Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland Volume XXI Part 4

THE PRODIGAL SON.

The early sun was melting away the coronets of grey clouds on the brows of the mountains, and the lark, as if proud of its plumage, and surveying itself in an illuminated mirror, carolled over the bright water of Keswick, when two strangers met upon the side of the lofty Skiddaw. Each carried a small bag and a hammer, betokening that their common errand was to search for objects of geological interest. The one appeared about fifty, the other some twenty years younger. There is something in the solitude of the everlasting hills, which makes men who are strangers to each other despise the ceremonious introductions of the drawing-room. So it was with our geologists--their place of meeting, their common pursuit, produced an instantaneous familiarity. They spent the day, and dined on the mountain-side together. They shared the contents of their flasks with each other; and, ere they began to descend the hill, they felt, the one towards the other, as though they had been old friends. They had begun to take the road towards Keswick, when the elder said to the younger, "My meeting with you to-day recalls to my recollection a singular meeting which took place between a friend of mine and a stranger, about seven years ago, upon the same mountain. But, sir, I will relate to you the circ.u.mstances connected with it; and they might be called the History of the Prodigal Son."

He paused for a few moments, and proceeded:--About thirty years ago a Mr. Fen-wick was possessed of property in Bamboroughshire worth about three hundred per annum. He had married while young, and seven fair children cheered the hearth of a glad father and a happy mother. Many years of joy and of peace had flown over them, when Death visited their domestic circle, and pa.s.sed his icy hand over the cheek of the first-born; and, for five successive years, as their children opened into manhood and womanhood, the unwelcome visitor entered their dwelling, till of their little flock there was but one, the youngest, left. And O, sir, in the leaving of that one, lay the cruelty of Death--to have taken him, too, would have been an act of mercy. His name was Edward; and the love, the fondness, and the care which his parents had borne for all their children, were concentrated on him. His father, whose soul was stricken with affliction, yielded to his every wish; and his poor mother

"Would not permit The winds of heaven to visit his cheek too roughly."

But you shall hear how cruelly he repaid their love--how murderously he returned their kindness. He was headstrong and wayward; and though the small still voice of affection was never wholly silent in his breast, it was stifled by the storm of his pa.s.sions and propensities. His first manifestation of open viciousness was a delight in the brutal practice of c.o.c.k-fighting; and he became a constant attender at every "_main_"

that took place at Northumberland. He was a habitual "_bettor_," and his losses were frequent; but hitherto his father, partly through fear, and partly from a too tender affection, had supplied him with money. A "main" was to take place in the neighbourhood of Morpeth, and he was present. Two n.o.ble birds were disfigured, the savage instruments of death were fixed upon them, and they were pitted against each other. "A hundred to one on the Felton Grey!" shouted Fen-wick. "Done! for guineas!" replied another. "Done! for guineas!--done!" repeated the prodigal--and the next moment the Felton Grey lay dead on the ground, pierced through the skull with the spur of the other. He rushed out of the c.o.c.kpit--"I shall expect payment to-morrow, Fen-wick," cried the other. The prodigal mounted his horse, and rode homeward with the fury of a madman. Kind as his father was, and had been, he feared to meet him or tell him the amount of his loss. His mother perceived his agony, and strove to soothe him.

"What is't that troubles thee, my bird?" inquired she. "Come, tell thy mother, darling."

With an oath he cursed the mention of birds, and threatened to destroy himself.

"O Edward, love! thou wilt kill thy poor mother. What can I do for thee?"

"Do for me!" he exclaimed, wildly tearing his hair as he spoke--"do for me, mother. Get me a hundred pounds, or my heart's blood shall flow at your feet."

"Child! child!" said she, "thou hast been at thy black trade of betting again. Thou wilt ruin thy father, Edward, and break thy mother's heart.

But give me thy hand on't, dear, that thou'lt bet no more, and I'll get thy father to give thee the money."

"My father must not know," he exclaimed; "I will die rather."

"Love! love!" replied she; "but, without asking thy father, where could I get thee a hundred pounds?"

"You have some money, mother," added he; "and you have trinkets--jewellery!" he gasped, and hid his face as he spoke.

"Thou shalt have them!--thou shalt have them, child!" said she, "and all the money thy mother has--only say thou wilt bet no more. Dost thou promise, Edward--oh, dost thou promise thy poor mother this?"

"Yes, yes!" he cried. And he burst into tears as he spoke.

He received the money, and the trinkets, which his mother had not worn for thirty years, and hurried from the house, and with them discharged a portion of his dishonourable debt.

He, however, did bet again; and I might tell you how he became a horse-racer also; but you shall hear that too. He was now about two-and-twenty, and for several years he had been acquainted with Eleanor Robinson--a fair being, made up of gentleness and love, if ever woman was. She was an orphan, and had a fortune at her own disposal of three thousand pounds. Her friends had often warned her against the dangerous habits of Edward Fen-wick. But she had given him her young heart--to him she had plighted her first vow--and, though she beheld his follies, she trusted that time and affection would wean him from them; and, with a heart full of hope and love, she bestowed on him her hand and fortune. Poor Eleanor! her hopes were vain, her love unworthily bestowed. Marriage produced no change on the habits of the prodigal son and thoughtless husband. For weeks he was absent from his own house, betting and carousing with his companions of the turf; while one vice led the way to another, and, by almost imperceptible degrees, he unconsciously sunk into all the habits of a profligate.

It was about four years after his marriage, when, according to his custom, he took leave of his wife for a few days, to attend the meeting at Doncaster.

"Good-bye, Eleanor, dear," he said gaily, as he rose to depart, and kissed her cheek; "I shall be back within five days."

"Well, Edward," said she, tenderly, "if you will go, you must; but think of me, and think of these our little ones." And, with a tear in her eye, she desired a lovely boy and girl to kiss their father. "Now, think of us, Edward," she added; "and do not bet, dearest, do not bet!"

"Nonsense, duck! nonsense!" said he; "did you ever see me lose?--do you suppose that Ned Fen-wick is not 'wide awake?' I know my horse, and its rider too--Barrymore's Highlander can distance everything. But, if it could not, I have it from a sure hand--the other horses are all '_safe_.' Do you understand that--eh?"

"No, I do not understand it, Edward, nor do I wish to understand it,"

added she; "but, dearest, as you love me--as you love our children--risk nothing."

"Love you, little gipsy! you know I'd die for you," said he--and, with all his sins, the prodigal spoke the truth. "Come, Nell, kiss me again, my dear--no long faces--don't take a leaf out of my old mother's book; you know the saying, 'Never venture, never win--faint heart never won fair ladye!' Good-bye, love--'bye, Ned--good-bye, mother's darling," said he, addressing the children as he left the house.

He reached Doncaster; he had paid his guinea for admission to the betting-rooms; he had whispered with, and slipped a fee to all the shrivelled, skin-and-bone, half-melted little manikins, called jockeys, to ascertain the secrets of their horses. "All's safe!" said the prodigal to himself, rejoicing in his heart. The great day of the festival--the important St. Leger--arrived. Hundreds were ready to back Highlander against the field: amongst them was Edward Fen-wick; he would take any odds--he did take them--he staked his all. "A thousand to five hundred on Highlander against the field," he cried, as he stood near a betting-post. "Done!" shouted a mustachioed peer of the realm, in a barouche by his side. "Done!" cried Fen-wick, "for the double, if you like, my lord." "Done!" added the peer; "and I'll treble it if you dare!" "Done!" rejoined the prodigal, in the confidence and excitement of the moment--"Done! my lord." The eventful hour arrived. There was not a false start. The horses took the ground beautifully. Highlander led the way at his ease; and his rider, in a tartan jacket and mazarine cap, looked confident. Fen-wick stood near the winning-post, grasping the rails with his hands; he was still confident, but he could not chase the admonition of his wife from his mind. The horses were not to be seen.

His very soul became like a solid and sharp-edged substance within his breast. Of the twenty horses that started, four again appeared in sight.

"The tartan yet! the tartan yet!" shouted the crowd. Fen-wick raised his eyes--he was blind with anxiety--he could not discern them; still he heard the cry of "The tartan! the tartan!" and his heart sprang to his mouth. "Well done, orange!--the orange will have it!" was the next cry.

He again looked up, but he was more blind than before.

"Beautiful!--beautiful! Go it, tartan! Well done, orange!" shouted the spectators; "a n.o.ble race!--neck and neck; six to five on the orange!"

He became almost deaf as well as blind. "Now for it!--now for it!--it won't do, tartan!--hurrah!--hurrah!--orange has it!"

"Liar!" exclaimed Fen-wick, starting as if from a trance, and grasping the spectator who stood next him by the throat--"I am not ruined!"--In a moment he dropped his hands by his side, he leaned over the railing, and gazed vacantly on the ground. His flesh writhed, and his soul groaned in agony. "Eleanor!--my poor Eleanor!" cried the prodigal. The crowd hurried towards the winning-post--he was left alone. The peer with whom he had betted, came behind him; he touched him on the shoulder with his whip--"Well, my covey," said the n.o.bleman, "you have lost it."

Fen-wick gazed on him with a look of fury and despair, and repeated--"Lost it!--I am ruined--soul and body!--wife and children ruined!"

"Well, Mr. Fen-wick," said the sporting peer, "I suppose, if that be the case, you won't come to Doncaster again in a hurry. But my settling day is to-morrow--you know I keep sharp accounts; and if you have not the '_ready_' at hand, I shall expect an equivalent--you understand me."

So saying, he rode off, leaving the prodigal to commit suicide if he chose. It is enough for me to tell you that, in his madness and his misery, and from the influence of what he called his sense of honour, he gave the winner a bill for the money--payable at sight. My feelings will not permit me to tell you how the poor infatuated madman more than once made attempts upon his own life; but the latent love of his wife and of his children prevailed over the rash thought, and, in a state bordering on insanity, he presented himself before the beings he had so deeply injured.

I might describe to you how poor Eleanor was sitting in their little parlour, with her boy upon a stool by her side, and her little girl on her knee, telling them fondly that their father would be home soon, and anon singing to them the simple nursery rhyme--

"Hush, my babe, baby bunting, Your father's at the hunting," etc.;

when the door opened, and the guilty father entered, his hair clotted, his eyes rolling with the wildness of despair, and the cold sweat running down his pale cheeks.

"Eleanor! Eleanor!" he cried, as he flung himself upon a sofa.

She placed her little daughter on the floor--she flew towards him--"My Edward!--oh my Edward!" she cried--"what is it, love?--something troubles you."

"Curse me, Eleanor!" exclaimed the wretched prodigal, turning his face from her. "I have ruined you I--I have ruined my children!--I am lost for ever!"

"No, my husband!" exclaimed the best of wives; "your Eleanor will not curse you. Tell me the worst, and I will bear it--cheerfully bear it, for my Edward's sake."

"You will not--you cannot," cried he; "I have sinned against you as never man sinned against woman. Oh! if you would spit upon the very ground where I tread, I would feel it as an alleviation of my sufferings; but your sympathy, your affection, makes my very soul destroy itself! Eleanor!--Eleanor-!--if you have mercy, hate me--tell me--show me that you do!"

"O Edward!" said she, imploringly, "was it thus when your Eleanor spurned every offer for your sake, when you pledged to her everlasting love? She has none but you, and can you speak thus? O husband! if you will forsake _me_, forsake not my poor children--tell me! only tell me the worst--and I will rejoice to endure it with my Edward!"

"Then," cried Fen-wick, "if you will add to my misery by professing to love a wretch like me--know you are a beggar!--and I have made you one!

Now, can you share beggary with me?"

She repeated the word "Beggary!"--she clasped her hands together--for a few moments she stood in silent anguish--her bosom heaved--the tears gushed forth--she flung her arms around her husband's neck--"Yes!" she cried, "I can meet even beggary with my Edward!"

"O Heaven!" cried the prodigal, "would that the earth would swallow me!

I cannot stand this!"

I will not dwell upon the endeavours of the fond, forgiving wife, to soothe and to comfort her unworthy husband; nor yet will I describe to you the anguish of the prodigal's father and of his mother, when they heard the extent of his folly and of his guilt. Already he had cost the old man much, and, with a heavy and sorrowful heart, he proceeded to his son's house to comfort his daughter-in-law. When he entered, she was endeavouring to cheer her husband with a tune upon the harpsichord--though, Heaven knows, there was no music in her breast, save that of love--enduring love!

"Well, Edward," said the old man, as he took a seat, "what is this that thou hast done now?"

The prodigal was silent.