“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.