Beale run up the brick path and throw himself on his knees, exclaiming, "Father, it is I—your erring but repentant son! Can you forgive me? If a lifetime of repentance can atone . . ." and so on.
If Dickie had been Beale he would certainly have made the speech, beginning, "Father, it is I." But as he was only Dickie, he said—
"Your name's Beale, ain't it?"
"It might be," old Beale allowed.
"I seen your son in London. 'E told me about yer garden."
"I should a thought 'e'd a-forgot the garden same as 'e's forgot me," said the old man.
"'E ain't forgot you, not 'e," said Dickie; "'e's come to see you, an' 'e's waiting outside now to know if you'd like to see 'im."
"Then 'e oughter know better," said the old man, and shouted in a thin, high voice, "Jim, Jim, come along in this minute!"
Even then Beale didn't act a bit like the prodigal in the play. He just unlatched the gate without looking at it—his hand had not forgotten the way of it, for all it was so long since he had passed through that gate. And he walked slowly and heavily up the path and said, "Hullo, dad!—how goes it?"
And the old man looked at him with his eyes half shut and said, "Why, it is James—so it is," as if he had expected it to be some one quite different.
And they shook hands, and then Beale said, "The garden's looking well."
