'George Leatrim's first thought was to go to his mother; but then she
was ill, and happily unconscious of what had taken place. Besides, like
his father, she might believe the evidence that Ralph had witnessed
against him, and he had not the fortitude to bear that. As his passion
subsided, he had courage to recall the painful events of the past hour,
and to acknowledge that the circumstances by which he was surrounded
were suspicious enough to condemn him in any court of law, and must be
maddening to a proud, sensitive man like his father. Struggling with
the shame and agony of his position, he could not recognise this
before, or admit that both his father and Ralph might be deceived.
'He had never felt the severe corporeal punishment during its
infliction. His mind was in too violent a state of agitation to care
for bodily suffering; but now that he was alone, the fiery indignation
that had upheld his spirit in the hour of his humiliation flickered and
went out, and the sense of degradation and intolerable wrong alone
remained.
'He remembered how his father had spurned him from his feet, had called
him a thief and a liar, and witnessed unmoved the infliction of a cruel
punishment, administered by the hand of the menial who had accused him
of the crime; and had ordered him from his presence without one word of
pity or affection.
'These after-thoughts were terrible. George felt that he had not
deserved this severity, and the tears which pride had restrained while
under the weight of Ralph Wilson's unsparing hand now burst forth in a
torrent, and he wept until the lamp of life flickered to extinction in
his panting breast.
'The mother whom he wished to save from the knowledge of his
degradation awoke suddenly from a short and disturbed sleep. She heard
the sobs and moans in the adjoining room, and recognised the voice of
her son. The next moment saw her seated upon his bed, her arms around
the weeping boy. All sense of her own sickness, of her weak state, was
gone. She was only conscious of his intense mental agony.
'He placed his aching head upon her faithful breast, he wound his
trembling arms around her slender neck, and poured into her
sympathizing ear the terrible tale of his wrongs,--how he had been
falsely accused of the commission of a heinous crime, his protestations
of innocence disregarded, and had been sentenced by his father to
receive a punishment more galling to him than death; that he had been
tempted to rebel against his father's authority, and curse the hand
that smote him--to hate where he had loved with such fond idolatry.
'The good mother listened attentively, and weighed every circumstance.
The frankness of his unreserved confession convinced her of its truth.
When all the sad tale was told, she took him in her pitying arms, and
told him that, though all the world should believe him guilty, she felt
that he was innocent from her very soul.
'"God bless you, dearest, best mother," sobbed the poor boy, covering
her hand with kisses. "I knew you would not condemn me. I never have,
nor ever will give you cause to be ashamed of me. But my father--it
seems unnatural, monstrous that he should believe me guilty at once. I
shall never get over it. It crushes my heart; it presses out my life.
If I could only convince him of my innocence I could die in peace."
'"Don't talk of dying, George. Leave your cause to God. He can bring to
light the hidden things of darkness, and make the black cloud that now
envelopes you as clear as the noonday. Let me go to your father,
George; I think I can convince him of your innocence, and that he has
acted too hastily."
'Exhausted as he was, George grasped his mother's hand, and held her
fast. "I could not see him again while this conflict is going on in my
mind--not while he looks upon me as a felon, a disgrace to his name and
family. The brand must be removed from my brow before I meet him face
to face. I want to love him as I once loved him. I feel as if I never
could love him again."
'Again the voice became choked and hoarse and the lad gave way to a
fresh agony of tears. After a while he grew calmer, and said in a
whisper: "Mother, pray for me--pray with me, that I may bear this cross
with Christian fortitude, and be taught to forgive my enemies--yes, as
He, the dear Master, forgave them," he continued, reverently folding
his hands together, "and gave His life for sinners like me, and died,
the just for the unjust."
'They prayed long and earnestly, that sorrowful mother and son. At
length a light broke over the pallid countenance of the youth; he
raised his head slowly and with difficulty from that dear mother's
supporting arms, and gazed into her tearful eyes with a look of
unutterable love. "Mother, blessed mother," he whispered, "the agony is
over; I feel calm and happy now. Our prayers are accepted; the divine
peace which Christ bestowed upon His disciples, His last, best gift, is
filling my heart, and the anger I felt at my dear father's unjust
suspicions is lost in pity and love. My sorrows are over; his, alas!
are to come. To you, dearest mother, I leave the task of
reconciliation. You will vindicate my memory, and teach him to respect
me in death. And that miserable old man--tell him to deal gently with
him for my sake. Tell him that I forgive him, that he must forgive him
also, and lead the sinner back to God." He paused, and panted for
breath. "George," cried the terrified mother, "you are ill; let me send
for Dr. Aldis, and call your father."
'"Too late! who can heal a broken heart? It will soon be over. God is
dealing very gently with me, beloved mother. Let the thought console
you that you have a son in heaven. But my father, my dear, unhappy
father, may God comfort him! It grows very dark; I cannot see your
sweet face, mother, but all around is joy and peace."
'A shade passed over the noble young face, a tremor shook the slight
frame of the dying boy, and the enfranchized spirit, throwing off the
last coil of clay, followed the unseen messenger to the land of the
hereafter.
'A shriek, a loud, piercing shriek, rang through the silent house. Dr.
Leatrim started from his knees and rushed up-stairs. The next moment he
was standing beside the bed of his son, upon which his wife was sitting
with the head of the dead boy in her lap.
'The Doctor staggered like a drunken man, and held to the bed-post for
support. He comprehended the awful truth at a glance, but the
conviction was too terrible to receive at once. It was an illusion of
the senses, a ghastly vision; it was too dreadful to be a hard,
everyday fact. He had poured out his soul to God; had deplored to the
great Judge that his sentence had been too severe, that kindness would
have done more to soften the proud heart of the boy than the violent
course he had adopted. He had just made up his mind to go to George,
and once more address him with love and confidence, when that horrid
cry, wrung from a mother's breaking heart, closed the doors of mercy
for ever, and left him desolate and childless.
'"Mary," he gasped out, "do not say that he is dead! It is but sleep or
exhaustion. It cannot be that he is dead?"
'His wife was quite calm now. With a mournful smile she pointed to the
beautiful face of the dead. "The seal of God is on that brow. Your
severity could only destroy the body; God has claimed the soul. I
cannot weep for him; he is happier than his parents. Can you now look
in that pure face and believe him guilty?"
'"O woman, great is your faith. But the proof--how can I do away with
the proof of his crime?"
'"Leave that to me. I have a solemn duty to perform for my murdered
son. May God give me strength for the task. Call Ralph Wilson, but do
not tell him what has happened."
'Humbled and subdued, but still unconvinced of his son's innocence, the
Doctor left the room, and shortly returned, followed by the old man.
'Mrs. Leatrim motioned to him to approach the bed.
'Rigid and immoveable, the Doctor resumed his place, still grasping the
bed-post to support him from falling. Mrs. Leatrim spoke slowly and
with some effort, but every word fell distinctly upon his ear.
'"Ralph Wilson, this is your work!"
'"I, my lady? I did not kill him! I did not strike him hard enough for
that. It was the Doctor that ordered me to do it. I begged him to have
mercy on the lad. O Lord! who would have thought of his taking a little
beating so to heart?"
'The old man turned from the bed, and cried aloud.
'"A slanderous tongue is sharper than a two-edged sword; to noble
natures like his, it strikes home to the heart. Ralph Wilson, you are
an old man standing on the very verge of the grave. You accused my son
of theft, and declared on your word of honour as a Christian that you
saw him commit the robbery!"
'"Yes, my lady. A dreadful business, my lady, but too true."
'"I demand, in proof of this, that you come here and lay your hands
upon the brow of your victim, and swear by the living God, by your
hopes of salvation through the blood of Christ, that you saw George
Leatrim commit this crime."
'The man made a few steps forward. His face became livid, large drops
of perspiration trickled down his forehead, his teeth chattered
together, and a universal spasm convulsed his features.
'"You dare not do it!" said Mrs. Leatrim, pointing to the calm,
majestic face of her son. "To witness against him now were to lie in
the face of God!"
'"I have murdered him!" sobbed the old man, sinking on his knees at his
master's feet "It was I who stole the money."
'"You, Ralph?" and the Doctor tried to shake himself free from the
grasp of the withered hands that clutched his garments. "Oh, my poor
injured boy!"
'"Yes, I did it," continued Ralph, in a tone of despair. "The devil
tempted me, as he did Judas to betray his Master. I have been a
hypocrite all my life. I loved gold--I worshipped it--I lost no
opportunity of obtaining it when I could escape detection; but it has
destroyed my miserable soul."
'"But why lay the robbery of the box on George?" asked Dr. Leatrim.
"You were safe from detection; I never suspected you."
'"But _he_ did," returned the old man bitterly. "He never loved
me. I saw it in his eye. I knew it by his manner. He believed me to be
a rogue, though he dared not express his opinion in words. I hated him
because he knew my character; and to ensure my own safety, I denounced
him."
'"And what do you think of your work?" and the Doctor turned Ralph's
face towards the dead.
'"Mercy! mercy!" shrieked the felon. "I would rather die upon the
gallows than look in that face again."
'"You will have to meet it once more, and that before long, Ralph
Wilson, to answer for this foul murder at the judgment-seat of Christ."
'With a heavy groan the old man fell down in a swoon at his master's
feet.
'"Deal gently with Ralph," said a low voice from the bed. "George made
it his dying request. He not only forgave him his sin against himself,
but charged you to do so for his sake. My dear afflicted husband,"
continued Mrs. Leatrim, "let us be thankful to the heavenly Father that
He has cleared the stain of guilt from the memory of a beloved son, and
placed him beyond the power of sin and temptation for ever."'
'And what became of the wicked old man?' said I eagerly.
'That night Mrs. Leatrim died. Her son's tragic end brought on a fatal
return of her dangerous malady. When Ralph heard of her death, he went
out and hung himself. What Dr. Leatrim's feelings were at this
unlooked-for desolation of all his earthly hopes, one can only imagine,
it is impossible to describe. One grave contained the mortal remains of
the mother and son, and the sad story created for the bereaved husband
and father a world-wide sympathy.
'It was some years after the occurrence of this domestic tragedy before
I visited Westcliff. Time had softened the anguish of the wound, but it
was still unclosed, and left the traces of a deep, incurable grief in
my uncle's face. He had become a drooping, white-haired man, but was
still at his post, a faithful and zealous minister of the gospel.
'Sorrow had worn smooth all the harsh angles in his character, and made
him simple and affectionate as a little child. He had borne the cross
and worn the crown of thorns, and, purified by self-denial and
suffering, had found love a more powerful weapon than fear in bringing
souls to Christ. His calamities had endeared him to his people, and he
had become their pastor in the truest sense of the word.
'On the anniversary of the day when George and his mother died, Dr.
Leatrim holds a solemn fast, and excludes himself from every eye,
spending the long day in meditation and prayer.
'One fine summer evening last July, I was strolling through Westcliff
churchyard, and found the dear old man lying on the turf that covered
the remains of his wife and son. He called me to him.
'"This little hillock of green sod," he said, "contains all that was
once dearest to me on earth. My heart rebelled against God when my
treasures were taken from me; but the Judge of all the earth knew what
was best for my eternal peace. It was not until these idols were
shattered in the dust that I discovered that I was poor, and blind, and
naked, and not a righteous man, wiser and better than my neighbours. In
my deep sorrow and humiliation I was taught the knowledge of myself;
that I was still in my sins, a proud, unregenerated man. Yes; I can now
acknowledge with the deepest gratitude, that, heavy and maddening as
the blow was, it was necessary to bring me to God, and make me a true
Christian."
'I went up to the monument. It was a simple urn of white marble,
surrounded by beautiful flowering shrubs. The inscription that recorded
the untimely death of his son made me start, it was so painfully
characteristic of the truthfulness of the father:
'"Here, repose in peace the mortal remains of George Leatrim, who died
at the age of 15, of a broken heart, caused by a false accusation and
the unchristian severity of his too credulous father. Reader, mourn not
for the dead, but weep sore for the living."
'I saw that my uncle was watching me with his eyes full of tears.
'He told me the sad story you have just read, sitting beside that grave
in the dim twilight. How much I respected the undying love of the
faithful heart, that never sought to spare himself in the mournful
narration.
'"Ah," he said, rising from his recumbent posture, and speaking in a
cheerful, hopeful voice, "How little we 'know of the spirit of which we
are made.' I have reason to rejoice--ay! and I do rejoice--that God
gave me such a son, and that he died a true Christian martyr, forgiving
and praying for the wretched sinners that caused his death."'