IN WHICH PHIL TAKES HIS FATHER TO HIS NEW HOME.
My father! I had found him; but the finding of him in such a miserable,
degraded, besotted being as he who was before me seemed to be the
greatest mishap, the most overwhelming misfortune, that could possibly
have overtaken me. He was the first white man I had ever seen really
intoxicated. I was mortified and disheartened as I looked at his pale,
thin face, and regarded his trembling limbs.
What should I do? I could not tell him that I was his son. I could not
throw myself into his arms and weep tears of joy, as I had imagined the
impressive scene, in case I should ever find either of my parents. I
wanted to weep; I wanted to give myself up to a transport of grief, if
not despair, as I realized the terrible truth that the degraded being
before me was my father.
"Philip, I've told you more than I ever uttered before. You looked into
my face, and seemed so interested that I was tempted to tell more than
I intended," said he, wiping away with his coat sleeve the tears that
stained his sunken cheeks. "No matter; we will be jolly now. I can
get another drink in a cheap grog-shop for the half dime I have in my
pocket."
To my surprise he laughed as easily as he had wept, and shook off, with
astonishing facility, the burden which had weighed him down. He rose
from his chair, and tottered towards the door. I followed him out into
the street.
"Where are you going now?" I asked.
"Going to get a cheap drink," he replied, with a kind of chuckle. "I
shall be all right then; and we'll go and look for Lynch."
"Don't drink any more to-night, Mr. Farringford," I pleaded, taking his
arm.
"I must!" said he, vehemently. "I might as well tell you not to eat
after you had been without food for a week, as you tell me not to
drink. I must have whiskey, or die."
"Then die!" I added, using his own words.
"Die?"
"That's what you said to me."
"I might do that, Philip," he replied, stopping suddenly in the street,
as if the idea impressed him favorably.
"Of course I did not mean that, sir," I interposed.
"But it would be better to die than live as I live. I have only one
cheap drink left--one glass of camphene whiskey, which seems to burn my
very soul. In a word, it is better to die than to live, for such as I
am."
"No; there is hope for you," I pleaded, leading him along through the
street.
"Hope? No more than for a man who is already dead, Philip. I shall
take my cheap drink, and then I shall be penniless again. It may be
twenty-four hours, perhaps forty-eight, before I can raise another
dollar or another drink. Then I shall suffer with horrors I cannot
describe, till I can get more whiskey."
"Where do you live?"
"Nowhere."
"Where do you board?"
"I don't board," he replied, with his usual chuckle.
"Where do you sleep?"
"Wherever I happen to drop. In the police station; on board a
steamboat; in a shed; anywhere or nowhere."
"But where were you going to-night?" I asked, shocked at this
revelation of misery, so horrible and strange to me.
"I was going to the gambling-houses to find Lynch."
"But after that?"
"Anywhere that my fancy leads me."
"Come with me," said I, unwilling to abandon him.
"Where?"
"To my house--where I board."
"No, Philip."
"You shall sleep with me to-night."
I knew that Mrs. Greenough would not wish such a lodger as he, but I
was determined to do what I could for him; and, if she would not permit
him to sleep with me, I would go out with my miserable parent. I
wanted to see him when he was sober. He had told me that his wife had
deserted him, and I wished to learn more about her. I could not allude
to a theme so sacred while he was in his present condition. Hopeless as
the task seemed to be, I intended to use all the powers which God had
given me in reforming him.
I led him in the direction of my boarding-house, and he seemed to be as
willing to go one way as another. After he had delivered himself of the
emotions which crowded upon him at the bar-room, he spoke lightly of
his misfortunes, and chuckled whenever he alluded to any circumstance
which was particularly degrading in his condition.
"Where do you obtain your meals, Mr. Farringford?" I asked, as much to
keep his attention occupied as to gratify my own curiosity.
"I don't obtain many," he replied, lightly.
"But you must eat."
"Not when I can drink. I don't average more than one meal a day. I
can't afford to waste my money, when I have any, in eating."
"Do you live on one meal a day?"
"I don't get that always."
"Where do you get that one?"
"Anywhere I can. They have meals on board the steamers lying at the
levee and waiting to start. They never turn me off when I sit down to
the table. If I'm very drunk, they give me my meal at a side-table; but
that don't happen often, for I don't want to eat when I can get plenty
to drink."
How insufferably miserable and degrading was the life he led! And he
was my father!
"How long have you led such a life?" I inquired, with a shudder.
"Not long, Philip. Do you know, my lad, that I'm telling you all this
to save you from whiskey? I'm not drunk now. I know what I'm about; and
I would go ten miles to-night to save any fellow-creature, even if it
was a nigger, from being as bad as I am. I would, Philip; upon my honor
and conscience I would."
"That proves that you have a kind heart," I replied; and even as he
revelled in his shame and misery, I was glad often to observe these
touches of fine feeling, for they assured me that, in his better
days, he had been a noble and generous man.
[Illustration: PHIL INTRODUCES THE ELDER FARRINGFORD TO HIS
LANDLADY. Page 130.]
"My heart is right, my boy. Like all drunkards--Yes, Philip, I'm a
drunkard. I know it; and I call things by their right names. Like all
drunkards, I've been growing worse and worse; but it's only a few
months since I went into the street, and had no home, no place to lay
my head at night."
I led him to Mrs. Greenough's house. He said nothing more about the
"cheap drink," for I had kept his mind busy on the way. I had a night
key, and I admitted him to the entry, where I asked him to wait until
I spoke with my landlady. In as few words as possible I informed her
of the discovery I had made, and distinctly added that my father was
intoxicated.
"Will you allow me to take care of him in my room, Mrs. Greenough?" I
asked.
"Yes, indeed!" she replied, with unexpected readiness. "Bring him into
the kitchen, and I will do everything I can for him."
"Thank you, Mrs. Greenough. You are very kind. I had no right to expect
this of you."
"I know how to pity such poor people, Phil," said she, shaking her
head sadly; and I afterwards learned that her late husband had been
a drunkard for a number of years, and had been saved by the great
Washingtonian movement.
"My father does not yet suspect that I am his son. Will you be so kind
as not to mention the fact to him?" I continued.
"Just as you wish, Phil," she answered, as I hastened down stairs.
Mrs. Greenough held the lamp in the entry while I conducted my
tottering companion up the stairs. I introduced him in due form to her.
"Madam, I am your very obedient servant," said he. "I am happy to make
your acquaintance--more happy than you can be to make mine."
"I'm very glad to see you; come in," she added, placing her
rocking-chair before the fire for him.
He seated himself, and glanced around the room. Mrs. Greenough asked if
he had been to supper. He had not, and he did not wish for any; but
the good lady insisted that he should have a cup of tea. In spite of
his answer, he ate heartily of the food set before him, and seemed to
be refreshed by it. For an hour he talked about indifferent subjects,
and then I took him to my room. Mrs. Greenough gave me some clean
clothes for him, which had belonged to her husband, declaring that she
was glad to have them put to so good use. He intimated, as he glanced
at the neat bed, that he should like to wash himself. I carried up a
pail of warm water, and leaving him to make his ablutions, I went down
to the kitchen again.
"I hope you will excuse me for bringing him here, Mrs. Greenough," said
I, feeling that I had been imposing upon her good nature.
"You did just exactly right, Phil. You had no other place to take him
to; and you didn't want to leave the poor creature in the street. I
will do everything I can for him."
"I am very much obliged to you, and as soon as Mr. Gracewood comes, I
will have something done for him."
"Are you sure he is your father?"
"I have no doubt of it, Mrs. Greenough. What he said assured me of the
fact; but he thinks I am dead."
"Where is your mother? Was she lost?"
"No; he says she was driven away from him by his bad conduct. I don't
know where she is."
My landlady was willing to take care of the sufferer for a few days,
if he could be induced to stay at the house; and we talked about the
matter till I thought he had gone to bed, when I went to my room.
By this time the effects of the liquor he had drank were hardly
perceptible; but his nerves were terribly shaken. Mrs. Greenough had
given me a dose of valerian, which she said would do him good. He drank
it without an objection, and soon went to sleep. I was tired enough to
follow his example, after I had put the room in order.
When I awoke in the morning, my father had dressed himself, and was
pacing the room, in the gloom of the early morning. He was entirely
sober now, and his frame shook as though he had been struck with palsy.
I was alarmed at his condition. He told me he must have whiskey, or he
should shake himself to pieces.
"Don't take any more, sir," I pleaded.
"Nothing but whiskey will quiet my nerves," said he, in trembling tones.
"You shall have some strong tea or coffee; or perhaps Mrs. Greenough
can give you something better."
"I don't want to drink, Philip; no, I don't," he replied, in piteous
tones; "but you cannot understand the misery of my present condition.
It is worse than death."
"But you will be better soon if you let liquor alone."
"I can't let it alone. Every instant is an hour of agony. Have you any
money?"
"Only five cents."
"I have five cents. I will get a cheap drink."
"No, don't!" I pleaded. "Wait here a little while. I will make a fire,
and see what can be done for you."
I went down stairs, and by the time I had made the fire Mrs. Greenough
appeared. I told her how much my poor father was suffering. She seemed
to understand the case exactly; and as soon as the tea-kettle boiled,
she made some strong wormwood tea, which I gave to our patient. I
had some hope when he declared that it had helped him. He ate a very
light breakfast, and appeared to have no appetite. My good landlady
spoke words of hope to him, and said she had taken care of one who was
precisely in his condition. If he would only be patient, and trust
her, she would cure him. He promised to stay in the house during the
forenoon; and I went to my work, hoping, but hardly expecting, to find
him there when I came home to dinner.