A FATHER'S GRIEFS.
She continued to improve, but slowly. Her organization was always very
delicate. Her frame was becoming thin, almost to meagreness; and this
last disaster, whatever might be its cause, had contributed still more
to weaken a constitution which education and nature had never
prepared for much hard encounter. But, though I saw these proofs of
feebleness--of a feebleness that might have occasioned reasonable
apprehensions of premature decay, and possibly very rapid decline--there
were little circumstances constantly occurring--looks shown, words
spoken--which kept up the irritation of my soul, and prevented me from
doing justice to her enfeebled condition. My sympathies were absorbed
in my suspicions. My heart was the debateable land of self. The blind
passion which enslaved it, I need scarce say, was of a nature so potent,
that it could easily impregnate, with its own color, all the objects of
its survey. Seen through the eyes of suspicion, there is no truth, no
virtue; the smile is that of the snake; the tear, that of the crocodile;
the assurance, that of the traitor. There is no act, look, word, of
the suspected object, however innocent, which, to the diseased mind of
jealousy, does not suggest conjectures and arguments, all conclusive or
confirmatory of its doubts and fears. It is not necessary to say that I
shrunk from Julia's endearment, requited her smiles with indifference;
and, though I did not avoid her presence--I could not, in the few days
when her case was doubtful--yet exhibited, in all respects, the conduct
of one who was in a sort of Coventry.
But one fact may be stated--one of many--which seemed to give a sanction
to my suspicions, will help to justify my course, and which, at the
time, was terribly conclusive, to my reason, of the things which I
feared. She spoke audibly the name of Edgerton, twice, thrice, while
she slept beside me, in tones very faint, it is true, but still distinct
enough. The faintness of her utterance, gave the tones an emphasis of
tenderness which perhaps was unintended. Twice, thrice, that fatal name;
and then, what a sigh from the full volume of a surcharged heart.
Let any one conceive my situation--with my feelings, intense on all
subjects--my suspicions already so thoroughly awakened; and then fancy
what they must have been on hearing that utterance; from the unguarded
lips of slumber; from the wife lying beside him; and of the name of him
on whom suspicion already rested. I hung over the sleeper, breathless,
almost gasping, finally, in the effort to contain my breath--in the
hope to hear something, however slight, which was to confirm finally,
or finally end my doubts. I heard no more; but did more seem to
be necessary? What jealous heart had not found this sufficiently
conclusive? And that deep-drawn sigh, sobbing, as of a heart breaking
with the deferred hope, and the dream of youth baffled at one sweeping,
severing blow.
I rose. I could no longer subdue my emotions to the necessary degree of
watchfulness. I trod the chamber till daylight. Then, I dressed
myself and went out into the street. I had no distinct object. A vague
persuasion only, that I must do something--that something must be
done--that, in short, it was necessary to force this exhausting drama
to its fit conclusion. Of course William Edgerton was my object. As
yet, how to bring about the issue, was a problem which my mind was not
prepared to solve. Whether I was to stab or shoot him; whether we were
to go through the tedious processes of the duel; to undergo the fatigue
of preliminaries, or to shorten them by sudden reencounter; these were
topics which filled my thoughts confusedly; upon which I had no clear
conviction; not because I did not attempt to fix upon a course, but from
a sheer inability to think at all. My whole brain was on fire; a chaotic
mass, such as rushes up from the unstopped vents of the volcano--fire,
stones, and lava--but dense smoke enveloping the whole.
In this frame of mind I hurried through the streets. The shops were yet
unopened. The sun was just about to rise. There was a humming sound,
like that of distant waters murmuring along the shore, which filled my
ears; but otherwise everything was silent. Sleep had not withdrawn with
night from his stealthy watch upon the household. It seemed to me that
I alone could not sleep. Even guilt--if my wife were really guilty--even
guilt could sleep. I left her sleeping, and how sweetly! as if the dream
which had made her sob and sigh, had been succeeded by others, that
made all smiles again. I could not sleep, and yet, who, but a few
months before, had been possessed of such fair prospects of peace and
prosperity? Fortune held forth sufficient promise; fame--so far as fame
can be accorded by a small community--had done something toward giving
me an honorable repute; and love--had not love been seemingly as liberal
and prompt as ever young passions could have desired? I was making
money; I was getting reputation; the only woman whom I had ever loved
or sought, was mine; and mine, too, in spite of opposition and
discouragements which would have chilled the ardor of half the lovers
in the world. And yet I was not happy. It takes so small an amount of
annoyance to produce misery in the heart of selfesteem, when united with
suspicion, that it was scarcely possible that I should be happy. Such
a man has a taste for self-torture; as one troubled with an irritating
humor, is never at rest, unless he is tearing the flesh into a sore; he
may then rest as he may.
I took the way to my office. It was not often that I went thither before
breakfast. But William Edgerton had been in the habit of doing so. He
lived in the neighborhood, and his father had taught him this habit
during the period when he was employed in studying the profession. It
might be that I should find him there on the present occasion. Such was
my notion. What farther thought I had I know not; but a vague suggestion
that, in that quiet hour--there--without eye to see, or hand to
interpose, I might drag from his heart the fearful secret--I might
compel confession, take my vengeance, and rid myself finally of that
cruel agony which was making me its miserable puppet. Crude, wild
notions these, but very natural.
I turned the corner of the street. The window of my office was open. “He
is then there,” I muttered to myself; and my teeth clutched each other
closely. I buttoned my coat. My heart was swelling. I looked around me,
and up to the windows. The street was very silent--the grave not more
so. I strode rapidly across, threw open the door of the office which
stood ajar, and beheld, not the person whom I sought, but his venerable
father.
The sight of that white-headed old man filled me with a sense of shame
and degradation. What had he not done for me? How great his assistance,
how kind his regards, how liberal his offices. He had rescued me from
the bondage of poverty. He had put forth the hand of help, with a manly
grasp of succor at the very moment when it was most needed; had helped
to make me what I was; and, for all these, I had come to put to death
his only son. A revulsion of feeling took place within my bosom. These
thoughts were instantaneous--a sort of lightning-flash from the moral
world of thought. I stood abashed; brought to my senses in an instant,
and was scarcely able to conceal my discomfiture and confusion. I stood
before him with the feeling, and must have worn the look, of a culprit.
Fortunately, he did not perceive my confusion. Poor old man! Cares of
his own--cares of a father, too completely occupied his mind, to suffer
his senses to discharge their duties with freedom.
“I am glad to see you, Clifford, though I did not expect it. Young men
of the present day are not apt to rise so early.”
“I must confess, sir, it is not my habit.”
“Better if it were. The present generation, it seems to me, may be
considered more fortunate, in some respects, than the past, though they
are scarcely wiser. They seem to me exempt from such necessities
as encountered their fathers. Their tasks are fewer--their labor is
lighter--”
“Are their cares the lighter in consequence?” I demanded.
“That is the question,” he replied. “For myself, I think not. They grow
gray the sooner. They have fewer tasks, but heavier troubles. They live
better in some respects. They have luxuries which, in my day, youth were
scarcely permitted to enjoy; and which, indeed, were not often enjoyed
by age. But they have little peace:-and, look at the bankruptcies of
our city. They are without number--they produce no shame--do not seem to
affect the credit of the parties; and, certainly, in no respect diminish
their expenditures. They live as if the present day were the last
they had to live; and living thus, they must live dishonestly. It is
inevitable. The moral sense is certainly in a much lower condition in
our country, than I have ever known it. What can be the reason?”
“The facility of procuring money, perhaps. Money is the most dangerous
of human possessions.”
“There can be none other. Clifford!”
“Sir.”
“I change the subject abruptly. Have you seen my son lately, Clifford?”
The question was solemnly, suddenly spoken. It staggered me. What
could it mean? That there was a meaning in it--a deep meaning--was
unquestionable. But of what nature? Did the venerable man suspect my
secret--could he by any chance conjecture my purpose? It is one quality
of a mind not exactly satisfied of the propriety of its proceedings, to
be suspicious of all things and persons--to fancy that the consciousness
which distresses itself, is also the consciousness of its neighbors.
Hence the blush upon the cheek--the faltering accents--the tremulousness
of limb, and feebleness of movement. For a moment after the old man
spoke--troubled with this consciousness, I could not answer. But my
self-esteem came to my relief--nay, it had sufficed to conceal my
disquiet. My looks were subdued to a seeming calm--my voice was
un-broken, while I answered:--
“I have seen him within a few days, sir--a few nights ago we were at
Mrs. Delaney's party. But why the question, sir?--what troubles you?”
“Strange that you have not seen! Did you not remark the alteration in
his appearance?”
“I must confess, sir, I did not; but, perhaps, I did not remark him
closely among the crowd.”
“He is altered--terribly altered, Clifford. It is very strange that you
have not seen it. It is visible to myself--his mother--all the
family, and some of its friends We tremble for his life. He is a mere
skeleton--moves without life or animation, feebly--his cheeks are pale
and thin, his lips white, and his eyes have an appearance which, beyond
anything besides, distresses me--either lifelessly dull, or suddenly
flushed up with an expression of wildness, which occurs so suddenly as
to distress us with the worst apprehensions of his sanity.”
“Indeed, sir!” I exclaimed with natural surprise.
“So it appears to us, his mother and myself, though, as it has escaped
your eyes, I trust that we have exaggerated it. That we have not
imagined all of it, however, we have other proofs to show. His manner is
changed of late, and most of his habits. The change is only within
the last six months; so suddenly made that it has been forced upon
our sight. Once so frank, he is now reserved and shrinking to the last
degree; speaks little; is reluctant to converse; and, I am compelled to
believe, not only avoids my glance, but fears it.”
“It is very strange that he should do so, sir. I can think of no reason
why he should avoid YOUR glance. Can you sir? Have you any suspicions?”
“I have.”
“Ha! have you indeed?”
The old man drew his chair closer to me, and, putting his hand on
mine, with eyes in which the tears, big, slow-gathering, began to
fill--trickling at length, one by one, through the venerable furrows of
his cheeks--he replied in faltering accents:--
“A terrible suspicion, Clifford. I am afraid he drinks; that he
frequents gambling-houses; that, in short, he is about to be lost to us,
body and soul, for ever.”
Deep and touching was the groan that followed from that old man's bosom.
I hastened to relieve him.
“I am sure, sir, that you do your son great injustice. I cannot conceive
it possible that he should have fallen into these habits.”
“He is out nightly--late--till near daylight. But two hours ago he
returned home. Let me confess to you, Clifford, what I should be loath
to confess to anybody else. I followed him last night. He took the path
to the suburbs, and I kept him in sight almost till he reached your
dwelling. Then I lost him. He moved too rapidly then for my old limbs,
and disappeared among those groves of wild orange that fill your
neighborhood. I searched them as closely as I could in the imperfect
starlight, but could see nothing of him. I am told that there are
gambling-houses, notorious enough, in the suburbs just beyond you.
I fear that he found shelter in these--that he finds shelter in them
nightly.”
I scarcely breathed while listening to the unhappy father's, narrative.
There was one portion of it to which I need not refer the reader, as
calculated to confirm my own previous convictions. I struggled with my
feelings, however, in respect for his. I kept them down and spoke.
“In this one fact, Mr. Edgerton, I see nothing to alarm you. Your
son may have been engaged far more innocently than you imagine. He is
young--you know too well the practices of young men. As for the drinking
he is perhaps the very last person whom I should suspect of excess. I
have always thought his temperance unquestionable.”
“Until recently, I should have had no fears myself. But connecting one
fact with another--his absence all night, nightly--the stealthiness
with which he departs from home after the family has retired--the
stealthiness with which he returns just before day--his visible
agitation when addressed--and, oh Clifford! worst of all signs, the
shrinking of his eye beneath mine and his mother's--the fear to meet,
and the effort to avoid us--these are the signs which most pain me,
and excite my apprehensions But look at his face and figure also. The
haggard misery of the one, sign of sleeplessness and late watching--the
attenuated feebleness of the other, showing the effects of some
practices, no matter of what particular sort, which are undermining his
constitution, and rapidly tending to destroy him. If you but look in his
eye as I have done, marking its wildness, its wandering, its sensible
expression of shame--you can hardly fail to think with me that something
is morally wrong. He is guilty--”
“He is guilty!”
I echoed the words of the father, involuntarily. They struck the
chord of conviction in my own soul, and seemed to me the language of a
judgment.
“Ha! You know it, then?” cried the old man. “Speak! Tell me,
Clifford--what is his folly? What is the particular guilt and shame into
which he has fallen?”
I knew not that I had spoken until I heard these words. The agitation
of the father was greatly increased. Truly, his sorrows were sad to look
upon. I answered him:--
“I simply echoed your words, sir--I am ignorant, as I said before; and,
indeed, I may venture, I think, with perfect safety, to assure you that
gaming and drink have nothing to do with his appearance and deportment.
I should rather suspect him of some improper--SOME GUILTY CONNECTION--”
I felt that, in the utterance of these words, I too had become excited.
My voice did not rise, but I knew that it had acquired an intenseness
which I as quickly endeavored to suppress. But the father had already
beheld the expression in my face, and perhaps the sudden change in my
tones grated harshly upon his ear. I could see that his looks became
more eager and inquiring. I could note a greater degree of apprehension
and anxiety in his eyes. I subdued myself, though not without some
effort.
“William Edgerton may be erring, sir--that I do not deny, for I have
seen too little of him of late to say anything of his proceedings; but I
am very confident when I say that excess in liquor can not be a vice of
his; and as for gaming, I should fancy that he was the last person in
the world likely to be tempted to the indulgence of such a practice.”
The father shook his head mournfully.
“Why this shame?--this fear? Besides, Clifford, what we know of our son
makes us equally sure that women have nothing to do with his excesses.
But these conjectures help us nothing. Clifford, I must look to you.”
“What can I do for you, sir?”
“He is my son, my only son--the care of many sad, sleepless hours. It
was his mother's hope that he would be our solace in the weary and the
sad ones. You can not understand yet how much the parent lives in
the child--how many of his hopes settle there. William has already
disappointed us in our ambition. He will be nothing that we hoped him
to be; but of this I complain not. But that he should become base,
Clifford; a night-prowler in the streets; a hanger-on of stews and
gaming-houses; a brawler at an alehouse bar; a man to skulk through life
and society; down-looking in his father's sight; despised in that of the
community--oh! these are the cruel, the dreadful apprehensions!”
“But you know not that he is any of these.”
“True; but there is something grievously wrong when the son dares not
meet the eye of a parent with manly fearlessness; when he looks without
joyance at the face of a mother, and shrinks from her endearments as if
he felt that he deserved them not. William Edgerton is miserable; that
is evident enough. Now, misery does not always imply guilt; but, in
his case, what else should it imply! He has had no misfortunes. He is
independent; he is beloved by his parents, and by his friends; he has
had no denial of the affections; in short, there is no way of accounting
for his conduct or appearance, but by the supposition that he has fallen
into vicious habits. Whatever these habits are, they are killing him.
He is a mere skeleton; his whole appearance is that of a man running
a rapid course of dissipation which can only advance in shame, and
terminate in death. Clifford, if I have ever served you in the hour of
your need, serve me in this of mine. Save my son for me. Bring him back
from his folly; restore him, if you can, to peace and purity. See him,
will you not? Seek him out; see him; probe his secret; and tell me what
can be done to rescue him before it be too late.”
“Really, Mr. Edgerton, you confound me. What can I do?”
“I know not. Every thing, perhaps! I confess I can not counsel you. I
can not even suggest how you should begin. You must judge for yourself.
You must think and make your approaches according to your own judgment.
Remember, that it is not in his behalf only. Think of the father, the
mother! our hope, our all is at stake. I speak to you in the language of
a child, Clifford. I am a child in this. This boy has been the apple of
our eyes. It is our sight for which I seek your help. I know your good
sense and sagacity. I know that you can trace out his secret when I
should fail. My feelings would blind me to the truth. They might lead me
to use language which would drive him from me. I leave it all to you. I
know not who else can do for me half so well in a matter of this sort.
Will you undertake it?”
Could I refuse? This question was discussed in all its bearings, in
a few lightning-like progresses of thought. I felt all its
difficulties--anticipated the annoyances to which it would subject me,
and the degree of self-forbearance which it would necessarily require;
yet, when I looked on the noble old gentleman who sat beside me--his
gray hairs, his pleading looks, the recollection of the deep debt of
gratitude which I owed him--I put my hand in his; I could resist no
longer.
“I will try!” was the brief answer which I made him.
“God bless, God speed you!” he exclaimed, squeezing my hand with a
pressure that said everything, and we separated; he for his family,
and I for that new task which I had undertaken. How different from my
previous purpose! I was now to seek to save the person whom I had set
forth that morning with the purpose (if I had any purpose) to destroy.
What a volume made up of contradictions and inconsistencies, strangely
bound together, is the moral world of man!