“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.