Mr Thompson's Prodigal Page #2

"Mr. Thompson's Prodigal" by Bret Harte is a poignant short story that explores themes of redemption, familial bonds, and the contrasts between rural and urban life. The narrative follows the journey of a wayward son, who has strayed far from his humble beginnings and the values instilled by his caring father, Mr. Thompson. As the prodigal grapples with his past choices and the allure of his old life, the story delves into the tensions between ambition and integrity, ultimately highlighting the enduring power of love and forgiveness. Harte's vivid characterizations and richly depicted settings bring depth to this exploration of human relationships and moral dilemmas.

• Short story

								

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 have taken him in his arms, but the
child fled from 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 characterized as
the "richest part of the blow-out," 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 in liquor, broke through the opposing guardians, 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 hands, Charles Thompson
filled 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 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
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