# The Blind Bow-boy/Chapter 1

Harold Prewett sat in the broad, black-walnut seat of an ambiguous piece of furniture which branched above, in spreading antlers, into a rack for coats and hats and which below, at either side, provided means for the disposition of canes and umbrellas. The mere presence of these heavy, sullen antlers was sufficiently dispiriting to increase the gloomy atmosphere which environed the young man. The room in which he sat waiting was a hallway. Through a vestibule one entered it from the street, and it served its purpose as the main artery through which the life of the house flowed, by offering entrances and exits to the other rooms on that floor and, by way of a staircase, carpeted in turkey-red and guarded by black-walnut banisters, it led to regions above. There was a high wainscot of the oppressive black-walnut, and the wall from the wainscot to the solid panelled ceiling was covered with a thick embossed paper, bronze in colour, embellished with a grandiose and florid, semi-heraldic pattern. The vestibule door and the door into the street beyond were both open and the warm June light filtered through and somewhat dispelled the ​moroseness of the 1875 grandeur of the place. On the first landing of the staircase, midway between the two floors, a stained-glass window, of purple and blue and green diamond panes, permitted a little more light to enter. Underneath this window the great pendulum of a high hall-clock swung slowly back and forth, marking the sluggish passage of time with its sharp, tiresome ticks.
Harold Prewett was an attractive young man, with chestnut-coloured hair, brown eyes, a healthy complexion, and a fairly competent build. He looked well in his clothes, a double-breasted brown suit, which any sophisticated person could have told you came from a Fifth Avenue tailor, and the modest shade of his cravat indicated a conservative taste in tinges. The young man had recently graduated from college, but there was nothing in his demeanour to suggest excessive confidence on this account. He fidgeted a good deal; he mumbled to himself, evidently rehearsing words and phrases of which he hoped presently to deliver himself in the presence of an audience. He twirled his straw hat nervously between his fingers and, occasionally, he stood up and walked about, but, after a moment or two of this restless marching, he invariably returned to his seat in the hat-rack under the spreading antlers.
The cause of his perturbation was somewhat grotesque. He had been summoned to a conference with his father. Now, most boys, in good health, ​well-dressed, with no special crimes on their consciences, would be able to face even the most irascible of parents without any great amount of diffidence. The facts in this case, however, were decidedly peculiar. Father and son had yet to meet for the first time. The reasons governing the postponement of this encounter were not unknown to a few of George Prewett's friends, but Harold himself was entirely uninitiated in regard to them. Before going away to college he had lived with an aunt in Connecticut. He had always been provided with plenty of pocket-money and, on rare occasions, he had received instructions on minor points of conduct from his father's legal adviser. During his college years his vacations had invariably been spent at the home of his aunt, who, under orders, probably, never mentioned his father's name, although she was his sister. He had not, indeed, been entirely certain that his father was alive until, on the day that he graduated, he had received a telegraphic summons from the lawyer, bidding him to come to his father's house on West Eighty-second Street in New York. His father, at last, desired to see him.
Now the nature of this unnatural father's plans in his behalf held sinister terrors for Harold. This aloof parent, having footed the bills unquestioningly for twenty-one years, might conceivably have it in mind to take advantage of this fact to make unpleasant conditions in regard to the future. ​He might wish his son to become a bond salesman or to embark in the cloak and suit business. Harold was a little dubious about the future. He seemed to lack strong desires, but he was conscious of a few strong aversions. The cloak and suit business was one of these, for a reason hereinafter to be noted.
Moodily occupied with such morbid meditations, Harold had been sitting in the hat-rack for ten or fifteen minutes. He sat there for another five before the approach of the man who had met him at the door announced to him that his suspense was presently to be relieved in however unpleasant a manner.
The man spoke: Mr. Prewett will see you now, sir.
The man led the way, Harold following closely at his heels, up the red-carpeted staircase, along the upper hallway to the very front, where he knocked on a closed door. There was a moment of hesitation before a brusque Come in! concluded all this preliminary ceremony. Harold's heart was beating very fast; he was entirely unaware of the opening and closing of the door, the departure of the servant, and his own eventual shuffling to the centre of the room. When he had recovered himself sufficiently to look about, he noted that he seemed to be standing in a vast library. A man, who was, he assumed, his father, sat facing him, bent over a desk, apparently intent on the perusal of a quantity ​of papers. Harold became a trifle calmer as he began to realize that the man at the desk was almost certainly as much perturbed and embarrassed as he himself had been. Presently, after a few more seconds of silence, during which the boy stood perfectly still, the elder man (a much older man than Harold had expected to see) rose and leaned over the desk to shake hands with his son.
How do you do? were his first words and his voice sounded suspiciously choked.
Harold echoed this polite cliche.
George Prewett pointed to a chair and then, seemingly entirely overcome by the meeting, by the first words, and by his thoughts of past and future, sank back into his seat and again appeared to busy himself with the pile of papers on his desk.
Completely confident by now that his father was certainly more terrified than he had been at any stage of this strange game, Harold grew steadily cooler. He stared at the rows of books in shelves against the walls, at the steel-engravings above the shelves, at the curtained alcoves framing the windows, and then he ventured to look back at this eccentric figure who seemed to be ostentatiously pretending to be unaware of his presence, a stout, half-bald, rapidly aging man, who wore eye-glasses framed in tortoise-shell, and a suit of purple mohair.
This scene in the comedy was now abruptly terminated. The elder man spoke again.
​Fond of athletics, I suppose? he queried, almost sharply, in a voice which was deep but not unpleasant in quality.
Not games so much, but I like to ride and swim, Harold answered.
No football or baseball?
No, I don't care much for those.
Good!
Following this exchange of information there was another brief silence.
Well, what do you want to do now?
I don't know, sir. Your lawyer informed me that I was to make no decisions regarding my future. He asked me to wait.
And you have strictly regarded this injunction? George Prewett seemed almost anxiously eager.
Naturally I have endeavoured to follow the instructions of one to whom I was indebted for my income. Also, quite naturally, I have at times speculated on my future. I must admit that certain occupations appear to me to be extremely distasteful.
Those are? The older man was gruff.
Harold paused and blushed. Then he spoke out: I have no wish, sir, to engage in the cloak and suit business.
It was the turn of George Prewett to blush, but beyond the obvious embarrassment which convulsed his features, it was possible to discern what seemed ​to be the evidence of a deep and abiding joy and relief.
You are my son! he cried. Embrace me.
He rose from his seat and Harold stood up to meet him. The older man grasped the younger man's shoulders. The son tried to encircle his father's waist. This constrained attempt at a display of affection seemed to exhaust them both, and, dropping their arms, they sank back into their chairs. The father was the first to rally.
You are my son! he repeated. My son! Your answers are music to my ears. You are saying exactly what I would have you say. Then, with an air of suspicion, You haven't been warned?
Warned? By whom? The young man sufficiently showed his bewilderment.
George Prewett was reassured. No, he said, Sanderson would never break my trust, betray my confidence. No more, I think, would my sister. It is fate, he cried, fate, which has given me the son I would have asked for, had I asked for a son at all, he wound up, musing on some hidden grief.
Then, with one of those quick transitions which marked his character, Have you had your lunch?
Why yes, father; it is nearly four o'clock.
So it is. So it is. I never know the time. I have been so occupied today that I have forgotten to eat, but the dinner hour is approaching and one meal a day is enough for any man. Well, I'm ​pleased with you, delighted would be a better word. Yes, I'm delighted with you.
Harold said nothing.
And now, I suppose that you wish to know about your future, so far as I have any concern with your future. Or would you rather, perhaps, learn something of your past?
It is for you to say, father. Tell me what you feel like telling me.
It is no easy task I have set myself. You may turn against me. You don't know me at all, and it is difficult to tell a boy what I have to tell you. But you must believe that I am pleased with you—he paused for a moment to wipe the moisture from his eye-glasses—or I would not be willing, or able, to tell you what I am about to tell you now.
I do believe it, father.
I am sure you do. You must know then—the hand of George Prewett shook and there were traces of emotion in his voice—that your mother was an extremely beautiful woman, and that she was the only person I have ever really loved. I was past forty when I married her, but she was a young girl at this period. A few months later I learned to my delight that, in the course of time, she would be delivered of a child. The plans I made for the life of that little girl, for it never occurred to me to consider the possibility that I might have a son, were prodigious. I will not take up your time, young sir, in describing them, but you can ​judge of my supreme disappointment when I learned that my wife had given birth to a boy. My grief and rage were merged in despair when I was informed by her physician that my beloved wife had but a few more hours to live.
At this point in his narrative, the elderly gentleman began to choke. He pounded the desk for a few seconds with an ivory paper-cutter before he resumed his story. Harold, meanwhile, sat perfectly quiet.
I was told that my wife was aware of her fatal condition and wished to see me for the last time before she died. Our meeting for this parting was the saddest moment of my life. I will not dwell upon it—he mopped his brow with his large white linen handkerchief—but upon its results. On her deathbed, my wife, who knew that under, such conditions I would promise anything, exacted an oath from me. That oath concerns you. I swore before God over your mother's deathbed that you should have a college education.
But, sir! Harold now began plainly to exhibit his astonishment.
Do not interrupt me! his father resumed harshly. Hear me out. I have no intention of leaving anything unexplained. I have asked you to come here today solely for the purpose of explaining everything. Understand then, young man, that I myself am the victim of a college education. I went to college . . . and learned nothing. I left the doors ​of the university without the slightest preparation for the life to come. Commencement! What an ironic word. It should be called bewilderment. I had studied Latin, Greek, and English prose. I was conversant with the principles of mathematics and chemistry, but I was utterly unfamiliar with life and how to live it. I had no specific talents. I was not an artist. I had no capacity for writing. I discovered, in fact, that, far from establishing any of the laws of existence, my education had completely unfitted me for any sort of intercourse with men. I had been much better off had I never seen a campus.
My people were not poor, but their means were moderate. I had brothers and sisters. The necessity of my making a living for myself was borne in upon me by my well-intentioned parents, who had thrown me in the way of forgetting how to make it. In the face of their hope that I would quickly choose some occupation or profession, I found myself completely helpless. I felt no calling for the ministry, the law, or medicine; nor had my education fitted me for any of these pursuits. My father, therefore, a physician in a small town, could give me no assistance. In my extremity I received a letter from one of my college mates, who had inherited from his father a modest but prosperous cloak and suit business. He, too, was bitterly despondent, and felt himself utterly incapable of undertaking the management of the firm. It had oc​curred to him, however, that together we might minimize the chances of failure. This opportunity to enter a stray edge of the business world was worse than anything that I had dreamed might happen, but I was forced to consider that no alternatives had presented themselves and that my father, who had generously provided me with what he thought was a good education, could not reasonably be expected to look longer after my welfare. I accepted, therefore, the offer of my friend and engaged in the pursuit of the cloak and suit business.
During this discourse, Harold's eyes dilated with horror, but, obeying his father's expressed command, he refrained from making any comment.
We made a great many mistakes in the beginning, as was but natural, Prewett senior continued, but one grows accustomed to anything, and it was not long before we found ourselves quite capable of running our plant in a satisfactory manner. Had it not been for my sister Sadie, however, the aunt who has brought you up, I doubt if I should have been in a position to marry or to liberally provide for your whims. My sister, who was our head designer, invented the famous Ninon de Lenclos cloak, the sensation of the season of 1897. The fame of this garment swept the country. We sent a model to Mrs. Potter Palmer and, after she had appeared in public in the cloak, its success was made. Our limited capacity proved insufficient to meet the flood of orders and we erected a larger plant. Since ​then the business has moved ahead triumphantly. Never, however, has this success seemed to me to be deserved; never has it interested me.
Had I not been educated in college, doubtless I should have slipped automatically into my proper niche. I might have been a brakeman on a railroad or a sailor before the mast, but at any rate there would have been some intention or meaning in my occupation. All that college did for me was to unfit me for decision. It unwilled me and threw me forward into the first opportunity that presented itself.
The gloom on the elderly gentleman's face was apparently ineffaceable.
Realizing, he went on after a moment's pause, that with the advent of a boy, my difficulties would be repeated in his life, I wished with all my heart that my dear wife would present me with a little girl, Through no fault of hers, she failed me. Immediately the news of your birth was brought to me, I began to conceive ways by which I might spare you the agony of my own experience. I will never send him to college, I promised myself, never. My wife, who was acquainted with my opinions on this subject, had always pooh-poohed my sentiments. Have you not been successful? she would ask. What more do you wish? You have made plenty of money and your college education has made it possible for you to enjoy the best books, to travel with pleasure, even to marry me. There ​was, beyond doubt, some logic in this reasoning, but it did not appeal to me. I could not dispel from my mind the memory of that horrible summer of perplexity and its obvious cause. All I could remember was that a college education had thrown me into the cloak and suit business, which was not, I felt certain, my predestined field. I determined to spare my son, if possible, a repetition of this experience. Aware of my intentions, my wife took advantage of my emotional weakness and made me promise, over her deathbed, that I would send you to college. I gave her the promise. She died, and I closed her eyes.
During the relation of this remarkable history. George Prewett had several times permitted his gaze to wander about the room, but now he fastened his eyes securely on his son.
The fact that you were not a girl did not endear you in my eyes; the further fact that you had caused the death of your mother made it impossible for me to entertain the thought of seeing you. The reflection that she had christened you Harold made the alienation complete. I arranged at once for your care. You were brought up first by a wet-nurse, later by my sister, who, amply rewarded for her skill in designing the Ninon de Lenclos cloak, had retired to a life of peace in the country. I have kept my promise. You have been sent to college. And, latterly, I have grown less bitter. After all, it is not your fault that you are a boy, not your fault ​that you killed your mother, not your fault, even, that you were named Harold. I determined, therefore, to assume the usual paternal relationship towards you, and I began to consider ways and means by which I might possibly counteract the dangerous effects of your education. I believe I have hit upon a method.
There now fell a complete silence, and the young man gathered from the extended pause that his father would raise no further objections to his speaking.
Father, he began, when I told you that I had an aversion for the cloak and suit business I had no idea . . .
Of course, you hadn't! That's why your remarks delighted me so much. I was expecting opposition, he added, rather ambiguously.
Opposition! But, father, you have provided for me thus far and I understand very well, after what you have told me, how repugnant the idea of meeting me must have been to you. I can see no reason for opposing you, father, especially since you assure me that you have no desire for me to enter the cloak—your business.
Enter it! I would see you dead first! I would give the business away! However, we need not speak of that, since no such contingency has arisen. Our conversation has fortified and delighted me beyond measure. I am relieved to find you so tractable and I have the highest hopes for your future. ​It had been my original intention to spin this interview out over several meetings, two weeks or a month, perhaps, but it has been so simple to go thus far that I can see no reason for hesitating to go farther. I think I am completely justified in believing that I can make you acquainted with my plans for you at once.
I am waiting to hear them, father.
Know then that I have reasoned that you may be only prepared to struggle with life as it exists by a certain reversal of preparation. You have been prepared . . . for what? For nothing! But, perhaps, in spite of your present uncertainty, you are not entirely convinced of that fact. You must be convinced. You must see more of life and learn to live; you must learn to discount what you have been taught. In other words, you must learn to think for yourself, and become capable of choosing an occupation which will do you credit, which will be a reflection of your own personality and not of mine. I care not what this occupation may be, so long as it represents the results of experience and mature judgment. I have decided, therefore, to make somewhat of an experiment.
If this interview had not been the expected ordeal, at least it had held elements of surprise. This new turn again caused lines of amazement to collect about the young man's eyes.
I cannot, continued George Prewett, throw you out into the world to gain your own experience. ​You would be as helpless, in that case, as if you were asked at once to choose your future occupation. You have been unfitted for going out into the world. I have determined, therefore, to provide you with a tutor.
Am I to study longer, then?
Study is not the word. You are, as a matter of fact, to do exactly what you please. Your tutor will guide you, however, guide you carefully into the ways of life, and some of its byways. There may be hours for reflection and what you call study. He may conceivably suggest certain courses of reading. I have left him a more or less free hand in this respect, for the young man I have discovered is so uncannily like the ideal I set before myself that I think I am justified in permitting him almost unlimited discretion.
May I ask . . . ?
Certainly, certainly, I am coming to that. Harold's father betrayed a touch of impatience at this point. This young man is no old and valued friend. I secured him through an advertisement.
An advertisement!
An advertisement. I shall have no further secrets from you. Here it is. Mr. Prewett picked a clipping from the clutter on his desk and began to read:
Wanted: Young man of good character but no moral sense. Must know three languages and possess a sense of humour. Autodidact preferred, one ​whose experience has led him to whatever books he has read. It is absolutely essential that he should have been the central figure in some public scandal. Age, not above thirty. Right person will receive suitable emolument. Answer BCX.
Harold's stupefaction had merged into terror again; this time something very like panic had seized him.
And you found one . . . like that? he stammered.
A dozen. At least a dozen. Two hundred replied to my advertisement. With the aid of my very competent attorney, who has succeeded in baffling you in regard to your parentage for twenty-one years, I selected twenty-five of the most promising letters. The writers of these I interviewed personally. Twelve were singled out for future investigation. Many knew the languages and had at least a limited sense of humour, a few were lacking, I am quite certain, in a moral sense, but only one qualified completely as to the public scandal.
But I cannot imagine the advantage . . .
No more you can, of course. Your education has unfitted your mind for the reception of such ideas. I shall, therefore, make no effort to explain them to you. It will suffice, perhaps, if I inform you that I regard this young man as the apple of my eye. I have conversed with him on several occasions. He has been interrogated by my lawyer, who has made the most minute inquiries into his ​life. In every respect I find myself entirely satisfied in regard to his manner of living, his past and his present. He is a delightfully irresponsible and unmoral person and I place you in his care without any reservations whatever.
There were several points in these remarks that astounded the young man. He wished to ask many questions, but he judged from his father's expression that he had better limit himself to one, which was:
What is his name, father?
Paul Moody.
The man who went to Ludlow for refusing to pay his wife alimony?
The same.
The papers were full of him a month or two ago!
They were. And now, I think it would be unwise to prolong this interview. You are not as yet prepared to fully comprehend its purport and further conversation might lead us into emotional relations which would be very unfortunate at the present stage of our acquaintanceship. I like you very well to begin with, and I might grow fond enough of you to quarrel with you. I have judged it best, therefore, that for the present we continue to live apart.
The young man opened his mouth to speak again.
Do not interrupt me. To live apart. George Prewett was staring hard at the ceiling. To this end, I have leased an apartment for you on East ​Eighteenth Street. Moody lives in Gramercy Park. Here is your key. The address is on the attached tag. You will find the apartment ready for occupancy, and there is a man there who will attend to your wants which, I hope, will not be modest. If you feel inclined to move about, to lease larger quarters, you are your own master. Sanderson—will confer with you in regard to such matters, but I may assure you that your means are practically unlimited. Mr. Moody will doubtless inspire you, but when you have ideas of your own, you will discover that he will be only too ready to assist you to carry them out.
In the meantime, we shall resume our former status. A year from today you are to return to tell me what you have learned. Then, having established a proper foundation for mutual intercourse, it will be possible to begin to discuss your future. Thereafter, I have every hope that you will not only be a man of the world but an excellent companion for me as well. That is all. Good-bye, young man.
There was a certain sense of relief in these last words as if this interview had taxed his powers almost to the limits of his endurance.
Good-bye, father, echoed the bewildered Harold.