While the old gentleman repeated these lines a second time, to enableMr. Snodgrass to note them down, Mr. Pickwick perused the lineaments ofhis face with an expression of great interest. The old gentleman havingconcluded his dictation, and Mr. Snodgrass having returned his note-bookto 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 chair forward--the remainder of the party drew their chairs closer together, especiallyMr. Tupman and the spinster aunt, who were possibly rather hard ofhearing; and the old lady's ear-trumpet having been duly adjusted, andMr. Miller (who had fallen asleep during the recital of the verses)roused from his slumbers by an admonitory pinch, administered beneaththe table by his ex-partner the solemn fat man, the old gentleman,without further preface, commenced the following tale, to which we havetaken 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; idle anddissolute in his habits; cruel and ferocious in his disposition. Beyondthe few lazy and reckless vagabonds with whom he sauntered away his timein the fields, or sotted in the ale-house, he had not a single friend oracquaintance; no one cared to speak to the man whom many feared, andevery one detested--and Edmunds was shunned by all.
'This man had a wife and one son, who, when I first came here, was abouttwelve years old. Of the acuteness of that woman's sufferings, of thegentle and enduring manner in which she bore them, of the agony ofsolicitude with which she reared that boy, no one can form an adequateconception. Heaven forgive me the supposition, if it be an uncharitableone, but I do firmly and in my soul believe, that the man systematicallytried for many years to break her heart; but she bore it all for herchild's sake, and, however strange it may seem to many, for his father'stoo; for brute as he was, and cruelly as he had treated her, she hadloved him once; and the recollection of what he had been to her,awakened feelings of forbearance and meekness under suffering in herbosom, to which all God's creatures, but women, are strangers.
'They were poor--they could not be otherwise when the man pursued suchcourses; but the woman's unceasing and unwearied exertions, early andlate, morning, noon, and night, kept them above actual want. Theseexertions were but ill repaid. People who passed the spot in theevening--sometimes at a late hour of the night--reported that they hadheard the moans and sobs of a woman in distress, and the sound of blows;and more than once, when it was past midnight, the boy knocked softly atthe door of a neighbour's house, whither he had been sent, to escape thedrunken 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 with theboy at her side; and though they were both poorly dressed--much more sothan many of their neighbours who were in a lower station--they werealways neat and clean. Every one had a friendly nod and a kind word for"poor Mrs. Edmunds"; and sometimes, when she stopped to exchange a fewwords with a neighbour at the conclusion of the service in the littlerow of elm-trees which leads to the church porch, or lingered behind togaze with a mother's pride and fondness upon her healthy boy, as hesported before her with some little companions, her careworn face wouldlighten up with an expression of heartfelt gratitude; and she wouldlook, if not cheerful and happy, at least tranquil and contented.
'Five or six years passed away; the boy had become a robust and well-grown youth. The time that had strengthened the child's slight frame andknit his weak limbs into the strength of manhood had bowed his mother'sform, and enfeebled her steps; but the arm that should have supportedher was no longer locked in hers; the face that should have cheered her,no more looked upon her own. She occupied her old seat, but there was avacant one beside her. The Bible was kept as carefully as ever, theplaces were found and folded down as they used to be: but there was noone to read it with her; and the tears fell thick and fast upon thebook, and blotted the words from her eyes. Neighbours were as kind asthey were wont to be of old, but she shunned their greetings withaverted head. There was no lingering among the old elm-trees now--nocheering anticipations of happiness yet in store. The desolate womandrew her bonnet closer over her face, and walked hurriedly away.
'Shall I tell you that the young man, who, looking back to the earliestof his childhood's days to which memory and consciousness extended, andcarrying his recollection down to that moment, could remember nothingwhich was not in some way connected with a long series of voluntaryprivations suffered by his mother for his sake, with ill-usage, andinsult, and violence, and all endured for him--shall I tell you, thathe, with a reckless disregard for her breaking heart, and a sullen,wilful forgetfulness of all she had done and borne for him, had linkedhimself with depraved and abandoned men, and was madly pursuing aheadlong career, which must bring death to him, and shame to her? Alasfor human nature! You have anticipated it long since.
'The measure of the unhappy woman's misery and misfortune was about tobe completed. Numerous offences had been committed in the neighbourhood;the perpetrators remained undiscovered, and their boldness increased. Arobbery of a daring and aggravated nature occasioned a vigilance ofpursuit, and a strictness of search, they had not calculated on. YoungEdmunds 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 failed toawaken. The lips which had been compressed in dogged sullennessthroughout, quivered and parted involuntarily; the face turned ashy paleas the cold perspiration broke forth from every pore; the sturdy limbsof the felon trembled, and he staggered in the dock.
'In the first transports of her mental anguish, the suffering motherthrew herself on her knees at my feet, and fervently sought the AlmightyBeing who had hitherto supported her in all her troubles to release herfrom 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 neverhave to witness again, succeeded. I knew that her heart was breakingfrom that hour; but I never once heard complaint or murmur escape herlips.
'It was a piteous spectacle to see that woman in the prison-yard fromday to day, eagerly and fervently attempting, by affection and entreaty,to soften the hard heart of her obdurate son. It was in vain. Heremained 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.
&n
bsp; '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 her sononce more, but her strength failed her, and she sank powerless on theground.
'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 hishurrying--and how bitterly a sense of his helplessness and desolationrushed upon him, when he heard the truth! His mother, the only parent hehad 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 ironrails 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; andI carried the 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 months beforehe could reach his place of destination, his mother would be no longerof 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 place ofeternal 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 was amatter of indifference to him whether he lived or died. Many yearspassed over without any intelligence of him; and when more than half histerm 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 the countryon his arrival at the settlement; and to this circumstance, perhaps, maybe attributed the fact, that though several letters were despatched,none of them ever reached my hands. He remained in the same place duringthe whole fourteen years. At the expiration of the term, steadilyadhering to his old resolution and the pledge he gave his mother, hemade his way back to England amidst innumerable difficulties, andreturned, on foot, to his native place.
'On a fine Sunday evening, in the month of August, John Edmunds set footin 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 light uponthe shady part, awakened the associations of his earliest days. Hepictured himself as he was then, clinging to his mother's hand, andwalking peacefully to church. He remembered how he used to look up intoher pale face; and how her eyes would sometimes fill with tears as shegazed upon his features--tears which fell hot upon his forehead as shestooped to kiss him, and made him weep too, although he little knew thenwhat bitter tears hers were. He thought how often he had run merrilydown that path with some childish playfellow, looking back, ever andagain, to catch his mother's smile, or hear her gentle voice; and then aveil seemed lifted from his memory, and words of kindness unrequited,and warnings despised, and promises broken, thronged upon hisrecollection till his heart failed him, and he could bear it no longer.
'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 to bealone, it was so still and quiet. He looked round him. Nothing waschanged. The place seemed smaller than it used to be; but there were theold monuments on which he had gazed with childish awe a thousand times;the little pulpit with its faded cushion; the Communion table beforewhich he had so often repeated the Commandments he had reverenced as achild, and forgotten as a man. He approached the old seat; it lookedcold and desolate. The cushion had been removed, and the Bible was notthere. Perhaps his mother now occupied a poorer seat, or possibly shehad grown infirm and could not reach the church alone. He dared notthink of what he feared. A cold feeling crept over him, and he trembledviolently as he turned away. 'An old man entered the porch just as hereached it. Edmunds started back, for he knew him well; many a time hehad watched him digging graves in the churchyard. What would he say tothe 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 littlegardens as he passed, enjoying the serenity of the evening, and theirrest from labour. Many a look was turned towards him, and many adoubtful 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, castinga rich glow on the yellow corn sheaves, and lengthening the shadows ofthe orchard trees, as he stood before the old house--the home of hisinfancy--to which his heart had yearned with an intensity of affectionnot to be described, through long and weary years of captivity andsorrow. The paling was low, though he well remembered the time that ithad 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 therewere the old trees still--the very tree under which he had lain athousand times when tired of playing in the sun, and felt the soft, mildsleep of happy boyhood steal gently upon him. There were voices withinthe house. He listened, but they fell strangely upon his ear; he knewthem not. They were merry too; and he well knew that his poor old mothercould not be cheerful, and he away. The door opened, and a group oflittle children bounded out, shouting and romping. The father, with alittle boy in his arms, appeared at the door, and they crowded roundhim, clapping their tiny hands, and dragging him out, to join theirjoyous sports. The convict thought on the many times he had shrunk fromhis father's sight in that very place. He remembered how often he hadburied his trembling head beneath the bedclothes, and heard the harshword, and the hard stripe, and his mother's wailing; and though the mansobbed aloud with agony of mind as he left the spot, his fist wasclenched, and his teeth were set, in a fierce and deadly passion.
'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. What washis loneliness in the wild, thick woods, where man was never seen, tothis!
'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; and not as itwould 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, orto present himself to the only person who was likely to receive him withkindness and compassion. He walked slowly on; and shunning the roadsidelike
a guilty man, turned into a meadow he well remembered; and coveringhis 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 of theworkhouse: he had the appearance of being very old, but it looked morethe effect of dissipation or disease, than the 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 starting from their sockets. Edmunds gradually raisedhimself to his knees, and looked more and more earnestly on 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. He rushedwildly forward, and clenched the old man by the throat--but he was hisfather; 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 before spoken, there lies buried a man who was in my employment forthree years after this event, and who was truly contrite, penitent, andhumbled, if ever man was. No one save myself knew in that man's lifetimewho he was, or whence he came--it was John Edmunds, the returnedconvict.'