The Uncalled

haven’t much breath to spare. But I will tell you my life simply, in order to warn any that may be in the same way to change their course. Twenty years ago I was a hard-workin’ man in this State. I got along fairly, an’ had enough to live on an’ keep my wife an’ baby decent. Of course I took my dram like the other workmen, an’ it never hurt me. But some men can’t stand what others kin, an’ the habit commenced to grow on me. I took a spree, now an’ then, an’ then went back to work, fur I was a good hand, an’ could always git somethin’ to do. After a while I got so unsteady that nobody would have me. From then on it was the old story. I got discouraged, an’ drunk all the more. Three years after I begun, my home was a wreck, an’ I had ill-treated my wife until she was no better than I was; then she got a divorce from me, an’ I left the town. I wandered from place to place, sometimes workin’, always drinkin’; sometimes ridin’ on trains, sometimes trampin’ by the roadside. Fin’lly I drifted out to Californy, an’ there I spent most o’ my time until, a year ago, I come to see myself what a miserable bein’ I was. It was through one of your Bands of Hope. From then I pulled myself up; but it was too late. I had ruined my health. I started for my old home, talkin’ and tellin’ my story by the way. I want to get back there an’ jest let the people know that I’ve repented, an’ then I can die in peace. I want to see ef my wife an’ child⁠—” Here a great fit of coughing seized him again, and he was forced to sit down.

Brent had listened breathlessly to every word: a terrible fear was clutching at his heart. When the man sat down, he heard the voice of the chairman saying, “Now let us all contribute what we can to help the brother on his journey; he hasn’t far to go. Come forward and lay your contributions on the table here, now. Someone sing. Now who’s going to help Brother Brent?”

The young man heard the name. He grasped the seat in front of him for support. He seized his hat, staggered to his feet, and stumbled blindly out of the room and down the stairs.

“Drunk” said someone as he passed.

He rushed into the street, crying within himself, “My God! my God!” He hurried through the crowds, thrusting the people right and left and unheeding the curses that followed him. He reached home and groped up to his room.

“Awful!” murmured Mrs. Jones. “He seemed such a good young man; but he’s been out with Mr. Perkins, and men will be men.”

Once in his room, it seemed that he would go mad. Back and forth he paced the floor, clenching his hands and smiting his head. He wanted to cry out. He felt the impulse to beat his head against the wall. “My God! my God! It was my father,” he cried, “going back home. What shall I do?” There was yet no pity in his heart for the man whom he now knew to be his parent. His only thought was of the bitterness that parent’s folly had caused. “Oh, why could he not have died away from home, without going back there to revive all the old memories? Why must he go back there just at this troublous time to distress those who have loved me and help those who hate me to drag my name in the dust? He has chosen his own way, and it has ever been apart from me. He has neglected and forgotten me. Now why does he seek me out, after a life spent among strangers? I do not want him. I will not see him again. I shall never go home. I have seen him, I have heard him talk. I have stood near him and talked with him, and just when I am leaving it all behind me, all my past of sorrow and degradation, he comes and lays a hand upon me, and I am more the son of Tom Brent tonight than ever before. Is it Fate, God, or the devil that pursues me so?”

His passion was spending itself. When he was more calm he thought, “He will go home with a religious testimony on his lips, he will die happy, and the man who has spent all his days in drunkenness, killed his wife, and damned his son will be preached through the gates of glory on the strength of a few words of familiar cant.” There came into his mind a great contempt for the system which taught or preached so absurd and unfair a doctrine. “I wish I could go to the other side of the world,” he said, “and live among heathens who know no such dreams. I, Frederick Brent, son of Tom Brent, temperance advocate, sometime drunkard and wife-beater.” There was terrible, scorching irony in the thought. There was a pitiless hatred in his heart for his father’s very name.

“I suppose,” he went on, “that Uncle ’Liph”⁠—he said the name tenderly⁠—“has my letter now and will be writing to me to come home and hear my father’s dying words, and receive perhaps his dying blessing⁠—his dying blessing! But I will not go; I will not go back.” Anger, mingled with shame at his origin and a greater shame at himself, flamed within him. “He did not care for the helpless son sixteen years ago: let him die without the sight of the son now. His life has cursed my life, his name has blasted my name, his blood has polluted my blood. Let him die as he lived⁠—without me.”

He dropped into a chair and struck the table with his clenched fists.

Mrs. Jones came to the door to