I took the way to my office. It was not often that I went thither
before breakfast. But William Edgerton had been in the habit of
doing so. He lived in the neighborhood, and his father had taught
him this habit during the period when he was employed in studying
the profession. It might be that I should find him there on the
present occasion. Such was my notion. What farther thought I had
I know not; but a vague suggestion that, in that quiet hour--there--without
eye to see, or hand to interpose, I might drag from his heart the
fearful secret--I might compel confession, take my vengeance, and
rid myself finally of that cruel agony which was making me its
miserable puppet. Crude, wild notions these, but very natural.
I turned the corner of the street. The window of my office was open.
"He is then there," I muttered to myself; and my teeth clutched each
other closely. I buttoned my coat. My heart was swelling. I looked
around me, and up to the windows. The street was very silent--the
grave not more so. I strode rapidly across, threw open the door
of the office which stood ajar, and beheld, not the person whom I
sought, but his venerable father.
The sight of that white-headed old man filled me with a sense of
shame and degradation. What had he not done for me? How great his
assistance, how kind his regards, how liberal his offices. He had
rescued me from the bondage of poverty. He had put forth the hand
of help, with a manly grasp of succor at the very moment when it was
most needed; had helped to make me what I was; and, for all these,
I had come to put to death his only son. A revulsion of feeling
took place within my bosom. These thoughts were instantaneous--a
sort of lightning-flash from the moral world of thought. I stood
abashed; brought to my senses in an instant, and was scarcely able
to conceal my discomfiture and confusion. I stood before him with
the feeling, and must have worn the look, of a culprit. Fortunately,
he did not perceive my confusion. Poor old man! Cares of his
own--cares of a father, too completely occupied his mind, to suffer
his senses to discharge their duties with freedom.
"I am glad to see you, Clifford, though I did not expect it. Young
men of the present day are not apt to rise so early."
"I must confess, sir, it is not my habit."
"Better if it were. The present generation, it seems to me, may be
considered more fortunate, in some respects, than the past, though
they are scarcely wiser. They seem to me exempt from such necessities
as encountered their fathers. Their tasks are fewer--their labor
is lighter--"