“Father, only look at him—do but hear him!” said the soft, entreating
voice of the daughter, as she looked up imploringly into her parent’s
face, while the sobs of the penitent son shook his frame with agony.
James Vernon was the only son of two doating parents, and the heir of a
splendid fortune. Gratified in his every wish, and left almost without
restraint, he had grown up that most fatal of all things, a spoiled
child; and had it not been for a naturally frank and generous
disposition, he would have been ruined by indulgence even in his
boyhood. When, however, at fifteen, he left home for college, he still
possessed the elements of a noble character, and had he then been
entrusted to a careful tutor, he might have been saved years of folly
and subsequent misery. But, thrown among the hundreds of youth of his
own age who thronged the institution whither he was sent, with no one to
guide him aright, and habits of wilfulness, contracted at home, to urge
him on wherever whim might lead him, he soon fell into the temptations
incident to a large college, and, without intending evil so much as
seeking for amusement, became notorious for his frolics, idleness, and
even dissipation. He had not been at the university a year before his
name was regarded as that of the worst member of his class. His progress
in study was deficient, and his expenses great. His doating father at
first overlooked his son’s irregularities, thinking they would soon wear
off; but when term after term elapsed, and there was no appearance of
reformation, he expostulated strongly, almost sternly, with his child.
For a time James was moved, and almost shook off his unworthy
companions. But the effort to cut loose from them altogether required
more energy than he was capable of, and as no reformation can be lasting
when only half complete, he soon relapsed into his old habits, and,
before the term was up, was as notorious as ever for being the leader in
every mischievous or even disreputable action. This could not last. More
than once he had been warned by the faculty, and weekly—almost
daily—did his friends, by letter, expostulate with him. Frank, generous
and good-intentioned, he constantly determined to amend his conduct; but
his very open-heartedness, by rendering him incapable of resisting
temptation, prevented every lasting effort at reformation. Each failure
likewise placed him more and more in the power of his gay companions.
The result is easily told. In his second year, he was detected in a
flagrant violation of the college rules, and, as expostulation had been
used again and again in vain, he was expelled from the university. The
blow fell like a thunderbolt on his parents. His father was a rigidly
correct, and withal a proud man, and, in proportion to the affection
with which he regarded his son, was the conviction of the disgrace thus
brought upon his name. In the first emotions of his anger, he almost
vowed never to look on the face of his son again. But the prayers of the
fond mother at length prevailed; he relented, and James was once more
received under the paternal roof.
It must not be supposed that the youth was callous to his disgrace. He
felt it acutely, and the more acutely because, as every good principle
was not yet eradicated from his heart, he was conscious that he deserved
his degradation. He saw, too, how deeply injured were the feelings of
his parents; and he determined to thoroughly reform. He kept his word.
For the year that he remained under the paternal roof, he seemed another
being. But, in a fatal hour, his father yielded to his solicitations to
allow him to study a profession, and he was accordingly sent to
Philadelphia, to commence a course of lectures at the celebrated
university of that city. Who might not have foretold the result? Almost
imperceptibly, and, to a disposition like his, unavoidably, he was
seduced back into his old courses, and, before the winter was over, he
became once more celebrated as one of the most idle and dissipated
students of his class. The arrival of a few of his old companions in
college, to begin their studies for a profession, completed his ruin. He
plunged into every extravagance. His allowance, liberal as it was, fell
far short of his expenses. His bills soon accumulated to a fearful
amount. Dreading to acquaint his parent with their extent, and in order
to relieve himself from their load, he did what hitherto he had
shunned—he resorted to the gaming table. For a while he was successful,
for he had always been accounted a skilful player, and believing he now
had a resource for every emergency, he plunged still deeper into
extravagance of every character. But suddenly his luck failed him. He
lost. Again he essayed to retrieve his fortune—again he was
unsuccessful. His bills had meantime accumulated to a fearful amount;
and knowing that he had no hope for succor from his parent, he made a
desperate attempt to retrieve his losses. It was in vain. Not only did
he fail to retrieve his luck, but he went forth a ruined man, having
involved himself even still deeper. For a while he was frantic with
despair. As a last resort, he determined on applying to his mother, well
knowing that she would look with more leniency on him than his sterner
father would. He waited breathlessly for an answer. It came, directed in
his father’s handwriting. He opened the epistle with a trembling hand,
and beating heart, and read as follows:
“Sir,
Your letter found your mother on a sick bed, unable to
receive any intelligence, and, as we knew from whom the packet
came, I opened it. Its contents will account for the style of
this epistle. You are no longer a son of mine. Two years ago,
when you brought the disgrace on your name of having been
expelled ignominiously from college, I almost vowed never to
acknowledge you as a son of mine. I relented, however, and took
you again into favor. I see now how useless it was. Again you
have brought shame on my gray hairs; and I now make the
determination to disown you wholly. Enclosed is a thousand
dollars, for I will not send you penniless on the world. Let me
never again hear from you. Change your name, since you will
dishonor the one I bear, and remember that your own folly has
cut loose every tie betwixt you and
George L. Vernon.”
The letter fell from the hands of the young man as he ceased reading,
and for some moments, without uttering a word, he gazed on it as it lay
on the floor at his feet. In that minute how his whole past life rushed
through his memory! He thought of his infancy; his early childhood; the
rooms where he played; his little sister; his mother; the servants;
every old familiar place and thing, all now shut out to him forever. Had
he deserved to be treated with such harshness? His passion blinded him
as he said:
“No! I have not deserved it. I will be under no obligations to one who
can thus heartlessly cast me off. He disowns me—does he? Let it be.
Never will I sue for a favor again at any of their hands. From this day
forth they shall be to me as the dead.”
Shall we follow him through his career of subsequent desperation and
eventual profligacy, or shall we at once draw to a close?
More than a year had passed since Vernon had been disowned by his
parent, and he was now an outcast, and almost penniless. In all that
time he had heard nothing of home. He had seen, in the interval, every
variety of life. The gaming table had been his principal resort, for
after having, with the remittance made to him by his father, discharged
his debts of honor, he had so little left that he saw no other resource
from starvation. The vicissitudes of a gambler’s life are well known;
the inevitable result—poverty—is ever the same. By the time a
twelvemonth had elapsed, Vernon was almost penniless.
With only a few dollars in his pocket, he one night entered a low gaming
house, and for some time betted without either loss or gain. At length,
however, he lost. He threw down another stake, and that too was swept up
by the banker. His last dollar was in his hand, ready to be put up, when
he paused, and the question flashed across his mind, what if he should
lose again? Never before had he been so near to utter poverty. He had
even no place where he might lodge that night, and, save that dollar, he
owned nothing in the wide world but the garments he wore. He paused, and
turned away.
“The cards pass,” said the banker. “You do not bet this time,
sir?—another chance, and you retrieve your loss.”
Still the young man hesitated. The banker lost.
“The cards pass,” said the banker again; “you see you would have won,
sir. How much do you put up now?”
The young man glanced fiercely at the speaker, hesitated an instant, and
half turned away again; but the temptation to try his luck once more was
too great, and hastily throwing down his dollar, he grasped the cards
convulsively.
“Twenty!” said the banker, flinging his cards with a smile on the table.
“Sir, you have lost.”
The young man stared wildly at the hoary villain, and then grinding his
teeth together fiercely, with ill-concealed despair, he pushed the piece
towards his tempter, cast a stern defying glance around the room at the
curious spectators of the scene, and strode from the apartment.
“Humph!” said the banker, “I’ll bet it’s his last dollar—who takes me
up? No one, eh! Then, gentlemen, proceed.”
No sooner had the young man reached the street than he paused, and
looking up at the gay windows of the room he had left, he shook his
clenched hand fiercely at them, and exclaimed—
“Curses on ye for the ruin ye have brought upon me!—ay! ten thousand
curses on ye and your hoary owners!” and then the recollection of his
poverty seeming to cross his mind in another guise, he added, less
passionately, “My God! not a cent have they left me, even to buy a
night’s shelter. Oh! that I had never left my father’s house!”
For hours he wandered up and down the streets, now inflamed to madness
by his despair, now melting at the recollection of the happy days he had
once enjoyed under his father’s roof. Morning still found him a
wanderer. Pale, dejected and spirit-broken, he entered, at early dawn,
an obscure coffee-house, just as the sleepy menials were opening the
shutters, and sitting moodily down, picked up the morning paper. The
first paragraph that his eye lit upon was as follows:
“Died, on the 5th inst., after a lingering illness, which she
bore with Christian meekness and fortitude, Elizabeth, wife of
George L. Vernon.”
The paper dropped from his grasp. For an instant all power of speech
left him. Then rushed across his mind the recollection of a thousand
things which that mother had done for her erring boy. And she had
died—died without forgiving him! Oh! at that moment, he would have
given worlds to have recalled her to life, in order that he might kneel
at her feet and solicit her pardon.
“I will arise,” at length he said, in the language of scripture, “and go
unto my father. I will sue for permission to behold her face in death;
surely that they will not deny me.”
And he arose. Completely changed in spirit, that erring son, after
nearly a day’s travel, arrived at his native village. He had parted with
every available thing to obtain funds for the journey, and reached his
father’s house just before night, penniless. He knocked hastily at the
door, not giving himself time to notice that the house bore no signs of
mourning. The old housekeeper, who happened to be crossing the hall at
the time the servant admitted him, could scarcely repress a scream of
surprise at seeing her young master.
“For God’s sake,” gasped the penitent, “Mrs. Irwin, lead me to my
mother; let me see her before the grave closes over her forever.”
The almost incoherent words and eager, impassioned gestures of the
penitent for a moment bewildered the good woman.
“Your mother! Mr. James—she is not dead; but you have seen the
newspapers’ mistake, then?”
“Not dead!” exclaimed he, falling on his knees; “then I thank thee, oh!
my Creator, that I can yet sue for her forgiveness.”
“Come, then, my dear boy,” said the old housekeeper, bursting into
tears, “and let me take you in to your parents. Oh! I have prayed for
this hour night and day, and I knew that it would come;” and while the
tears fell thick and fast down her aged cheeks, she led the now passive
penitent across the hall, opened the door of the drawing-room, and
ushered in the returning prodigal.
One glance around that well-remembered room was sufficient for the young
man. His mother sat in her easy chair, wrapped in a large shawl, and
bearing evident traces of a late illness; his sister was at her piano,
playing one of the old airs which he had heard a thousand times from
her; and his silver-haired father sat betwixt the mother and daughter,
engaged in his usual occupation of reading. Yet, oh! how care-worn were
the faces of all! And this was the work of that prodigal son. As he saw
it all, a gush of old feelings swept across the penitent’s soul, and
falling on his knees, he buried his face in his hands, and sobbed aloud
in his remorse.
“My boy!—come to my arms,” said the mother, almost hysterically,
awarding her forgiveness almost before it was solicited.
Not so the father. Rising with a frown from his chair, he was about to
advance on the intruder, when the daughter, rushing towards him, lifted
her beseeching eyes to her parent’s, and said,
“Father, only look at him—do but hear him!”
For a moment the conflict in that father’s bosom almost shook his frame
with emotion. At first he turned away, refusing to see his boy; but in
every line of his agitated face might be seen the struggle betwixt
affection for his son and his sense of injury. Nature at length
triumphed; he suffered himself to be led towards the penitent, and the
next moment the members of the re-united family were sobbing alternately
in each other’s arms.