The Prodigal Girl Read online

  The stricken father stood there dazed, filled with loathing of life, trying to think what he should do. He seemed to lack the power to move out of the car. Yet he knew that when all the others were out he must get out quickly and go after those boys and—What should he do? What could he do that he would not have to explain and thus bring his Betty into disgrace! Oh, he understood now why men sometimes became murderers!

  But when he had gone out to the platform and the train had passed on its way, he seemed dazed by the dark. He tried to look around for those boys, but they were gone. Before long everyone else was gone, too, and he was left standing alone on that platform with the rows of lights and the sound of the station agent slamming the late baggage into the baggage room, getting ready for the next train down to the city.

  He dragged his heavy feet across the track. He had the feeling his heart was a great burden that he had to carry home and that his feet were too frail for the task. His head, too, bothered him. He could not think. He could only hear those awful words about his Betty beat over and over in his brain, and he could not decide what to do. Should he go to Dudley Weston’s house, ask for Mr. Weston senior, and demand—What should he demand? What was adequate for a young girl’s name and intimate sweetness defamed even in thought?

  He knew of course that there were stories being told about the frankness of youth, the lengths to which they would go, the orgies, the debaucheries—But these were not young people like his own. Such a thing could never touch his family, reared in refinement, guarded and taught the right from babyhood with such a home and such a mother! No, of course not! Betty would never allow intimacies! And yet these boys had dared—Had said that she—

  He would get to that point and every time would halt and recall the boy’s words, phrases what Betty had said, what Betty had—Oh, God! Could there be any punishment for desecration like that?

  Oh, yes, the boys and girls had stolen kisses when he was young, and thought it smart, had held hands on a sleigh ride or a hayride, or coming home in the moonlight. But nothing like this!

  Petting parties! Was that what they meant when they mentioned in the papers and magazines the doings of young people? And referred to them lightly! The writers could not have understood! Oh, it could not be that a thing like this, a loathsome cancer, could steal into the heart and life of a rose of a girl like his Betty and defame it!

  Yet all the while in the back of his mind was that fear growing as he dragged his heavy feet along the path, the fear that Betty had inadvertently been a party to the whole thing. Giddy and pretty, fun loving, daring, she might have led her companions on unwittingly He got no further than that. Yet it was something that might bring shame on her sweet self if brought to the light of inquiry, and what was he to do?

  He groaned aloud so that a passerby hurrying down to the next train turned and looked after him and wondered if he ought to offer help.

  And now the necessity for getting home and seeing Betty rose within him like a frenzy. One look at her sweet flower face would of course dispel these groundless fears and give him strength to go out and bring vengeance on her maligners. He felt sure that all he needed to set his spirit right and give it the accustomed strength to act was to look in his Betty’s eyes and see her sweet, pure smile. His little daughter Betty!

  And then he came within sight of his home, a comely stone dwelling with welcoming windows set with shaded lamps and a glow of firelight in the cheerless night.

  He paused a moment to look at it all once more and think how dear it was before he stepped within and learned the truth. Before its charm could be shadowed by anything that could sadden the beautiful life they had lived within. Why had he thought they needed another home? This one had been so gracious, so wonderful, so satisfying. Even if he came to have millions, why should he change such a home as this for the fairest mansion earth could offer?

  There was Eleanor standing by the fire, one foot resting on the fender, and Doris hanging on her mother’s arm. Jane was playing something on the piano, a dashing little jazzy melody that rang out cheerily through the closed window. Chris was seated in the window reading the sports page of the evening paper, and John was working away in the corner with his radio. Thornton saw all this as he stepped up on the porch and hungrily looked in the window. His home! Why hadn’t he been more mindful, more grateful for having such a home?

  And they were all waiting for him. He must be very late! It seemed ages since he had got off the train and started to walk home. He could see through the open door beyond that the table was ready. The pantry swing door opened a crack, and the maid looked in crossly and out again.

  But where was Betty?

  His heart contracted sharply, and he hastened to open the door and step within to dispel that ghost of fear again.

  Betty was just coming down the stairs as he closed the door and looked around. She was dressed in a little rosy taffeta, slim and straight to her narrow waist and then hooped on the hips and flaring out like the petals of a lovely flower. Her exquisite head with its sleek gold cap of close-cut shining curls was tilted delicately as if she knew her power, and her slim, white lovely arms and neck gleamed against the darkness of the staircase as if they were also of the texture of the rose. She poised on her little high-heeled silver shoes, fussing with a spray of silk roses on her shoulder and called crossly to her father where he stood staring by the door.

  “Well, is that you, Chester, come at last? You better cut this out! I’ve got to go out this evening, and I can’t be kept waiting all hours! We were just going to eat without you! I didn’t see any sense myself waiting all this time. Come on, Eleanor, he’s here at last, and you better give him a dose of medicine. He looks like a stewed prune. Do get a hustle on, I can’t wait all night!”

  Chapter 2

  The lovely little daughter pirouetted lightly on the lower step of the stair till the light over her head showed full upon her loveliness, accentuated here and there—a touch of carmine on the pouting imperious little mouth; a soft blush on the cheek that he had always called her lovely complexion; a darkening of lash and brow; a shadow under the great blue eyes that somehow wore a dashing look of boldness and impertinence tonight that he had never seen before. It seemed that the hall light was cruel. Those overhead lights were always severe. When she got out to the table he would see her as she really was, and then this horrible fear that was gripping his heart now so that he could scarcely breathe would leave him forever. Just let him get a good look into her dear eyes and see her smile. He wished she wouldn’t call him Chester in that pert tone. It didn’t sound respectful. When she had first taken it up playfully it had been a joke, but tonight—well—tonight it hurt!

  The ghost stepped nearer and gripped him by the throat. He must drive this awful thing away. He must get to the dining room quickly! Perhaps he was going to be sick! He must swallow a cup of coffee. That would make it all right, of course. There was nothing in all this. Of course there was nothing at all—nothing at all!

  Seated at the table, he passed his hand over his eyes and looked about on them all, trying to focus his eyes on Betty’s petulant face. It was plain that Betty was displeased with him. Yet somehow her face did not look quite so disturbing here as it had under the weird light of the hall chandelier. It was better blended, less suggestive of paint and powder. Of course he was quite accustomed to the ever-present powder puff that all girls nowadays played with in public, but it had never entered his head that his daughter wore anything like what people called “makeup.” That was low and common to his thinking, and quite unflattering for a girl of respectable family.

  Chris broke in upon his thoughts with a sudden request for money.

  The father tried to summon a natural voice:

  “Why, Chris, you had your usual allowance, and it is only ten days into the month. What do you want of more money?” he asked, feeling that his voice sounded very far away and not at all decided. His mind really was on Betty.

  But Chris see
med almost to resent his query:

  “Well, I want it!” he said crisply, as if his father had no right to ask the question.

  “What’s the matter with your allowance? You’ll have to give an explanation. What have you done with it?”

  “He–he–he’s lost it playin’ pool!” chimed in Johnny joyously with a grin of triumph toward his older brother.

  “Shut up! You infant! You don’t know what you’re talking about!” said Chris angrily.

  “I do so! I was lookin’ in Shark’s window with Bill Lafferty when you lost. I heard Skinny Rector tell you he’s goin’ ta tell our dad if you didn’t pay up tanight!”

  Chris shoved his chair back noisily.

  “Aw, baloney! Dad if you’re gonta listen to an infant, I’m done! Keep yer money. There’s plenty of places I can get money if you won’t give me what I want! Other boys don’t get this kinda treatment in their homes—want ta know every nosey little thing, and listen to an infant!”

  He complained all the way through the hall in a loud voice, and the front door slammed on his final word.

  The family sat in a perturbed silence for an instant till the mother broke it in a worried voice that had a hidden sob in its texture.

  “He hasn’t eaten a mouthful, Chester.”

  “Well, what can you expect?” reproached Betty. “You can’t treat a young man as if he were a three-year-old. If Chester wants Chrissie to stay at home, he’ll have to shell out a little more liberally from now on. Chrissie’s almost grown up and isn’t allowed anything compared to other boys. Why, we’re the only two in our set that haven’t got cars to come to school with, and I think it’s scabby! I’m getting ashamed to go out of the house.”

  “That’ll be about all from you, Betty!” said her father in a cold voice that was so new to him that he felt frightened at it. Was he actually talking to his little Betty this way?

  “On second thought, you needn’t go out anymore until we’ve had a thorough understanding on this subject and a few others,” he added.

  Betty stared at him in astonishment for an instant and then burst into a mocking laugh:

  “Try and do it!” she sneered. “How do you get that way, Chet? It isn’t in the least agreeable.”

  “Now Betty,” began her mother anxiously, “don’t hurt your father. You know he didn’t mean—”

  “He better not!” said Betty imperiously.

  “We gotta boy in our school ut says ya don’t havta obey parunts,” broke forth ten-year-old John. “He says, ‘What they gotta do about it?’ He says they ain’t got any more right ta say what ya shall do an’ what ya shan’t ‘n we have. He says we all got the same rights—”

  “John, leave the room this minute!” said his father sternly.

  Johnny looked up aghast, his well-loaded fork halfway to his lips. He was not used to hearing his father speak like that.

  “Go!” said Thornton.

  Johnny hastily enveloped the forkful.

  “But I was just gonta tell you about the club we got. It’s called ‘Junior Radicals.’ We—”

  “Johnny, your mouth is too full to talk,” pleaded the distressed mother.

  “Go!” There was something in his father’s voice that Johnny Thornton had never heard before. He made sure of another forkful of chicken stuffing and reached for a second hot biscuit as he rose reluctantly from his chair, but his father’s hand came out in a grip like a vise and rendered his small sinewy wrist utterly useless. The biscuit dropped from his nerveless fingers dully on the tablecloth, and Johnny Thornton walked hastily toward the door, a little faster than his feet could quite keep up, propelled by a power outside his own volition. He had never known his father could be so tall and strong.

  “Great cats!” remarked Betty contemptuously as the dining room door closed sharply. “Chester must be crazy! I never knew him to be so off his feed before! I’m going to get out of the picture before anything more happens. Tra-la-Eleanor. I wish you joy! You better beat it yourself till the weather clears.”

  “But Betty! Your father said—” began Mrs. Thornton.

  But Betty was gone out through the kitchen and up the back stairs to her room. Her closing remark as she sped through the swing door into the pantry was:

  “Bilge!”

  The door upstairs into Johnny’s room was heard to close firmly and a key to turn in the lock. Then Thornton’s steps came slowly, unsteadily down, almost haltingly, his wife thought. Could Chester have been drinking? But no, of course not. He hated the stuff. He never touched it. It must be business. She ought to have told Betty to be more considerate.

  When he opened the dining room door again his face was white as a sheet and his eyes were staring ahead as if he saw a ghost. He marched sternly to his seat and sat down, but he made no attempt whatever to eat. Instead he looked around his depleted dinner table.

  “Where is Betty?” he asked in a voice that was husky with feeling.

  “Why, I think she’s gone up to her room, dear,” said his wife placatingly.

  Thornton’s face did not relax, and Jane who had been biding her time silently, mindful of the fig pudding, which was her favorite dessert, decided to leave while the going was good. But when she slid stealthily from her seat to go out, her father’s voice recalled her.

  “Sit down!” he said severely. “And don’t leave the table until dinner is finished.”

  Jane stuck up her chin indignantly:

  “I was just going up to my room,” she said defiantly. “I’ve got some ‘mportant studying to do.”

  “Sit down!” thundered her father uncompromisingly. Jane slid into her seat sullenly.

  Mrs. Thornton looked at her husband almost tearfully and explained in a low voice to the sulky girl:

  “Daddy comes home tired out and doesn’t want to be worried. He isn’t feeling well, I’m sure. He wants it to be quiet and orderly and not everybody jumping up and running out—”

  “He went out himself,” said Jane impertinently.

  “Hush!” said the mother with a fearful glance at her husband. But little Doris diverted the attention suddenly, contributing her bit to the conversation, having been turning over her mind for a suitable topic ever since her brother’s summary exit. It seemed the dramatic moment for her to enter the limelight also.

  “We got a new book in school today. Our teacher read it to us. It’s a story about a lady that lived in a tree and could do things with her toes just as well as with her hands. And by ‘im by she got to be a real lady and came down outta the tree and lived in a house. She was one of our aunt’s sisters, the teacher said.”

  “You mean ancestors,” corrected Jane, coming out of her sulks with a giggle to correct the baby of the family.

  “No, aunt’s sisters!” insisted Doris. “She ‘estinctly said aunt’s sisters.”

  “What does all this mean, Eleanor?” said Thornton, looking at his wife. “Do you mean they are stuffing that kind of bosh down babies? In school?”

  “It’s her science class,” asserted Jane importantly. “They’re just starting to learn about how the earth began, all gases and things you know, and how everything developed of itself, and then animals came, and some of ‘em turned into men. We had it all two years ago, but now they’re beginning it in the first grade.”

  “What utter nonsense!” said Thornton angrily. “It’s all well enough for some highbrows to think they believe in evolution if they want to, but they have no right to stuff it down children’s throats, not my children, anyway. And in the public school. Eleanor, haven’t you taught these children any of the Bible?”

  “Why, of course, Chester,” quavered his wife soothingly. “They had all the Bible stories read to them. You know about Adam and Eve, darling. Why, Jane you got a prize once in Sunday school for telling the story of creation. How can you let Daddy think that you don’t know—”

  “Oh, of course I remember all that, Mud,” said the thirteen-year-old, “but that’s all out of date. Didn’t
you know, simply nobody believes the Bible anymore? My teacher said the other day, simply nobody that really knows anything believes it anymore. She said there were some places in the New Testament that were true to history, but the rest was all fanciful, kind of like legends and things, especially all that about Adam and Eve. It was just like mythology, you know. Didn’t you and Daddy know that? I suppose you haven’t been paying attention to what went on since you stopped school, you know, but my teacher says almost nothing in the Bible is true anymore. It isn’t scientific! Why, even the children in the elementary school know that!”

  “That will do!” thundered Thornton furiously. “Eleanor, this is unspeakable! Why haven’t you known what kind of bosh our children were being taught? Where are the rest of them? I want to sift this matter out and know just where we stand! This is awful! Send for them all to come back! I want to see them right away.”

  Mrs. Thornton looked distressed. She had been listening to Betty’s tiptoeing feet overhead, and now she knew they had ceased. She was even sure she had heard the creak of the back stairs and the opening of the kitchen door. Therefore she stalled:

  “Suppose we go away from the table, anyway, Chester,” she suggested, “so that the maid can clear away. You’ve scarcely eaten a thing. Jane, you and Doris take your pudding up to the sitting room while your father finishes. He is all tired out and ought not to be disturbed while he eats. Take another cup of coffee, Chester, dear. Your nerves are all worn out. You must have had a hard day today. I’m afraid things haven’t gone as well as you hoped at the office. But never mind, dear! Don’t let it worry you. Whatever comes, we’ve got each other. Remember that and be thankful.”