Mr Thompson's Prodigal Page #3

"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

								

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
desperate, when I would have robbed you of your 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.
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