Newspaper Page Text
1852.]
for the Southern Literary Gazette.
THE PRODIGAL’S RETURN.
A TALE OF THE NEW YEAR.
BY. ALICE B. NEAL.
CHAPTER 111.
The snow-clouds had changed to a hit
ter driving rain, that drenched her before
she had gone a square, but she tried not
to mind this, and went on bravely to
wards the shops, bending down her head
to keep the cold rain from her face. The
gutters were swollen, and every step
increased the damp, clinging moisture of
her dress, that impeded her first rapid
movements. But bodily discomfort was
nothing to the mental anguish she had
known; and she was ministering to his
comfort, as she had done for many years,
poor woman, since he was first laid in
her arms indeed, a little helpless infant.
The shops were nearly all closed, and
she had to go further than she intended.
The inclement night gave all a holiday,
even the poorest tradesmen was content
to give up the hope of gain for an evening
by the fireside. They did not offer to
send home parcels for a customer so
poorly clad, and burdened by her pur
chases, still for him, she set out on her
return. Oh, how dreary, the wet plash
ing streets, scarcely a dog unsheltered,
and no human faces, save now and then
some poor creature rolling home in the
madness of intoxication, or the policemen
in their heavy coats pacing a solitary
round. One of them spoke to her—a
kind-hearted man, who carried the heavy
parcel so far as his walk extended. He
was young, and he, too, had a mother.
Then she was alone again, and her heart
sank down, as light after light died out,
a long the narrow street, and the storm
drove coldly in her face. She could
scarcely lift her feet from the tide that
poured along the pavements from the
broken spouts of the dilapidated dwel
bngs. She reached the house at last, so
weary, and so cold, but with the thought
that he would be there to welcome her.
She opened the door softly, thinking
to steal in behind him, but he was not
there. The door of the inner room stood
so she put down her bundle, think-
Ul B flight be weary, and had retired
t,JI the night. She warmed her hands
b’ 1 an instant by the smouldering fire,
SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE.
thinking to herself it was a long time
since she had watched over his sleep, and
that she would go and arrange his pil
lows comfortaoly, and once more offer
her thanksgivings by his bed side.
The room was empty. His bed was
untouched, and she stood a moment irre
solutely trying to think what it could
mean. But he w r ould be hack soon, he
did not know that she had gone out for
him, and he might have thought of pur
chases, for she had placed half of all her
little store beside him, as she departed,
that he need not for an instant feel pen
niless or dependent. So she sat down
by the fire, at first with pleasant dreams
of their future, and listening every mo
ment for his tread on the stairs; but he
did not come, and she rose and went to
the window, looking out for him in the
darkness. She stood there more than an
hour, watching the hoary sheets of rain
fall into the pools that had collected in
the streets, by the dim light of the street
lamp on the corner, or the broader blaze
that streamed from a noisy drinking shop
near by. The houses dark with the soak
ing rain, their slant roofs, and high chim
neys, seemed spectral in their outline,
and now and then the wind came with a
wild rush, and moan, that made the lights
flicker, and the face of the dark pools to
glimmer, while the windows shook with a
dismal, lonely sound. She could not bear
to think of him exposed to such a tem
pest, forgetful that she had braved it
herself much more thinly clad, —and a
feeling of utter loneliness seemed to
weigh her down, as moments, and at last
hours, had gone by.
“This is foolish,” she said to herself at
length, turning from the dreariness with
out, “and he will be so chilled —1 have
let the fire burn down.” So she stooped
to mend it, and as the flame shot up
brightly, she saw a letter lying on the
mantel-piece, directed in his hand.
She felt all that would be there, be
fore she had read a word; it was a long
time before she could make out the let
ter closely, for her hand shook and trem
bled, and her sight seemed leaving her.
“I know I am going to pain you mother
by what I have decided on. Perhaps
you will think me selfish, and perhaps I
am ; but I cannot go back with you to
Milford, where every thing would remind
me of what I once was, and even the old
familiar trees, would seem to taunt me
with very shame. I cannot meet the
people who would pity me, at best, and
who have so long pitied you for being
the mother of a felon. Yes, mother, you
know they call me so, and half the
world ever will think that I am. You
know, and she believes, I am not guilty ;
but it is your love that gives the faith.
Yet I am guilty ; —how much so, I never
realized until this morning, when I saw
how you were bowed and changed. Your
loving face would be a perpetual reproach
to me, for it was I who worsted your sub
stance, and have so nearly brought you
to the grave. Sometimes it seems as if
God would never forgive me. 1 can never
forgive myself.
“Then I could not meet Lucy with this
brand upon my forehead. She could not
help scorning me —but tell her that she
has been the angel of my darkness too,
and that she now beckons me on in my
course, though I shall never see her face
again, or yours either mother, until I am
once more a man ; if I fail to work out my
contrition, you will never hear from me
again. If I succeed, through your love,
and your prayeis, through God's grace ,
mother , then your son will be all that he
should have been years ago. Ho not
blame me for leaving you now —it is bet
ter than if you saw me rusting out in
despondency and inactivity, for what
could Ido there 1 Let me go mother—
dearest, best mother—with your bles
sing.”
And afterwards he laid written, with a
blotted, unsteady hand—“do not look
for me, it will be useless. I take what
you have left me, or 1 should starve —by
morning I shall be miles away, and you
must go home. Promise me to go at
once , mother .”
Festivals that are marked by house
hold gatherings, have a sadness measur
ing all their joy—
“ When none remain
Os those who made us happy then,
But leave us Jonely now.”
The white ashes gather more thickly
around a lonely hearth—the shadows
that rise and fall, as the flames flicker in
the twilight, have a gloomy strangeness,
when the children that once danced in
the ruddy glow, shout no longer at their
fantastic outlines. Whether they are
watching the bright fire light in pleasant
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