by Bret Harte
MR THOMPSON'S PRODIGAL
We all knew that Mr. Thompson was looking for his son, and a pretty badone at that. That he was coming to California for this sole object wasno secret to his fellow-passengers; and the physical peculiarities, aswell as the moral weaknesses, of the missing prodigal were made equallyplain to us through the frank volubility of the parent. "You wasspeaking of a young man which was hung at Red Dog for sluice-robbing,"said Mr. Thompson to a steerage passenger, one day; "be you aware ofthe color of his eyes?" "Black," responded the passenger. "Ah," saidMr. Thompson, referring to some mental memoranda, "Char-les's eyes wasblue." He then walked away. Perhaps it was from this unsympathetic modeof inquiry, perhaps it was from that Western predilection to take ahumorous view of any principle or sentiment persistently brought beforethem, that Mr. Thompson's quest was the subject of some satire among thepassengers. A gratuitous advertisement of the missing Charles, addressedto "Jailers and Guardians," circulated privately among them; everybodyremembered to have met Charles under distressing circumstances. Yetit is but due to my countrymen to state that when it was known thatThompson had embarked some wealth in this visionary project, but littleof this satire found its way to his ears, and nothing was uttered inhis hearing that might bring a pang to a father's heart, or imperila possible pecuniary advantage of the satirist. Indeed, Mr. BracyTibbets's jocular proposition to form a joint-stock company to"prospect" for the missing youth received at one time quite seriousentertainment.
Perhaps to superficial criticism Mr. Thompson's nature was notpicturesque nor lovable. His history, as imparted at dinner, one day, byhimself, was practical even in its singularity. After a hard and wilfulyouth and maturity,--in which he had buried a broken-spirited wife, anddriven his son to sea,--he suddenly experienced religion. "I got it inNew Orleans in '59," said Mr. Thompson, with the general suggestionof referring to an epidemic. "Enter ye the narrer gate. Parse me thebeans." Perhaps this practical quality upheld him in his apparentlyhopeless search. He had no clew to the whereabouts of his runaway son;indeed, scarcely a proof of his present existence. From his indifferentrecollection of the boy of twelve, he now expected to identify the manof twenty-five.
It would seem that he was successful. How he succeeded was one of thefew things he did not tell. There are, I believe, two versions of thestory. One, that Mr. Thompson, visiting a hospital, discovered his sonby reason of a peculiar hymn, chanted by the sufferer, in a deliriousdream of his boyhood. This version, giving as it did wide range to thefiner feelings of the heart, was quite popular; and as told by the Rev.Mr. Gushington, on his return from his California tour, never failed tosatisfy an audience. The other was less simple, and, as I shall adopt ithere, deserves more elaboration.
It was after Mr. Thompson had given up searching for his son among theliving, and had taken to the examination of cemeteries, and a carefulinspection of the "cold hic jacets of the dead." At this time he was afrequent visitor of "Lone Mountain,"--a dreary hill-top, bleak enough inits original isolation, and bleaker for the white-faced marbles by whichSan Francisco anchored her departed citizens, and kept them down ina shifting sand that refused to cover them, and against a fierce andpersistent wind that strove to blow them utterly away. Against this windthe old man opposed a will quite as persistent,--a grizzled, hard face,and a tall, crape-bound hat drawn tightly over his eyes,--and so spentdays in reading the mortuary inscriptions audibly to himself. Thefrequency of Scriptural quotation pleased him, and he was fond ofcorroborating them by a pocket Bible. "That's from Psalms," he said,one day, to an adjacent grave-digger. The man made no reply. Not at allrebuffed, Mr. Thompson at once slid down into the open grave, with amore practical inquiry, "Did you ever, in your profession, come acrossChar-les Thompson?" "Thompson be d----d!" said the grave-digger,with great directness. "Which, if he hadn't religion, I think he is,"responded the old man, as he clambered out of the grave.
It was, perhaps, on this occasion that Mr. Thompson stayed later thanusual. As he turned his face toward the city, lights were beginningto twinkle ahead, and a fierce wind, made visible by fog, drove himforward, or, lying in wait, charged him angrily from the corners ofdeserted suburban streets. It was on one of these corners that somethingelse, quite as indistinct and malevolent, leaped upon him with an oath,a presented pistol, and a demand for money. But it was met by a will ofiron and a grip of steel. The assailant and assailed rolled together onthe ground. But the next moment the old man was erect; one hand graspingthe captured pistol, the other clutching at arm's length the throat of afigure, surly, youthful, and savage.
"Young man," said Mr. Thompson, setting his thin lips together, "whatmight be your name?"
"Thompson!"
The old man's hand slid from the throat to the arm of his prisoner,without relaxing its firmness.
"Char-les Thompson, come with me," he said, presently, and marched hiscaptive to the hotel. What took place there has not transpired, but itwas known the next morning that Mr. Thompson had found his son.
It is proper to add to the above improbable story, that there wasnothing in the young man's appearance or manners to justify it. Grave,reticent, and handsome, devoted to his newly found parent, he assumedthe emoluments and responsibilities of his new condition with a certainserious ease that more nearly approached that which San Franciscosociety lacked, and--rejected. Some chose to despise this quality as atendency to "psalm-singing"; others saw in it the inherited qualitiesof the parent, and were ready to prophesy for the son the same hardold age. But all agreed that it was not inconsistent with the habits ofmoney-getting, for which father and son were respected.
And yet, the old man did not seem to be happy. Perhaps it was thatthe consummation of his wishes left him without a practical mission;perhaps--and it is the more probable--he had little love for the son hehad regained. The obedience he exacted was freely given, the reform hehad set his heart upon was complete; and yet, somehow, it did notseem to please him. In reclaiming his son, he had fulfilled all therequirements that his religious duty required of him, and yet the actseemed to lack sanctification. In this perplexity, he read again theparable of the Prodigal Son,--which he had long ago adopted forhis guidance,--and found that he had omitted the final feastof reconciliation. This seemed to offer the proper quality ofceremoniousness in the sacrament between himself and his son; and so, ayear after the appearance of Charles, he set about giving him a party."Invite everybody, Char-les," he said, dryly; "everybody who knows thatI brought you out of the wine-husks of iniquity, and the company ofharlots; and bid them eat, drink, and be merry."
Perhaps the old man had another reason, not yet clearly analyzed. Thefine house he had built on the sand-hills sometimes seemed lonely andbare. He often found himself trying to reconstruct, from the gravefeatures of Charles, the little boy whom he but dimly remembered in thepast, and of whom lately he had been thinking a great deal. He believedthis to be a sign of impending old age and childishness; but coming, oneday, in his formal drawing-room, upon a child of one of the servants,who had strayed therein, he would have taken him in his arms, but thechild fled from before his grizzled face. So that it seemed eminentlyproper to invite a number of people to his house, and, from the arrayof San Francisco maidenhood, to select a daughter-in-law. And then therewould be a child--a boy, whom he could "rare up" from the beginning,and--love--as he did not love Charles.
We were all at the party. The Smiths, Joneses, Browns, and Robinsonsalso came, in that fine flow of animal spirits, unchecked by any respectfor the entertainer, which most of us are apt to find so fascinating.The proceedings would have been somewhat riotous, but for the socialposition of the actors. In fact, Mr. Bracy Tibbets, having naturally afine appreciation of a humorous situation, but further impelled by thebright eyes of the Jones girls, conducted himself so remarkably as toattract the serious regard of Mr. Charles Thompson, who approached him,saying quietly: "You look ill, Mr. Tibbets; let me conduct you to yourcarriage. Resist, you hound, and I'll throw you through that window.This way, pl
ease; the room is close and distressing." It is hardlynecessary to say that but a part of this speech was audible to thecompany, and that the rest was not divulged by Mr. Tibbets, whoafterward regretted the sudden illness which kept him from witnessing acertain amusing incident, which the fastest Miss Jones characterized asthe "richest part of the blow-out," and which I hasten to record.
It was at supper. It was evident that Mr. Thompson had overlookedmuch lawlessness in the conduct of the younger people, in his abstractcontemplation of some impending event. When the cloth was removed, herose to his feet, and grimly tapped upon the table. A titter, that brokeout among the Jones girls, became epidemic on one side of the board.Charles Thompson, from the foot of the table, looked up in tenderperplexity. "He's going to sing a Doxology," "He's going to pray,""Silence for a speech," ran round the room.
"It's one year to-day, Christian brothers and sisters," said Mr.Thompson, with grim deliberation,--"one year to-day since my soncame home from eating of wine-husks and spending of his substance onharlots." (The tittering suddenly ceased.) "Look at him now. Char-lesThompson, stand up." (Charles Thompson stood up.) "One year agoto-day,--and look at him now."
He was certainly a handsome prodigal, standing there in his cheerfulevening-dress,--a repentant prodigal, with sad, obedient eyes turnedupon the harsh and unsympathetic glance of his father. The youngestMiss Smith, from the pure depths of her foolish little heart, movedunconsciously toward him.
"It's fifteen years ago since he left my house," said Mr. Thompson,"a rovier and a prodigal. I was myself a man of sin, O Christianfriends,--a man of wrath and bitterness" ("Amen," from the eldest MissSmith),--"but praise be God, I've fled the wrath to come. It's fiveyears ago since I got the peace that passeth understanding. Have you gotit, friends?" (A general sub-chorus of "No, no," from the girls,and, "Pass the word for it," from Midshipman Coxe, of the U. S. sloopWethersfield.) "Knock, and it shall be opened to you.
"And when I found the error of my ways, and the preciousness of grace,"continued Mr. Thompson, "I came to give it to my son. By sea and land Isought him far, and fainted not. I did not wait for him to come to me,which the same I might have done, and justified myself by the Book ofbooks, but I sought him out among his husks, and--" (the rest of thesentence was lost in the rustling withdrawal of the ladies). "Works,Christian friends, is my motto. By their works shall ye know them, andthere is mine."
The particular and accepted work to which Mr. Thompson was alluding hadturned quite pale, and was looking fixedly toward an open door leadingto the veranda, lately filled by gaping servants, and now the scene ofsome vague tumult. As the noise continued, a man, shabbily dressed, andevidently in liquor, broke through the opposing guardians, and staggeredinto the room. The transition from the fog and darkness without to theglare and heat within evidently dazzled and stupefied him. He removedhis battered hat, and passed it once or twice before his eyes, as hesteadied himself, but unsuccessfully, by the back of a chair. Suddenly,his wandering glance fell upon the pale face of Charles Thompson; andwith a gleam of childlike recognition, and a weak, falsetto laugh, hedarted forward, caught at the table, upset the glasses, and literallyfell upon the prodigal's breast.
"Sha'ly! yo' d----d ol' scoun'rel, hoo rar ye!"
"Hush--sit down!--hush!" said Charles Thompson, hurriedly endeavoring toextricate himself from the embrace of his unexpected guest.
"Look at 'm!" continued the stranger, unheeding the admonition, butsuddenly holding the unfortunate Charles at arm's length, in loving andundisguised admiration of his festive appearance. "Look at 'm! Ain't henasty? Sha'ls, I'm prow of yer!"
"Leave the house!" said Mr. Thompson, rising, with a dangerous look inhis cold, gray eye. "Char-les, how dare you?"
"Simmer down, ole man! Sha'ls, who's th' ol' bloat? Eh?"
"Hush, man; here, take this!" With nervous hands, Charles Thompsonfilled a glass with liquor. "Drink it and go--until to-morrow--any time,but--leave us!--go now!" But even then, ere the miserable wretch coulddrink, the old man, pale with passion, was upon him. Half carrying himin his powerful arms, half dragging him through the circling crowd offrightened guests, he had reached the door, swung open by the waitingservants, when Charles Thompson started from a seeming stupor, crying,--
"Stop!"
The old man stopped. Through the open door the fog and wind drovechilly. "What does this mean?" he asked, turning a baleful face onCharles.
"Nothing--but stop--for God's sake. Wait till to-morrow, but notto-night. Do not--I implore you--do this thing."
There was something in the tone of the young man's voice, something,perhaps, in the contact of the struggling wretch he held in his powerfularms; but a dim, indefinite fear took possession of the old man's heart."Who," he whispered, hoarsely, "is this man?"
Charles did not answer.
"Stand back, there, all of you," thundered Mr. Thompson, to the crowdingguests around him. "Char-les--come here! I command you--I--I--I--begyou--tell me WHO is this man?"
Only two persons heard the answer that came faintly from the lips ofCharles Thompson,--
"YOUR SON."
When day broke over the bleak sand-hills, the guests had departed fromMr. Thompson's banquet-halls. The lights still burned dimly and coldlyin the deserted rooms,--deserted by all but three figures, that huddledtogether in the chill drawing-room, as if for warmth. One lay in drunkenslumber on a couch; at his feet sat he who had been known as CharlesThompson; and beside them, haggard and shrunken to half his size, bowedthe figure of Mr. Thompson, his gray eye fixed, his elbows upon hisknees, and his hands clasped over his ears, as if to shut out the sad,entreating voice that seemed to fill the room.
"God knows I did not set about to wilfully deceive. The name I gave thatnight was the first that came into my thought,--the name of one whomI thought dead,--the dissolute companion of my shame. And when youquestioned further, I used the knowledge that I gained from him to touchyour heart to set me free; only, I swear, for that! But when you toldme who you were, and I first saw the opening of another life beforeme--then--then--O, sir, if I was hungry, homeless, and reckless, whenI would have robbed you of your gold, I was heart-sick, helpless, anddesperate, when I would have robbed you of your love!"
The old man stirred not. From his luxurious couch the newly foundprodigal snored peacefully.
"I had no father I could claim. I never knew a home but this. I wastempted. I have been happy,--very happy."
He rose and stood before the old man. "Do not fear that I shall comebetween your son and his inheritance. To-day I leave this place, neverto return. The world is large, sir, and, thanks to your kindness, I nowsee the way by which an honest livelihood is gained. Good by. You willnot take my hand? Well, well. Good by."
He turned to go. But when he had reached the door he suddenly came back,and, raising with both hands the grizzled head, he kissed it once andtwice.
"Char-les."
There was no reply.
"Char-les!"
The old man rose with a frightened air, and tottered feebly to the door.It was open. There came to him the awakened tumult of a great city, inwhich the prodigal's footsteps were lost forever.