FATHER AND SON.
GUY COULD scarcely believe his eyes. His father was the last man on
earth he had expected to see in St. Louis—the last one he wanted to
meet, if the truth must be told—and he hoped that he was mistaken.
But the approaching gentleman was really Mr. Harris—there could be no
doubt about that; for, as far as his personal appearance was concerned,
he had not changed in a single particular since Guy last saw him. His
face wore the same fierce frown, before which the boy had so often
trembled, and which seemed habitual to him, and he carried himself as
stiffly as ever. But he came up with some eagerness in his manner, and
for once appeared to be glad to see his son.
“Guy!” said he, seizing the boy’s outstretched hand and speaking with
more cordiality than he had ever before thrown into his tones when
addressing him.
“Father!” replied Guy.
“How do you do?” said Mr. Harris. “When did you arrive here, and where
have you been?”
Guy noticed, with some of the old bitterness in his heart, that his
father did not say he was glad to meet him, but he was not much
surprised at it. He could not recollect that his father had ever
exhibited any affection for him. He saved all that for Ned, and Guy was
obliged to be contented with the few crumbs that fell to his share in
the shape of Christmas presents and a religious book once or twice a
year.
“I have just now come from the plains,” replied Guy. “I have been to sea
since I saw you last.”
“To sea!” repeated Mr. Harris—“as a common sailor?”
“Yes, sir. I have made two voyages as a foremast hand, one of them
around the Horn. I came from San Francisco overland.”
A few minutes’ silence followed. The two stood holding fast to each
other’s hands, and each was busy with his own thoughts. Mr. Harris was
running his eyes over Guy’s face and figure, and was plainly surprised,
and perhaps a little disappointed, to see him so neatly dressed and
looking so well.
The conventional runaway always turns up ragged and in a starving
condition; but this one looked as though he had been living on the fat
of the land. Guy was waiting with some anxiety to hear what his father
would have to say next, and wondering if his long separation from him
had softened his heart in any degree. At last Mr. Harris spoke.
“I am stopping at the Planter’s House,” said he. “Come over there with
me. I want to talk to you.”
As he said this he drew his son’s arm through his own and led him away.
This movement on his part was a great surprise to Guy. Never before had
his father treated him with so much familiarity.
Perhaps he was beginning to see that he had made a woful mistake in
keeping the boy at such a distance from him. Had his eyes been opened to
this fact eighteen months sooner Guy would never have been a runaway.
Arriving at the Planter’s House Mr. Harris led the way to his room, and
as he locked the door behind him and handed Guy a chair, the latter felt
very much as he had felt in former days when his father had ordered him
into the library for some offense he had committed, and followed him
there with an apple-tree switch in his hand.
“Are you on your way home, Guy?” asked Mr. Harris as he sealed himself
in a chair opposite his son.
“No, sir,” was the reply. “I came to St. Louis intending to enlist in
the army.”
“You must not do that, Guy,” said his father earnestly. “There are
enough beside you to risk their lives in this war. I want you to go back
with me. Home is the place for you.”
“No, father, I can’t do it,” said Guy.
“Why not?”
“I have two good reasons. In the first place, I suppose that all my
acquaintances know by this time that I ran away from home.”
“I suppose they do,” said his father, “and that is all the punishment
you will have to stand.”
“For the opinions of the majority I care nothing. Those who know all the
circumstances will not judge me too harshly,” said Guy, astonished at
the readiness with which he expressed himself. But then his heart was
full of this matter. He had thought of it often and words came easy to
him.
Mr. Harris elevated his eyebrows and looked surprised.
“Yes, sir,” continued Guy, who easily read the thoughts that were
passing in his father’s mind. “I mean to say that every man and woman in
Norwall who is intimate with our family will tell you to-day, if they
tell you anything, that I had good reason for wishing to leave home. I
never saw a moment’s peace there in my life.”
“Then why did you not come to me like a man and say so, instead of
sneaking away like a thief in the night?” asked Mr. Harris with all the
old sternness in his voice.
“I knew better. I did not care to put myself in the way of a whipping,
and that is all the satisfaction I should have got.”
Whatever may have been Mr. Harris’ other faults, he was not dishonest.
He did not deny this—he could not, so he hastened to change the subject.
“What was the reason you were not happy at home?” he asked. “Ned seems
to enjoy himself very well.”
“I suppose he does,” returned Guy bitterly. “He has a father and mother
who try to make home pleasant for him. Any boy can enjoy himself under
such circumstances.”
“Didn’t you have all you wanted to eat, and drink, and wear?”
“Yes, sir; but is that all a boy wants to make him happy? No, indeed. He
wants a kind word now and then. He likes to be told once in a while that
there is some good in him, and that he is not altogether wicked and
depraved. He wants privileges occasionally, not those granted with
hesitation and grumbling and cautions innumerable, for he cannot enjoy
them, but those which are extended willingly and smilingly, as if the
parent found as much pleasure in giving as the boy does in receiving
them. He wants somebody who will love him, and who is not ashamed to
show it. Where is Henry Stewart?” asked Guy suddenly.
“He is still at home,” replied Mr. Harris, “studying hard to fit himself
for college. Mr. Stewart seems to be particularly blessed in his
children. Henry is a model boy. He never does anything behind his
father’s back that he would be ashamed to do before his face.”
“And what is the reason?” asked Guy.
“I don’t know, I am sure. I suppose it is nature.”
“Yes, the nature of the boy has a good deal to do with his behavior, of
course, but believe me, father, when I say that the parents have a great
deal to do with it, too,” said Guy earnestly. “If you will go into Mr.
Stewart’s yard some night and watch his family through the window, as I
did on one occasion, the mystery will be solved in two minutes’ time.
Henry can’t help being a good boy, because he has a good home. It isn’t
what he has to eat and drink and wear that makes him so, either.”
“Well, have you been so much happier since you have been out in the
world than you were at home?”
“I have been so much better satisfied that I don’t want to go back,”
replied Guy.
“Have you never regretted your rash act? Have you never wanted to see
us?”
“Yes, sir, to both your questions. I wished myself at home a good many
times during the first three months I was away, not because I was sorry
I had left it, but because I was disheartened by the misfortunes I met
with and the abuse I received from some of those with whom I came in
contact. The world isn’t what I expected to find it by any means. I have
been cured of a good many foolish notions since I left home.”
“You must have had some plan in your head when you ran away,” said
Harris. “What did you expect to do?”
“I intended to become a hunter,” said Guy, with some hesitation.
“There!” exclaimed his father, suddenly brightening. “I have at last
reached the root of the matter. Don’t you see now that my judgment was
better than yours? If you had respected my wishes and let those
miserable works of fiction alone, you would have saved yourself a great
deal of trouble. Be honest now. Confess that the only reason why you
left home was because you got some wild idea into your head from those
books.”
“I have already told you why I left home, and why I don’t want to go
back,” said Guy. “If works of fiction are such awful things, how does it
come that Henry Stewart is so good a boy? He has a whole library of such
books, and he doesn’t have to hide away in the carriage-house or attic
to read them either, as I did. I don’t deny that the stories I read had
something to do with my choice of an occupation, but I do deny that they
had anything to do with my leaving home. The home itself was the cause
of that. It was such a gloomy, dismal place, that I couldn’t stay there.
But I’ve had enough of life on the frontier and on the ocean wave. It is
all well enough to sit down by a comfortable fire in an easy chair, and
read about the imaginary adventures that fall to the lot of hunters and
sailors who never existed, but when one comes to follow the business, he
finds that it is a different matter altogether.”
“Well, what are you going to do here in St. Louis?” asked Mr. Harris.
“I don’t know. I must find work of some kind, and that very soon, for I
have but a few dollars left. I know nothing of business, consequently if
I went into a store I should have to accept the lowest position, which
would not bring me enough to board and clothe myself. The only way I can
see is to enlist. I shall save every cent of my money—I think I know the
value of it—and when my term of service expires, I shall have enough to
enable me to take a course at the Commercial College. Perhaps after that
I can find some paying situation.”
“You must not go into the service, Guy,” said Mr. Harris. “I should
never expect to see you again. I can give you something to do.”
Guy opened his lips to decline this proposition without waiting to hear
more about it. The thought of working under his father’s supervision was
most distasteful to him—indeed, it could not be entertained for a
moment. He could not bear to meet, every hour in the day, that stern,
gloomy man, who never smiled. But Mr. Harris went on without giving him
time to speak.
“I have prospered since the war begun,” said he. “I have had two
profitable government contracts, and have established a business house
in this city. Mr. Walker, who is now my partner, has charge of it. I
will step around and see him about it, and perhaps we can make some
satisfactory arrangements, if you will promise to keep out of the
service.”
“But, father,” said Guy, “do you live here in this city?”
“No; I have charge of our business in Norwall. I go back there by this
evening’s train. What do you say?”
“I shall be grateful for any work that will bring me my board and
clothes, and will promise to keep out of the service,” said Guy.
“Suppose you come around here and take dinner with me at three o’clock.
I shall then be able to tell you what arrangements Mr. Walker and myself
have made.”
“Very well, sir,” said Guy.
Mr. Harris arose to his feet, and Guy taking this as a hint that he
wished the interview brought to a close, picked up his hat and left the
room.
“Thank goodness, it is over at last,” said he, drawing a long breath of
relief. “I didn’t say half I meant to have said, and I am glad I didn’t,
for I could see that he felt badly. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings,
but at the same time I wanted to let him see how impossible it is for me
to go back to Norwall with him. I shall always remember that interview,
for it is an event in my life. _It is the first time I ever spent half
an hour in private with my father without getting a scolding or a
whipping._ He was distant enough, mercy knows, but still he was kinder
and more cordial than I ever knew him to be before. Why didn’t he
exhibit a little of that spirit years ago? I would have done anything
for him that I could do.”
“I never in my life heard of such impudence,” soliloquized Mr. Harris,
as he paced up and down his room after Guy’s departure. “It was all I
could do to keep my hands off that boy. He had the audacity to tell me
to my face that I and his mother are the cause of his wrong-doing—that
we made his home so unpleasant for him that he couldn’t stay there. If
that is the case what is the reason Ned doesn’t run away? Guy must be
demented. That bosh he used to read so much has turned his head.”
How very unwilling we are to confess ourselves in fault for any
unhappiness that befall us—it is so much easier to lay the blame upon
somebody else. Said a father in my hearing, not long ago, while speaking
of a reckless, dissolute son who had caused him a world of trouble:
“Tom always was a peculiar boy. I never could understand him. He seemed
to prefer any place on earth to his home, and he never would stay there
if he could go anywhere else. Why it was so I am sure I don’t know. I
tried my best to do my duty by him, and it is a great comfort to me now
in my old age to know that nobody can tell me I spoiled him by sparing
the rod. I was as strict with him as a father could be. When he was not
at school I shut him up inside the yard to keep him out of the company
of bad boys. I never allowed him to go to a theater or circus, but made
him read his Bible every day and learn a portion of the New Testament
every night before he went to bed. In the evening, as soon as the gas
was lighted, I compelled him to bring out his school books and study
them until nine o’clock. I exercised the strictest supervision over his
reading, and burned every story paper, novel, book of travel, and trash
of that sort that he brought into the house. I saw that he was regular
in his attendance at church and Sunday-school, and on Sunday afternoons
never permitted him to touch any books or papers except those of a
religious character. In short, I tried to keep his mind so fully
occupied with good and useful things that wicked and trifling ones could
find no place in it. And how has my kindness been returned?” added the
father sorrowfully. “Tom run away from home when the war broke out, and
has never been near me since. He is now among those rough characters on
the border, and if everything I hear is true, he is one of the worst of
them. How a bad man can come from such a home as Tom had in his boyhood,
is a mystery to me.”
But it was no mystery to _me_, for I had heard the other side of the
story. A few weeks previous to this, while on my way to visit some
friends in the East, it was my fortune to meet this same Tom in a
distant State. I could scarcely recognize in him the innocent,
meek-appearing boy I had known in years gone by. He was dressed in a red
shirt, thrown open at the throat, coarse trousers thrust into a pair of
high-top boots, and a tattered slouch hat which he wore cocked over his
left ear. In a belt which encircled his waist he carried a navy
six-shooter and a monstrous bowie-knife, both of which had been used
with terrible effect in more than one personal encounter. He was a
swaggering, swearing, boastful, dissipated fellow, and always seemed on
the lookout for a chance to pick a quarrel with some one.
“You’re going home, Harry,” said he, as he grasped my hand at parting,
“and I wish you joy of your visit. Would to Heaven I had a home to go
to.”
“You have, Tom,” said I, “and your father would be glad to see you.”
“Don’t talk to me in that way,” he said, almost fiercely. “I know there
is a house in an Eastern town where I used to stay when I was a boy,
because I could go nowhere else, where I found shelter, food and
clothing, and was daily strapped and scolded, but does that constitute a
_home_? If it does, you writers and poets are all liars. You tell us
home is a place around which one’s warmest affections cluster—a place
consecrated by a mother’s presence, by her prayers and holy tears, whose
sacred influence goes with us through life, and whose pleasant memories
come thronging upon us when the tempter is near to keep us from being
led astray. Such is the home of my dreams, but it is one I never knew
and never shall know. I never knew a mother’s love, but was early made
acquainted with the weight of a father’s hand. He was such a tyrant that
I never could breathe easy in his presence. He denied me every boyish
privilege and indulgence, and brought me up so strictly that I learned
to despise everything good simply because he liked it. I hated the
Sabbath, I hated the Bible, being held to so unreasonably strict an
observance to the one, and so often compelled against my wishes to
commit to memory whole pages of the other. I resolved, as far back as I
can remember, that if I could once free myself from home, I’d see life
and make up for lost time, and you know as well as I can tell you how I
have kept that resolution. I am sorry for it now, but it is too late. I
can’t live my life over again. I have come to such a pass that nobody
cares for me.”
Tom’s under lip begun to quiver and his eyes to fill with tears. Ashamed
of the weakness, he dashed his hand across his face, uttered an oath
under his breath and swaggered off to the nearest saloon. What will his
end be? The rope of a vigilance committee, or the bullet of some fellow
desperado?
Parents, it is a serious matter to send a boy into the world with no
pleasant recollections of yourselves or of home to restrain him in the
hour of temptation.
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