WHAT MAKES A PRODIGAL
Dr. Merriweather reported that Miss Van Patten had escaped with nothing
worse than bruises and a wrenched ankle.
“But by the Lord, Harry!” he exploded, “it was nothing short of a
miracle.”
“A miracle?” questioned Barnes. “What about Carl’s part in it?”
The doctor paused a moment. Then he smiled.
“Carl was the miracle,” he answered.
Langdon himself did not get off so easily; his arm was broken below
the elbow and the danger did not so much lie in the break as in the
stiffness which might result. The doctor did not realize as fully as
Barnes what the sheer nimbleness of those fingers of the left hand
meant to Carl. Like a good many country physicians, he was greater as
a medical man than as a surgeon. He rather took this aftermath of a
fracture for granted. Consequently he was a bit surprised at Barnes’
concern in the matter.
“We’ll have his arm out of a sling in six weeks,” declared the doctor.
“May be a bit stiff, but--”
“Good heavens!” exploded Barnes. “You’d better amputate it and be done
with it.”
“What the devil do you mean?”
“I mean that if you take his fiddle away from him, you take away his
soul.”
“His soul?”
“Exactly. He couldn’t sing without his fiddle any more than I could
paint without my hands. What’s a soul without a song? And he--he has
some big ones to sing during these next few years.”
“Steady. Steady. Don’t let that imagination of yours run away with you.”
Barnes studied the big-framed, big-faced man a second and continued
more soberly.
“What you call imagination are the grim facts of life for him and for
me, doctor. His fiddle isn’t a detail of his life--it’s life itself for
him. Cripple his arm and you cripple his soul. You’ve got to fight as
hard for those fingers as you would for his life.”
If Dr. Merriweather was at first only annoyed by what he took to be
mere extravagance of speech, there was something now in the tense face
of Barnes which made him pause and think.
“Carl didn’t say anything to me about that,” he observed.
“No,” answered Barnes, “because he didn’t wish it to get upstairs.”
“To Eleanor?”
“To Eleanor,” answered Barnes.
Dr. Merriweather held out his hand.
“Boy,” he said quietly, “now I understand the miracle. You’re a better
physician in this household than I.”
“No. But when you live here day after day there are certain things
you’re forced to see.”
“I wonder if you’ve diagnosed anything peculiar about Mr. Van Patten
lately.”
Barnes moved uneasily.
“He seems better, that’s all.”
“Anything queer about his eyes?”
“I’ve noticed that every time anyone comes into the room he strains
towards him as though trying to see.”
“Just so. Has it occurred to you that perhaps he _does_ see?”
“That he can--actually _can_ see?”
The doctor nodded.
“Why no!” exclaimed Barnes. “Why--that doesn’t seem possible!”
“If he continues to pull himself together at this rate, it’s coming.
All I’m wondering about is if he isn’t even now playing possum.”
“Why should he do that?”
“I’m not saying that he is, mind you. But it wouldn’t surprise me if
some day he surprised the rest of you.”
“But look here--this is serious. If once he sees me--”
“Even then he might not recognize you. He isn’t as alert mentally as
he used to be; his new joy in life would force back every doubt; your
acceptance here by Aunt Philomela and Eleanor--”
“But Good Heavens that would mean a terrible crash in prospect. I can’t
stay on here forever.”
“It’s too much for me, my boy,” the doctor answered soberly.
“But if he can see now, why doesn’t he say so?”
“These old men get strange whims. Perhaps he’s waiting to make sure of
his sight so as not to disappoint the others by raising their hope. Or
it may be just an old man’s joke.”
Barnes smiled. It was something of an ironical smile.
“If one had the right point of view,” he remarked, “there are several
things a man might think a good joke here.”
“And you,” answered the doctor with a good-natured grin, “are that man,
I should say.”
“Perhaps.”
“Thank God it’s your type of man who’s playing this game,” concluded
the doctor.
It was three days before Barnes was allowed to see Miss Van Patten.
On the whole they were three of the most uncomfortable days he ever
passed. The father demanded more and more of his time and succeeded,
whether deliberately or not, in a pretty form of torture. He pressed
him harder in his questioning both about Alaska and about Carl and
never withdrew from his face those closed eyes which still seemed at
times to flicker as though opened the tiniest crack. But that may have
been pure imagination. There are holy images which if one gazes long
enough upon them appear to move their eyes.
Between his visits to the father Barnes made at least one daily
pilgrimage to Dr. Merriweather’s for a short talk with Carl. Here again
he submitted to another kind of torture. Barnes understood Langdon as
no one else on earth understood him, and this invited from the latter
the frankest kind of confidence. He listened and he suffered.
Back in the house again, he must needs repeat to Aunt Philomela the
greater part of his talk with Langdon.
“The dear boy!” she once exclaimed, “Eleanor is under very great
obligations to him.”
“Very great,” answered Barnes. “He saved her life.”
“I hope he’ll soon be able to come over.”
“So do I,” Barnes answered honestly.
“He and Eleanor have always got on so well together. In all the time
they have known one another they have never quarreled.”
“That is very well behaved of them.”
“So you see--” she concluded significantly.
“Yes,” he assured her hastily, “I see.”
During those three days, then, Barnes played his part like a good
actor--fulfilled his duty like a good soldier, but he lived in
dreary isolation. Aunt Philomela saw no change in him. If she had,
it would have been some satisfaction to her. As it was they dined
in solemn tête-à-tête and disagreed upon every topic proposed for
conversation--except Carl. If anything, Barnes’ meek acquiescence on
this subject irritated her more than an aggressive attitude on his part
would have done. It was altogether too noticeable not to excite her
suspicion. But for once she kept her counsel and waited.
It was on the fourth morning that, as she was rising from the breakfast
table, she announced,
“My niece wished me to tell you that she will see you for a few minutes
this morning if you care to come up.”
Barnes caught his breath.
“And you waited all this time before you told me!” he exclaimed.
Aunt Philomela raised her eyebrows.
“She is hardly ready at this moment to see you,” she observed haughtily.
“I know but--”
Barnes did not finish. What he was going to say was that by delaying
the news she had deprived him by just so much of anticipation. On
second thought he realized that this would probably not make her feel
so badly as it did him.
“Very well, Aunt Philomela,” he returned with dignity, “kindly convey
my compliments to your niece and tell her I shall be pleased to pay my
respects at any time she may suggest.”
“Which means I suppose that you’ll come up at about eleven.”
“At about eleven,” he agreed.
It took the tall clock in the library almost a day to compass the arc
between eight and eleven but it was finally accomplished. Before the
clock had ceased striking Barnes was on his way upstairs. He was met at
the door by Aunt Philomela who escorted him to her sitting-room where
Eleanor lay upon a couch looking not one whit worse for her adventure.
The color in her cheeks was even deeper if anything; her eyes full and
lustrous, if a bit startled; and her hand-clasp firm.
“It seems silly to lie here,” she smiled, “but between Aunt Philomela
and Dr. Merriweather, what can one do?”
“Nothing,” he agreed. “One might as well be in the hands of Fate.”
He took a chair at the head of the couch and Aunt Philomela picking
up a bit of lace upon which she was at work sat by the window and
proceeded still further to symbolize Fate.
“It’s been very dull in Alaska these last three days,” he observed.
“In Alaska?”
“Downstairs is Alaska,” he explained.
“But Aunty says that between father and Carl, you’ve been very busy.”
“I’ve had a great many things to think about,” he admitted. “One of
them concerns your father.”
“Daddy?”
Aunt Philomela glanced up from her knitting.
“Yes,” he nodded, “it may be necessary for me to make my excuses and
leave before very long.”
“What do you mean?” demanded Aunt Philomela.
“I mean that Mr. Van Patten is getting very much better. I mean that he
may see more than we think he sees.”
“His eyesight is returning?” exclaimed the girl, “Oh, that is too good
to be true.”
“His eyesight,” gasped Aunt Philomela flushing red, “you mean--you mean
he may yet detect us in this fraud?”
“For all I know he may already have done so,” answered Barnes.
The girl rose to her elbow. Aunt Philomela looked upon the point of
jumping from the window. “I’ve noticed,” stammered the latter, “that he
has made me very uncomfortable these last few days.”
“That may be only your conscience,” suggested Barnes. “But I--I have no
conscience and yet he has made _me_ very uncomfortable.”
“Dr. Merriweather knows this?” asked the girl.
“He has suspected it. He left it for me to tell you.”
“Why, it would be like getting Dad home from a foreign land,” cried the
girl.
“He would be almost like another prodigal,” smiled Barnes.
“Only,” she objected, “father has not wasted his substance in riotous
living.”
“That isn’t what makes the prodigal,” answered Barnes. “The prodigal
needn’t be really prodigal. It’s the journey away from home into the
far country that makes the prodigal.”
“You take great liberty with the Scriptures,” snapped Aunt Philomela
more to relieve her feelings than anything else.
“Like every artist,” answered Barnes unruffled, “I have learned the
Bible almost by heart. Do you remember what the father exclaimed when
he saw his son?”
Aunt Philomela pretended to resume her knitting.
“Perhaps you can quote it,” suggested Barnes.
“Perhaps _you_ will,” put in the girl to save her aunt’s feelings.
“He said,” resumed Barnes, slowly. “He said, ‘This my son was dead, and
is alive again; he was lost, and he is found.’ Nothing about riotous
living. The boy had gone away and came back again. That was all that
counted. That is all that will count when Mr. Van Patten comes back
from the darkness to you.”
So in his own life, he thought, his father was as much the prodigal as
he, the son, was. But he said nothing of this.
“If it should be true!” stammered the girl again.
She lost sight of all the complications this involved--lost sight of
all the other complications which had worried her before Barnes came
upstairs with this news.
“Aunty,” she determined, “I must go in at once and see him.”
But Barnes motioned her to lie down again.
“Not yet,” he advised, “let’s determine first what is best to be done.
Aunt Philomela--what do you say?”
Aunt Philomela frowned.
“I say it’s all a pretty pickle,” she answered.
“What do _you_ say?” asked Eleanor.
“This,” answered Barnes. “First of all, I must leave before he
recognizes me. Secondly, we must get his real son back to him as soon
as possible.”
“Yes,” agreed the girl. “But will Joe come?”
“I shall send him a wire every day until he does come,” said Barnes.
“And when he does come, what will Carl say?” demanded Aunt Philomela.
Barnes smiled.
“I don’t know,” he answered. “I fear he will be somewhat embarrassed.”
Miss Van Patten looked troubled. Here was another uncomfortable
situation to add to the long list of which Barnes was either the direct
or indirect cause. She looked at him with what he interpreted as an
appeal.
“Perhaps that isn’t a very important matter anyway,” he suggested.
“Important,” snapped Aunt Philomela, “I should call it very important.”
“How?” inquired Barnes.
“Because my niece and Mr. Langdon are engaged,” she exploded.