The Eye of Dread

“No, no. And as he very tersely said–if all had been as it seemed, and it had been me–trying to take the place of Peter Junior–I would have deserved hanging–now wouldn’t I, after all the years when Uncle Elder had been good to me for his sister’s sake?”

“That’s it–for his sister’s sake–n–n–not for yours, always himself and his came first. And then it wouldn’t have been so. Even if it were so, it wouldn’t have been so–I mean–I wouldn’t have believed it–because it couldn’t have been you and been so–”

“Darling little Irish Betty! What a fine daughter you will be to my Irish Dad! Oh, my dear! my dear!”

“But you know such a thing would have been impossible for you to do. They might have known it, too, if they’d had any sense. And that scar on Peter’s head–that was a new one and yours is an old one. If they had had any sense, they could have seen that, too.”

“Never any man on earth had a sweeter job than I! It’s worth all I’ve been through to come home here and comfort you. Let’s keep it up all our lives, see? You always stay mad at Uncle Elder, and I’ll always comfort you–just like this.”

Then Betty laughed through her tears, and they kissed again, and then proceeded to settle all their future to Richard’s heart’s content. Then, after a long while, they crept in where the family were all seated at supper, and instantly everything in the way of decorum at meals was demoralized. Every one jumped up, and Betty and Richard were surrounded and tumbled about and hugged and kissed by all–until a shrill, childish voice raised a shout of laughter as little Janey said: “What are we all kissing Betty for? She hasn’t been away; she’s been here all the time.”

It was Peter Junior who broke up the rout. He came in upon them, saying he had left his father asleep, exhausted after the day’s emotion, and that he had come home to the Ballards to get a little supper. Then it was all to be done over again, and Peter was jumbled up among outstretched arms, and shaken and pounded and hugged, and happy he was to be taken once more thus vociferously into the home that had always meant so much to him. There they all were,–Martha and Julien–James and Bob, as the boys were called these days,–and little Janey–and Bertrand as joyous as a boy, and Mary–she who had always known–even as Betty said, smiling on him in the old way–and there, watching all with glowing eyes, Amalia at one side, waiting, until Peter had her, too, in his arms.

Quickly Martha set a place for Peter between Amalia and herself. Yes, it was all as it should be–the circle now complete–only–“Where is your father, Richard?” asked Mary.

“He went off for a walk. Isn’t he a glorious father for a man to fall heir to? We’re all to meet at Uncle Elder’s to-night, and he’ll be there.”

“Will he? I’m so glad.”

“Yes, Mrs. Ballard.” Richard looked gravely into her eyes and from her to Bertrand. “You left after the verdict. You weren’t at the courthouse at the last. It’s all come right, and it’s going to stay so.”

The meal progressed and ended amid laughter; and a little later the family all set out for the banker’s home.

“How I wish Hester were here!” said Mary. “I did not wish her here before–but now we want her.” She looked at Peter.

“Yes, now we want her. We’re ready for her at last. Father leaves for New York to-morrow to fetch her. She’s coming on the next steamship, and he’ll meet her and bring her back to us all.”

“How that is beautiful!” murmured Amalia, as she walked at Peter’s side. He looked down at her and noted a weariness in her manner she strove to conceal.

“Come back with me a little–just a little while. I can go later to my father’s, and he will excuse you, and I’ll take you to him before he leaves to-morrow. Come, I think I know where we may find Larry Kildene.” So Peter led her away into the dusk, and they walked slowly–slowly–along the road leading to the river bluff–but not to the top.

After a long hour Larry came down from the height where he had been communing with himself and found them in the sweet starlight seated by the wayside, and passed them, although he knew they were Peter and Amalia. He walked lingeringly, feeling himself very much alone, until he was seized by either arm and held.

“It is your blessing, Sir Kildene, we ask it.”

And Larry gave them the blessing they asked, and took Amalia in his arms and kissed her. “I thought from the first that you might be my son, Peter, and it means no diminution in my love for you that I find you are not. It’s been a great day–a great day–a great day,” he said as if to himself, and they walked on together.

“Yes, yes! Sir Kildene, I am never to know again fear. I am to have the new name, so strong and fine. Well can I say it. Hear me. Peter-Craigmile-Junior. A strange, fine name–it is to be mine–given to me. How all is beautiful here! It is the joy of heaven in my heart–like–like heaven, is not, Peter?”

“Now you are here–yes, Amalia.”

“So have I say to you before–to love is all of heaven–and all of life, is not?”

Peter held in his hand the little crucifix he had worn on his bosom since their parting. In the darkness he felt rather than saw it. He placed it in her hand and drew her close as they walked. “Yes, Amalia, yes. You have taught me. Hatred destroys like a blast, but love–love is life itself.”

notes

1

The question raised by the prisoner’s counsel was ruled in favor of his contention in Biemel v. State. 71 Wis. 444, decided in 1888.

2

The ruling of the court upon this point was afterwards justified by the Supreme Court of Wisconsin in the case of Buel v. State, 104 Wis. 132, decided in 1899.