“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.”