At this time Richard's thoughts took a peculiar turn. The shame he endured, the reproaches that had been heaped upon him, caused him to feel that there was something wanting in his character. The path in which he had been travelling, for the first time in his life seemed to lead to destruction. When he considered that he had been detected in the act of stealing, and of setting fire to a barn, and in practising a gross and wicked deception, he felt that his road was down hill; that he should become a dissolute and worthless man.
He was sitting on the stool of repentance. From a prudential penitence he had arrived at a genuine one. Something must be done. There was something to be conquered. There was a harder battle before him than any he had yet fought. He was master of the boats, of the horses, of the servants, and even of his companions at Whitestone; but there was one whom he had never conquered—one that held him in leading-strings, and was pulling him down to ruin and destruction.
He must conquer himself.
Richard had had such thoughts as these before, but they had never seemed so substantial as now. He felt the necessity of reforming his life and character—of conquering himself, his greatest enemy. As he looked upon his dissolute course, upon the events of the preceding night, and its fellow a week before, he was disgusted with himself, and wondered how he could so easily embrace his besetting sin.
While he was engaged in these reflections, his sister Bertha entered his chamber. She had heard of the sentence, and she had come to comfort him. Her eyes were still red with weeping, for she had almost lost hope of the reform of her brother.
"I have been trying to see you for the last two hours," said she, as she sat down by his side.
"Don't cry any more, Berty," said he, with unwonted tenderness.
"I will try not to do so, Richard. Father says you are going away to-morrow."
"Yes, Berty, I suppose I am," replied he, with an appearance of resignation.
"I shall miss you very much."