CHAPTER VI
_An Old-fashioned Card-party. The Clergyman's Verses. The Story of the Convict's Return_
Several guests who were assembled in the old parlour rose to greetMr. Pickwick and his friends upon their entrance; and during theperformance of the ceremony of introduction, with all due formalities,Mr. Pickwick had leisure to observe the appearance, and speculateupon the characters and pursuits, of the persons by whom he wassurrounded--a habit in which he, in common with many other great men,delighted to indulge.
A very old lady, in a lofty cap and faded silk gown--no less apersonage than Mr. Wardle's mother--occupied the post of honour on theright-hand corner of the chimney-piece; and various certificates ofher having been brought up in the way she should go when young, andof her not having departed from it when old, ornamented the walls,in the form of samplers of ancient date, worsted landscapes of equalantiquity, and crimson silk tea-kettle holders of a more modern period.The aunt, the two young ladies, and Mr. Wardle, each vying with theother in paying zealous and unremitting attentions to the old lady,crowded round her easy-chair, one holding her ear-trumpet, anotheran orange, and a third a smelling-bottle, while a fourth was busilyengaged in patting and punching the pillows which were arranged for hersupport. On the opposite side sat a bald-headed old gentleman, witha good-humoured benevolent face--the clergyman of Dingley Dell; andnext him sat his wife, a stout blooming old lady, who looked as if shewere well skilled, not only in the art and mystery of manufacturinghome-made cordials greatly to other people's satisfaction, but oftasting them occasionally very much to her own. A little, hard-headed,Ribston-pippin-faced man, was conversing with a fat old gentleman inone corner; and two or three more old gentlemen, and two or three moreold ladies, sat bolt upright and motionless on their chairs, staringvery hard at Mr. Pickwick and his fellow-voyagers.
"Mr. Pickwick, mother," said Mr. Wardle, at the very top of his voice.
"Ah!" said the old lady, shaking her head, "I can't hear you."
"Mr. Pickwick, grandma!" screamed both the young ladies together.
"Ah!" exclaimed the old lady. "Well; it don't much matter. He don'tcare for an old 'ooman like me, I dare say."
"I assure you, ma'am," said Mr. Pickwick, grasping the old lady's hand,and speaking so loud that the exertion imparted a crimson hue to hisbenevolent countenance, "I assure you, ma'am, that nothing delights memore than to see a lady of your time of life heading so fine a family,and looking so young and well."
"Ah!" said the old lady, after a short pause. "It's all very fine, Idare say; but I can't hear him."
"Grandma's rather put out now," said Miss Isabella Wardle, in a lowtone; "but she'll talk to you presently."
Mr. Pickwick nodded his readiness to humour the infirmities of age,and entered into a general conversation with the other members of thecircle.
"Delightful situation this," said Mr. Pickwick.
"Delightful!" echoed Messrs. Snodgrass, Tupman, and Winkle.
"Well, I think it is," said Mr. Wardle.
"There an't a better spot o' ground in all Kent, sir," said thehard-headed man with the pippin-face; "there an't indeed, sir--I'm surethere an't, sir." The hard-headed man looked triumphantly round, as ifhe had been very much contradicted by somebody, but had got the betterof him at last.
"There an't a better spot o' ground in all Kent," said the hard-headedman again, after a pause.
"'Cept Mullins's Meadows," observed the fat man solemnly.
"Mullins's Meadows!" ejaculated the other, with profound contempt.
"Ah, Mullins's Meadows," repeated the fat man.
"Reg'lar good land that," interposed another fat man.
"And so it is, sure-ly," said a third fat man.
"Everybody knows that," said the corpulent host.
The hard-headed man looked dubiously round, but finding himself in theminority, assumed a compassionate air and said no more.
"What are they talking about?" inquired the old lady of one of hergranddaughters, in a very audible voice; for, like many deaf people,she never seemed to calculate on the possibility of other personshearing what she said herself.
"About the land, grandma."
"What about the land?--nothing the matter, is there?"
"No, no. Mr. Miller was saying our land was better than Mullins'sMeadows."
"How should he know anything about it?" inquired the old ladyindignantly. "Miller's a conceited coxcomb, and you may tell him I saidso." Saying which, the old lady, quite unconscious that she had spokenabove a whisper, drew herself up, and looked carving-knives at thehard-headed delinquent.
"Come, come," said the bustling host, with a natural anxiety to changethe conversation,--"What say you to a rubber, Mr. Pickwick?"
"I should like it of all things," replied that gentleman; "but praydon't make up one on my account."
"Oh, I assure you, mother's very fond of a rubber," said Mr. Wardle;"an't you, mother?"
The old lady, who was much less deaf on this subject than on any other,replied in the affirmative.
"Joe, Joe!" said the old gentleman; "Joe--damn that--oh, here he is;put out the card-tables."
The lethargic youth contrived without any additional rousing to set outtwo card-tables; the one for Pope Joan, and the other for whist. Thewhist-players were Mr. Pickwick and the old lady; Mr. Miller and thefat gentleman. The round game comprised the rest of the company.
The rubber was conducted with all that gravity of deportment andsedateness of demeanour which befit the pursuit entitled "whist"--asolemn observance, to which, as it appears to us, the title of "game"has been very irreverently and ignominiously applied. The round-gametable, on the other hand, was so boisterously merry as materially tointerrupt the contemplations of Mr. Miller, who, not being quite somuch absorbed as he ought to have been, contrived to commit varioushigh crimes and misdemeanours, which excited the wrath of the fatgentleman to a very great extent, and called forth the good-humour ofthe old lady in a proportionate degree.
"There!" said the criminal Miller, triumphantly, as he took up the oddtrick at the conclusion of a hand; "that could not have been playedbetter, I flatter myself;--impossible to have made another trick."
"Miller ought to have trumped the diamond, oughtn't he, sir?" said theold lady.
Mr. Pickwick nodded assent.
"Ought I, though?" said the unfortunate, with a doubtful appeal to hispartner.
"You ought, sir," said the fat gentleman, in an awful voice.
"Very sorry," said the crestfallen Miller.
"Much use that," growled the fat gentleman.
"Two by honours makes us eight," said Mr. Pickwick.
Another hand. "Can you one?" inquired the old lady.
"I can," replied Mr. Pickwick. "Double, single, and the rub."
"Never was such luck," said Mr. Miller.
"Never was such cards," said the fat gentleman.
A solemn silence: Mr. Pickwick humorous, the old lady serious, the fatgentleman captious, and Mr. Miller timorous.
"Another double," said the old lady: triumphantly making a memorandumof the circumstance, by placing one sixpence and a battered halfpennyunder the candlestick.
"A double, sir," said Mr. Pickwick.
"Quite aware of the fact, sir," replied the fat gentleman, sharply.
Another game, with a similar result, was followed by a revoke from theunlucky Miller; on which the fat gentleman burst into a state of highpersonal excitement which lasted until the conclusion of the game, whenhe retired into a corner, and remained perfectly mute for one hour andtwenty-seven minutes; at the end of which time he emerged from hisretirement, and offered Mr. Pickwick a pinch of snuff with the air ofa man who had made up his mind to a Christian forgiveness of injuriessustained. The old lady's hearing decidedly improved, and the unluckyMiller felt as much out of his element as a dolphin in a sentry-box.
Meanwhile the round game proceeded right merrily. Isabella Wardle andMr. Trundle "went partners," and Emily Wardle a
nd Mr. Snodgrass didthe same; and even Mr. Tupman and the spinster aunt established ajoint-stock company of fish and flattery. Old Mr. Wardle was in thevery height of his jollity; and he was _so_ funny in his management ofthe board, and the old ladies were _so_ sharp after their winnings,that the whole table was in a perpetual roar of merriment and laughter.There was one old lady who always had about half-a-dozen cards to payfor, at which everybody laughed, regularly every round; and when theold lady looked cross at having to pay, they laughed louder than ever;on which the old lady's face gradually brightened up, till at lastshe laughed louder than any of them. Then, when the spinster aunt got"matrimony," the young ladies laughed afresh, and the spinster auntseemed disposed to be pettish; till, feeling Mr. Tupman squeezingher hand under the table, _she_ brightened up too, and looked ratherknowing, as if matrimony in reality were not quite so far off as somepeople thought for; whereupon everybody laughed again, and especiallyold Mr. Wardle, who enjoyed a joke as much as the youngest. As toMr. Snodgrass, he did nothing but whisper poetical sentiments intohis partner's ear, which made one old gentleman facetiously sly,about partnerships at cards and partnerships for life, and caused theaforesaid old gentleman to make some remarks thereupon, accompaniedwith divers winks and chuckles, which made the company very merry andthe old gentleman's wife especially so. And Mr. Winkle came out withjokes which are very well known in town, but are not at all known inthe country: and as everybody laughed at them very heartily, and saidthey were very capital, Mr. Winkle was in a state of great honour andglory. And the benevolent clergyman looked pleasantly on; for the happyfaces which surrounded the table made the good old man feel happy too;and though the merriment was rather boisterous, still it came from theheart and not from the lips: and this is the right sort of merrimentafter all.
The evening glided swiftly away, in these cheerful recreations; andwhen the substantial though homely supper had been despatched, andthe little party formed a social circle round the fire, Mr. Pickwickthought he had never felt so happy in his life, and at no time so muchdisposed to enjoy, and make the most of, the passing moment.
"Now this," said the hospitable host, who was sitting in great statenext the old lady's arm-chair, with her hand fast clasped in his--"Thisis just what I like--the happiest moments of my life have been passedat this old fire-side: and I am so attached to it, that I keep upa blazing fire here every evening, until it actually grows too hotto bear it. Why, my poor old mother, here, used to sit before thisfire-place upon that little stool when she was a girl; didn't you,mother?"
The tear which starts unbidden to the eye when the recollection of oldtimes and the happiness of many years ago is suddenly recalled, stoledown the old lady's face as she shook her head with a melancholy smile.
"You must excuse my talking about this old place, Mr. Pickwick,"resumed the host, after a short pause, "for I love it dearly, and knowno other--the old houses and fields seem like living friends to me;and so does our little church with the ivy--about which, by the by, ourexcellent friend there made a song when he first came amongst us. Mr.Snodgrass, have you anything in your glass?"
"Plenty, thank you," replied that gentleman, whose poetic curiosity hadbeen greatly excited by the last observations of his entertainer. "Ibeg your pardon, but you were talking about the song of the Ivy."
"You must ask our friend opposite about that," said the host,knowingly: indicating the clergyman by a nod of his head.
"May I say that I should like to hear you repeat it, sir?" said Mr.Snodgrass.
"Why really," replied the clergyman, "it's a very slight affair; andthe only excuse I have for having ever perpetrated it is, that I was ayoung man at the time. Such as it is, however, you shall hear it if youwish."
A murmur of curiosity was of course the reply; and the old gentlemanproceeded to recite, with the aid of sundry promptings from his wife,the lines in question. "I call them," said he,
THE IVY GREEN
Oh, a dainty plant is the Ivy green, That creepeth o'er ruins old! Of right choice food are his meals, I ween, In his cell so lone and cold. The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed, To pleasure his dainty whim: And the mouldering dust that years have made Is a merry meal for him. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the Ivy green.
Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, And a staunch old heart has he. How closely he twineth, how tight he clings To his friend the huge Oak Tree! And slyly he traileth along the ground, And his leaves he gently waves, And he joyously hugs and crawleth round The rich mould of dead men's graves. Creeping where grim death has been, A rare old plant is the Ivy green.
Whole ages have fled and their works decayed, And nations have scattered been; But the stout old Ivy shall never fade, From its hale and hearty green. The brave old plant in its lonely days, Shall fatten upon the past: For the stateliest building man can raise, Is the Ivy's food at last. Creeping on, where time has been, A rare old plant is the Ivy green.
While the old gentleman repeated these lines a second time, to enableMr. Snodgrass to note them down, Mr. Pickwick perused the lineamentsof his face with an expression of great interest. The old gentlemanhaving concluded his dictation, and Mr. Snodgrass having returned hisnote-book to his pocket, Mr. Pickwick said--
"Excuse me, sir, for making the remark on so short an acquaintance; buta gentleman like yourself cannot fail, I should think, to have observedmany scenes and incidents worth recording, in the course of yourexperience as a minister of the Gospel."
"I have witnessed some, certainly," replied the old gentleman; "but theincidents and characters have been of a homely and ordinary nature, mysphere of action being so very limited."
"You _did_ make some notes, I think, about John Edmunds, did you not?"inquired Mr. Wardle, who appeared very desirous to draw his friend out,for the edification of his new visitors.
The old gentleman slightly nodded his head in token of assent, and wasproceeding to change the subject, when Mr. Pickwick said--
"I beg your pardon, sir; but pray, if I may venture to inquire, who wasJohn Edmunds?"
"The very thing I was about to ask," said Mr. Snodgrass, eagerly.
"You are fairly in for it," said the jolly host. "You must satisfy thecuriosity of these gentlemen, sooner or later; so you had better takeadvantage of this favourable opportunity, and do so at once."
The old gentleman smiled good-humouredly as he drew his chairforward;--the remainder of the party drew their chairs closer together,especially Mr. Tupman and the spinster aunt, who were possibly ratherhard of hearing; and the old lady's ear trumpet having been dulyadjusted, and Mr. Miller (who had fallen asleep during the recitalof the verses) roused from his slumbers by an admonitory pinch,administered beneath the table by his ex-partner the solemn fat man,the old gentleman, without farther preface, commenced the followingtale, to which we have taken the liberty of prefixing the title of
THE CONVICT'S RETURN
"When I first settled in this village," said the old gentleman, "whichis now just five-and-twenty years ago, the most notorious person amongmy parishioners was a man of the name of Edmunds, who leased a smallfarm near this spot. He was a morose, savage-hearted, bad man; idleand dissolute in his habits; cruel and ferocious in his disposition.Beyond the few lazy and reckless vagabonds with whom he sauntered awayhis time in the fields, or sotted in the ale-house, he had not a singlefriend or acquaintance; no one cared to speak to the man whom manyfeared, and every one detested--and Edmunds was shunned by all.
"This man had a wife and one son, who, when I first came here, wasabout twelve years old. Of the acuteness of that woman's sufferings,of the gentle and enduring manner in which she bore them, of the agonyof solicitude with which she reared that boy, no one can form anadequate conception. Heaven forgive me the supposition, if it be anuncharitable one, but I do firmly and in my soul believe, that the mansystematically tried for many yea
rs to break her heart; but she bore itall for her child's sake, and, however strange it may seem to many, forhis father's too; for brute as he was, and cruelly as he had treatedher, she had loved him once; and the recollection of what he had beento her, awakened feelings of forbearance and meekness under sufferingin her bosom, to which all God's creatures, but women, are strangers.
"They were poor--they could not be otherwise when the man pursuedsuch courses; but the woman's unceasing and unwearied exertions, earlyand late, morning, noon, and night, kept them above actual want. Thoseexertions were but ill repaid. People who passed the spot in theevening--sometimes at a late hour of the night--reported that theyhad heard the moans and sobs of a woman in distress, and the sound ofblows: and more than once, when it was past midnight, the boy knockedsoftly at the door of a neighbour's house, whither he had been sent, toescape the drunken fury of his unnatural father.
"During the whole of this time, and when the poor creature often boreabout her marks of ill-usage and violence which she could not whollyconceal, she was a constant attendant at our little church. Regularlyevery Sunday, morning and afternoon, she occupied the same seat withthe boy at her side; and though they were both poorly dressed--muchmore so than many of their neighbours who were in a lower station--theywere always neat and clean. Every one had a friendly nod and a kindword for 'poor Mrs. Edmunds'; and sometimes, when she stopped toexchange a few words with a neighbour at the conclusion of the servicein the little row of elm trees which leads to the church porch, orlingered behind to gaze with a mother's pride and fondness upon herhealthy boy, as he sported before her with some little companions,her care-worn face would lighten up with an expression of heartfeltgratitude; and she would look, if not cheerful and happy, at leasttranquil and contented.
"Five or six years passed away; the boy had become a robust andwell-grown youth. The time that had strengthened the child's slightframe and knit his weak limbs into the strength of manhood had bowedhis mother's form, and enfeebled her steps; but the arm that shouldhave supported her was no longer locked in hers; the face that shouldhave cheered her, no more looked upon her own. She occupied her oldseat, but there was a vacant one beside her. The Bible was kept ascarefully as ever, the places were found and folded down as they usedto be: but there was no one to read it with her; and the tears fellthick and fast upon the book, and blotted the words from her eyes.Neighbours were as kind as they were wont to be of old, but she shunnedtheir greetings with averted head. There was no lingering among theold elm trees now--no cheering anticipations of happiness yet in store.The desolate woman drew her bonnet closer over her face, and walkedhurriedly away.
"Shall I tell you, that the young man, who, looking back to theearliest of his childhood's days to which memory and consciousnessextended, and carrying his recollection down to that moment, couldremember nothing which was not in some way connected with a long seriesof voluntary privations suffered by his mother for his sake, withill-usage, and insult, and violence, and all endured for him;--shall Itell you, that he, with a reckless disregard for her breaking heart,and a sullen wilful forgetfulness of all she had done and borne forhim, had linked himself with depraved and abandoned men, and was madlypursuing a headlong career, which must bring death to him, and shame toher? Alas for human nature! You have anticipated it long since.
"The measure of the unhappy woman's misery and misfortune wasabout to be completed. Numerous offences had been committed in theneighbourhood; the perpetrators remained undiscovered, and theirboldness increased. A robbery of a daring and aggravated natureoccasioned a vigilance of pursuit, and a strictness of search, they hadnot calculated on. Young Edmunds was suspected, with three companions.He was apprehended--committed--tried--condemned--to die.
"The wild and piercing shriek from a woman's voice, which resoundedthrough the court when the solemn sentence was pronounced, rings in myears at this moment. That cry struck a terror to the culprit's heart,which trial, condemnation--the approach of death itself, had failedto awaken. The lips which had been compressed in dogged sullennessthroughout, quivered and parted involuntarily; the face turned ashypale as the cold perspiration broke forth from every pore; the sturdylimbs of the felon trembled, and he staggered in the dock.
"In the first transports of her mental anguish, the suffering motherthrew herself upon her knees at my feet, and fervently besought theAlmighty Being who had hitherto supported her in all her troubles, torelease her from a world of woe and misery, and to spare the lifeof her only child. A burst of grief, and a violent struggle, such asI hope I may never have to witness again, succeeded. I knew that herheart was breaking from that hour; but I never once heard complaint ormurmur escape her lips.
"It was a piteous spectacle to see that woman in the prison yardfrom day to day, eagerly and fervently attempting, by affection andentreaty, to soften the hard heart of her obdurate son. It was in vain.He remained moody, obstinate, and unmoved. Not even the unlooked-forcommutation 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 upheldher, was unable to contend against bodily weakness and infirmity. Shefell sick. She dragged her tottering limbs from the bed to visit herson once more, but her strength failed her, and she sunk powerless onthe ground.
"And now the boasted coldness and indifference of the young man weretested indeed; and the retribution that fell heavily upon him, nearlydrove him mad. A day passed away and his mother was not there; anotherflew by, and she came not near him; a third evening arrived, and yet hehad not seen her; and in four-and-twenty hours he was to be separatedfrom her--perhaps for ever. Oh! how the long-forgotten thoughts offormer days rushed upon his mind, as he almost ran up and down thenarrow yard--as if intelligence would arrive the sooner for _his_hurrying--and how bitterly a sense of his helplessness and desolationrushed upon him, when he heard the truth! His mother, the only parenthe had ever known, lay ill--it might be, dying--within one mile of theground he stood on; were he free and unfettered, a few minutes wouldplace him by her side. He rushed to the gate, and grasping the ironrail with the energy of desperation, shook it till it rang again, andthrew himself against the thick wall as if to force a passage throughthe stone; but the strong building mocked his feeble efforts, and hebeat his hands together and wept like a child.
"I bore the mother's forgiveness and blessing to her son in prison;and I carried his solemn assurance of repentance, and his ferventsupplication for pardon, to her sick bed. I heard, with pity andcompassion, the repentant man devise a thousand little plans for hercomfort and support when he returned; but I knew that many monthsbefore he could reach his place of destination, his mother would be nolonger of this world.
"He was removed by night. A few weeks afterwards the poor woman's soultook its flight, I confidently hope, and solemnly believe, to a placeof eternal happiness and rest. I performed the burial service over herremains. She lies in our little churchyard. There is no stone at hergrave's head. Her sorrows were known to man; her virtues to God.
"It had been arranged previously to the convict's departure, that heshould write to his mother as soon as he could obtain permission, andthat the letter should be addressed to me. The father had positivelyrefused to see his son from the moment of his apprehension; and it wasa matter of indifference to him whether he lived or died. Many yearspassed over without any intelligence of him; and when more than halfhis term of transportation had expired, and I had received no letter, Iconcluded him to be dead, as, indeed, I almost hoped he might be.
"Edmunds, however, had been sent a considerable distance up thecountry on his arrival at the settlement; and to this circumstance,perhaps, may be attributed the fact, that though several letterswere despatched, none of them ever reached my hands. He remained inthe same place during the whole fourteen years. At the expiration ofthe term, steadily adhering to his old resolution and the pledge hegave his mother, he made his way back to England amidst innumerabledi
fficulties, and returned, on foot, to his native place.
"On a fine Sunday evening, in the month of August, John Edmunds setfoot in the village he had left with shame and disgrace seventeen yearsbefore. His nearest way lay through the churchyard. The man's heartswelled as he crossed the stile. The tall old elms, through whosebranches the declining sun cast here and there a rich ray of lightupon the shady path, awakened the associations of his earliest days.He pictured himself as he was then, clinging to his mother's hand, andwalking peacefully to church. He remembered how he used to look upinto her pale face; and how her eyes would sometimes fill with tearsas she gazed upon his features--tears which fell hot upon his foreheadas she stooped to kiss him, and made him weep too, although he littleknew then what bitter tears hers were. He thought how often he had runmerrily 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 kindnessunrequited, and warnings despised, and promises broken, thronged uponhis recollection till his heart failed him, and he could bear it nolonger.
"He entered the church. The evening service was concluded and thecongregation had dispersed, but it was not yet closed. His steps echoedthrough the low building with a hollow sound, and he almost feared tobe alone, it was so still and quiet. He looked round him. Nothing waschanged. The place seemed smaller than it used to be, but there werethe old monuments, on which he had gazed with childish awe a thousandtimes; the little pulpit with its faded cushion; the Communion-tablebefore which he had so often repeated the Commandments he hadreverenced as a child, and forgotten as a man. He approached the oldseat; it looked cold and desolate. The cushion had been removed, andthe 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 startedback, for he knew him well; many a time he had watched him digginggraves in the churchyard. What would _he_ say to the returned convict?
"The old man raised his eyes to the stranger's face, bid him 'Goodevening,' and walked slowly on. He had forgotten him.
"He walked down the hill, and through the village. The weather waswarm, and the people were sitting at their doors, or strolling in theirlittle gardens as he passed, enjoying the serenity of the evening, andtheir rest from labour. Many a look was turned towards him, and manya doubtful glance he cast on either side to see whether any knew andshunned him. There were strange faces in almost every house; in some herecognised the burly form of some old schoolfellow--a boy when he lastsaw 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 allforgotten 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 theshadows of the orchard trees, as he stood before the old house--thehome of his infancy--to which his heart had yearned with an intensityof affection not to be described, through long and weary years ofcaptivity and sorrow. The paling was low, though he well remembered thetime when it had seemed a high wall to him: and he looked over into theold garden. There were more seeds and gayer flowers than there used tobe, but there were the old trees still--the very tree, under which hehad lain a thousand times when tired of playing in the sun, and feltthe soft mild sleep of happy boyhood steal gently upon him. There werevoices within the house. He listened, but they fell strangely upon hisear; he knew them not. They were merry too; and he well knew that hispoor old mother could not be cheerful, and he away. The door opened,and a group of little children bounded out, shouting and romping. Thefather, with a little boy in his arms, appeared at the door, and theycrowded round him, clapping their tiny hands, and dragging him out, tojoin their joyous sports. The convict thought on the many times he hadshrunk from his father's sight in that very place. He remembered howoften he had buried his trembling head beneath the bed-clothes, andheard 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 fierce and deadlypassion.
"And such was the return to which he had looked through the wearyperspective of many years, and for which he had undergone so muchsuffering! No face of welcome, no look of forgiveness, no house toreceive, no hand to help him--and this too in the old village. Whatwas 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 hadthought of his native place as it was when he left it; not as it wouldbe when he returned. The sad reality struck coldly at his heart, andhis spirit sank within him. He had not courage to make inquiries, orto present himself to the only person who was likely to receive himwith kindness and compassion. He walked slowly on; and shunning theroad-side 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; hisgarments 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, andhis face was wrinkled and yellow. His dress denoted him an inmate ofthe workhouse: he had the appearance of being very old, but it lookedmore the effect of dissipation or disease, than length of years. He wasstaring hard at the stranger, and though his eyes were lustreless andheavy at first, they appeared to glow with an unnatural and alarmedexpression after they had been fixed upon him for a short time, untilthey seemed to be staring from their sockets. Edmunds gradually raisedhimself to his knees, and looked more and more earnestly upon the oldman'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 drewcloser to him.
"'Stand off!' shrieked the old man. Furious with terror, he raised hisstick and struck Edmunds a heavy blow across the face.
"'Father--devil!' murmured the convict, between his set teeth. Herushed wildly forward, and clenched the old man by the throat--but hewas his father; and his arm fell powerless by his side.
"The old man uttered a loud yell which rang through the lonely fieldslike the howl of an evil spirit. His face turned black: the gore rushedfrom his mouth and nose, and dyed the grass a deep dark red, as hestaggered and fell. He had ruptured a blood-vessel: and he was a deadman before his son could raise him.
* * * * *
"In that corner of the churchyard," said the old gentleman, after asilence of a few moments, "in that corner of the churchyard of which Ihave spoken before, there lies buried a man, who was in my employmentfor 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'slifetime who he was, or whence he came:--it was John Edmunds, thereturned convict."
The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club, v. 1 (of 2) Page 8
