The Redemption of Kenneth Galt

by Will N. Harben

“You wanted to see me?” he gasped. “Has anything gone wrong?”

“No, it is not that,” the woman said, leading the way toward a clump of cedars on the grass, as if from the sensitive fear of meeting some one on the walk. “My daughter and the child came home at noon. I saw from her looks that she was troubled over something, and that Lionel had been crying, from the marks on his face; but I did not question either of them. All this afternoon she did not speak of you, but to-night, after she had put the boy to sleep, she came into my room and sat down near me. I knew she was in awful struggle over something. She began telling me, in a slow, halting voice, of all that you had said. She is my only child, Kenneth Galt, but I don't understand her any better than if she were not of my flesh and blood. I never fully understood her father. I suppose no practical-minded person can comprehend those who live in the imagination, surrounded by ideals which become real to them. She began to go over the whole history of her trouble from the very first, and she never left out a single detail. She summed it all up in the most marvellous manner. My heart ached for her as it never had before. She wants to do right, she says, and she knows what would be right and self-sacrificing on her part, but she says she simply can't conquer the offended pride within her. She has had trouble and we are poor, but there never was born a queen with more pride of womanhood.”

“Yes, yes,” Galt gasped, as he stared at her. “I know; I know.”

“Then I tried to advise her,” Mrs. Barry went on. “At first it was like talking to a person born deaf, but finally she began to listen, for, as a last resort, I was holding up the child's interests. I spoke of what a glorious thing a trip to Paris would be—to stay there as long as we liked, and to be able to come home again, for we do love it here, and I am sure the people would be kind in their view of it. I reminded her that once, when we asked Lionel what he had rather have than anything on earth, he had said that, first, he wanted a father like other children, and, next, that he wanted to be where he could have playmates.”

“Oh, I can't bear it, Mrs. Barry!” Galt groaned. “If there is anything under high heaven I could do to rectify my mistake, I'd give my life to do it.”

“I know it, Kenneth, and I am going to say something that may surprise you. I don't harbor any ill-feeling toward you. I simply can't. Living so close with Dora has lifted me up in spiritual things. I can't have anything but pity for the consequences of sin and temptation. What you did wasn't a proof that you didn't love my child. It only proved that the temptation you had, at the moment of your fall, kept you from realizing what you would lose. That's all. I believe you loved her then, that you did even after you left her, and I am sure that you do now more than ever; in fact, I made that plain to her. I think she sees it, too, in her way; but it doesn't help her overcome her pride. I am sorry for her—more so than I ever imagined I could be for a woman under any trial. She is pulled many ways by duty, and she is fairly in an agony, undecided as to—”

“Undecided? Did you say that?” Galt leaned forward eagerly, his lips quivering, as he waited breathlessly.

“Yes, she is undecided. You see, things have come to such a focus that we must leave here. She has just learned that Fred Walton has been falsely accused by many persons, and she always liked him. He is coming back home, and she wants to clear his name, and yet she shrinks from having her private affairs brought in public view again. She said, herself, that if she could get her own consent to become your wife, then everybody would understand the truth, and not blame him. Then there is the child—”

“Yes, Lionel!” Galt panted. “We must save him, and we can—we can, if Dora could only—”

“She knows that full well,” the woman said, passing her gaunt hand over her withered mouth and swallowing the rising lump in her throat. “If you only could have—have heard what I did to-night it would have wrung tears from your eyes. Lionel had waked up, and she had to go to him. He couldn't sleep for what was on his mind. Kenneth Galt, that little angel was simply begging his mother not to let you go away—think of it, actually pleading for you! He had heard you say you were going, and, in some way, he fancied Dora could persuade you to stay. He cried till his little pillow was wet. He told her he loved you, that you had said he was your little boy, and that he wanted to be with you always. I heard her pleading with him and arguing, but through it all his little voice would continue to cry out that it should not be so—that he wanted you, and that you wanted him.”