Loves Pilgrimage | Page 2

time." So the boy went on;
there were several miles of this Highway, and each block of it the same.
At last, in a dingy bar-room, with saw-dust strewn upon the floor, and
the odor of stale beer and tobacco-smoke in the air--here suddenly the
boy sprang forward, with a cry: "Father!" And a man who sat with
bowed head in a corner gave a start, and lifted a white face and stared
at him. He rose unsteadily to his feet, and staggered to the other, and
fell upon his shoulder, sobbing, "My son! My son!"
How many times had Thyrsis heard those words--in how many hours of
anguish! They sank into the deeps of him, waking echoes like the clang
of a bell: they voiced all the terror and grief of defeated life--"My son!
My son!"
The man clung to him, weeping, and pouring out the flood of his shame.
"I have fallen again--I am lost--I am lost!"
The occupants of the place were watching the scene with dull curiosity;
and the boy was trembling like a wild deer trapped.
"Yes, father, yes! Let us go home."
"Home--home, my son? Will you take me home? Oh, I couldn't bear to
go!"
"But you must come home."
"Do you mean that you still love me, son?"
"Yes, father, I still love you. I want to try to help you. Come with me."
Then the boy would gaze about and ask, "Where is your hat?"

"Hat, my son? I don't know. I have lost it." The boy would see his torn
and mud-stained clothing, and the poor old pitiful face, with the eyes
blood-shot and swollen, and the skin, that had been rosy, and was now
a ghastly, ashen gray. He would choke back his feelings, and grip his
hands to keep himself together.
"Come, father, take my hat, and let us go."
"No, my son. I don't need any hat. Nothing can hurt me--I am lost!
Lost!"
So they would go out, arm in arm; and while they made their progress
up the Highway, the man would pour out his remorse, and tell the story
of his weeks of horror.
Then, after a mile or so, he would halt.
"My son!"
"What is it, father?"
"I must stop here, son."
"Why, father?"
"I must have something to drink."
"No, father!"
"But, my boy, I can't go on! I can't walk! You don't know what I'm
suffering!"
"No, father!"
"I've got the money left--I'm not asking you. I'll come right with
you--on my word of honor I will!"
And so they would fight it out--all the way back to the lodging-house
where they lived, and where the mother sat and wept. And here they

would put him to bed, and lock up his clothing to keep him in; and here,
with drugs and mineral-waters, and perhaps a doctor to help, they
would struggle with him, and tend him until he was on his feet again.
Then, with clothing newly-brushed and face newly-shaven he would go
back to the world of men; and the boy would go back to his dreams.
Section 2. Such was the life of Thyrsis, from earliest childhood to
maturity. His father's was a heritage of gentle breeding and high
traditions--his forefathers were cavaliers, and had served the State. And
now it had come to this--to hall bedrooms in lodging-houses, and a
life-and-death grapple with destruction! And when Thyrsis came to
study the problem, he found that it was a struggle without hope; his
father was a man in a trap.
He was what people called a "drummer". He was dependent for his
living upon the favor of certain merchants--men for the most part of
low ideals, who came to the city in search of their low pleasures. One
met them by waiting about in the lobbies of hotels, and in the
bar-rooms which they frequented; and always the first sign of
fellowship with them was to have a drink. And this was the field on
which the battle had to be fought!
He would hold out for months--half a year, perhaps--drinking lemonade
and putting up with their raillery. And then he would begin with
ginger-ale; and then it would come to beer; and then to whiskey. He
was always devising new plans to control himself; always persuading
himself that he had solved the problem. He would not drink in the
morning; he would not drink until after dinner; he would not drink
alone--and so on without end. His whole life was drink, and all his
thoughts were of drink--the odor of it always in his nostrils, the image
of it always before his eyes.
And the grimness of his fate lay here--that it was by his best qualities
that he was betrayed. If he had been hard and mercenary,