RICHARD BEHOLDS HOW GREAT A MATTER A LITTLE FIRE KINDLETH.
The window of the chamber was not fastened, and when Richard gained
admission, he found the door locked as he had left it. The window must
therefore have been closed from the outside; but this did not seem
probable, and he came to the conclusion that the sash had dropped of
itself. This was a very comforting reflection, and it removed many of
the doubts and fears which disturbed him.
Congratulating himself upon his escape from manifold perils by land and
water, Richard undressed himself and went to bed. But tired as he was,
he could not go to sleep for some time. His brain was busy calculating
the chances of detection, and devising schemes to avert suspicion if
any should be fastened upon him. Nature triumphed at last, and he went
to sleep.
Late the next morning, when he went down stairs, he was pale and
haggard. Somewhat to his surprise, he found that his father had not
gone to the city as usual. Every body looked sober, and Mr. Grant's
face wore a very stern and troubled expression. Richard ate his
breakfast in silence, wondering all the time what so many serious and
averted faces portended.
"You were out again last night, Richard," said his father, when they
met in the sitting room at a later hour.
"No, sir, not that I am aware of," replied Richard, with as much
self-possession as he could call to his aid, though his heart was
leaping with fear and anxiety.
"If you had been out, shouldn't you have been aware of it?" asked his
father, fixing a penetrating gaze upon him.
"I don't know. I only judge by what happened the other night," answered
Richard, who had determined to "run" the sleep-walking expedient again.
"You mean by that you got up in your sleep if you got up at all?"
"Yes, sir."
"You were entirely unconscious when you got up the other night and went
off in the Greyhound--were you?"
"Of course I was."
A faint smile played upon the lips of Mr. Grant, while the faces of
uncle Obed and Mr. Presby wore a decidedly comical expression. Though
Richard could not see "where the laugh came in," he was conscious that
he had placed himself in a ludicrous attitude.
"And you were asleep last night when you went out--were you?" continued
Mr. Grant.
"If I went out, I suppose I was," replied Richard, going to the window
and looking out, thus turning his back to those in the room.
He could not bear the penetrating gaze of his father, and the quizzing
glances of Mr. Presby and uncle Obed were utterly insupportable.
"Mr. Presby, you have devoted considerable attention to the phenomena
of sleep-walking," added uncle Obed. "What do you think of this case?"
"I think it is the most remarkable one on record," replied the
philosopher, whose smile had grown into a broad grin. "Richard, I am
deeply interested in the investigation of this matter, and I want to
ask you a few questions. Will you oblige me by answering them?"
"I will if I can," said Richard, rather doggedly, for he was fully
satisfied, by this time, that the old gentleman was quizzing him.
"If you _can_, then, will you be kind enough to tell me whether Sandy
Brimblecom was asleep or not, when he joined you in the boat at the
point below Whitestone?"
"Who? Sandy joined me?" stammered Richard, staggered by this home
thrust of the friend of the family.
"Yes; I am very anxious to know whether there is a sympathy between
sleep-walkers which draws them together, even though separated by miles
of space."
Richard made no reply; he had none to make. He had no idea how much his
tormentors knew of the events of the night.
"You don't answer, my boy. I have been the butt of your uncle for the
last week on account of my devotion to the cause of science. I have
studied your case very thoroughly, and I may want to make a report of
it to the scientific associations."
"Why don't you answer him, Dick?" added uncle Obed, who,
notwithstanding the serious character of the matter, could not restrain
his laughter at the ludicrous side of the question.
"I don't care about your making fun of me," replied the poor
somnambulist.
"My dear boy, this is a scientific, a physiological investigation. You
pulled out the nails which your father had driven into the window; you
skulked away from the house; you went down to your boat, got under way
in a squally, dark night, and met another sleep-walker on the other
side of the river;--I presume he was asleep, for you do not say to the
contrary;--you sailed down the river to a certain inlet; you landed,
and went up to Mr. Batterman's barn; you removed the horses and oxen
from it; you poured turpentine upon a bunch of loose hay prepared for
the purpose; you lighted your matches and set fire to it; and all the
while you were fast asleep. And you returned home and went to bed again
without waking. Really, my dear boy, this is the most astonishing case
of somnambulism on record. I have vainly looked over my books for a
parallel instance. Can you tell me what your dreams were last night?
Did you dream any thing of this kind?"
Richard was filled with dismay at this recital of the events of the
night. The mysterious boat he had twice seen was the only explanation
of the minuteness of Mr. Presby's details that suggested itself to his
mind.
"You talked quite rationally in your sleep, which is a new development
in somnambulism. But, after all," continued the devotee of science,
"the phenomena of last night were not near so remarkable as those of
the former occasion. By the way, my dear boy, do sleep-walkers have any
particular fondness for watermelons?"
Uncle Obed laughed outright at this sally, and even Mr. Grant, wounded
as his paternal heart was by the discovery, could not help smiling,
though he felt more like weeping than laughing.
"You are silent, my dear boy," resumed Mr. Presby. "This is an
important physiological inquiry, and you would enlarge the sphere of
human knowledge of this interesting subject, if you would answer me."
Richard was inclined to get into a passion, but the consciousness of
his guilt restrained him, and he listened in silence to the satirical
remarks of the old gentleman.
"But the most astounding fact of all is, that you could take such an
unmerciful flogging as Mr. Batterman gave you without waking up,"
continued the inquisitor. "Perhaps you did wake under this cruel
infliction, but went to sleep again when the castigation was over. Can
you inform me on this point?"
"You have made fun enough of me," replied Richard; but his words were
very tame, considering the amount of provocation he had endured.
"Were you asleep, Richard, on these two nights when you have been
prowling about the neighborhood?" demanded his father, sternly.
"No, sir, I was not," said Richard, to whom the ridicule of Mr. Presby
and uncle Obed was more terrible than any punishment he could receive
for his misdeeds.
"I am glad to see you have some honesty left in your composition. You
acknowledge the deception, and we will let the farce end here. You have
become a thief and a midnight incendiary. I have been weak and
indulgent towards you. My eyes are opened, and I shall pursue a
different course."
Mr. Grant's lip trembled with emotion as he spoke. Mr. Presby and uncle
Obed suddenly became very serious, and it was plain to the culprit that
the farce had really ended.
"Richard, I knew you were wild, and even dissolute, but I did not think
you would steal," added Mr. Grant, with deep feeling.
"It was only for fun, father," pleaded Richard.
"Do you practise the trade of the incendiary for fun?" asked his
father, sternly.
"That was only because Mr. Batterman flogged me. He had no business to
do that."
"And so you would burn his barn?"
"I didn't burn it."
"It would have burned to the ground, if Mr. Presby and Ben had not put
the fire out. I have let my friend expose you in his own way, because
the trouble he has taken reveals to me your true character. You are
worse than your dissolute companions. Richard, you have become a
villain!"
Mr. Grant rose from his chair and walked away to hide the tears which
this sad revelation of his son's character drew from his eyes.
"He is not so bad as he might be," interposed Mr. Presby. "Remember
that he saved the animals in the barn."
"The record is black even with this redeeming line," said Mr. Grant. "I
would rather follow my son to his grave than have him become such a
wretch as you are, Richard. Shall I let you take the consequences of
your crime?"
"What consequences, father?" asked Richard, with a degree of humility
he had never before exhibited.
"Are you a simpleton? Don't you know the penalty of your crime?"
"We didn't burn the barn."
"In the eye of the law you are just as guilty as though the barn had
burned to the ground. If convicted, you would be sent to the state
prison. I have made up my mind what to do with you," said Mr. Grant, as
he walked out of the room, for his emotions would no longer permit him
to remain.
"You have got into a bad scrape, Dick," added uncle Obed, as he shook
his head, and followed his brother, leaving the culprit alone with Mr.
Presby.
"He will not let them send me to the state prison?" said Richard,
fearful that his father might have abandoned all hope of redeeming him
from the error of his ways.
"You have been a very bad boy," replied Mr. Presby.
"I am very sorry for it, and I mean to do better."
"I hope you will, my dear boy. Your father has suffered terribly since
I returned, and poor Bertha has done nothing but weep for the last two
hours. You are ruining yourself and wounding the hearts of your friends
more than words can describe."
"I will try to do better."
"Your father will not trust you again."
"What is he going to do?"
"He will inform you himself," replied Mr. Presby, as he withdrew from
the room.
Richard was alone with his own thoughts and fears. He felt as though
his career had reached its close, though he could not imagine what
terrible thing his father intended to do. He was really sorry for what
he had done, whether his sorrow was caused by a genuine feeling that he
had done wrong, or by the fear of punishment.
His mind was in a confused state; the past with its sorrows, and the
future with its terrors, whirled through his brain. He wanted time for
reflection, and leaving the house, he walked down to the pier to
deliberate upon the situation.
Ben was there, and Richard began to question him, for Mr. Presby had
intimated that the boatman was with him the night before. From him he
learned all the facts in regard to their movements. It appeared that
the old gentleman had heard Richard when he opened the window, and had
watched him closely, fully satisfied, however, that he was asleep.
When Mr. Presby, from the roof of the conservatory, had noted the
direction he took, he had closed the window, and called the boatman to
assist him. They had followed him in the large sail boat, and landed
near the point where Sandy was taken on board the Greyhound. By this
time, Ben's original idea that Richard was wide awake was adopted by
Mr. Presby. By the exercise of great skill and caution, they had kept
near the boys, and had put out the fire almost as soon as it was
kindled.
While they were still on the ground, Mr. Batterman, who had been
awakened by the bright light of the burning hay, made his appearance.
He found the two old men in the very act of putting out the fire. Mr.
Presby smothered the flames by throwing his great-coat upon it.
"Now, Mr. Richard," continued the boatman, "Mr. Presby saved you. He
was acquainted with Batterman, and has a mortgage on his farm. The
farmer suspected who had attempted to burn his building; he laid it to
you at once, and told us all about the scrape when you stole the
melons. You don't know how mad he was, Mr. Richard. But Mr. Presby made
it all right with him, and he promised not to prosecute. Mr. Richard,
you had better not walk in your sleep any more."
Richard did not like this last remark, and he walked down the pier. The
state prison was only a bugbear then; but his father meant to do
something. He was about to get into his skiff to visit the Greyhound
when Ben hailed him.
"My orders are, not to let you have any of the boats," said he.
The new order of things had begun, and he returned to the house. His
father was in the sitting room when he entered.
"Richard," said Mr. Grant, "to-morrow you will leave home for some
months. I have decided to place you in a boarding school, where you
will be under the eye of one who is competent to manage you."
This was the great matter which a little fire had kindled.