"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?"