Betty stirred and coughed. She could not think how to reply. Something in her soul refused to let her answer directly.
He came over beside the bed and touched her gently on the forehead.
“Betty, little girl,” he said, and his voice was very tender, the way she remembered it when she was a tiny child. “Your father loves you!” His voice was wistful. “I’ve been thinking about it, child, and I’m afraid I haven’t been the right kind of a father to you!”
Of all things! What a horrible thing to say! That was sob stuff! That was against the code. Her father talking mush like that!
“Shall we begin again, little girl, and try to straighten things out, try to understand and help each other?”
“Don’t!” said Betty, jerking away from his touch. “Don’t!” in a sob that was almost a scream and burst into angry hysterical tears, flinging herself as far away from him as she could get and letting the great sobs rack her slim young body.
Her father stood there in the dark room, with the light from the hall casting a long, bright finger sharply on the floor through the crack under the door. He waited, hoping she would turn back, perhaps answer him, when the storm of tears should have passed. But the shaking sobs went on, and before long he went round to the other side of the bed and, stooping, kissed the bit of hot, wet forehead between the guarding fingers, and so passed out of the room.
And Betty lay and sobbed and hated her father for bringing back that awful feeling of the presence of God in the room, God standing out there in the middle of the dark room, condemning her! God!—and there wasn’t any God! Everybody said so nowadays. Just everybody!
She cried harder. She felt that she would like to take poison or something just to show them how she hated it all. There was a fierce resentment in her wild, uncontrolled nature. She had her own life to live, and they should not hinder her. She felt if this kind of thing went on that she would not be able to go away with Dudley Weston. And yet she would! Nothing should hinder her now! This was a perfectly awful place, all shut in by fierce cold and snow, and God out there in the middle of the room looking at her in the dark. God! When there really wasn’t any God at all!
The next day the morning mail brought trouble. A telegram that had been put in the mail and brought up by a neighbor passing that way. There was word from the bank. Chris had forged a check for two hundred dollars! Chris was closeted with Chester for two hours in the little room off the sitting room. He came out at last with red rims around his eyes and a more shamed look than ever on his hard, young face; came out hastily and hurried into the woodshed where he was heard for a long time chopping kindling.
Eleanor had been openly weeping, and nothing was said about the new regime of work. Indeed Eleanor made no move toward getting the midday meal. She went to her room and lay down with the door shut. Jane, loitering to ask a question about something she was trying to sew for one of the boys for Christmas, thought she heard a sob, and came away.
“Oh, heck!” she said, doing a handspring on the kitchen floor for Doris’s benefit. “I wish we could go home. This place is rotten!”
Chester went down to the village, walking because there was no other transportation at this hour. The gray look on his face had deepened perceptibly. He seemed twenty years older. It was nearly four o’clock when he came back; everybody was hungry, and nobody knew what it was all about. Chris had gone out to the barn after he finished chopping the wood and remained there. He did not come back to the house till his father came home. He slipped in then and up to his room like a rabbit trying to get by without notice.
Betty came down about noon and began a few works of virtue. Everybody had gone crazy. They should see that she was sane.
She washed the dishes and straightened the dining room. Then she made some toast and scrambled some eggs for the children. That was about the extent of her culinary knowledge. She had never had time to learn anything more. There had been too many dances and high school plays and basketball games.
She felt most virtuous when she had finished. She reflected that it would be good to leave a sweet savor of good works behind her when she went. She had a generous, forgiving spirit toward her parents this morning. They never had been young—at least it was so long ago. And anyway, life had scarcely been worth living in their day. Such prudish, impossible notions! She wondered what could be the matter with Chris. But even Jane’s most accomplished snooping failed to make plain the cause of Chris’s depression, and when she finally dared to waylay him on the stairs during one of his restless excursions out to the barn and ask him what was “eating” him, he pushed her roughly aside and said:
“Aw, nothing! Shut up, won’t ya? Yer a pain in the neck! A fella can’t take a step without finding you underfoot!”
The telephone had been installed, and Chester Thornton retired into the library and carried on long conversations with “long distance.” But the room was not under any of the bedrooms nor near any of the stovepipes, which carried sound so beautifully, and not one word of the low-voiced communications leaked out to the curious children. Nor did the heavy oak doors that shut their father and their brother in give away any secrets.
Chris slid in furtively and stayed hours with his father. An occasional tinkle of the telephone bell gave sign that something important must be going on. When the two came out for meals Chester was grave and preoccupied, and Chris wore a white, frightened look.
Nor was Eleanor any more communicative. When Jane, who was the boldest of the group, attempted to question her, she answered, “Oh, just business. You wouldn’t understand.”
Three days like this went by, depression in the very atmosphere, Eleanor giving a low-voiced question when Chester came to meals, or maybe a mere lifting of the eyebrows that seemed to mean “Have you heard yet?” and Chester answering by a mere negative movement of his eyes, scarcely perceptible.
It was terrible! Betty wished she had said she would come at once to Briardale. She could have sold something—her watch, perhaps— her precious platinum watch! Anything to get away from this terrible place! It seemed as if the judgment day was about to dawn upon them all.
To add to the general gloom there was a thaw, and mist and steam began to ascend to a gloomy threatening sky with intermittent sunshine. Nobody went down to skate, nobody went down to the village. The sled that Chris and his father had found and had been repairing for family sledding stood dismantled in the woodshed with one runner off. There was nothing left for Betty to do but dress Doris’s doll and throw together an outfit for herself from the old chests in the attic. Betty did a great deal of ransacking in those days, unearthing some most interesting garments. Her mother was entirely too preoccupied to notice when she asked if she might have them, so Betty had a free hand with several rare old dresses and primped and pinned and cut and slashed to her heart’s delight. Jane, meanwhile, was also conjuring Christmas presents out of old things from the attic. And occasionally Betty, between outfits, worked awhile at Doris’s doll, making many lace ruffles on green silk for its party dress.
Doris and John were the only really happy members of the family. They made endless snowmen and snow houses and snow forts, and reveled in the great out-of-doors, coming in with rosy cheeks and shining eyes to get a handful of unguarded cookies or doughnuts when driven by hunger, and back again to the fray.
But at last there came a day a little after noon when the door of the closed room suddenly opened and Chris came out with his old brisk manner. Not closing the door carefully with that funeral-in-the-house air that he had been doing.
Betty was in the dining room setting the table for lunch because she was hungry and hoped it would bring her mother downstairs to suggest something about lunch if she jingled the dishes loud enough.
Betty had a strong conviction that her mother was up in her bedroom most of the time praying. Not that Eleanor had up to this point been inclined to much obvious prayer, but Jane had burst into the room one morning and found her kneeling by her
bed and reported that her face was all red and tear stained. Eleanor always came downstairs with that wistful, unhappy look in her eyes that Betty naturally connected with prayer. Why should one pray unless one was in a terrible strait? What could be the matter? Business couldn’t be so awful that they would feel it like that! Why, one could always get a new business if the old one failed. And besides, what could Chris have to do with that? He was too young to help in business.
Betty heard Chris come out of the old library and go upstairs with a spring, two steps at a time. He sounded almost as if he was whistling. Yes, that was a whistle. He was stamping around his room and opening and shutting closet doors and bureau drawers, and whistling! Betty drew a sigh of relief.
Then Eleanor came swiftly down the stairs and went into the library, just as Chester was coming out. His face looked as if a great burden had rolled off from his shoulders, and Betty heard her mother exclaim, “Oh, thank the Lord!” and then she saw her put her face down on her husband’s shoulder and cry. Betty hurried into the kitchen and stood looking out of the window at the distant mountains overhung with clouds, and just as she was watching, the sun burst through and sent golden bars down through the purply gray and blue of the sky.
Then Chris came clattering down the back stairs and greeted his sister for the first time in four days.
“Hello, Betts!”
Betty turned a disturbed face on him:
“What’s the matter, Chris? For Pete’s sake, tell me!” she pleaded.
“Absolutely nothing!” declared Chris joyously. “Everything’s okay. Absotively! Say, Betts! Aren’t there any doughnuts left or something? I’m holla as a log, an’ I gotta beat it down ta the village with a business letter fer Dad. It’s gotta go on the next train. Get me something, can’t ya? Something I can take in my hand. Where’s the rest of that apple pie, that’ll do. And gimme a hunk of cheese! Thanks awfully. Dance at yer wedding and all that sorta thing!” He was gone into the front part of the house. She could hear him breezing into the library and calling out excitedly to his father in his old confident tone.
But Betty stood still in the pantry; the dishcloth she had been holding in her hand dropped to the floor. Now why did Chris say that about dancing at her wedding? She felt weak and upset. Of course Chris hadn’t an idea about her plans. He just said it. It didn’t mean a thing. But it certainly did make her head reel.
Well, it was a relief to have the atmosphere cleared again, of whatever it was. She almost felt like singing herself, or whistling or something. Perhaps she didn’t want to go away. But of course that was nonsense. She must. She had promised. But now she could show Mums the doll’s dress. It certainly was pretty. Mums would like it. And she had made it all herself.
It was like having life freed from some great obstruction. Now things could go sparkling on like a stream in the summer sunshine. Jane appeared at the door, her face full of satisfied curiosity. “Oh, Betts! You’ve dropped the dishcloth! That means company, and we’re going to have it. The minister from that funny little white church down in the village, with the sharp steeple and the big bell in a square box under it, is coming to call. He just telephoned, and Daddy said it was all right to come. He’s coming this afternoon!” “Oh, heck!” said Betty ungraciously. “Let’s go down and skate!” “We can’t!” said Jane. “Daddy said the ice is all slushy on top. He says we’ll get our feet awful wet. And he says if it’ll only be a nice still night and turn cold without any wind that the ice’ll be good again.”
“Jane, have you heard what’s been the matter? What’s Chris been up to?”
“Oh, that!” said Jane nonchalantly. “Didn’t you find that out yet? You aren’t very keen, Betts. It’s something about Jim Disston’s
Packard that Chrissie has been buying with some money that wasn’t his, or a check or something.”
“For cat’s sake! I thought Chris had more sense!” said Betty, looking off at the hills with her cheeks growing red. What would they all say when it was discovered that she had run away and got married?
“Well,” she went on after a minute, “we can go somewhere when that minister comes. I’ve had all the glooms I can stand for one week. When we see him coming we’ll beat it out the back door and run down the hill out of sight. Get your coat and galoshes and leave them down in the kitchen so you won’t have to go back after them.”
There was no opportunity however to disappear when the minister arrived, for he came walking up the snowy lane with no sleigh bells to announce his coming.
Betty and Jane had been kept busy all the afternoon in the kitchen. Eleanor had come out with her face wreathed in thankful smiles and put the finishing touches to the lunch that Betty had prepared, and immediately after lunch she challenged them to help her do some baking.
It really was almost interesting, with their mother in such a mood, to put on big aprons and roll up their sleeves and learn how to make real pies and cookies and biscuits. Betty made a cake, too: chocolate layer with the black butter frosting, and it turned out wonderfully. She was so proud of it that her eyes took on their old childish shine, and her cheeks were glowing, and when Chris came in from his long walk of six miles, hungry as a bear, he stood in the door and admired it.
“Oh, boy!” he said, licking his lips eagerly. “Oh, boy! Some cake! When ya going to give us a sample, Betts? You don’t mean you made it all by yourself? Sure ‘nough? No kiddin’?”
Suddenly the home seemed dear. Just because she had contributed to its comfort. She had forgotten that she was leaving it so soon. She had a choking feeling in her throat as if she was going to cry.
“Well,” she said to herself, “at least we won’t starve. Mums always said people had to learn cooking before they got married. I guess I’ll try pie. Though I don’t really suppose I’ll ever have to cook. The Westons have plenty of servants, more than we ever had. But it’s likely I might have to tell a servant how to make a chocolate cake someday. Anyway, it’s fun!”
And right at that point the minister walked into the kitchen!
“Excuse me!” he said. “I knocked several times but nobody seemed to hear, so I just followed your voices. I’m Dr. Dunham. Is this Mrs. Thornton?”
Eleanor dried her hands and greeted the minister, introducing the children.
“Shall we go into the sitting room?” she said, preparing to lead the way.
“Well, it smells mighty good out here,” said the minister, looking around with a twinkle in his eyes. “I’d be entirely satisfied to sit right down here and let you go on with your work.”
Jane slid up to him in her elfish way and presented a plate of hot cookies just out of the oven that she had been helping to make, and they each took a cookie and went munching into the sitting room.
The minister won Betty’s heart by pausing at the table where she had just finished icing her wonderful chocolate cake.
“Well, that certainly is a cake to be proud of!” he said. “Are you the cook that made that work of art?”
Betty swelled proudly and forgot that she had meant to be haughty and superior if any minister tried to make up to her.
Chester appeared on the scene with a hearty welcome, and Chris entered a moment later with an armful of wood. He had just finished building up the fire on the hearth, and the flames snapped and roared up the great old chimney with old-time good cheer. Betty slid into a chair, pleased, interested, just tired enough with her cake making to be glad to sit down and listen.
She saw Chester turn to Chris with a quick flash of anxiety: “Did you make the train, my boy?” he asked in a low tone. “I didn’t know you had got back.”
“I sure did!” said Chris with a proud ring to his voice. Betty looked up at him wonderingly. It seemed almost as if Chris had added a year or two to his voice, it sounded so manly. She caught a quick glance of relief from her father before he turned back to talk with the minister. How glad Chester had looked! Did he care so much about what Chris did as all that? He would care a lot about
her, too. It was a rotten deal she was going to hand him! But why did she have to keep thinking of those things all the time? There was a whole week before she had to go, and she wanted to enjoy it as much as she could. She must keep such thoughts out of her mind or she would be turning “yellow,” and that would never do. She would lose all her reputation at school for being “hard boiled,” and she was very proud indeed of that, though it must be admitted that she had a very vague idea of what it really was intended to mean.
The minister had beautiful silver hair, and keen blue eyes that could either twinkle or look straight through one. His cheeks were rosy like two winter apples, and his shoulders were sturdy as if he knew how to carry burdens as well as stand in the pulpit.
He showed at once that he had a sense of humor by telling two or three stories that fascinated the children and sent them off into peals of laughter. Betty found herself wondering why a perfectly good, fine gentleman like that wasted himself in being a minister; it seemed such a dull profession.
He spoke of his son as being away studying for the Christian ministry, and Betty thought:
Oh, how poky! How perfectly poisonous for any man to wish that on a young man. Just burying him alive! What a rattling shame!
“David is coming up at Christmas to see us,” said David’s father, beaming with pleasure at the idea. “His mother and I can hardly wait for the time to come! He can’t get here till Christmas Day, probably, and he may be delayed a day or so later on account of having to take some services for a fellow student who is ill, but you understand, Christmas doesn’t occur for his mother and me till he gets here! I’d like him to meet you. There aren’t so many young people around in the winter months, all off to college or a job in the city somewhere, you know. David is a great man for sports. He just revels in them while he’s home, and the snow is fine this winter.”
“Our young people have been trying to fix up an old sled for sledding,” said Chester heartily. “Perhaps your son will come up and join them. The old hill out behind the house used to be something worthwhile.”
The Prodigal Girl Page 18