard's eyes danced. "Come with me, father, come. There'll be others there for you to talk with--who'll be glad to have you there, and--"

"Go to, go to! I know the ways of a man's heart as well as the next."

"I'll warrant you do, father!" and Richard bounded away, taking the path he had so often trod in his boyhood. Larry stood and looked after him a moment. He was pleased to hear how readily the word, father, fell from the young man's lips. Yes, Richard was facile and ready. He was his own son.

CHAPTER XL

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 G.o.d 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 fas.h.i.+on I had it in me."

"But you said you met with success. Did that mean you were admitted to the Salon?"