Quiet enough, in general, is the quaint old town of Lamborough. Why all
this bustle to-day? Along the hedge-bound roads which lead to it, carts,
chaises, vehicles of every description are jogging along filled with
countrymen; and here and there the scarlet cloak or straw bonnet of some
female occupying a chair, placed somewhat unsteadily behind them,
contrasts gaily with the dark coats, or grey smock-frocks of the front
row; from every cottage of the suburb, some individuals join the stream,
which rolls on increasing through the streets till it reaches the
castle. The ancient moat teems with idlers, and the hill opposite,
usually the quiet domain of a score or two of peaceful sheep, partakes
of the surrounding agitation.
The voice of the multitude which surrounds the court-house, sounds like
the murmur of the sea, till suddenly it is raised to a sort of shout.
John West, the terror of the surrounding country, the sheep-stealer and
burglar, had been found guilty.
“What is the sentence?” is asked by a hundred voices.
The answer is “Transportation for Life.”
But there was one standing aloof on the hill, whose inquiring eye
wandered over the crowd with indescribable anguish, whose pallid cheek
grew more and more ghastly at every denunciation of the culprit, and
who, when at last the sentence was pronounced, fell insensible upon the
greensward. It was the burglar’s son.
When the boy recovered from his swoon, it was late in the afternoon; he
was alone; the faint tinkling of the sheep-bell had again replaced the
sound of the human chorus of expectation, and dread, and jesting; all
was peaceful, he could not understand why he lay there, feeling so weak
and sick. He raised himself tremulously and looked around, the turf was
cut and spoilt by the trampling of many feet. All his life of the last
few months floated before his memory, his residence in his father’s
hovel with ruffianly comrades, the desperate schemes he heard as he
pretended to sleep on his lowly bed, their expeditions at night, masked
and armed, their hasty returns, the news of his father’s capture, his
own removal to the house of some female in the town, the court, the
trial, the condemnation.
The father had been a harsh and brutal parent, but he had not positively
ill-used his boy. Of the Great and Merciful Father of the fatherless the
child knew nothing. He deemed himself alone in the world. Yet grief was
not his pervading feeling, nor the shame of being known as the son of a
transport. It was revenge which burned within him. He thought of the
crowd which had come to feast upon his father’s agony; he longed to tear
them to pieces, and he plucked savagely a handful of the grass on which
he leant. Oh, that he were a man! that he could punish them all—all,—the
spectators first, the constables, the judge, the jury, the
witnesses,—one of them especially, a clergyman named Leyton, who had
given his evidence more positively, more clearly, than all the others.
Oh, that he could do that man some injury,—but for him his father would
not have been identified and convicted.
Suddenly a thought occurred to him,—his eyes sparkled with fierce
delight. “I know where he lives,” he said to himself; “he has the farm
and parsonage of Millwood. I will go there at once,—it is almost dark
already. I will do as I have heard father say he once did to the Squire.
I will set his barns and his house on fire. Yes, yes, he shall burn for
it,—he shall get no more fathers transported.”
To procure a box of matches was an easy task, and that was all the
preparation the boy made.
The autumn was far advanced. A cold wind was beginning to moan amongst
the almost leafless trees, and George West’s teeth chattered, and his
ill-clad limbs grew numb as he walked along the fields leading to
Millwood. “Lucky it’s a dark night; this fine wind will fan the flame
nicely,” he repeated to himself.
The clock was striking nine, but all was quiet as midnight; not a soul
stirring, not a light in the parsonage windows that he could see. He
dared not open the gate, lest the click of the latch should betray him,
so he softly climbed over; but scarcely had he dropped on the other side
of the wall before the loud barking of a dog startled him. He cowered
down behind the hay-rick, scarcely daring to breathe, expecting each
instant that the dog would spring upon him. It was some time before the
boy dared to stir, and as his courage cooled, his thirst for revenge
somewhat subsided also, till he almost determined to return to
Lamborough; but he was too tired, too cold, too hungry,—besides, the
woman would beat him for staying out so late. What could he do? where
should he go? and as the sense of his lonely and forlorn position
returned, so did also the affectionate remembrance of his father, his
hatred of his accusers, his desire to satisfy his vengeance; and, once
more, courageous through anger, he rose, took the box from his pocket
and boldly drew one of them across the sand-paper. It flamed; he stuck
it hastily in the stack against which he rested,—it only flickered a
little, and went out. In great trepidation, young West once more grasped
the whole of the remaining matches in his hand and ignited them but at
the same instant the dog barked. He hears the gate open, a step is close
to him, the matches are extinguished, the lad makes a desperate effort
to escape,—but a strong hand was laid on his shoulder, and a deep calm
voice inquired, “What can have urged you to such a crime?” Then calling
loudly, the gentleman, without relinquishing his hold, soon obtained the
help of some farming men, who commenced a search with their lanterns all
about the farm. Of course they found no accomplices, nothing at all but
the handful of half-consumed matches the lad had dropped, and he all
that time stood trembling, and occasionally struggling, beneath the firm
but not rough grasp of the master who held him.
At last the men were told to return to the house, and thither, by a
different path, was George led till they entered a small,
poorly-furnished room. The walls were covered with books, as the bright
flame of the fire revealed to the anxious gaze of the little culprit.
The clergyman lit a lamp, and surveyed his prisoner attentively. The
lad’s eyes were fixed on the ground, whilst Mr. Leyton’s wandered from
his pale, pinched features to his scanty, ragged attire, through the
tatters of which he could discern the thin limbs quivering from cold or
fear; and when at last impelled by curiosity at the long silence, George
looked up, there was something so sadly compassionate in the stranger’s
gentle look, that the boy could scarcely believe that he was really the
man whose evidence had mainly contributed to transport his father. At
the trial he had been unable to see his face, and nothing so kind had
ever gazed upon him. His proud bad feelings were already melting.
“You look half-starved,” said Mr. Leyton, “draw nearer to the fire, you
can sit down on that stool whilst I question you; and mind you answer me
the truth. I am not a magistrate, but of course can easily hand you over
to justice if you will not allow me to benefit you in my own way.”
George still stood twisting his ragged cap in his trembling fingers, and
with so much emotion depicted on his face, that the good clergyman
resumed, in still more soothing accents; “I have no wish to do you
anything but good, my poor boy; look up at me, and see if you cannot
trust me: you need not be thus frightened. I only desire to hear the
tale of misery your appearance indicates, to relieve it if I can.”
Here the young culprit’s heart smote him. Was this the man whose house
he had tried to burn? On whom he had wished to bring ruin and perhaps
death? Was it a snare spread for him to lead to confession? But when he
looked on that grave compassionate countenance, he felt that it was
_not_.
“Come, my lad, tell me all.”
George had for years heard little but oaths, and curses, and ribald
jests, or the thief’s jargon of his father’s associates, and had been
constantly cuffed and punished; but the better part of his nature was
not extinguished; and at those words from the mouth of his _enemy_, he
dropped on his knees, and clasping his hands, tried to speak; but could
only sob. He had not wept before during that day of anguish; and now his
tears gushed forth so freely, his grief was so passionate as he half
knelt, half rested on the floor, that the good questioner saw that
sorrow must have its course ere calm could be restored.
The young penitent still wept, when a knock was heard at the door, and a
lady entered. It was the clergyman’s wife, he kissed her as she asked
how he had succeeded with the wicked man in the jail?
“He told me” replied Mr. Leyton, “that he had a son whose fate tormented
him more than his punishment. Indeed his mind was so distracted
respecting the youth, that he was scarcely able to understand my
exhortations. He entreated me with agonising energy to save his son from
such a life as he had led, and gave me the address of a woman in whose
house he lodged. I was, however, unable to find the boy in spite of many
earnest inquiries.”
“Did you hear his name?” asked the wife.
“George West,” was the reply.
At the mention of his name, the boy ceased to sob. Breathlessly he heard
the account of his father’s last request, of the benevolent clergyman’s
wish to fulfil it. He started up, ran towards the door, and endeavoured
to open it; Mr. Leyton calmly restrained him, “You must not escape,” he
said.
“I cannot stop here. I cannot bear to look at you. Let me go!” The lad
said this wildly, and shook himself away.
“Why, I intend you nothing but kindness.”
A new flood of tears gushed forth; and George West said between his
sobs,
“Whilst you were searching for me to help me, I was trying to burn you
in your house. I cannot bear it.” He sunk on his knees, and covered his
face with both hands.
There was a long silence, for Mr. and Mrs. Leyton were as much moved as
the boy, who was bowed down with shame and penitence, to which hitherto
he had been a stranger.
At last the clergyman asked, “What could have induced you to commit such
a crime?”
Rising suddenly in the excitement of remorse, gratitude, and many
feelings new to him, he hesitated for a moment, and then told his story;
he related his trials, his sins, his sorrows, his supposed wrongs, his
burning anger at the terrible fate of his only parent, and his rage at
the exultation of the crowd: his desolation on recovering from his
swoon, his thirst for vengeance, the attempt to satisfy it. He spoke
with untaught, child-like simplicity, without attempting to suppress the
emotions which successively overcame him.
When he ceased, the lady hastened to the crouching boy, and soothed him
with gentle words. The very tones of her voice were new to him. They
pierced his heart more acutely than the fiercest of the upbraidings and
denunciations of his old companions. He looked on his merciful
benefactors with bewildered tenderness. He kissed Mrs. Leyton’s hand
then gently laid on his shoulder. He gazed about like one in a dream who
dreaded to wake. He became faint and staggered. He was laid gently on a
sofa, and Mr. and Mrs. Leyton left him.
Food was shortly administered to him, and after a time, when his senses
had become sufficiently collected, Mr. Leyton returned to the study, and
explained holy and beautiful things, which were new to the neglected
boy: of the great yet loving Father; of Him who loved the poor, forlorn
wretch, equally with the richest, and noblest, and happiest; of the
force and efficacy of the sweet beatitude, “Blessed are the Merciful for
they shall obtain Mercy.”
I heard this story from Mr. Leyton, during a visit to him in May. George
West was then head ploughman to a neighbouring farmer, one of the
cleanest, best behaved, and most respected labourers in the parish.