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 green-sward. 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 over 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 agonizing 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 fulfill it. He started up, ran toward the door,
and endeavored 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-plowman to a neighboring farmer, one of the
cleanest, best behaved, and moat respected laborers in the parish.
* * * * *