CHAPTER XI.
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 thegreatest mishap, the most overwhelming misfortune, that could possiblyhave overtaken me. He was the first white man I had ever seen reallyintoxicated. 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 notthrow myself into his arms and weep tears of joy, as I had imagined theimpressive scene, in case I should ever find either of my parents. Iwanted to weep; I wanted to give myself up to a transport of grief, ifnot despair, as I realized the terrible truth that the degraded beingbefore me was my father.
"Philip, I've told you more than I ever uttered before. You looked intomy face, and seemed so interested that I was tempted to tell more thanI intended," said he, wiping away with his coat sleeve the tears thatstained his sunken cheeks. "No matter; we will be jolly now. I canget another drink in a cheap grog-shop for the half dime I have in mypocket."
To my surprise he laughed as easily as he had wept, and shook off, withastonishing facility, the burden which had weighed him down. He rosefrom his chair, and tottered towards the door. I followed him out intothe street.
"Where are you going now?" I asked.
"Going to get a cheap drink," he replied, with a kind of chuckle. "Ishall be all right then; and we'll go and look for Lynch."
"Don't drink any more to-night, Mr. Farringford," I pleaded, taking hisarm.
"I must!" said he, vehemently. "I might as well tell you not to eatafter you had been without food for a week, as you tell me not todrink. 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 onecheap drink left--one glass of camphene whiskey, which seems to burn myvery soul. In a word, it is better to die than to live, for such as Iam."
"No; there is hope for you," I pleaded, leading him along through thestreet.
"Hope? No more than for a man who is already dead, Philip. I shalltake my cheap drink, and then I shall be penniless again. It may betwenty-four hours, perhaps forty-eight, before I can raise anotherdollar or another drink. Then I shall suffer with horrors I cannotdescribe, 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 asteamboat; in a shed; anywhere or nowhere."
"But where were you going to-night?" I asked, shocked at thisrevelation 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 Iwas determined to do what I could for him; and, if she would not permithim to sleep with me, I would go out with my miserable parent. Iwanted to see him when he was sober. He had told me that his wife haddeserted him, and I wished to learn more about her. I could not alludeto a theme so sacred while he was in his present condition. Hopeless asthe task seemed to be, I intended to use all the powers which God hadgiven me in reforming him.
I led him in the direction of my boarding-house, and he seemed to be aswilling to go one way as another. After he had delivered himself of theemotions which crowded upon him at the bar-room, he spoke lightly ofhis misfortunes, and chuckled whenever he alluded to any circumstancewhich was particularly degrading in his condition.
"Where do you obtain your meals, Mr. Farringford?" I asked, as much tokeep 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. Ican'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 thelevee and waiting to start. They never turn me off when I sit down tothe table. If I'm very drunk, they give me my meal at a side-table; butthat don't happen often, for I don't want to eat when I can get plentyto drink."
How insufferably miserable and degrading was the life he led! And hewas 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 thisto save you from whiskey? I'm not drunk now. I know what I'm about; andI would go ten miles to-night to save any fellow-creature, even if itwas a nigger, from being as bad as I am. I would, Philip; upon my honorand conscience I would."
"That proves that you have a kind heart," I replied; and even as herevelled in his shame and misery, I was glad often to observe thesetouches of fine feeling, for they assured me that, in his betterdays, he had been a noble and generous man.
PHIL INTRODUCES THE ELDER FARRINGFORD TO HIS LANDLADY. Page 130.]
"My heart is right, my boy. Like all drunkards--Yes, Philip, I'm adrunkard. I know it; and I call things by their right names. Like alldrunkards, I've been growing worse and worse; but it's only a fewmonths since I went into the street, and had no home, no place to laymy 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 nightkey, and I admitted him to the entry, where I asked him to wait untilI spoke with my landlady. In as few words as possible I informed herof the discovery I had made, and distinctly added that my father wasintoxicated.
"Will you allow me to take care of him in my room, Mrs. Greenough?" Iasked.
"Yes, indeed!" she replied, with unexpected readiness. "Bring him intothe kitchen, and I will do everything I can for him."
"Thank you, Mrs. Greenough. You are very kind. I had no right to expectthis of you."
"I know how to pity such poor people, Phil," said she, shaking herhead sadly; and I afterwards learned that her late husband had beena drunkard for a number of years, and had been saved by the greatWashingtonian movement.
"My father does not yet suspect that I am his son. Will you be so kindas 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 mytottering 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 makeyour acquaintance--more happy than you can be to make mine."
"I'm very glad to see you; come in," she added, placing herrocking-chair before the fire for him.
He seated himself, and glanced around the room. Mrs. Greenough asked ifhe had been to supper. He had not, and he did not wish for any; butthe good lady insisted that he should have a cup of tea. In spite ofhis answer, he ate heartily of the food set before him, and seemed tobe refreshed by it. For an hour he talked about indifferent subjects,and then I took him to my room. Mrs. Greenough gave me some cleanclothes for him, which had belonged to her husband, declaring that shewas glad to have them put to so good use. He intimated, as he glancedat the neat bed, that he should like to wash himself. I carried up apail o
f warm water, and leaving him to make his ablutions, I went downto the kitchen again.
"I hope you will excuse me for bringing him here, Mrs. Greenough," saidI, feeling that I had been imposing upon her good nature.
"You did just exactly right, Phil. You had no other place to take himto; and you didn't want to leave the poor creature in the street. Iwill do everything I can for him."
"I am very much obliged to you, and as soon as Mr. Gracewood comes, Iwill 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 thefact; 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'tknow 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 thematter 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 hardlyperceptible; but his nerves were terribly shaken. Mrs. Greenough hadgiven me a dose of valerian, which she said would do him good. He drankit without an objection, and soon went to sleep. I was tired enough tofollow his example, after I had put the room in order.
When I awoke in the morning, my father had dressed himself, and waspacing the room, in the gloom of the early morning. He was entirelysober 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 heshould 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. Greenoughcan give you something better."
"I don't want to drink, Philip; no, I don't," he replied, in piteoustones; "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 anymoney?"
"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. Greenoughappeared. I told her how much my poor father was suffering. She seemedto understand the case exactly; and as soon as the tea-kettle boiled,she made some strong wormwood tea, which I gave to our patient. Ihad some hope when he declared that it had helped him. He ate a verylight breakfast, and appeared to have no appetite. My good landladyspoke words of hope to him, and said she had taken care of one who wasprecisely in his condition. If he would only be patient, and trusther, she would cure him. He promised to stay in the house during theforenoon; and I went to my work, hoping, but hardly expecting, to findhim there when I came home to dinner.