"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"
"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."