THE PRODIGAL AT HOME
In the morning, Elsie rose at seven and put together such things as she
should want for the three weeks before her marriage, if she was to spend
that interval under her brother's care. At eight o'clock she received
her letters--including one in a handwriting she did not know. She opened
it.
'Dear Elsie,' it said, 'come to me at once. Come early. Come
to breakfast at nine. I will wait for you till ten, or any
time.
'Your affectionate Brother,
'ATHELSTAN.'
'Oh!' she murmured. 'And I did not know his writing. And to think that I
am twenty-one, and he is thirty-one; and that I have never had a letter
from him before!'
Her boxes were packed. She put on her jacket and hat and descended into
the breakfast-room, where her mother was already opening her letters and
waiting breakfast.
'You are going out, Elsie?' she asked coldly.
'Yes. Hilda told you, I suppose, what she came here for yesterday. In
fact, you sent me a message.'
'I hope she delivered it correctly.'
'She said that you would not sanction my wedding while this charge, or
suspicion, was hanging over George's head. And that you would not see
him until it was withdrawn or cleared away.'
'Certainly. In such a case it would be worse than hypocrisy to receive
him with friendliness.'
'Then, like Hilda, you accept the conclusion.'
'I am unable to do anything else. The conclusion seems to me
inevitable. If not, let him explain. I hope that no time will be lost in
bringing the formal charge. It is foolish kindness--real cruelty--to all
concerned to keep such a thing hanging over our heads. I say _our_
heads, not yours only, Elsie, because you know your brother is
implicated--perhaps the real contriver--of the dreadful scheme.'
'Would you believe me if I were to tell you that Athelstan _could_ not
be implicated?'
'My dear--believe you? Of course, I would believe if I could.
Unfortunately, the evidence is too strong.'
Elsie sighed. 'Very well; I will say nothing more. You have driven out
my lover, as you drove out my brother for the self-same cause, and on
the self-same charge. I follow my lover and my brother.'
'Elsie!'--her mother started. 'Do not, I pray you, do anything rash.
Remember--a scandal--a whisper even--may be fatal to you hereafter. Sit
down and wait. All I ask you to do is to wait.'
'No; I will not wait. If those two are under any cloud of suspicion, I
too will sit under the cloud and wait until it lifts. I am going to stay
with my brother until my wedding. That is to be on the 12th.'
'No--no--my poor child. There will be no wedding on the 12th.'
'Before that time, everything will be cleared up, and I shall be
married from this house, so that I have left all my things, my
presents--everything.'
Her mother shook her head.
'Try not to think so cruelly of George and of Athelstan, mother. You
will be sorry afterwards. Try to believe that though a case may look
strange, there may be a way out.'
'I have told you'--her mother was perfectly cold and unmoved--'that I
have come to this conclusion on the evidence. If the young man can
explain things, let him do so. There will be no wedding on the 12th,
Elsie. You can come home as soon as you are convinced that your brother
is an improper person for a young lady to live with, and as soon as you
have learned the truth about the other young man. That is to say, I will
receive you under these distressing circumstances, provided there has
been no scandal connected with your name.'
Elsie turned and left the room. The Fifth Commandment enjoins that under
such circumstances as these the least said the soonest mended.
When a man learns that his sister, his favourite sister, from whom he
has been parted for eight years, the only member of his family who stood
up for him when he was falsely accused of a disgraceful thing, is about
to take breakfast with him, he naturally puts as much poetry into that
usually simple meal as circumstances allow. Mostly Athelstan took a cup
of coffee and a London egg. This morning he had flowers, raspberries
lying in a bed of leaves, a few late strawberries, various kinds of
confitures in dainty dishes, toast and cake, with fish and
cutlets--quite a little feast. And he had had the room cleared of the
bundles of newspapers; the pipes and cigar-cases and all the
circumstances of tobacco were hidden away--all but the smell, which
lingered. One thinks a good deal about a sister's visit, under such
conditions. At a quarter past nine Elsie arrived. Athelstan hastened to
open the door, and to receive her with open arms and kisses strange and
sweet. Then, while the people of the house took in her luggage, he led
his sister into the room, which was the front room on the ground-floor.
'Elsie!' he said, taking both her hands in his, 'eight years since we
parted--and you are a tall young lady whom I left a little girl. To hold
your hand--to kiss you, seems strange after so long.' He kissed her
again on the forehead. She looked up at the tall handsome man with a
kind of terror. It was almost like casting herself upon the care of a
strange man.
'I remember your voice, Athelstan, but not your face. You have changed
more than I, even.'
'And I remember your voice, Elsie--always a soft and winning voice,
wasn't it?--to suit soft and winning ways. There never was any child
more winning and affectionate than you--never.'
'Oh! you are grown very handsome, Athelstan. See what a splendid beard,
and the brown velvet jacket, and white waistcoat--and the crimson tie.
You look like an artist. I wish all men wore colours, as they used to
do. I only heard yesterday that you were in London. Hilda told me.'
'Was that the reason why you cannot stay at home?'
'Part of the reason. But you shall have breakfast first. You can take me
in without any trouble?'
'My dear child, I am more than delighted to have you here. There is a
room at the back where you will be quiet: we have only this one room for
sitting-room, and I think we shall find it best to go out every day to
dinner. That will not hurt us, and George will come every evening.--Now,
Elsie, you sit here, and I will---- No-- I quite forgot. You will pour
out the tea. Yes--I see. I thought I was going to wait upon you
altogether.--There--now you will make a good breakfast, and--and----
Don't cry, dear child.'
'No--Athelstan.' She brushed away the tears. 'It is nothing. I shall be
very happy with you. But why are you not at home? And why am I here? Oh!
it is too cruel--too perverse of them!'
'We had better have it out before breakfast, then.--Strawberries don't
go well with tears, do they? Nor jam with complainings. Come, Elsie, why
need you leave home?'
'Because, in two words, they are treating George as they treated you. I
was younger then, or I would have gone away with you.'
'Treating George? Oh! I understand. They are pouring suspicion upon him.
Well, I saw that this was coming. Old Checkley, I swear, is at the
bottom of this.'
'Yes--Checkley went to Sir Samuel with the "Case," as he called it,
complete. He has proved to their joint satisfaction that nobody could
have done the thing except George, assisted by you.'
'Oh! assisted by me.'
'Yes--while you were in California, I suppose. There is to be a warrant
for your arrest--yours and George's--in a few days, they say. Hilda
brought the news to my mother. They both believe it, and they want me to
break off my engagement. My mother refuses to see George so long as this
charge, as she calls it, remains over him. So I came away.'
'You did wisely. Well--any one may call up a cloud of suspicion, and it
is sometimes difficult to disperse such a cloud. Therefore, we must do
everything we can to find out who is the real criminal.--Now, let us
rest quite easy. There can be no arrest--or any charge--or anything but
a fuss created by this old villain. It is only troublesome to find one's
own people so ready to believe.'
'Why did you not tell me that you were home again?'
'Pour out the coffee, Elsie, and begin your breakfast. I wanted to
reserve the Return of the Prodigal until you came home after your
honeymoon. Then I meant to call mysteriously about sunset, before George
was home. I thought I would have a long cloak wrapped about me. I should
have begun: "Madam: you had once a brother."--"I had"--that is you.--"On
his deathbed."--"My brother dead?"--that's you.--"With this
packet."--Oh! we have lost a most beautiful little play. How can I
forgive you?'
Then they went on with breakfast, talking and laughing until, before the
meal was finished, they had lost their shyness and were brother and
sister again.
After breakfast, Athelstan took a cigarette and an easy-chair. 'Now I am
going to devote the whole day to you. I have nothing to do for my paper
which cannot wait till to-morrow. All this morning we will talk--that
is, until we are tired. We will have lunch somewhere, and go to see the
pictures; George will come at about seven: we will have dinner, and go
to some exhibition, somewhere. Then we will get home, and have another
talk. To-morrow, I shall have to leave you to your own devices between
ten and six or so. I am very busy some days: on others, I can find time
for anything.--Now that's all cleared up. I am to be your banker and
everything.'
'Not my banker, Athelstan. Oh! you don't know. I am a great heiress.'
'Indeed? How is that?' he asked, a little twinkle in his eye.
'Mr. Dering told me when I was twenty-one, three weeks ago. Somebody has
given me an immense sum of money--thirteen thousand pounds.'
'That is a very handsome sum. Who gave it to you?'
'That is a secret. Mr. Dering refuses to tell me. I wish I knew.'
'I wouldn't wish if I were you. Gratitude is at all times a burden and a
worry. Besides, he might be a vulgar person without aspirates or
aspirations. Much better not inquire after him. Thirteen thousand pounds
at three and a half per cent. means four hundred and fifty pounds a
year. A nice little addition to your income. I congratulate you, Elsie;
and this evening we will drink the health of the unassuming benefactor;
the retiring and nameless recogniser of maidenly worth. Bless him!'
'And now, Athelstan, begin your adventures. Tell me everything: from the
day you left us till now. You cannot tell me too much or talk too long.
Before you begin, ask any questions about my mother and Hilda that you
want to ask. Then we can go on undisturbed.'
'I have no questions to ask about either. I have already ascertained
from George that both are in good health, and that Hilda has married a
man with an immense fortune. That is happiness enough for her, I
hope.--Now, Elsie, I shall be tedious, I am afraid; but you shall hear
everything.'
He began. It was such a narrative as thousands of young Englishmen have
been able to tell during the last five-and-twenty years. The story of
the young man with a few pounds in his pocket, no friends, no
recommendations, and no trade. Athelstan landed at New York in this
condition. He looked about for employment and found none. He hastened
out of the crowded city: he went West, and got work in the business open
to every sharp and clever man--that of journalism. He worked for one
paper after another, getting gradually more and more West, until he
found himself in San Francisco, where he was taken on by a great paper,
which had now sent him over here as its London correspondent. That was
all the story; but there were so many episodes in it, so many
adventures, so many men whom he remembered, so many anecdotes cropping
up, in this eight years' history of a man with an eye, a brain, and a
memory, that it was long past luncheon-time when Athelstan stopped and
said that he must carry on the next chapter at another time.
'That pile of dollars that you made over the silver mine,
Athelstan--what became of them?'
'What became of them? Well, you see, Elsie, in some parts of the United
States money vanishes as fast as it is made. All these dollars dropped
into a deep hole of the earth, and were hopelessly lost.'
She laughed. 'You will tell me some day--when you please--how you lost
that fortune. Oh! what a thing it is to be a man and to have all these
adventures!--Now, Athelstan, consider--if it had not been for your bad
fortune, you would never have had all this good fortune.'
'True. Yet the bad fortune came in such an ugly shape. There has been a
black side to my history. How was I to tell people why I left my own
country? I could make no friends. At the first appearance of friendship,
I had to become cold, lest they should ask me where I came from and why
I left home.'
Elsie was silent.
They carried out part of their programme. They went to see the
pictures--it was eight years since Athelstan had seen a picture--and
after the pictures they walked in the Park. Then they went home and
waited for George, who presently appeared. Then they went to one of the
Regent Street restaurants and made a little feast. After this, Elsie
asked them to come home and spend a quiet evening talking about things.
By common consent they avoided one topic. Edmund Gray was not so much as
mentioned, nor was the malignity of Checkley alluded to. They talked of
old days, when Athelstan was a big boy and George a little boy and Elsie
a child. They talked of the long engagement, and the hopeless time, when
it seemed as if they were going to marry on two hundred pounds a year:
and of that day of miracle and marvel when Mr. Dering gave to one of
them a fortune, and to the other a partnership. They talked of their
honeymoon and the tour they were going to make, and the beautiful places
they would see. Tours and Blois, Chenonceaux and Amboise; Angouleme and
Poitiers and La Rochelle; and of their return, and the lovely flat,
where the friends would be made so welcome. Athelstan was a person of
some sympathy. Elsie talked as freely to him as she could to George.
They talked till midnight.
Then Elsie got up. 'Whatever happens, Athelstan,' she said,
'mind--whatever happens, you shall give me away on the 12th.'
'Now she has left us,' said George, 'you may tell me why she refused to
stay at home.'
'Well--I suppose you ought to know. Much for the same reason that I
refused to stay at home. They then chose to jump at the conclusion that
at one step I had become, from a man of honour, a stupid and clumsy
forger. They now choose--I am ashamed to say--my mother and sister
choose--to believe that you and I together have devised and invented
this elaborate scheme of forgery. With this end in view, it has been
found necessary to contrive certain little fabrications--as that I have
been living in London on my wits--that is to say, by the exercise of
cheatery--for the last eight years; and that, being in rags and
penniless, I persuaded you to join me in this neat little buccaneering
job.'
'Oh! it is too absurd! But I suspected something. Well--it is perfectly
easy to put a stop to that.'
'Yes, it is easy. At the same time, it will be well to put a stop to it
as soon as possible, before the thing assumes serious proportions, and
becomes a horrid thing, that may stick to you all your life. You have
got to do with a malignant man--perhaps a desperate man. He will spread
abroad the suspicion as diligently as he can. Let us work, therefore.'
'Well--but what can we do, that we have not done? How can we fix the
thing upon Checkley?'
'I don't know. We must think--we must find out something, somehow. Let
us all three work together. Elsie will make the best detective in the
world. And let us work in secret. I am very glad--very glad indeed--that
Elsie came.'