The next day I saw his father. I communicated the assurance of the son, and renewed my own, that neither drunkenness nor gaming was a vice. What it was that afflicted him I did not pretend to know, but I ascribed it to want of employment; a morbid, unenergetic temperament; the fact that he was independent, and had no rough necessities to make him estimate the true nature and the objects of life; and, at the close, quietly suggested that possibly there was some affair of the heart which contributed also to his suffering. I did not deny that his looks were wretched, but I stoutly assured the old man that his parental fears exaggerated their wretchedness. We had much other talk on the subject. When we were about to separate for the day, I declared my own determination in this manner:—
“I have just decided on a step, Mr. Edgerton, which perhaps will somewhat contribute to the improvement of your son, by imposing some additional tasks upon him. I am about to emigrate for the southwest.”
“You, Clifford? Impossible! What puts that into your head?”
It was something difficult to furnish any good reason for such a movement. The only obvious reason spoke loudly for iny remaining where I was.
“This is unaccountable,” said he. “You are doing here as few young men have done before you. Your business increasing—your income already good—surely, Clifford, you have not thought upon the matter—you are not resolved.”
I could plead little other than a truant disposition for my proceeding, but I soon convinced him that I was resolved. He seemed very much troubled; betrayed the most flattering concern in my interests; and, renewing his argument for my stay, renewed also his warmest professions of service.
“I had hoped,” he said, “to have seen you and William, closely united, pursuing the one path equally and successfully together. I shall have no hopes of him if you leave us.”
“The probability is, sir, that he will do better with the whole responsibility of the office thrown upon him.”
“No! no!” said the old man, mournfully. “I have no hope of him. There seems to me a curse upon wealth always—that follows and clings to it, and never leaves it, till it works out the ruin of all the proprietors. See the number of our young men, springing from nothing, that make everything out of it—rise to eminence and power—get fortune as if it were a mere sport to command and to secure it; while, on the other Sand, look at the heirs of our proud families. Profligate, reckless, abandoned: as if, reasoning from the supposed wealth of their parents, they fancied that there were no responsibilities of their own. I saw this danger from the beginning. I have striven to train up my son in the paths of duty and constant employment; and yet—but complaint is idle. The consciousness of having tried my best to have and make it otherwise is, nevertheless, a consolation. When do you think to go?”
“In a week or two at farthest. I have but to rid myself of my impediments.”