"Laurence, if you only knew—Laurence, if it wasn't for John Flint—and the Padre—" The two of them had the two of us, each by an arm; and the Butterfly Man was brick-red and furiously embarrassed, he having a holy horror of being held up and thanked.
"Why, I did what I did," said he, uncomfortably. "But,"—he brightened visibly—"if you will have the truth, have it. If it wasn't for this blessed brick of a parson I'd never have been in a position to do anything for anybody. Don't you forget that!"
"What ridiculous nonsense the man talks!" said I, exasperated by this shameless casuistry. "John Flint raves. As for me—"
"As for you," said he with deep reproach, "you ought to know better than to tell such a thumping lie at this time of your life. I'm ashamed of you, parson! Why, you know good and well—"
"Why, John Flint, you—" I began, aghast.
My mother began to laugh. "For heaven's sake, thank them both and have done with it!" said she, a bit hysterically. "God alone knows how they managed, but this thing lies between them, the two great geese. Did one ever hear the like?"
"Madame is right, as always," said Laurence gravely. "Remember, I don't know anything yet, except that somehow you've brought Mary Virginia and me back to each other. That's enough for me. I haven't got any questions to ask." His voice faltered, and he gripped us by the hand in turn, with a force that made me, for one, wince and cringe. "And Padre—Bughunter, you both know that I—" he couldn't finish.
"That we—" choked Mary Virginia.
"Sure we know," said the Butterfly Man hastily. "Don't you know you're our kids and we've got to know?" He began to edge them towards the door. I think his courage was getting a little raw about the corners. "Yes, you two go on over to the Parish House parlor, where you'll have a chance to talk without being interrupted—Madame will see to that—and don't you show your noses outside of that room until everything's settled the one and only way everything ought to be settled." His eyes twinkled as he manoeuvered them outside, and then stood in the doorway to watch them walk away—beautiful, youthful, radiantly happy, and very close together, the girl's head just on the level of the boy's shoulder. He was still faintly smiling when he came back to us; if there was pain behind that smile, he concealed it. My mother ran to him, impulsively.
"John Flint!" said she, profoundly moved and earnest. "John Flint, the good God never gave me but one child, though I prayed for more. Often and often have I envied her silly mother Mary Virginia. But now. John, I know that if I could have had another child that, after Armand, I'd love best and respect most and be proudest of in this world, it would be you. Yes, you. John Flint, you are the best man, and the bravest and truest and most unselfish, and the finest gentleman, outside of my husband and my son, that I have ever known. What makes it all the more wonderful is that you're a genius along with it. I am proud of you, and glad of you, and I admire and love you with all my heart. And I really wish you'd call me mother. You should have been born a De Rancé!"