The Prodigal Girl

by Grace Livingston Hill

  But Eleanor had no chance to answer that. Chester came out of the library excitedly:

  “It’s too bad, Nell, but I’ve got to go back home to sign some papers. There isn’t time to get them here and back again, and it involves a great deal of money. But it can’t be helped. Can you get along without me for a couple of days?”

  “Oh, Chester!” gasped Eleanor in dismay, feeling as if the earth were reeling under her. “And Christmas—The children!”

  “I know! It’s too bad! But I hadn’t any choice. I’ll make it back before Christmas Day is over if it’s a possible thing. We’ll make it up to them somehow!”

  “Now Daddy, I think that’s rotten!” burst out Jane. “No Christmas! And you gone! I wish I was de–e–e–ead! Well, I do!” And Jane broke into a torrent of angry tears and flung herself down on the couch, shaking with sobs.

  Chester turned impatiently toward Eleanor, looking suddenly gray with anguish.

  “It can’t be helped!” he said almost hoarsely in his excitement. “I’ve got to go, Eleanor. Can you come upstairs and help me a minute? John Dowley is going to stop for me and run me down to the train. I just telephoned him. There’s barely time for me to catch it. Could you put some buttons in a clean shirt for me, Eleanor?”

  “But you must sit down and eat something first,” began Eleanor.

  “I haven’t time, I tell you!” said Chester excitedly and tore up the stairs. “I can get something on the train.”

  “Get up, Janie, and make some coffee quick for Daddy!” called Eleanor as she vanished up the stairs.

  “Good night!” said Chris, appearing at that moment from the woodshed where he had been getting an armful of wood. “What’s eating you, Jay? This certainly is some house!”

  Jane sat suddenly up and glared at her brother, eyes blotched with tears, lips puckered with disappointment, shoulders shaking with more sobs:

  “Daddy’s got to go back home! He won’t be here for Chris–s–s–muss!”

  “Dad going home!” exclaimed Chris, turning suddenly white and frightened. “W–w–w–what for?”

  “Oh, I du-no!” bawled Jane. “Some old papers he’s gotta sign. I think this earth is a horrid old place. This Christmas’ll just be l–l–l–l–ost! That’s what it’ll be! I w–w–w–ish we could all go home and get back to real life again!”

  But Chris was up the stairs three steps at a bound and made no reply. He appeared at his father’s door white and anxious.

  “What’s the matter, Dad?” he asked, a note of almost fright in his tone. “Anything more about that check?”

  Chester paused one instant to take in the look on his son’s face and flashed him a smile.

  “No, Son, that’s all right. This is the office. A contract that I have to sign and something about a loan that has to be put through early Monday morning. There isn’t time to get the papers here for signature and back again for Monday. You look after Mother and the kids, won’t you, Son? Sorry about Christmas, but I may get back before the day is over. You do what you can to make up. You’re the man of the house.”

  “Yes sir!” said Chris, looking pleased and relieved. “Yes sir!”

  The next ten minutes were strenuous. Chris went to the attic for his father’s suitcase and manifested a man’s intelligence in getting the right things together to put into it. Eleanor sewed on a missing button and hunted clean collars and cuff links. Even Jane roused herself, sobbing, with the tears still blurring her eyes, and poured a cup of coffee for her father, creaming and sugaring it just as he liked it and making two dainty sandwiches for him to eat on the way.

  It seemed no time at all till Chester was striding from the door, too hurried even to kiss them, calling back directions, and waving good-bye in the early morning sunshine, as the old farm sleigh bumped its way over the ruts and out down the lane.

  The family turned back to the house that seemed suddenly deserted and empty.

  “Aw, gee!” began Chris, and then caught a glimpse of Eleanor wiping a furtive tear from her eye, and changed his tone. “Say, Mums, you go sit down and eat a good breakfast. You’ve been on the double jump ever since you got up. Here, Janie, you put back those muffins in the oven and get ‘em hot. Let’s all sit down and eat. That’ll make the time go. And while we eat let’s plan some surprise for Dad when he gets back. Say, Mums, can’t we put off Christmas till Dad gets here? Make it daylight saving or something, just set back the clock a coupla days or something? What say? Nobody round here’ll know what we’re doing, so we can’t be interrupted by any nosey people that wantta know why we’re doing it. Just pretend it isn’t time yet. How’ll that do?”

  His voice was cheerful and even enthusiastic, and Eleanor stifled the sigh that was in her heart and smiled.

  “Surely!” she said. “Why not? This interruption was something we couldn’t help so we might as well make the best of it.”

  Jane looked up hopefully.

  “Do you think Daddy will bring some candy or something back with him?” she asked.

  “Well, I’m not sure,” said Eleanor, hating to spoil the child’s ray of hope. “You know Daddy will be very busy every minute he is there; no time to go out and buy anything, even if he could afford it—”

  “Oh, I forgot the old money!” said Jane disconsolately. “Won’t he ever have any money again?”

  “Why, I hope so,” said Eleanor, trying to banish the fear that clutched at her own heart. “I haven’t talked about money to your father since we have been here. The doctor told me he ought to get away from everything for a little while and have a real rest. I thought the main thing was to be cheerful. But I imagine there must be some hope somewhere for the business or he would not be going down to sign a new contract, although it may be just something about settling up with their creditors. I didn’t have time to ask him. But such things don’t really matter, Jane dear, if we are all together and all well. We’ll pull out of the troubles. Let’s just get ready for Daddy’s homecoming and make him have a good time so he will forget if he has had any business troubles while he was gone.”

  “But what shall we do?” asked Jane mournfully. “We’re all ready for Christmas now.”

  “How about popcorn balls?” said Eleanor brightly. “Would you like to make some of those? And we must string a lot of popcorn for the tree and cut out things to put on it. Oh, there’s a lot to do. There’ll hardly be time to get it all done. Here, John, you and Doris eat your breakfast and begin to shell the popcorn. The milkman brought a lot of it over yesterday. And Chris, there’s an old popper hanging in the woodshed. You might try scouring it a little. I think it would be all right if some of the rust was rubbed off.”

  “Oh, how darling!” said Jane, sunshine coming back into her face as suddenly as it had gone. “Shall I go wake up Betts? She’ll like making popcorn balls, I’m sure.”

  “No, don’t wake up Betty yet,” said Eleanor. “Let her sleep till she feels like herself again. She’ll feel more like working if she’s had her sleep out. Let’s get everything ready first, the table all cleared off and the dishes washed. I thought about making some cookies in the shape of stars, too.”

  “Fine!” said Chris. “And Mums, how about me cutting out some tin stars from the tomato can tops for the tree.”

  “Why, that’s a wonderful idea. I was wondering how we were going to get something silver on it.”

  “And say, Mother,” put in Doris, “couldn’t you make some gingerbread men with currants for eyes, like the story in my book at school?”

  “I think I could,” laughed Eleanor, her heart growing lighter as she saw each one of the children beginning to take hold of the idea of a delayed Christmas. Now if only Betty would be as cheerful, everything would be all right. She dreaded Betty’s coming down, lest she would cast discouragement and blight upon all the others. She decided to let Betty sleep as long as possible.

  Meantime the horse that John Dowley had hastily harnessed to take Chester to the early morning tr
ain was racing down the road with a wicked stride as if he rather enjoyed the errand, and his sleigh bells jingled a merry tune in the frosty air.

  “Stand a pretty good chance of makin’ her,” said John Dowley as he wrapped the reins around his big sheepskin mitten and gave the secret cluck to his horse that let him know he might go his best pace.

  “I’m afraid not, if my watch is correct,” said Chester, taking it out again and looking at it anxiously as if it might have something encouraging to say about it. “Is this train ever late?”

  “‘Times it is,” said John Dowley, “when there’s a blizzard upstate. But we’ll make her.”

  The horse skimmed over the rough road, and the sleigh bumped along, almost upsetting at times, and then righting itself amazingly. Chester sat grimly in his seat holding on to the sleigh and trying to plan what he should do if he missed the train and stopped at every crossroad and watering trough as it were.

  They had climbed the hill now and were coming down the other side. The little village lay spread out before them, the station a mere red dot at one side. The sun on the lake flashed back at them, dazzling their eyes. The black gash in the whiteness of the landscape that was the railroad track wound away in the distance, and at the extreme end there was a plume of smoke.

  “She’s on her way!” said John Dowley with set lips. “But we’ll make her.”

  “Is that the train off there?” asked Chester with anxious eyes watching the little plume of smoke pause, spume up again, and begin to move.

  “That’s her!” said John Dowley. “She’s stoppin’ at the crossin’! Up, Blackie, we gotta make her!”

  The horse seemed to understand and plunged on, and Chester went through the mental process several times of gripping his suitcase and sprinting for the train at the last minute.

  The train came on and was lost to view as the sleigh dashed into a little wood, but they could hear the whistle, shrill and defiant, echoing among the hills. Chester’s heart beat fast, and he felt as if he were running with the horse.

  The train was just screaming into town as they rounded the corner by the little white church and took the shortcut behind the stores to the station. But someone had left a truck across the road, and Blackie had to turn out for it and wallow a wild minute or two to get around it. Chester’s heart sank once more. It seemed hopeless now and no use to get out and sprint, for the drift was too deep to run in. Then Blackie righted himself, pulled free of the snow, and was off again. John Dowley stood up in the sleigh and gave the horse the reins, and truly the horse seemed to understand.

  The train was just pulling out of the station as they drew up at the far side, out of sight of the engineer who might have waited if he had known. Chester sprang from the sleigh, suitcase in hand, just as he had planned, and sprinted for the slowly receding end of that train. He almost lost his footing on a spot of ice but caught himself and whirled on, catching the last car and reeling to the step with something of his boyhood’s agility.

  It took him several seconds on that bottom step before he could gather breath to pull himself up and into the car. He dropped into the last seat and sat back relieved. It was not so much that last few feet of sprinting that seemed to have taken the strength from him. It was the whole tempestuous episode, the having to leave Eleanor and the children just before Christmas, the terrible need of getting that train because of the crisis that had arisen at home, the agony of watching that little plume of smoke coming nearer and nearer, and only one brave horse to bridge the distance. It seemed to him he would never forget the sound of that fiendish whistle as the train began to gain on them, as if it knew it was racing with humans.

  In due time Chester’s mind calmed, and he got out his papers and began to do some important figuring, while station after station slipped by without his notice.

  And all the time, in the second car ahead, curled up fast asleep in her seat, his daughter Betty rode.

  Chapter 20

  At Springfield he looked up, got out his watch and the timetable to see if they were on time. Well pleased that they were, he glanced out again and watched the crowds idly. As the train started on, he noticed a pretty girl who looked extremely like his Betty, standing on the platform. If he hadn’t just left Betty at home in her bed asleep, he would have been almost startled, this girl looked so much like her. Dressed as Betty did at home, too. A fur coat just like hers and a little black hat. He turned his head to watch her, keeping up the illusion pleasantly. She walked like Betty, too, carrying a little suitcase, with her small head tilted proudly and her back straight as a pipe stem.

  The girl disappeared into the station and Chester went on with his figuring and thought no more about it. In due time he arrived in New York, making perfect connection with his home train. He was filled with satisfaction at the way things were coming out.

  Meantime, back at home the family were making popcorn balls and gingerbread men and tin stars and cookies. They were busy and happy and did not even notice when a few lazy flakes began to come down.

  It was not till they had cleared off the things and began to get lunch that Chris looked up.

  “Aw! Gee! Look, it’s snowing again! Now we’ll havta sweep off that lake; it’ll spoil the skating! Gee, I hope it don’t snow all night. I don’t know how we’ll manage to get the lake clear without Dad!”

  “Never mind,” said Eleanor soothingly, casting an anxious glance at the sky. “It doesn’t look so very dark. Perhaps it won’t snow long. Doris, you may go and wake up Betty now. Lunch is all ready to put on the table.”

  But Doris came back with word that Betty wasn’t there.

  “Oh, you’re a baby!” said Jane, speeding past her. “She’s in some other room. She’s probably gone in my room to borrow something.”

  “No, she isn’t, Janie,” cried Doris, aggrieved. “She isn’t anywhere. I looked in all the rooms!”

  “She’s probably up in the attic getting some more stuff for Christmas presents,” said Eleanor, setting a steaming dish of potatoes down beside another of creamed codfish. “Come, get up in your chair, Doris. We want to eat while the things are hot.”

  But Jane came flying back wide eyed.

  “She isn’t anywhere, Mums. I don’t think it’s fair. We thought she was asleep and here we did all the work, and she’s probably off hiding, reading an old book or something.”

  “Aw, she’s in the attic,” said Chris. “Call her, can’t you? I’m holla as a log. Let’s get ta eating.”

  “I went up in the attic,” affirmed Jane. “I looked behind all the trunks and everything. I bet she’s gone skating all alone. I say that’s not fair. Let’s eat all the lunch up!”

  “Mercy!” said Eleanor. “I hope she hasn’t gone skating alone. Your father said yesterday there was a hole in the ice. It might not be safe!”

  “Aw, her skates are here, Mums! She couldn’t have gone skating. Run back, Jane, and look again. You’ll find her. Call. Tell her about the popcorn balls. That’ll bring her. Hurry!”

  “I tell you, I looked everywhere, and I’m not going to look again!” said Jane sulkily. “Betty won’t come for me anyway, ever. She thinks she’s too big to mind me!”

  Then suddenly Eleanor dropped the dishcloth she was holding and sped up the stairs. A strange premonition had come to her. Something had happened to Betty!

  Chris found his mother, five minutes later, sitting by the bureau in Betty’s room crying, a letter lying on the floor by the chair. Eleanor’s face was covered by her apron, and she seemed to be stifling great sobs, which shook her whole body. Chris had never had anything hurt him so as it did to see his mother cry like that, as if everything was lost. He went over and put his arms around her, gathered her up like a little child, and sat down on Betty’s bed with her still in his arms, his little mother!

  And suddenly all the bad, wild, careless things he had ever done rose up and stood around him to shame him, and his face grew red and shy. He patted his mother awkwardly and tried to th
ink what Dad would have done if he had found her instead. He was the man of the house now. He shook off the condemning past and rose to meet his manhood.

  “Wha’s z’ matter, Mums?” he crooned shyly. “Don’ cry, Muth! I say, Muth, wha’s z’ matter? Tell a fella, can’t ya? Aw, c’mon!”

  For answer, Eleanor suddenly buried her face in her boy’s neck and cried harder, and Chris’s eyes went wildly round the room wondering what he should do next? What did men do when women cried? He had always been the one to be comforted before. How did they do it? He had done his awkward best, and it did no good.

  “Muth!” he said helplessly, almost reverting to the uncomforted one himself, feeling baby enough at this minute to cry himself and seek comfort from her.

  Then suddenly his anguished, wandering gaze touched the letter lying on the floor. Betty’s handwriting! Why had Betty written a letter?

  Some vague fear menaced his continued peace. He strained his eyes and tried to read the words, but only one here and there was readable from the crumpled paper lying so far away. “Christmas,” he saw and “poisonous.” “Perfectly poisonous” that must be. It would be if Betty wrote it. And, was that “Dudley”? Yes, that was a W after the Dudley. What had Dud Weston been doing? That mutt! Thought he was king! What did Betts see in him? Was that last word “Good” or “Good-bye”?

  “Muth!” he cried in alarm. “Muth, where’s Betts?”

  “She’s gone!” said Eleanor with a quick little sob that sounded like a knife.

  Chris’s arms went round his mother tighter, protectingly, and his mouth shut in a thin, firm line that made him look like his father.

  “Now, look here, Muth, be sensible! Betts can’t have gone far. We’ll get her. Where’s she gone?”

  “She says she’s gone to get married,” said Eleanor, in smothered sobs, as if the son who was comforting her were older than herself. She seemed to be utterly dazed at the thought. “There’s her letter; read it,” and she motioned toward Betty’s note lying on the floor.