THE RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL
I have been one whole year in Windyridge, and like a good business
woman I have taken stock and endeavoured to get out a balance sheet in
regular "Profit and Loss" fashion. I am afraid a professional
accountant would heap scorn upon it, as my methods are not those taught
in the arithmetics; but that consideration does not concern me.
My net profits from the portraiture branch amount to the huge sum of
nine pounds, eighteen shillings and sevenpence. If these figures were
to be published I do not think they would attract competitors to
Windyridge, and I can see plainly that I shall not recoup my initial
outlay on the studio for several years. But that matters little, as my
London firms have kept me well supplied with work, and would give me a
great deal more if I were willing to take it.
But I am _not_ willing. Man does not live by bread alone, nor by
painting miniatures and designing book illustrations, and I am
determined to live and not just exist, and I _have_ lived during these
twelve months. And even from the monetary point of view I am better
off than I was when I came, because if I have lost in the way of income
I have gained by a saving in expenditure. You simply cannot spend
money in Windyridge, and, what is more, the things best worth having
cannot be bought with money.
These "more excellent" things appear upon another page in my balance
sheet--a page which would make the professional auditor gasp for breath.
My experiences have made me a richer woman, though not a more important
personage to my bankers. I am healthier and happier than I was a year
ago. I have a living interest in an entire community, and an entire
community has a living interest in me. And I have a few real friends
in various stations of life, each of whom would do a great deal for me,
and each of whom has taught me several valuable lessons without fee or
reward. The moors and the glens, too, have had me to school and opened
to me their secret stores of knowledge, and who shall compute the worth
of that education? As a result, I have a saner outlook and a truer
judgment, and that counts for much in my case. Undoubtedly the balance
is on the right side, and I have no regrets as I turn and look back
along the track of the year.
The anniversary day itself was marked by an incident of uncommon
interest. The weather was atrocious, and in marked contrast to that of
the previous year on the corresponding date. Had such conditions
prevailed when I first saw Windyridge the village would not have known
me as one of its householders.
It rained as though the floodgates of heaven had been opened and got
rusted fast. For three days there had been one endless downpour, but
on the fateful Wednesday it degenerated into a miserable, depressing
drizzle which gave me the blues. The distance disappeared behind an
impenetrable wall of mist, and the horizon was the hedge of the field
fifty yards away. The drip, drip, drip from a leak in the glazing of
my studio so got on my nerves that in the afternoon I put on my strong
boots and a waterproof and set out for a walk.
But though the rain could not conquer me the sticky mud did. After
covering a mile in half an hour I was so tired with the exertion that I
turned back, and was relieved when the distance has been almost covered
and only a few hundred yards separated me from the cottage.
I had had the road to myself so far, but as I came down the hill which
skirts the graveyard I saw a stranger in the act of opening the gate
and entering. At the same moment, apparently, he caught sight of me,
and we scrutinised each other with interest as the distance between us
lessened.
He was a well-dressed young fellow of about thirty, with a stern
expression on an otherwise rather pleasing face. His mouth was hidden
by a heavy moustache, but I liked his eyes, which had a frank look in
them. His rather long raincoat was dripping wet, and he had no other
protection from the rain, for he carried in his hand a stout stick of
peculiar shape. His hands and face were brown from exposure, and I
took him to be a prosperous, intelligent farmer.
He raised his hat at my approach. "I am sorry to detain you, even for
a moment, in this rain," he said, "but I wondered if you could tell me
whether anyone of the name of Brown--Greenwood Brown--is buried here."
Oh! thought I, you have come back, have you? But I merely replied:
"Yes, Mr. Brown's grave is near the top of the hill. I will show you
which it is."
"Please do not put yourself to that trouble," he protested; "if you
will be good enough to direct me I shall be able to find it."
"You could not identify it," I said, "for there is no stone, but just a
grassy mound, like many of the rest. Let me point it out to you, and
then I will go on my way."
He made no further objection, but held the gate open for me to enter.
There are no paths, and he protested again when he saw me plunge into
the long, wet grass, but I laughed at his fears and led the way to the
spot where all that was mortal of poor Farmer Brown lay beneath the sod.
"This is his grave," I said, and he thanked me with another courteous
inclination of the head. As I turned to leave he asked a further
question.
"Can you tell me if any of his people still live in this neighbourhood?
I--I have a message for them."
"If you will call at my cottage," I replied, indicating the little
house a stone's-throw away, "I will tell you all I know. Pray do not
stay too long in the rain. You have no umbrella."
"Thank you," he said, "I shall take no harm, and I will call at your
house shortly, as you are so very kind."
I left him, but I could not forbear looking from the window in Mother
Hubbard's bedroom, and I could distinctly see him standing with head
bent and uncovered in an attitude of deep dejection over his father's
grave. I had no misgiving on that point. In spite of the thick
moustache the likeness was too strong to admit of doubt.
I went into the studio and brought out the copy of Farmer Brown's
portrait which I had retained, and placed it on the chest of drawers
where he could hardly fail to see it; but I said nothing to Mother
Hubbard, who was laying the cloth for tea. The kettle was boiling when
he came in, and I fetched a third cup and saucer and invited him to the
table.
I could see that reluctance struggled with desire, but Mother Hubbard's
added entreaties turned the scale, and he removed his soaking overcoat
with many apologies for the trouble he was causing.
He drank his tea, but appeared to have little appetite for the crisp
buttered toast which Mother Hubbard pressed upon him, and he took a
rather absent part in the desultory conversation which accompanied the
meal. I did not think it right to reveal the curiosity I felt, but
after a while he made an opening.
"I only heard of Farmer Brown's death as I entered the village," he
said. "I met a boy, of whom I inquired, and he told me the farmer was
buried here in the beginning of the year."
Mother Hubbard put on her glasses and looked at him with a new
interest, and removed them again in a minute or two as if satisfied.
"He died early in January," I said; "did you know him?"
"Yes," he said, and there was no sign of emotion in his voice or face;
"but I have not seen him for several years. He had a wife and
daughter; are they living, and still at the old place? I forgot to ask
the boy."
I thought it curious that he should have overlooked so natural a
question, if, as seemed likely, he had come to the neighbourhood with
the intention of finding them; but after all, the explanation lay upon
the surface--he manifestly did not wish to arouse too much curiosity.
"Yes, they are still at the farm, and both are well," I replied; "I
often see them. If you knew the farmer you will perhaps recognise his
photograph. It was taken only a little while before he died."
I got up and handed it to him, and I saw his mouth twitch at the
corners as he took the card in his hand. All the same he examined it
critically, and his voice was still firm as he replied:
"He had evidently aged a good deal since I knew him, but I am sure it
was a good likeness."
"It was trouble that aged him, Joe," broke in Mother Hubbard's gentle
voice; "the good Lord overrules all things for good, but it was you who
brought his grey hairs with sorrow to the grave."
There was a mild severity of tone which astonished me and revealed
Mother Hubbard in a new light, but I was too interested in the change
which came over the startled man's face to think much of it at the time.
"So you recognise me," he said. "I thought your face was familiar,
though the young lady's is not so. Well, everybody will know of my
return soon, so I need not complain that you have anticipated the news
by a few hours. Yes, the prodigal has come home, but too late to
receive his father's blessing."
"Not too late to receive _a_ Father's blessing, Joe," replied Mother
Hubbard; "not too late to find forgiveness and reconciliation if you
have come in the right spirit; but too late to bring the joy-light into
your earthly father's eyes: too late to hear the welcome he would have
offered you."
"I do not ask nor deserve to be spared," he said, with some dignity,
"and my first explanations shall be offered to those who have most
right to them. But this I will say, for I can see that you speak with
sincerity. I came back to seek forgiveness and to find peace, but I am
justly punished for my sin in that I forfeit both. You have not said
much, but you have said enough to let me realise that the curse of Cain
is upon me."
"It is not," said Mother Hubbard calmly and with firmness; "your father
would have told you so. Go home to your mother, and you will find in
her forgiveness and love a dim reflection of the forgiveness and love
of God, and peace will follow."
He rested one elbow upon the table and leaned his head upon his hand,
whilst his fingers tapped a mechanical tune upon his forehead, but he
did not speak for several minutes--nor did we. Then he rose and took
the still damp overcoat from the clothes-horse before the fire, and
said as he put it on:
"Since I left home I have had many hard tasks to perform, But the
hardest of them all now lies before me, and though I have made some
little money I would give every penny I possess if the past could be
undone and that grey-haired man brought back to life. I am accounted a
bold man, but I would sooner face a lion in the Rhodesian jungle than
my mother and sister on yonder farm."
"Go in peace!" said the little mother. "God stands by the side of
every man who does his duty, and your mother, remember, is about to
experience a great joy. Let them see that you love them both, and that
you loved your father too, and that will heal the wound more quickly
than anything else."
He shook Mother Hubbard's hand, bowed to me, and stepped out into the
rain; and I watched him walk briskly forward until the mist swallowed
him up.
Two days afterwards I heard the sequel. The rain had cleared away and
the roads were fairly dry when I set off with the intention of walking
as far as Uncle Ned's. Before I had gone very far I overtook Farmer
Goodenough, who was journeying in the same direction, and almost
immediately afterwards we met Jane Brown.
"I was just comin' to see you, Miss Holden," she said, "but as you're
going my way I'll walk back with you if you'll let me. Mother wants to
know if you can take our photographs--hers and Joe's and mine--on
Monday."
I told her it would be quite convenient, and Farmer Goodenough began to
question her about her brother's home-coming. I hardly expected much
response, for Jane is not usually very communicative, but on this
occasion she was full of talk.
"I came o' purpose to say my say," she explained, "for I must either
talk or burst."
We encouraged the former alternative, and she began: "If you want to be
made a fuss of, and have people lay down their lives for you, you
mustn't stop at 'ome and do your duty; you must go wrong. Only you
mustn't go wrong just a little bit: you must go the whole hog an' be a
rank wrong 'un--kill your father or summat o' that sort--and then when
you come back you'll be hugged an' kissed an' petted till it's fair
sickenin'."
"Gently, lass, gently!" said Farmer Goodenough; "that sounds just a
trifle bitter."
"I may well be bitter; you'd be bitter if you saw what I see," she
replied.
I endeavoured to turn the conversation and to satisfy my curiosity.
"Where has your brother been, and what has he been doing all these
years?" I inquired.
"Oh, he tells a tale like a story-book," she replied impatiently. "I'm
bound to believe him, I suppose, because whatever else he was he wasn't
a liar, but it's more like a fairy tale than ought else. After he hit
father an' ran away he got to Liverpool, an' worked his passage on a
boat to Cape Town, an' for a long time he got more kicks than
ha'pence--and serve him right, too, _I_ say. He tried first one thing
an' then another, and landed up in Rhodesia at last, an' sought work
from a man who employed a lot o' labour. He says he wouldn't have been
taken on if the gentleman hadn't spotted him for a Yorkshireman.
'Thou'rt Yorkshir', lad?' he said; an' our Joe said: 'Aye! bred an'
born.' 'Let's hear ta talk a bit o' t' owd tongue, lad,' he said;
'aw've heeard nowt on 't for twelve yeear, an' t' missis willn't hev it
spokken i' t' haase.'
"Well, of course, Joe entered into t' spirit of it, an' the old
gentleman was delighted, an' gave him a job, an' he always had to speak
broad Yorkshire unless the missis was there. It wasn't exactly a farm,
but they grew fruit an' vegetables and kept poultry an' pigs an' bees
an' such like, and it was just to our Joe's taste. I won't deny but
what he's clever, and he was always steady an' honest. He says the old
gentleman took to him an' gave him every chance, an' t' missis liked
him too, because he always spoke so polite an' proper. An' then he
fell in love wi' one o' t' daughters, an' they were married last year,
an' by what I can make out he's a sort of a partner in t' business now.
Anyway, he says it's his wife 'at brought him to see what a wrong 'un
he'd been, and when he'd told 'em all t' tale nothing 'ud do but he was
to come to England and make it up with his father. So he's come, an'
mother blubbers over him, an' holds his 'and, an' strokes his 'air till
I'm out of all patience."
Farmer Goodenough looked grave, but he did not speak, so I said: "Isn't
this rather unworthy of you, Jane? Your mother is naturally glad to
see her boy back again, and if she had not been here you would have
welcomed him just as cordially."
"Would I?" she replied. "No fear! He gave father ten years of sorrow
an' brought him to 'is grave. I loved my dad too well to forgive his
murderer that easy. He's taken no notice of us all this time, an'
while he's been makin' money an' courtin' a rich girl we might all have
been in t' workhouse for ought he knew or cared. And then he's to come
home, an' it's to be all right straight off, an' we must have t' best
counterpane on t' bed, an' t' china tea-service out 'at were my
grandmother's, an' we must go slobberin' round his neck the minute he
puts his head in at t' door. Bah! it makes me sick. You've only got
to be a prodigal, as I say, an' then you can have t' fatted calf killed
for you."
"Now look you here, lass," said Farmer Goodenough kindly, "I've said
nought so far, 'cos it does you good to talk. It's poor policy to bung
t' kettle up when t' water's boilin', but I think ye've let off enough
steam now to keep from burstin', so we'll just look into this matter,
an' see what we can make on 't."
"Oh, I know you of old, Reuben Goodenough," replied the girl; "you'd be
every bit as bad as my mother."
"You'll be every bit as bad yerself, lass, when ye've as much sense;
but now just let me ask you a question or two. T' Owd Book says, if I
remember right, when t' father came out to talk to t' sulky brother:
'It was meet to make merry an' be glad,' an' I take that to mean 'at it
was t' right an' proper thing to do. Now why were they glad, think ye?"
"Just because he'd come home," replied Jane bitterly, "an' his brother,
like me, had never gone away. I don't wonder 'at he was sulky. But
that prodigal hadn't killed his father."
"Well, now, Jane," replied the farmer, "'cordin' to my way o' sizin'
that tale up, you've got hold of a wrong notion altogether. I don't
know what t' parsons 'ud make of it, but it seems to me 'at t' owd man
was glad, not so much because t' lad had come back, but because he'd
come to hisself, an' that's a very deal different thing."
"I don't see no difference," said Jane.
"You will do if you think a minute, lass. Suppose a lad loses his
senses an' runs away from 'ome, an' comes back one fine day as mad as
ever. There'll be as much sorrow as joy, won't there, think ye, in
that 'ome? But suppose while he's away his reason comes back to 'im,
an' he gets cured, an' as soon as he's cured he says: 'I must go 'ome
to t' owd folks,' an' he goes, an' they see 'at he's in his right mind,
don't you think they'll make merry an' be glad? Wouldn't you?"
"Our Joe didn't lose his senses," the girl replied sullenly; "he was as
clear-headed then as he is now. It's a different thing when they're
mad."
"Nay, lass," he replied, "but unless I'm sadly mista'en all sin is a
sort o' madness. You said just now 'at Joe went wrong. Now where did
he go wrong--I mean what part of 'im?"
Jane made no reply.
"You'd say he was wrong in his 'ead to have treated his father as he
did, but if 'is 'ead wasn't wrong 'is 'eart was, an' that's a worse
kind o' madness. Doesn't t' Owd Book talk about 'em bein' possessed
wi' devils? They mightn't be t' sort 'at has 'orns on, but they were
t' sort 'at tormented 'em into wrong-doin', an' surely it was summat o'
that sort 'at got hold o' your Joe. Now, if his wife has brought him
to hisself, an' he's come 'ome to say he's sorry, 'it was meet to make
merry an' be glad.'"
"It's hard on them that don't go wrong," said Jane.
"Well, now, how is it 'ard on them?" asked the farmer. "Talkin' quite
straight, where does t' 'ardship come in?"
"Well, mother doesn't cry round _my_ neck, an' stroke my hands, an'
make a big fuss," replied the girl, "an' it's hard to see her thinkin'
a deal more o' one 'at's done her so much wrong."
"Now you know better, Jane. Your mother thinks no more o' your Joe
than she does o' you, only, as you say, she makes more fuss of him 'cos
he's come round. It 'ud 'a been just t' same supposin' he'd been ill
for ten year an' then got better. You'd ha' made a fuss over 'im then
as well as your mother, an' you wouldn't ha' thought 'at your mother
loved 'im more than you, if she did fuss over 'im a bit. Now you just
look at it i' this way: Joe's been mad--clean daft--but he's come to
hisself, an' it's 'meet to make merry an' be glad.'"
Jane is not at all a bad sort. She gave a little laugh as she said:
"Eh, Reuben! I never heard such a man for talkin'. However, I daresay
you're right, an' my bark's worse than my bite, anyway. I was just
feelin' full up when I came out, but I'm better now. I'll see if I can
manage not to be jealous, for we shan't have 'im long. He's in a hurry
to be back to his precious wife, an' he wants mother an' me to go with
him, but mother says she'll have her bones laid aside father's, so
he'll have to go by himself."
I took the photographs this morning, and was pleased to find that the
reconciliation between brother and sister was complete. In the
afternoon I went into the graveyard and found some beautiful flowers on
Farmer Brown's grave, and a man was taking measurements for a stone.
He told me that there was to be a curious inscription following the
usual particulars, and fumbling in his pocket he drew forth a piece of
paper on which I read these words:
"A foolish son is a grief to his father."
"A good man leaveth an inheritance to his children's children."