from a world of woe and misery, and to spare the life of her only child.
A burst of grief, and a violent struggle, such as I hope I may never
have to witness again, succeeded. I knew that her heart was breaking
from that hour; but I never once heard complaint or murmur escape her
lips. 'It was a piteous spectacle to see that woman in the prison-yard
from day to day, eagerly and fervently attempting, by affection and
entreaty, to soften the hard heart of her obdurate son. It was in vain.
He remained moody, obstinate, and unmoved. Not even the unlooked-for
commutation of his sentence to transportation for fourteen years,
softened for an instant the sullen hardihood of his demeanour.
'But the spirit of resignation and endurance that had so long upheld
her, was unable to contend against bodily weakness and infirmity. She
fell sick. She dragged her tottering limbs from the bed to visit her son
once more, but her strength failed her, and she sank powerless on the
ground.
'And now the boasted coldness and indifference of the young man were
tested indeed; and the retribution that fell heavily upon him nearly
drove him mad. A day passed away and his mother was not there; another
flew by, and she came not near him; a third evening arrived, and yet he
had not seen her--, and in four-and-twenty hours he was to be separated
from her, perhaps for ever. Oh! how the long-forgotten thoughts of
former days rushed upon his mind, as he almost ran up and down the
narrow yard--as if intelligence would arrive the sooner for his
hurrying--and how bitterly a sense of his helplessness and desolation
rushed upon him, when he heard the truth! His mother, the only parent
he had ever known, lay ill--it might be, dying--within one mile of the
ground he stood on; were he free and unfettered, a few minutes would
place him by her side. He rushed to the gate, and grasping the iron
rails with the energy of desperation, shook it till it rang again, and
threw himself against the thick wall as if to force a passage through
the stone; but the strong building mocked his feeble efforts, and he
beat his hands together and wept like a child.
'I bore the mother's forgiveness and blessing to her son in prison;
and I carried the solemn assurance of repentance, and his fervent
supplication for pardon, to her sick-bed. I heard, with pity and
compassion, the repentant man devise a thousand little plans for her
comfort and support when he returned; but I knew that many months before
he could reach his place of destination, his mother would be no longer
of this world. 'He was removed by night. A few weeks afterwards the poor
woman's soul took its flight, I confidently hope, and solemnly believe,
to a place of eternal happiness and rest. I performed the burial service
over her remains. She lies in our little churchyard. There is no stone
at her grave's head. Her sorrows were known to man; her virtues to God.
'it had been arranged previously to the convict's departure, that he
should write to his mother as soon as he could obtain permission, and
that the letter should be addressed to me. The father had positively
refused to see his son from the moment of his apprehension; and it was
a matter of indifference to him whether he lived or died. Many years
passed over without any intelligence of him; and when more than half
his term of transportation had expired, and I had received no letter, I
concluded him to be dead, as, indeed, I almost hoped he might be.
'Edmunds, however, had been sent a considerable distance up the country
on his arrival at the settlement; and to this circumstance, perhaps,
may be attributed the fact, that though several letters were despatched,
none of them ever reached my hands. He remained in the same place
during the whole fourteen years. At the expiration of the term, steadily
adhering to his old resolution and the pledge he gave his mother,
he made his way back to England amidst innumerable difficulties, and
returned, on foot, to his native place.
'On a fine Sunday evening, in the month of August, John Edmunds set
foot in the village he had left with shame and disgrace seventeen years
before. His nearest way lay through the churchyard. The man's heart
swelled as he crossed the stile. The tall old elms, through whose
branches the declining sun cast here and there a rich ray of light
upon the shady part, awakened the associations of his earliest days.
He pictured himself as he was then, clinging to his mother's hand, and
walking peacefully to church. He remembered how he used to look up into
her pale face; and how her eyes would sometimes fill with tears as she
gazed upon his features--tears which fell hot upon his forehead as she
stooped to kiss him, and made him weep too, although he little knew then
what bitter tears hers were. He thought how often he had run merrily
down that path with some childish playfellow, looking back, ever and
again, to catch his mother's smile, or hear her gentle voice; and then
a veil seemed lifted from his memory, and words of kindness unrequited,
and warnings despised, and promises broken, thronged upon his
recollection till his heart failed him, and he could bear it no longer.
'He entered the church. The evening service was concluded and the
congregation had dispersed, but it was not yet closed. His steps echoed
through the low building with a hollow sound, and he almost feared to
be alone, it was so still and quiet. He looked round him. Nothing was
changed. The place seemed smaller than it used to be; but there were the
old monuments on which he had gazed with childish awe a thousand times;
the little pulpit with its faded cushion; the Communion table before
which he had so often repeated the Commandments he had reverenced as
a child, and forgotten as a man. He approached the old seat; it looked
cold and desolate. The cushion had been removed, and the Bible was not
there. Perhaps his mother now occupied a poorer seat, or possibly she
had grown infirm and could not reach the church alone. He dared not
think of what he feared. A cold feeling crept over him, and he trembled
violently as he turned away. 'An old man entered the porch just as he
reached it. Edmunds started back, for he knew him well; many a time he
had watched him digging graves in the churchyard. What would he say to
the returned convict?
'The old man raised his eyes to the stranger's face, bade him
"good-evening," and walked slowly on. He had forgotten him.
'He walked down the hill, and through the village. The weather was warm,
and the people were sitting at their doors, or strolling in their little
gardens as he passed, enjoying the serenity of the evening, and their
rest from labour. Many a look was turned towards him, and many a
doubtful glance he cast on either side to see whether any knew and
shunned him. There were strange faces in almost every house; in some he
recognised the burly form of some old schoolfellow--a boy when he last
saw him--surrounded by a troop of merry children; in others he saw,
seated in an easy-chair at a cottage door, a feeble and infirm old man,
whom he only remembered as a hale and hearty labourer; but they had all
forgotten him, and he passed on unknown.
'The last soft light of the setting sun had fallen on the earth, casting
a rich glow on the yellow corn sheaves, and lengthening the shadows of
the orchard trees, as he stood before the old house--the home of his
infancy--to which his heart had yearned with an intensity of affection
not to be described, through long and weary years of captivity and
sorrow. The paling was low, though he well remembered the time that it
had seemed a high wall to him; and he looked over into the old garden.
There were more seeds and gayer flowers than there used to be, but
there were the old trees still--the very tree under which he had lain a
thousand times when tired of playing in the sun, and felt the soft, mild
sleep of happy boyhood steal gently upon him. There were voices within
the house. He listened, but they fell strangely upon his ear; he knew
them not. They were merry too; and he well knew that his poor old mother
could not be cheerful, and he away. The door opened, and a group of
little children bounded out, shouting and romping. The father, with a
little boy in his arms, appeared at the door, and they crowded round
him, clapping their tiny hands, and dragging him out, to join their
joyous sports. The convict thought on the many times he had shrunk from
his father's sight in that very place. He remembered how often he had
buried his trembling head beneath the bedclothes, and heard the harsh
word, and the hard stripe, and his mother's wailing; and though the
man sobbed aloud with agony of mind as he left the spot, his fist was
clenched, and his teeth were set, in a fierce and deadly passion.
'And such was the return to which he had looked through the weary
perspective of many years, and for which he had undergone so much
suffering! No face of welcome, no look of forgiveness, no house to
receive, no hand to help him--and this too in the old village. What was
his loneliness in the wild, thick woods, where man was never seen, to
this!
'He felt that in the distant land of his bondage and infamy, he had
thought of his native place as it was when he left it; and not as it
would be when he returned. The sad reality struck coldly at his heart,
and his spirit sank within him. He had not courage to make inquiries, or
to present himself to the only person who was likely to receive him with
kindness and compassion. He walked slowly on; and shunning the roadside
like a guilty man, turned into a meadow he well remembered; and covering
his face with his hands, threw himself upon the grass.
'He had not observed that a man was lying on the bank beside him; his
garments rustled as he turned round to steal a look at the new-comer;
and Edmunds raised his head.
'The man had moved into a sitting posture. His body was much bent, and
his face was wrinkled and yellow. His dress denoted him an inmate of the
workhouse: he had the appearance of being very old, but it looked more
the effect of dissipation or disease, than the length of years. He was
staring hard at the stranger, and though his eyes were lustreless and
heavy at first, they appeared to glow with an unnatural and alarmed
expression after they had been fixed upon him for a short time, until
they seemed to be starting from their sockets. Edmunds gradually raised
himself to his knees, and looked more and more earnestly on the old
man's face. They gazed upon each other in silence.
'The old man was ghastly pale. He shuddered and tottered to his feet.
Edmunds sprang to his. He stepped back a pace or two. Edmunds advanced.
'"Let me hear you speak," said the convict, in a thick, broken voice.
'"Stand off!" cried the old man, with a dreadful oath. The convict drew
closer to him.
'"Stand off!" shrieked the old man. Furious with terror, he raised his
stick, and struck Edmunds a heavy blow across the face.
'"Father--devil!" murmured the convict between his set teeth. He rushed
wildly forward, and clenched the old man by the throat--but he was his
father; and his arm fell powerless by his side.
'The old man uttered a loud yell which rang through the lonely fields
like the howl of an evil spirit. His face turned black, the gore rushed
from his mouth and nose, and dyed the grass a deep, dark red, as he
staggered and fell. He had ruptured a blood-vessel, and he was a dead
man before his son could raise him. 'In that corner of the churchyard,'
said the old gentleman, after a silence of a few moments, 'in that
corner of the churchyard of which I have before spoken, there lies
buried a man who was in my employment for three years after this event,
and who was truly contrite, penitent, and humbled, if ever man was. No
one save myself knew in that man's lifetime who he was, or whence he
came--it was John Edmunds, the returned convict.'
CHAPTER VII. HOW Mr. WINKLE, INSTEAD OF SHOOTING AT THE PIGEON AND
KILLING THE CROW, SHOT AT THE CROW AND WOUNDED THE PIGEON; HOW THE
DINGLEY DELL CRICKET CLUB PLAYED ALL-MUGGLETON, AND HOW ALL-MUGGLETON
DINED AT THE DINGLEY DELL EXPENSE; WITH OTHER INTERESTING AND
INSTRUCTIVE MATTERS
The fatiguing adventures of the day or the somniferous influence of the
clergyman's tale operated so strongly on the drowsy tendencies of Mr.
Pickwick, that in less than five minutes after he had been shown to his
comfortable bedroom he fell into a sound and dreamless sleep, from
which he was only awakened by the morning sun darting his bright beams
reproachfully into the apartment. Mr. Pickwick was no sluggard, and he
sprang like an ardent warrior from his tent-bedstead.
'Pleasant, pleasant country,' sighed the enthusiastic gentleman, as he
opened his lattice window. 'Who could live to gaze from day to day on
bricks and slates who had once felt the influence of a scene like this?
Who could continue to exist where there are no cows but the cows on the
chimney-pots; nothing redolent of Pan but pan-tiles; no crop but stone
crop? Who could bear to drag out a life in such a spot? Who, I ask,
could endure it?' and, having cross-examined solitude after the most
approved precedents, at considerable length, Mr. Pickwick thrust his
head out of the lattice and looked around him.
The rich, sweet smell of the hay-ricks rose to his chamber window; the
hundred perfumes of the little flower-garden beneath scented the air
around; the deep-green meadows shone in the morning dew that glistened
on every leaf as it trembled in the gentle air; and the birds sang as
if every sparkling drop were to them a fountain of inspiration. Mr.
Pickwick fell into an enchanting and delicious reverie.
'Hollo!' was the sound that roused him.
He looked to the right, but he saw nobody; his eyes wandered to the
left, and pierced the prospect; he stared into the sky, but he wasn't
