In the quiet depth of night the desolate silence which reigned throughout the house was frequently broken by the hasty step of Paul Weldon, as he paced the long passages. At first it startled the inmates from repose, but they soon became accustomed to the sound and ceased to note it, or, if they heard it, merely muttering, “It is only poor Weldon,” settled themselves again to sleep. Night after night, like an unquiet spirit, he walked up and down the corridors, across the long dining-room, through the wide hall and parlor, until the approaching day brought with it signs of life. He then returned to his apartments. Some thought him mad, and whispered of a crazed mother and hereditary insanity, trembling, at times, at the wild lustre of his eyes; another suggested deep study of dark, forbidden things, and hinted that older and wiser men had bartered their souls before for such knowledge. A horror-loving youth insinuated that some dark crime had been committed, while all shrank, involuntarily, from contact with the unfortunate Weldon.
He was gentle, yet children clung to their mothers when he approached; there was something so fearful in the glance of his large, sunken eyes. Without seeming to shun companionship, he stood apart from all. Indeed, sometimes he forced himself to seek society, and, apparently, would fain have found friends had not every one avoided him. No matter how gay the conversation might be when he entered the public drawing-room, it immediately languished and ceased at his appearance: there was a strange charm about him which cast a gloom over all. The giddiest were subdued by it; the gravest felt its melancholy influence. All eyed him askance, and whenever his pale lips moved they unconsciously nerved themselves for some terrible tale.
Perhaps he felt his fearful power, since he soon ceased to seek companionship, and confined himself almost exclusively to his apartments. He seemed to have neither friends, occupation, nor home. The present looked cheerless to him; the future, hopeless: he dwelt only in the dreadful memories of the past.
His agonies in seclusion were terrible. Sometimes he threw himself on a chair and moved his body to and fro, moaning as if in suffering; now he started up and walked the floor; then seated himself and strove to read, evidently utterly incapable of confining his attention to any single subject. Book after book was opened and thrown aside. At last, seizing his hat, he rushed into the street, where his rapid walk and abstracted manner excited astonishment but too visible to his sensitive mind. At length he ceased to quit the home, and hiding himself in his apartments, ventured from them only in the darkness, silence, and solitude of night.
He apparently struggled against this strange restlessness, for he would lie down on his bed and strive to sleep; but when repose came it brought with it such fearful dreams that he soon awoke, and sprang from his, to him, accursed couch.
“O, no, I cannot—cannot sleep!” exclaimed he; “there is no rest for me, nor will there be until I find it in the grave. Ah, might I indeed, find repose in its embrace, how soon would I seek its icy portals; but no, I cannot, for even there crime finds its reward: must I not awake to judgment and to punishment? Remorse—remorse! how shall I destroy thy fangs? How shall I hide me from that fearful vision?”
From his wild self-accusations I learned his history. It was a sad one. The effects of his youthful vices had awakened in his heart that sleepless demon, remorse, which acting on his sensitive, imaginative mind, made life a curse where it might have been a blessing.
He was an only son—the idol of parents too indulgent for his good. When will parents learn to temper kindness with prudence? Daily is the lesson of their complicated duties taught them by the fate of those who fall victims to their careless teachings. Here, one is ruined by over indulgence; there, another is embittered and hardened by undue rigor; here, genius is crushed by ridicule; there, stupidity is rendered vain by undeserved praise. How rarely is the onerous office of a parent properly fulfilled!
Weldon’s early training left him quite unfitted to resist temptation in any form. Impulse, not principle, was the law of his actions. At college he formed an intimacy with some dissipated young men. As the wine circulated they boasted of their licentiousness, until Paul Weldon’s better feelings were crushed, and he thought with them, that the ruin of the peace of the innocent and happy was a feat to be proud of.
Under such guidance he followed them to their haunts of dissipation: he was initiated into their orgies, and soon became the boon companion of the vilest of the vile—of a set of villains who wore the semblance of gentlemen, and yet, at heart, were as deeply dyed with crime as the wretch who expiates his guilt on the gallows. Strange that society banishes from its temples those who break the laws of men, yet welcomes with open arms the offender against the laws of God and the dictates of natural justice.