Chapter 8

RICHARD BEHOLDS HOW GREAT A MATTER A LITTLE FIRE KINDLETH.

The window of the chamber was not fastened, and when Richard gained admission, he found the door locked as he had left it. The window must therefore have been closed from the outside; but this did not seem probable, and he came to the conclusion that the sash had dropped of itself. This was a very comforting reflection, and it removed many of the doubts and fears which disturbed him.

Congratulating himself upon his escape from manifold perils by land and water, Richard undressed himself and went to bed. But tired as he was, he could not go to sleep for some time. His brain was busy calculating the chances of detection, and devising schemes to avert suspicion if any should be fastened upon him. Nature triumphed at last, and he went to sleep.

Late the next morning, when he went down stairs, he was pale and haggard. Somewhat to his surprise, he found that his father had not gone to the city as usual. Every body looked sober, and Mr. Grant's face wore a very stern and troubled expression. Richard ate his breakfast in silence, wondering all the time what so many serious and averted faces portended.

"You were out again last night, Richard," said his father, when they met in the sitting room at a later hour.

"No, sir, not that I am aware of," replied Richard, with as much self-possession as he could call to his aid, though his heart was leaping with fear and anxiety.

"If you had been out, shouldn't you have been aware of it?" asked his father, fixing a penetrating gaze upon him.

"I don't know. I only judge by what happened the other night," answered Richard, who had determined to "run" the sleep-walking expedient again.

"You mean by that you got up in your sleep if you got up at all?"

"Yes, sir."

"You were entirely unconscious when you got up the other night and went off in the Greyhound--were you?"

"Of course I was."

A faint smile played upon the lips of Mr. Grant, while the faces of uncle Obed and Mr. Presby wore a decidedly comical expression. Though Richard could not see "where the laugh came in," he was conscious that he had placed himself in a ludicrous attitude.

"And you were asleep last night when you went out--were you?" continued Mr. Grant.

"If I went out, I suppose I was," replied Richard, going to the window and looking out, thus turning his back to those in the room.

He could not bear the penetrating gaze of his father, and the quizzing glances of Mr. Presby and uncle Obed were utterly insupportable.

"Mr. Presby, you have devoted considerable attention to the phenomena of sleep-walking," added uncle Obed. "What do you think of this case?"

"I think it is the most remarkable one on record," replied the philosopher, whose smile had grown into a broad grin. "Richard, I am deeply interested in the investigation of this matter, and I want to ask you a few questions. Will you oblige me by answering them?"

"I will if I can," said Richard, rather doggedly, for he was fully satisfied, by this time, that the old gentleman was quizzing him.

"If you _can_, then, will you be kind enough to tell me whether Sandy Brimblecom was asleep or not, when he joined you in the boat at the point below Whitestone?"

"Who? Sandy joined me?" stammered Richard, staggered by this home thrust of the friend of the family.

"Yes; I am very anxious to know whether there is a sympathy between sleep-walkers which draws them together, even though separated by miles of space."

Richard made no reply; he had none to make. He had no idea how much his tormentors knew of the events of the night.

"You don't answer, my boy. I have been the butt of your uncle for the last week on account of my devotion to the cause of science. I have studied your case very thoroughly, and I may want to make a report of it to the scientific associations."

"Why don't you answer him, Dick?" added uncle Obed, who, notwithstanding the serious character of the matter, could not restrain his laughter at the ludicrous side of the question.

"I don't care about your making fun of me," replied the poor somnambulist.

"My dear boy, this is a scientific, a physiological investigation. You pulled out the nails which your father had driven into the window; you skulked away from the house; you went down to your boat, got under way in a squally, dark night, and met another sleep-walker on the other side of the river;--I presume he was asleep, for you do not say to the contrary;--you sailed down the river to a certain inlet; you landed, and went up to Mr. Batterman's barn; you removed the horses and oxen from it; you poured turpentine upon a bunch of loose hay prepared for the purpose; you lighted your matches and set fire to it; and all the while you were fast asleep. And you returned home and went to bed again without waking. Really, my dear boy, this is the most astonishing case of somnambulism on record. I have vainly looked over my books for a parallel instance. Can you tell me what your dreams were last night? Did you dream any thing of this kind?"

Richard was filled with dismay at this recital of the events of the night. The mysterious boat he had twice seen was the only explanation of the minuteness of Mr. Presby's details that suggested itself to his mind.

"You talked quite rationally in your sleep, which is a new development in somnambulism. But, after all," continued the devotee of science, "the phenomena of last night were not near so remarkable as those of the former occasion. By the way, my dear boy, do sleep-walkers have any particular fondness for watermelons?"

Uncle Obed laughed outright at this sally, and even Mr. Grant, wounded as his paternal heart was by the discovery, could not help smiling, though he felt more like weeping than laughing.

"You are silent, my dear boy," resumed Mr. Presby. "This is an important physiological inquiry, and you would enlarge the sphere of human knowledge of this interesting subject, if you would answer me."

Richard was inclined to get into a passion, but the consciousness of his guilt restrained him, and he listened in silence to the satirical remarks of the old gentleman.

"But the most astounding fact of all is, that you could take such an unmerciful flogging as Mr. Batterman gave you without waking up," continued the inquisitor. "Perhaps you did wake under this cruel infliction, but went to sleep again when the castigation was over. Can you inform me on this point?"

"You have made fun enough of me," replied Richard; but his words were very tame, considering the amount of provocation he had endured.

"Were you asleep, Richard, on these two nights when you have been prowling about the neighborhood?" demanded his father, sternly.

"No, sir, I was not," said Richard, to whom the ridicule of Mr. Presby and uncle Obed was more terrible than any punishment he could receive for his misdeeds.

"I am glad to see you have some honesty left in your composition. You acknowledge the deception, and we will let the farce end here. You have become a thief and a midnight incendiary. I have been weak and indulgent towards you. My eyes are opened, and I shall pursue a different course."

Mr. Grant's lip trembled with emotion as he spoke. Mr. Presby and uncle Obed suddenly became very serious, and it was plain to the culprit that the farce had really ended.

"Richard, I knew you were wild, and even dissolute, but I did not think you would steal," added Mr. Grant, with deep feeling.

"It was only for fun, father," pleaded Richard.

"Do you practise the trade of the incendiary for fun?" asked his father, sternly.

"That was only because Mr. Batterman flogged me. He had no business to do that."

"And so you would burn his barn?"

"I didn't burn it."

"It would have burned to the ground, if Mr. Presby and Ben had not put the fire out. I have let my friend expose you in his own way, because the trouble he has taken reveals to me your true character. You are worse than your dissolute companions. Richard, you have become a villain!"

Mr. Grant rose from his chair and walked away to hide the tears which this sad revelation of his son's character drew from his eyes.

"He is not so bad as he might be," interposed Mr. Presby. "Remember that he saved the animals in the barn."

"The record is black even with this redeeming line," said Mr. Grant. "I would rather follow my son to his grave than have him become such a wretch as you are, Richard. Shall I let you take the consequences of your crime?"

"What consequences, father?" asked Richard, with a degree of humility he had never before exhibited.

"Are you a simpleton? Don't you know the penalty of your crime?"

"We didn't burn the barn."

"In the eye of the law you are just as guilty as though the barn had burned to the ground. If convicted, you would be sent to the state prison. I have made up my mind what to do with you," said Mr. Grant, as he walked out of the room, for his emotions would no longer permit him to remain.

"You have got into a bad scrape, Dick," added uncle Obed, as he shook his head, and followed his brother, leaving the culprit alone with Mr. Presby.

"He will not let them send me to the state prison?" said Richard, fearful that his father might have abandoned all hope of redeeming him from the error of his ways.

"You have been a very bad boy," replied Mr. Presby.

"I am very sorry for it, and I mean to do better."

"I hope you will, my dear boy. Your father has suffered terribly since I returned, and poor Bertha has done nothing but weep for the last two hours. You are ruining yourself and wounding the hearts of your friends more than words can describe."

"I will try to do better."

"Your father will not trust you again."

"What is he going to do?"

"He will inform you himself," replied Mr. Presby, as he withdrew from the room.

Richard was alone with his own thoughts and fears. He felt as though his career had reached its close, though he could not imagine what terrible thing his father intended to do. He was really sorry for what he had done, whether his sorrow was caused by a genuine feeling that he had done wrong, or by the fear of punishment.

His mind was in a confused state; the past with its sorrows, and the future with its terrors, whirled through his brain. He wanted time for reflection, and leaving the house, he walked down to the pier to deliberate upon the situation.

Ben was there, and Richard began to question him, for Mr. Presby had intimated that the boatman was with him the night before. From him he learned all the facts in regard to their movements. It appeared that the old gentleman had heard Richard when he opened the window, and had watched him closely, fully satisfied, however, that he was asleep.

When Mr. Presby, from the roof of the conservatory, had noted the direction he took, he had closed the window, and called the boatman to assist him. They had followed him in the large sail boat, and landed near the point where Sandy was taken on board the Greyhound. By this time, Ben's original idea that Richard was wide awake was adopted by Mr. Presby. By the exercise of great skill and caution, they had kept near the boys, and had put out the fire almost as soon as it was kindled.

While they were still on the ground, Mr. Batterman, who had been awakened by the bright light of the burning hay, made his appearance. He found the two old men in the very act of putting out the fire. Mr. Presby smothered the flames by throwing his great-coat upon it.

"Now, Mr. Richard," continued the boatman, "Mr. Presby saved you. He was acquainted with Batterman, and has a mortgage on his farm. The farmer suspected who had attempted to burn his building; he laid it to you at once, and told us all about the scrape when you stole the melons. You don't know how mad he was, Mr. Richard. But Mr. Presby made it all right with him, and he promised not to prosecute. Mr. Richard, you had better not walk in your sleep any more."

Richard did not like this last remark, and he walked down the pier. The state prison was only a bugbear then; but his father meant to do something. He was about to get into his skiff to visit the Greyhound when Ben hailed him.

"My orders are, not to let you have any of the boats," said he.

The new order of things had begun, and he returned to the house. His father was in the sitting room when he entered.

"Richard," said Mr. Grant, "to-morrow you will leave home for some months. I have decided to place you in a boarding school, where you will be under the eye of one who is competent to manage you."

This was the great matter which a little fire had kindled.