ON THE TREATMENT OF PRODIGALS
While Euphrasia, in a frenzy of anticipation, garnished and swept the
room which held for her so many memories of Austen's boyhood, even
beating the carpet with her own hands, Hilary Vane went about his
business with no apparent lack of diligence. But he was meditating. He
had many times listened to the Reverend Mr. Weightman read the parable
from the pulpit, but he had never reflected how it would be to be the
father of a real prodigal. What was to be done about the calf? Was there
to be a calf, or was there not? To tell the truth, Hilary wanted a calf,
and yet to have one (in spite of Holy Writ) would seem to set a premium
on disobedience and riotous living.
Again, Austen had reached thirty, an age when it was not likely he would
settle down and live an orderly and godly life among civilized beings,
and therefore a fatted calf was likely to be the first of many follies
which he (Hilary) would live to regret. No, he would deal with justice.
How he dealt will be seen presently, but when he finally reached this
conclusion, the clipping from the Pepper County Plainsman had not yet
come before his eyes.
It is worth relating how the clipping did come before his eyes, for no
one in Ripton had the temerity to speak of it. Primarily, it was because
Miss Victoria Flint had lost a terrier, and secondarily, because she was
a person of strong likes and dislikes. In pursuit of the terrier she
drove madly through Leith, which, as everybody knows, is a famous colony
of rich summer residents. Victoria probably stopped at every house in
Leith, and searched them with characteristic vigour and lack of ceremony,
sometimes entering by the side door, and sometimes by the front, and
caring very little whether the owners were at home or not. Mr. Humphrey
Crewe discovered her in a boa-stall at Wedderburn,--as his place was
called,--for it made little difference to Victoria that Mr. Crewe was a
bachelor of marriageable age and millions. Full, as ever, of practical
suggestions, Mr. Crewe proposed to telephone to Ripton and put an
advertisement in the Record, which--as he happened to know--went to press
the next day. Victoria would not trust to the telephone, whereupon Mr.
Crewe offered to drive down with her.
"You'd bore me, Humphrey," said she, as she climbed into her runabout
with the father and grandfather of the absentee. Mr. Crewe laughed as she
drove away. He had a chemical quality of turning invidious remarks into
compliments, and he took this one as Victoria's manner of saying that she
did not wish to disturb so important a man.
Arriving in the hot main street of Ripton, her sharp eyes descried the
Record sign over the drug store, and in an astonishingly short time she
was in the empty office. Mr. Pardriff was at dinner. She sat down in the
editorial chair and read a great deal of uninteresting matter, but at
last found something on the floor (where the wind had blown it) which
made her laugh. It was the account of Austen Vane's difficulty with Mr.
Blodgett. Victoria did not know Austen, but she knew that the Honourable
Hilary had a son of that name who had gone West, and this was what
tickled her. She thrust the clipping in the pocket of her linen coat just
as Mr. Pardriff came in.
Her conversation with the editor of the Record proved so entertaining
that she forgot all about the clipping until she had reached Fairview,
and had satisfied a somewhat imperious appetite by a combination of lunch
and afternoon tea. Fairview was the "summer place" of Mr. Augustus P.
Flint, her father, on a shelf of the hills in the town of Tunbridge,
equidistant from Leith and Ripton: and Mr. Flint was the president of the
Imperial Railroad, no less.
Yes, he had once been plain Gus Flint, many years ago, when he used to
fetch the pocket-handkerchiefs of Mr. Isaac D. Worthington of Brampton,
and he was still "Gus" to his friends. Mr. Flint's had been the brain
which had largely conceived and executed the consolidation of
principalities of which the Imperial Railroad was the result and, as
surely as tough metal prevails, Mr. Flint, after many other trials and
errors of weaker stuff, had been elected to the place for which he was so
supremely fitted. We are so used in America to these tremendous rises
that a paragraph will suffice to place Mr. Flint in his Aladdin's palace.
To do him justice, he cared not a fig for the palace, and he would have
been content with the farmhouse under the hill where his gardener lived.
You could not fool Mr. Flint on a horse or a farm, and he knew to a dot
what a railroad was worth by travelling over it. Like his
governor-general and dependent, Mr. Hilary Vane, he had married a wife
who had upset all his calculations. The lady discovered Mr. Flint's
balance in the bank, and had proceeded to use it for her own
glorification, and the irony of it all was that he could defend it from
everybody else. Mrs. Flint spent, and Mr. Flint paid the bills; for the
first ten years protestingly, and after that he gave it up and let her go
her own gait.
She had come from the town of Sharon, in another State, through which Mr.
Flint's railroad also ran, and she had been known as the Rose of that
place. She had begun to rise immediately, with the kite-like adaptability
of the American woman for high altitudes, and the leaden weight of the
husband at the end of the tail was as nothing to her. She had begun it
all by the study of people in hotels while Mr. Flint was closeted with
officials and directors. By dint of minute observation and reasoning
powers and unflagging determination she passed rapidly through several
strata, and had made a country place out of her husband's farm in
Tunbridge, so happily and conveniently situated near Leith. In winter
they lived on Fifth Avenue.
One daughter alone had halted, for a minute period, this progress, and
this daughter was Victoria--named by her mother. Victoria was now
twenty-one, and was not only of another generation, but might almost have
been judged of another race than her parents. The things for which her
mother had striven she took for granted, and thought of them not at all,
and she had by nature that simplicity and astonishing frankness of manner
and speech which was once believed to be an exclusive privilege of
duchesses.
To return to Fairview. Victoria, after sharing her five o'clock luncheon
with her dogs, went to seek her father, for the purpose (if it must be
told) of asking him for a cheque. Mr. Flint was at Fairview on the
average of two days out of the week during the summer, and then he was
nearly always closeted with a secretary and two stenographers and a
long-distance telephone in two plain little rooms at the back of the
house. And Mr. Hilary Vane was often in consultation with him, as he was
on the present occasion when Victoria flung open the door. At sight of
Mr. Vane she halted suddenly on the threshold, and a gleam of mischief
came into her eye as she thrust her hand into her coat pocket. The two
regarded her with the detached air of men whose thread of thought has
been broken.
"Well, Victoria," said her father, kindly if resignedly, "what is it
now?"
"Money," replied Victoria, promptly; "I went to Avalon this morning and
bought that horse you said I might have."
"What horse?" asked Mr. Flint, vaguely. "But never mind. Tell Mr. Freeman
to make out the cheque."
Mr. Vane glanced at Mr. Flint, and his eyes twinkled. Victoria, who had
long ago discovered the secret of the Honey Dew, knew that he was rolling
it under his tongue and thinking her father a fool for his indulgence.
"How do you do, Mr. Vane?" she said; "Austen's coming home, isn't he?"
She had got this by feminine arts out of Mr. Paul Pardriff, to whom she
had not confided the fact of her possession of the clipping.
The Honourable Hilary gave a grunt, as he always did when he was
surprised and displeased, as though some one had prodded him with a stick
in a sensitive spot.
"Your son? Why, Vane, you never told me that," said Mr. Flint. "I didn't
know that you knew him, Victoria."
"I don't," answered Victoria, "but I'd like to. What did he do to Mr.
Blodgett?" she demanded of Hilary.
"Mr. Blodgett!" exclaimed that gentleman. "I never heard of him. What's
happened to him?"
"He will probably recover," she assured him.
The Honourable Hilary, trying in vain to suppress his agitation, rose to
his feet.
"I don't know what you're talking about, Victoria," he said, but his
glance was fixed on the clipping in her hand.
"Haven't you seen it?" she asked, giving it to him.
He read it in silence, groaned, and handed it to Mr. Flint, who had been
drumming on the table and glancing at Victoria with vague disapproval.
Mr. Flint read it and gave it back to the Honourable Hilary, who groaned
again and looked out of the window.
"Why do you feel badly about it?" asked Victoria. "I'd be proud of him,
if I were you."
"Proud of him" echoed Mr. Vane, grimly. "Proud of him!"
"Victoria, what do you mean?" said Mr. Flint.
"Why not?" said Victoria. "He's done nothing to make you ashamed.
According to that clipping, he's punished a man who richly deserved to be
punished, and he has the sympathy of an entire county."
Hilary Vane was not a man to discuss his domestic affliction with
anybody, so he merely grunted and gazed persistently out of the window,
and was not aware of the fact that Victoria made a little face at him as
she left the room. The young are not always impartial judges of the old,
and Victoria had never forgiven him for carrying to her father the news
of an escapade of hers in Ripton.
As he drove through the silent forest roads on his way homeward that
afternoon, the Honourable Hilary revolved the new and intensely
disagreeable fact in his mind as to how he should treat a prodigal who
had attempted manslaughter and was a fugitive from justice. In the
meantime a tall and spare young man of a red-bronze colour alighted from
the five o'clock express at Ripton and grinned delightedly at the
gentlemen who made the station their headquarters about train time. They
were privately disappointed that the gray felt hat, although
broad-brimmed, was not a sombrero, and the respectable, loose-fitting
suit of clothes was not of buckskin with tassels on the trousers; and
likewise that he came without the cartridge belt and holster which they
had pictured in anticipatory sessions on the baggage-trucks. There could
be no doubt of the warmth of their greeting as they sidled up and seized
a hand somewhat larger than theirs, but the welcome had in it an
ingredient of awe that puzzled the newcomer, who did not hesitate to
inquire:--"What's the matter, Ed? Why so ceremonious, Perley?"
But his eagerness did not permit him to wait for explanations. Grasping
his bag, the only baggage he possessed, he started off at a swinging
stride for Hanover Street, pausing only to shake the hands of the few who
recognized him, unconscious of the wild-fire at his back. Hanover Street
was empty that drowsy summer afternoon, and he stopped under the
well-remembered maples before the house and gazed at it long and
tenderly; even at the windows of that room--open now for the first time
in years--where he had served so many sentences of imprisonment. Then he
went cautiously around by the side and looked in at the kitchen door. To
other eyes than his Euphrasia might not have seemed a safe person to
embrace, but in a moment he had her locked in his arms and weeping. She
knew nothing as yet of Mr. Blodgett's misfortunes, but if Austen Vane had
depopulated a county it would have made no difference in her affection.
"My, but you're a man," exclaimed Euphrasia, backing away at last and
staring at him with the only complete approval she had ever accorded to
any human being save one.
"What did you expect, Phrasie?"
"Come, and I'll show you your room," she said, in a gutter she could not
hide; "it's got all the same pictures in, your mother's pictures, and the
chair you broke that time when Hilary locked you in. It's mended."
"Hold on, Phrasie," said Austen, seizing her by the apron-strings, "how
about the Judge?" It was by this title he usually designated his father.
"What about him?" demanded Euphrasia, sharply.
"Well, it's his house, for one thing," answered Austen, "and he may
prefer to have that room--empty."
"Empty! Turn you out? I'd like to see him," cried Euphrasia. "It wouldn't
take me long to leave him high and dry."
She paused at the sound of wheels, and there was the Honourable Hilary,
across the garden patch, in the act of slipping out of his buggy at the
stable door. In the absence of Luke, the hired man, the chief counsel for
the railroad was wont to put up the horse himself, and he already had the
reins festooned from the bit rings when he felt a heavy, hand on his
shoulder and heard a voice say:--"How are you, Judge?"
If the truth be told, that voice and that touch threw the Honourable
Hilary's heart out of beat. Many days he had been schooling himself for
this occasion: this very afternoon he had determined his course of
action, which emphatically did not include a fatted calf. And now surged
up a dryad-like memory which had troubled him many a wakeful night, of
startled, appealing eyes that sought his in vain, and of the son she had
left him flinging himself into his arms in the face of chastisement. For
the moment Hilary Vane, under this traitorous influence, was unable to
speak. But he let the hand rest on his shoulder, and at length was able
to pronounce, in a shamefully shaky voice, the name of his son. Whereupon
Austen seized him by the other shoulder and turned him round and looked
into his face.
"The same old Judge," he said.
But Hilary was startled, even as Euphrasia had been. Was this strange,
bronzed, quietly humorous young man his son? Hilary even had to raise his
eyes a little; he had forgotten how tall Austen was. Strange emotions,
unbidden and unwelcome, ran riot in his breast; and Hilary Vane, who made
no slips before legislative committees or supreme courts, actually found
himself saying:--"Euphrasia's got your room ready."
"It's good of you to take me in, Judge," said Austen, patting his
shoulder. And then he began, quite naturally to unbuckle the breechings
and loose the traces, which he did with such deftness and celerity that
he had the horse unharnessed and in the stall in a twinkling, and had
hauled the buggy through the stable door, the Honourable Hilary watching
him the while. He was troubled, but for the life of him could find no
adequate words, who usually had the dictionary at his disposal.
"Didn't write me why you came home," said the Honourable Hilary, as his
son washed his hands at the spigot.
"Didn't I? Well, the truth was I wanted to see you again, Judge."
His father grunted, not with absolute displeasure, but suspiciously.
"How about Blodgett?" he asked.
"Blodgett? Have you heard about that? Who told you?"
"Never mind. You didn't. Nothing in your letter about it."
"It wasn't worth mentioning," replied Austen. "Tyner and the boys liked
it pretty well, but I didn't think you'd be interested. It was a local
affair."
"Not interested! Not worth mentioning!" exclaimed the Honourable Hilary,
outraged to discover that his son was modestly deprecating an achievement
instead of defending a crime. "Godfrey! murder ain't worth mentioning, I
presume."
"Not when it isn't successful," said Austen. "If Blodgett had succeeded,
I guess you'd have heard of it before you did."
"Do you mean to say this Blodgett tried to kill you?" demanded the
Honourable Hilary.
"Yes," said his son, "and I've never understood why he didn't. He's a
good deal better shot than I am."
The Honourable Hilary grunted, and sat down on a bucket and carefully
prepared a piece of Honey Dew. He was surprised and agitated.
"Then why are you a fugitive from justice if you were acting in
self-defence?" he inquired.
"Well, you see there were no witnesses, except a Mexican of Blodgett's,
and Blodgett runs the Pepper County machine for the railroad out there.
I'd been wanting to come East and have a look at you for some time, and I
thought I might as well come now."
"How did this--this affair start?" asked Mr. Vane.
"Blodgett was driving in some of Tyner's calves, and I caught him. I told
him what I thought of him, and he shot at me through his pocket. That was
all."
"All! You shot him, didn't you?"
"I was lucky enough to hit him first," said Austen.
Extraordinary as it may seem, the Honourable Hilary experienced a sense
of pride.
"Where did you hit him?" he asked.
It was Euphrasia who took matters in her own hands and killed the fatted
calf, and the meal to which they presently sat down was very different
from the frugal suppers Mr. Vane usually had. But he made no comment. It
is perhaps not too much to say that he would have been distinctly
disappointed had it been otherwise. There was Austen's favourite pie, and
Austen's favourite cake, all inherited from the Austens, who had thought
more of the fleshpots than people should. And the prodigal did full
justice to the occasion.