His Home Coming

BY E. M. JAMESON.

"Another present, Honor? I thought you had really received the last."

"So did I," replied Honor, sitting up in her low chair, and beginning to untie the string that was round the small parcel. "People are very kind; wonderfully kind."

Mrs. Latimer looked up quickly at the sound of the dejected voice. She was a slight, sweet-looking woman, in widow's dress, whose face, despite its never-varying sadness, bore traces of great beauty. The present proved to be a very beautiful pendant of emeralds and diamonds. Mrs. Latimer, having admired it as it lay on its satin bed, handed it back to her daughter.

"So kind of your Uncle James," she said, as she did so, watching meantime, with puzzled uneasiness, Honor's listless fingering of the jewel-case.

"Very kind!" remarked the girl, tilting her chin somewhat superciliously. "Am I not marrying a rich man? If Ronald had been poor, how would Uncle James have treated me?"

"Honor, Honor," said her mother, a pained look crossing her face, "how very unlike you to be so bitter."

Honor crossed over to where her mother sat and dropped down on the rug beside her, and taking one of her mother's hands pressed it to her cheek.

"He thinks it really, little mother, only you are too good to see it, and know too that I love Ronald so dearly that I'd marry him if he hadn't a second coat to put on. Uncle James, of all people!"—she threw the case into the chair she had just vacated, her blue eyes shining and hard—"Uncle James, who might have done so much, who might have saved his nephew from destruction by holding out a helping hand. Poor Jim!"

Her clear voice broke for a moment, then she pointed to a table in the corner that was covered with wedding presents.

"I'd give them all for one little note from Jim saying he was sorry and was coming to us. Just imagine if he came home and sat with us here in this very room! I cannot get him out of my thoughts to-night. Perhaps, somewhere, he is thinking of us."

Mrs. Latimer sank back in her chair, the tears coursing down her face.

"I pray night and morning that he may come back to us, and it seems as though God turned a deaf ear to all my pleadings. I dream of him, Honor, so often, our handsome boy, as he was before he went astray, and the awakening seems more than I can bear."

A pang shot through Honor's heart as she looked up into the fragile face, and she regretted having been carried away to speak of the prodigal.

"He will come back to us sooner or later," she said, hastily; "I am certain of it. He is too fond of us to go far astray. The threats Uncle James used terrified him."

"I am almost sorry we left the other house," Mrs. Latimer said, presently. "Suppose he came and found strangers occupying our place?"

"He has only to ask in the neighbourhood to find us no farther than the next road," said Honor. "Don't let that worry you. He will come home to us some day."

She spoke with a cheerfulness she was far from experiencing; the thought had often occurred to her that Jim, her only brother, must be dead. Heedless and headstrong he might be, but he had always possessed a warm heart, and would not have left them to anxiety for so long. Twice her wedding had been postponed, but the prodigal still delayed, and in a few days her marriage would be an accomplished fact.

Presently Mrs. Latimer said "good-night" and went to bed. After lighting her candle and watching her up the staircase, Honor returned to the room in which they had spent the evening. An unbearable restlessness was upon her, and she could settle to nothing, though there were notes to be written and a host of other things to be done.

She heard the servants troop up to bed, and then a silence fell upon the house, only broken by the melancholy soughing of the wind among the trees in the garden. The loneliness and silence told after a time, and she rose to follow her mother's example, though sleep was the farthest thing from her thoughts. She examined the window fastenings, and picking up the case containing the pendant, placed it among the presents on the table. The thought occurred to her that there ought to be a place in which to lock up the valuables, but in her preoccupation the fact troubled her little. Jim was the one absorbing thought, ousting even Ronald from her mind. A mental picture of Jim, destitute and starving, rose before her continually, embittering her life, and she could look forward to nothing until she was at rest about him.

She looked in at her mother on the way to her own room, and found her sleeping tranquilly. At the sight of the thin cheek on the pillow, Honor's heart contracted painfully; her mother grew paler and more fragile day by day, and the doctors had said that in the weak state of her heart a sudden shock might prove fatal. A tear dropped on the thin hand lying outside the counterpane, and Honor crept away to her own room. When ready for bed she lay in the darkness, feeling every nerve acutely on the alert.

The clock in the hall below ticked solemnly and struck the hour from time to time, and Honor could hear the faint sound of the cuckoo. She remembered the little bird as long as she could remember anything; from babyhood it had been the delight of herself and Jim, with its perky, impertinent manner, and the brisk way in which it bounced out and in again. Hot tears blinded Honor's eyes and soaked into her pillow.

"SHE LOOKED INTO THE WIDE HALL BELOW."

There came a faint sound from below, so faint as only to make the stillness more noticeable. The wind moaned round the house, but fitfully, as if a storm were gathering at a distance. Honor half sat up in bed, straining her ear to listen. There was not a stir in the house, yet she felt convinced that someone shared her vigil. Fearing her mother might be ill, and yet not wishing to disturb her if she slept, she drew herself noiselessly out of bed, and groped for her dressing-gown without striking a light. On her way she looked into the wide hall below. A faint glimmer illumined it, and her eyes soon became accustomed to the dim light. Someone stood facing the clock. Click! the doors flew open, and out sprang the cuckoo.

One, two, three. The doors closed again. There was a faint sound, which might have been a box of matches falling on the tiled floor. It was followed by a smothered exclamation. The figure stole away in the direction of the morning-room, where she and her mother had lately been sitting. Honor remained in the dark motionless, wondering what she had better do. All the servants were women, and to awaken them meant rousing her mother, and that she dare not do.

She gathered her dressing-gown closely round her and crept noiselessly from stair to stair, quivering all over as they creaked under her bare feet, but never pausing until she stood at the half-open door of the morning-room and looked in. What she saw froze her into immovability. A film swam before her eyes. It was Jim! The prodigal had returned, but why in this way? What could it mean? She rubbed her eyes incredulously. There was another man standing near the window, but it was upon Jim her glance was fixed with reluctant, fascinated horror.

"THE LIGHT FELL FULL UPON HER."

Jim leaned against the mantelpiece, his face was white and drawn, and in his eyes was reproduced some of the incredulity of Honor's.

"I can't, I tell you," he spoke in a low voice, that yet came clearly to the listener. "I promised, as it was to be the last time, but I break my word—I must get out of this, I tell you. That clock! My God! what I'd give not to feel such a scoundrel!"

"Clock? What are you raving about?" said the other. "What's wrong with the clock? They must strike, I suppose! Come on, let's get out of this. What's given you such a scare? You might have seen a ghost."

"So I have, the place is full of them. I must go; the very air stifles me." He stood upright and moved towards the door.

"Not a foot until you've done your share," replied the other, advancing, and Honor could see his evil, dissipated face; "don't desert an old chum."

"I wish to Heaven I had years ago, Hammersley. You've been my curse ever since I've known you. Let's clear out."

Honor started at the name, that of an old school-fellow. She pushed the door open farther, and the light fell full upon her, disclosing her white face with its glittering aureole of hair, and the blue eyes wide with pain.

Hammersley dropped the trinket he held with a little sharp tinkle, and drew back into the shade shamefacedly. But Honor never noticed him, all her glance was for Jim, who stood rigidly upright, staring at her as if she were a visitant from the grave.

"Honor!" the words came with difficulty from his parched throat. "You! What does it mean?"

Honor advanced a step nearer.

"Mean?" She spoke in a clear, relentless voice, half mad with the disgrace of it all. "Mean? It means that you have sunk so low as to rob your mother and sister of a few valuables. It means that you have broken into your mother's house like a common thief. No, no——" Her voice vibrated with a sharp throb of pain—"even the lowest, the most degraded, would think twice before robbing his own."

The light showed clearly all the misery of Jim's handsome, haggard young face.

"I swear to you——" he began, but Honor went on speaking, her voice low with concentrated scorn, and he drew back under the lash of her glance.

"Why did you not die years ago? Only to-night we were talking of you, praying that you might return, and this is how God answers our prayers!"

She pointed to the table, and Jim's head sank lower.

"Take them all if you want them, but go."

He moved blindly towards the door, and as he reached it, a footstep sounded along the passage, and Mrs. Latimer appeared. Before Honor could stir she had caught sight of Jim, and putting down the light she carried, she made a little run forward, and put her arms round his neck.

"God bless you, my own boy. I knew you would come," she said, and fell inertly with her cheek against his.

Above his mother's head, Jim's eyes met those of Honor, in anguished appeal. As he stood holding his mother in his arms his punishment seemed greater than he could bear.

A fresh fear took possession of Honor, and for a moment she dared not ascertain the worst. Had not the doctors talked of a sudden shock?

"Bring her here," she said, indicating a couch close by; "she must never know, poor, poor mother!"

In the bustle that ensued Hammersley made good his escape, unnoticed by anyone. Honor applied restoratives, and after a long time Mrs. Latimer came back to consciousness. Her glance sought for Jim; Honor motioned him over.

"My own darling boy, why did you come back so late? How thin and white you are! We must feed him well, must we not, Honor?"

"SHE PUT HER ARMS ROUND HIS NECK."

She stroked his face as he bent over her, and under her loving trust and entire unconsciousness of the true facts of the case Jim suddenly broke down, and, like a penitent child, buried his face in a fold of her dressing-gown. And she never knew the truth. But even Honor, who knows, has perfect faith now in Jim.