the prodigal
"isn't he awful looking, mother? why does daddy let him come in so much? i don't like the way the study smells after he's been in."
little ruth, of a village manse, made many other observations, and asked many other questions as a poor, wretched-looking man shuffled across the lawn in the early evening of an autumn day.
the mother's smile changed quickly to a look of sadness, and giving the wee girl a kiss, she said, "mother will tell ruthie all about it at story-time to-night."
from the children's bible story book that night the mother read of the prodigal son. there were a number of interruptions from the occupant of the little bed: "why didn't he go home before he got so dreadful hungry, mother?" "where was his mother?" "why did his father run so far?"
after answering many questions the mother continued: "there are lots and lots of prodigal sons still living; men who have been bad, and who then, like some little children who have been naughty, run away from those who love them best. and all the time those who love them are wishing so much that they would come back, and say they are sorry and that they will try to be better. god is our father, and he loves everybody; you know what we often say when daddy has prayers: 'for god so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son, that whosoever believeth on him should not perish, but have everlasting life.' well, darling, you wanted to know why daddy let poor mr. gage come in so often? he lets him come because god would let him come. the poor man thinks that god doesn't want him because he's been so bad, and because he's gone, oh! so far away, and daddy is trying to tell him that god does want him, and that god will take care of him if he will only love him and trust him, like you trust daddy and mother to take care of you. mr. gage is awful looking because sin is awful, and he has let sin be his master instead of god. but mother's darling will be nice and kind to him, because god loves him, and we must love those whom god loves. perhaps some day you will see him look as much different as the prodigal son looked after he came back home."
ruth did not altogether forget her mother's words, and when the half-drunken man was brought to the manse for a meal a little later on in the week, she somewhat timorously handed him two or three asters that she had picked from the garden. john gage looked a little embarrassed, and at first seemed inclined to leave them in ruth's possession, but the little hand remained outstretched, and with sweet winsomeness the child told him she had picked them for him.
"picked them for me! well, well! then i guess i'll take them. thank you."
on several occasions, as he sauntered around the village, his attention was arrested by a childish voice calling him by name, so that he came to feel he had a friend in the minister's little girl.
there were many head-shakings among the village wiseacres regarding the minister's interest in john gage. it was generally agreed that while the preacher was well meaning enough, his knowledge of human nature was not very keen. the village constable knew john so well that he felt able to speak authoritatively on the matter. "'tain't no use, young man," he said to the preacher. "we wus talking about him the other day in cyrus haag's blacksmith shop, and every man says the same as i do. he's just a-bleeding you, that's all. five years' hard labour is what he needs; s'long as you'll take care of him when he's drunk, and feed him when he's broke, he'll just bum around. don't i know the whole bunch? didn't me and the county constable arrest his father when he pretty nigh murdered sam collins? ain't his brother in kingston penitentiary this very minute? the only way to improve them fellers is to hang 'em."
the authoritative information having been given the preacher, there was no further need of sympathy for him if he wilfully rejected the constable's gratuitous, labour-and-money-saving counsel.
and the passing of the weeks seemed to confirm the "'tain't-no-use" judgment. people living near the manse reported everything that happened, and a good deal that did not happen, in connection with the visits of john gage and others of his type, for it was generally known that the preacher was "easy." but the preacher went on with his work, and whatever the results of his efforts might be, nobody ever doubted his belief in the gospel he preached.
every sabbath evening, in some form or other, he dealt with the fact of sin and its soul-destroying power. he knew that "sin and punishment go through the world with their heads tied together," but he knew also, and he preached it as a fact that for him was beyond all controversy, that by immediate act of god salvation might come, and had come, delivering the life from the gripping, enslaving, murderous power of sin.
* * * * *
the year was drawing to its close. the little village had its share of christmas festivities, and family reunions were taking place. there were men from the east, and men from the west, back in the old haunts for the holiday season. wonderful stories of material success were told as "the boys" from the west expounded the opportunities of the prairie provinces. as is too often the case, the bar-room was the main social centre of week-day life in the village, and john gage was always ready to fall into line when the prosperous ones gave the all-inclusive invitation, "come on, boys." and so long as john helped to swell the receipts, his drunken presence was tolerated around the bar. scores of times did he join in the greeting "a merry christmas," and the merrier it seemed to be to the frequenters of the derby house bar, the sadder it really was to the homes from which they came.
the prodigal's delirium
weeks of drinking, followed by the revelry of christmas, brought john to such a condition that when the bar-room closed on saturday night he was turned out of the house, and a little later dragged out of a corner of the drive-shed, and told to "get clean away" from the premises.
there was a strange look about the man on this particular saturday night—a wild, almost savage appearance. he stood a moment on the sidewalk as if uncertain of his whereabouts, and then turned and walked in the direction of the manse.
the minister answered the door-bell, and without a word john walked right in and through the hall to the study. at last he spoke. "you—told—me—to—come—any—time. i—want—to—stay—here—to-night." then, with body bent, and as if in pain, with arms crossed, he rocked himself to and fro. "oh, god! but i'm sick; three days nothing but whiskey: i've got it to-night for sure."
after much persuading the minister had the man in bed. the mistress of the manse had prepared strong coffee as fast as her trembling body would let her. once before she had passed through a night such as she feared this would be, and the prospect might well make her timorous. but the manse and its furniture had three years ago been pledged to his service, and she murmured not.
the doctor had been sent for, but he was on a country call, and was not expected back until eleven.
at one end of the bedroom the minister sat watching john gage. in some way the drink-inflamed man had placed under his pillow an old revolver and a short stiletto. after a time the hands clasped these with a vice-like grip. suddenly standing out on the carpet he looked at the preacher, and said, "why in the devil don't you go home? d'you want a fight? say! i could rip you so's they'd have to pick you up in baskets."
a little later he imagined he was once more on the south african battle-field. with a sickening shudder he pointed to where his deluded eyes saw again the wounded and bleeding. "my god! see that poor devil with his leg nearly off! look! ain't that awful. see that one squirming!—him yonder with his head half open!" then straightening himself, he said, as if addressing some audience, "friends, i say, and i know, war is hell!"
from time to time, under persuasion, he would return to his bed. once he imagined he was driving down the old concession road near his grandfather's farm as in boyhood days. the sheets were jerked and handled as if reins. "well, now, this is a slow horse. it will, ladies and gentlemen, be quite appropriate to sing we won't get home till morning.' i tell you what i'll do—i'll put the horse in the rig, and i'll get in the shafts, and then there'll be a horse in the buggy and an ass in the shafts, but we'll make better time." then followed a weird burst of laughter.
the doctor arrived about midnight. for a couple of hours he watched the effect of his treatment, but rest would not come to the occupant of the guest-room. the eyes would appear to be closing in sleep, and then would suddenly open wide as if their owner were in terror of some impending disaster. then the danger spot seemed to have been located, and with a series of jerks the head was raised higher and higher until john was sitting up in bed. never once did the gaze leave the corner of the room. with the utmost stealth, first one foot and then the other was pushed from under the bedclothes to the floor. very slowly and noiselessly, with knife still gripped, the demon-possessed man glided toward the corner. with great caution, as if measuring the distance, he bent the left knee, and at the same time lifted the right hand ready to strike. then with blasphemous exclamations he stabbed the imaginary monstrosities. again and again he seemed hurled back as by some real enemy in the fight. at last the knife went deep into the floor, and he seemed to have conquered. never once taking his gaze from where the knife stood he backed slowly toward the bed. "ah! i got him that time! see him! see him!" then followed a blood-chilling burst of profanity at the wriggling object of his delirium. "but he can't get up! no! no! no! it's through his neck."
and so the long night wore on, and the wearied preacher, looking upon what drink could do with "god's masterpiece," vowed anew to fight the cursed traffic in intoxicants as long as life lasted, and never knowingly to have his home defiled by such a life-blasting beverage.
it was nearly seven o'clock on sabbath morning when john gage fell asleep. at ten o'clock the bell of the adjoining church awakened him. the minister had anticipated the awakening, and was at the bedside. john seemed dazed for a time, but in a little while conversed with the one who had befriended him. he was urged to remain quietly in bed, and after a few words the minister clasped the hand of the outcast man, and kneeling at the bedside, laid the burden of his heart upon the one who is mighty to save. as the amen was uttered ruth approached the door. "alright, little one, come and see your friend john," were her father's words. ruth was ready for church, and with garments and face alike attractive, laid her little hand in the big hand of the sin-wrecked man. who can understand the power of the touch of a child's hand? closing his fingers over the dainty, wee hand, john gage turned his face to the wall and sobbed aloud. little ruth hardly knew what to do. gently she placed the other hand on the dirty, unshaven cheek, and merely said sympathetically, "don't cry."
john turned his head back again long enough to say brokenly, "god bless you, little gal."
leading ruth out the room, the minister gathered up his books and went to the morning service. when he returned john gage had departed. early monday morning allan short, a near-by farmer, called to tell him that john was out at his place cutting away at the winter's wood-pile. allan promised to do what he could for john, but incidentally remarked that he did not see why a man couldn't "take a glass of beer without making a fool of himself."
a day or two later the minister drove by the short homestead, presumably to make a call at the meen's farm, where he had several faithful church-goers. as he passed, he recognised john at the saw-horse, and waved a greeting as to a friend.
on his return he drove up the road to the short farm, and john at once came forward, with the customary canadian courtesy, to tie up or unhitch the horse, according to the visitor's wish. after a few pleasantries the minister went to the house and made a call on such members of the short family as were home, and then returned to where his horse was tied. hesitating a moment, he turned and walked to the wood-pile, and after complimenting john on his ability to swing the axe, spoke a few encouraging words. for a moment the hand rested on john's shoulder as he said, "you will be one of god's good men yet, john. i know it's a terrible fight, but god knows all about it, and with him you can conquer. come and see us any time you are in, but for the life of you don't loiter around the village, and do keep clear of the men who would be likely to make it easy for you to get what you know is ruinous to you. and don't forget we are your friends always, always."
as he turned the corner of the side road, he met allan short returning from a trip to the village. referring to john gage the farmer said, "he's been as straight as a british columbia pine since he came out; but, say! it's kind o' pitiful, after all, the way he craves for whiskey. me and the missus watched him yesterday. she's been keeping her eyes open. well! john was taking a breathing spell, after he had done a fine lot of splitting (and he's no greenhorn with the axe, let me tell you!), when all of a sudden he went to the fence-post where his coat was hanging, and putting it on as he walked, he made down the road. he got about ten rod and then stopped like as if he'd forgotten something, and then he started back, took off his coat, and pitched into that wood-pile as if it was sure death if he didn't get it finished by night. the missus says he's done the same thing three times to her knowledge, and once he went so far she was sure he was gone for good. but she says he sure did 'lambaste' them blocks when he got back."