 | Mrs. Skaggs's husbands, and other sketches |  |
MR. THOMPSON'S PRODIGAL.
WE all knew that Mr. Thompson was looking
for his son, and a pretty bad one at that.
That he was coming to California for this sole
object was no secret to his fellow-passengers; and
the physical peculiarities, as well as the moral
weaknesses, of the missing prodigal were made
equally plain to us through the frank volubility of
the parent. “You was speaking 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 of the color of his eyes?”
“Black,” responded the passenger. “Ah,” said
Mr. Thompson, referring to some mental memoranda,
“Char-les's eyes was blue.” He then walked
away. Perhaps it was from this unsympathetic
mode of inquiry, perhaps it was from that Western
predilection to take a humorous view of any
principle or sentiment persistently brought before
them, that Mr. Thompson's quest was the subject
of some satire among the passengers. A gratuitous
advertisement of the missing Charles, addressed
to “Jailers and Guardians,” circulated privately
among them; everybody remembered to have met
it is but due to my countrymen to state that
when it was known that Thompson had embarked
some wealth in this visionary project, but little of
this satire found its way to his ears, and nothing
was uttered in his hearing that might bring a pang
to a father's heart, or imperil a possible pecuniary
advantage of the satirist. Indeed, Mr. Bracy
Tibbets's jocular proposition to form a joint-stock
company to “prospect” for the missing youth received
at one time quite serious entertainment.
Perhaps to superficial criticism Mr. Thompson's
nature was not picturesque nor lovable. His history,
as imparted at dinner, one day, by himself,
was practical even in its singularity. After a hard
and wilful youth and maturity, — in which he
had buried a broken-spirited wife, and driven his
son to sea, — he suddenly experienced religion. “I
got it in New Orleans in '59,” said Mr. Thompson,
with the general suggestion of referring to an epidemic.
“Enter ye the narrer gate. Parse me the
beans.” Perhaps this practical quality upheld him
in his apparently hopeless search. He had no
clew to the whereabouts of his runaway son; indeed,
scarcely a proof of his present existence.
From his indifferent recollection of the boy of
twelve, he now expected to identify the man of
twenty-five.
It would seem that he was successful. How he
tell. There are, I believe, two versions of the
story. One, that Mr. Thompson, visiting a hospital,
discovered his son by reason of a peculiar
hymn, chanted by the sufferer, in a delirious dream
of his boyhood. This version, giving as it did
wide range to the finer feelings of the heart, was
quite popular; and as told by the Rev. Mr. Gushington,
on his return from his California tour,
never failed to satisfy an audience. The other was
less simple, and, as I shall adopt it here, deserves
more elaboration.
It was after Mr. Thompson had given up searching
for his son among the living, and had taken
to the examination of cemeteries, and a careful inspection
of the “cold hic jacets of the dead.” At
this time he was a frequent visitor of “Lone
Mountain,” — a dreary hill-top, bleak enough in
its original isolation, and bleaker for the white-faced
marbles by which San Francisco anchored
her departed citizens, and kept them down in a
shifting sand that refused to cover them, and
against a fierce and persistent wind that strove to
blow them utterly away. Against this wind the
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 spent days
in reading the mortuary inscriptions audibly to
himself. The frequency of Scriptural quotation
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 all rebuffed, Mr.
Thompson at once slid down into the open grave,
with a more practical inquiry, “Did you ever, in
your profession, come across Char-les Thompson?”
“Thompson be d—d!” said the grave-digger, with
great directness. “Which, if he had n'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 than usual. As he turned
his face toward the city, lights were beginning to
twinkle ahead, and a fierce wind, made visible by
fog, drove him forward, or, lying in wait, charged
him angrily from the corners of deserted suburban
streets. It was on one of these corners that something
else, 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 of iron and a grip of steel. The assailant and
assailed rolled together on the ground. But the
next moment the old man was erect; one hand
grasping the captured pistol, the other clutching
at arm's length the throat of a figure, surly, youthful,
and savage.
“Young man,” said Mr. Thompson, setting his
thin lips together, “what might 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 his captive to the hotel.
What took place there has not transpired, but it
was known the next morning that Mr. Thompson
had found his son.
It is proper to add to the above improbable
story, that there was nothing in the young man's
appearance or manners to justify it. Grave, reticent,
and handsome, devoted to his newly found
parent, he assumed the emoluments and responsibilities
of his new condition with a certain serious
ease that more nearly approached that which San
Francisco society lacked, and — rejected. Some
chose to despise this quality as a tendency to
“psalm-singing”; others saw in it the inherited
qualities of the parent, and were ready to prophesy
for the son the same hard old age. But all agreed
that it was not inconsistent with the habits of
money-getting, for which father and son were respected.
And yet, the old man did not seem to be happy.
Perhaps it was that the consummation of his
wishes left him without a practical mission; perhaps
— and it is the more probable — he had little
love for the son he had regained. The obedience
his heart upon was complete; and yet, somehow, it
did not seem to please him. In reclaiming his
son, he had fulfilled all the requirements that his
religious duty required of him, and yet the act
seemed to lack sanctification. In this perplexity,
he read again the parable of the Prodigal Son, —
which he had long ago adopted for his guidance, —
and found that he had omitted the final feast of
reconciliation. This seemed to offer the proper
quality of ceremoniousness in the sacrament between
himself and his son; and so, a year after
the appearance of Charles, he set about giving him
a party. “Invite everybody, Char-les,” he said,
dryly; “everybody who knows that I brought
you out of the wine-husks of iniquity, and the
company of harlots; and bid them eat, drink, and
be merry.”
Perhaps the old man had another reason, not
yet clearly analyzed. The fine house he had built
on the sand-hills sometimes seemed lonely and
bare. He often found himself trying to reconstruct,
from the grave features of Charles, the little
boy whom he but dimly remembered in the past,
and of whom lately he had been thinking a great
deal. He believed this to be a sign of impending
old age and childishness; but coming, one day, in
his formal drawing-room, upon a child of one of
the servants, who had strayed therein, he would
before his grizzled face. So that it seemed eminently
proper to invite a number of people to his
house, and, from the array of San Francisco maidenhood,
to select a daughter-in-law. And then
there would 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 Robinsons also came, in that fine flow
of animal spirits, unchecked by any respect for the
entertainer, which most of us are apt to find so
fascinating. The proceedings would have been
somewhat riotous, but for the social position of
the actors. In fact, Mr. Bracy Tibbets, having
naturally a fine appreciation of a humorous situation,
but further impelled by the bright eyes of the
Jones girls, conducted himself so remarkably as to
attract the serious regard of Mr. Charles Thompson,
who approached him, saying quietly: “You
look ill, Mr. Tibbets; let me conduct you to your
carriage. Resist, you hound, and I 'll throw you
through that window. This way, please; the room
is close and distressing.” It is hardly necessary to
say that but a part of this speech was audible to
the company, and that the rest was not divulged
by Mr. Tibbets, who afterward regretted the sudden
illness which kept him from witnessing a certain
amusing incident, which the fastest Miss Jones
and which I hasten to record.
It was at supper. It was evident that Mr.
Thompson had overlooked much lawlessness in the
conduct of the younger people, in his abstract contemplation
of some impending event. When the
cloth was removed, he rose to his feet, and grimly
tapped upon the table. A titter, that broke out
among the Jones girls, became epidemic on one
side of the board. Charles Thompson, from the
foot of the table, looked up in tender perplexity.
“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 son came home
from eating of wine-husks and spending of his
substance on harlots.” (The tittering suddenly
ceased.) “Look at him now. Char-les Thompson,
stand up.” (Charles Thompson stood up.)
“One year ago to-day, — and look at him now.”
He was certainly a handsome prodigal, standing
there in his cheerful evening-dress, — a repentant
prodigal, with sad, obedient eyes turned upon the
harsh and unsympathetic glance of his father.
The youngest Miss Smith, from the pure depths of
her foolish little heart, moved unconsciously 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 Christian friends, — a
man of wrath and bitterness” (“Amen,” from
the eldest Miss Smith), — “but praise be God, I 've
fled the wrath to come. It 's five years ago since
I got the peace that passeth understanding. Have
you got it, friends?” (A general sub-chorus of
“No, no,” from the girls, and, “Pass the word for
it,” from Midshipman Coxe, of the U. S. sloop
Wethersfield.) “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 I sought 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
of books, but I sought him out among his husks,
and —” (the rest of the sentence was lost in the
rustling withdrawal of the ladies). “Works,
Christian friends, is my motto. By their works
shall ye know them, and there is mine.”
The particular and accepted work to which Mr.
Thompson was alluding had turned quite pale, and
was looking fixedly toward an open door leading
to the veranda, lately filled by gaping servants,
and now the scene of some vague tumult. As the
noise continued, a man, shabbily dressed, and evidently
and staggered into the room. The transition
from the fog and darkness without to the
glare and heat within evidently dazzled and stupefied
him. He removed his battered hat, and
passed it once or twice before his eyes, as he
steadied himself, but unsuccessfully, by the back
of a chair. Suddenly, his wandering glance fell
upon the pale face of Charles Thompson; and with
a gleam of childlike recognition, and a weak, falsetto
laugh, he darted forward, caught at the table,
upset the glasses, and literally fell 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 to extricate himself
from the embrace of his unexpected guest.
“Look at 'm!” continued the stranger, unheeding
the admonition, but suddenly holding the unfortunate
Charles at arm's length, in loving and
undisguised admiration of his festive appearance.
“Look at 'm! Ain't he nasty? Sha'ls, I 'm prow
of yer!”
“Leave the house!” said Mr. Thompson, rising,
with a dangerous look in his 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
“Drink it and go — until to-morrow — any time,
but — leave us! — go now!” But even then, ere
the miserable wretch could drink, the old man,
pale with passion, was upon him. Half carrying
him in his powerful arms, half dragging him
through the circling crowd of frightened guests, he
had reached the door, swung open by the waiting
servants, when Charles Thompson started from a
seeming stupor, crying, —
“Stop!”
The old man stopped. Through the open door
the fog and wind drove chilly. “What does this
mean?” he asked, turning a baleful face on
Charles.
“Nothing — but stop — for God's sake. Wait
till to-morrow, but not to-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 powerful
arms; 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 crowding guests around him.
“Char-les — come here! I command you — I —
I — I — beg you — tell me who is this man?”
Only two persons heard the answer that came
faintly from the lips of Charles Thompson, —
“Your son.”
When day broke over the bleak sand-hills, the
guests had departed from Mr. Thompson's banquet-halls.
The lights still burned dimly and
coldly in the deserted rooms, — deserted by all
but three figures, that huddled together in the
chill drawing-room, as if for warmth. One lay in
drunken slumber on a couch; at his feet sat he
who had been known as Charles Thompson; and
beside them, haggard and shrunken to half his
size, bowed the figure of Mr. Thompson, his gray
eye fixed, his elbows upon his knees, 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 that night was the
first that came into my thought, — the name of one
whom I thought dead, — the dissolute companion
of my shame. And when you questioned further,
I used the knowledge that I gained from him to
touch your heart to set me free; only, I swear,
for that! But when you told me who you were,
and I first saw the opening of another life before
me — then — then — O, sir, if I was hungry,
homeless, and reckless, when I would have robbed
you of your gold, I was heart-sick, helpless, and
love!”
The old man stirred not. From his luxurious
couch the newly found prodigal snored peacefully.
“I had no father I could claim. I never knew
a home but this. I was tempted. I have been
happy, — very happy.”
He rose and stood before the old man.
“Do not fear that I shall come between your
son and his inheritance. To-day I leave this place,
never to return. The world is large, sir, and,
thanks to your kindness, I now see the way by
which an honest livelihood is gained. Good by.
You will not 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
and twice.
“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,
in which the prodigal's footsteps were lost forever.
| Mrs. Skaggs's husbands, and other sketches | |