"And now the boasted coldness and indifference of the young man were tested indeed; and the retribution that fell heavily upon him, nearly drove him mad.A day passed away and his mother was not there; another flew by, and she came not near him; a third evening arrived, and yet he had not seen her; and in four-and-twenty hours he was to be separated from her--perhaps for ever.Oh! how the longforgotten thoughts of former days rushed upon his mind, as he almost ran up and down the narrow yard--as if intelligence would arrive the sooner for his hurrying--and how bitterly a sense of his helplessness and desolation rushed upon him, when he heard the truth!
His mother, the only parent he had ever known, lay ill--it might be, dying--within one mile of the ground he stood on; were he free and unfettered, a few minutes would place him by her side.He rushed to the gate, and grasping the iron rails with the energy of desperation, shook it till it rang again, and threw himself against the thick wall as if to force a passage through the stone; but the strong building mocked his feeble efforts, and he beat 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 fervent supplication for pardon, to her sick bed.I heard, with pity and compassion, the repentant man devise a thousand little plans for her comfort and support when he returned; but I knew that many months before he could reach his place of destination, his mother would be no longer of this world.
"He was removed by night.A few weeks afterwards the poor woman's soul took its flight, I confidently hope, and solemnly believe, to a place of eternal happiness and rest.I performed the burial service over her remains.
She lies in our little churchyard.There is no stone at her grave's head.
Her sorrows were known to man; her virtues to God.
"It had been arranged previously to the convict's departure, that he should write to his mother as soon as he could obtain permission, and that the letter should be addressed to me.The father had positively refused to see his son from the moment of his apprehension; and it was a matter of indifference to him whether he lived or died.Many years passed over without any intelligence of him; and when more than half his term of transportation had expired, and I had received no letter, I concluded him to be dead, as indeed, I almost hoped he might be.
"Edmunds, however, had been sent a considerable distance up the country on his arrival at the settlement, and to this circumstance, perhaps, may be attributed the fact, that though several letters were despatched, none of them ever reached my hands.He remained in the same place during the whole fourteen years.At the expiration of the term, steadily adhering to his old resolution and the pledge he gave his mother, he made his way back to England amidst innumerable difficulties, and returned, on foot, to his native place.
"On a fine Sunday evening, in the month of August, John Edmunds set foot in the village he had left with shame and disgrace seventeen years before.His nearest way lay through the churchyard.The man's heart swelled as he crossed the stile.The tall old elms, through whose branches the declining sun cast here and there a rich ray of light upon the shady path, awakened the associations of his earliest days.He pictured himself as he was then, clinging to his mother's hand, and walking peacefully to church.
He remembered how he used to look up into her pale face; and how her eyes would sometimes fill with tears as she gazed upon his features--tears which fell hot upon his forehead as she stooped to kiss him, and made him weep too, although he little knew then what bitter tears hers were.He thought how often he had run merrily 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 kindness unrequited, and warnings despised, and promises broken, thronged upon his recollection till his heart failed him, and he could bear it no longer.
"He entered the church.The evening service was concluded and the congregation had dispersed, but it was not yet closed.His steps echoed through the low building with a hollow sound, and he almost feared to be alone, it was so still and quiet.He looked round him.Nothing was changed.The place seemed smaller than it used to be, but there were the old monuments on which he had gazed with childish awe a thousand times; the little pulpit with its faded cushion; the Communion-table before which he had so often repeated the Commandments he had reverenced as a child, and forgotten as a man.He approached the old seat; it looked cold and desolate.The cushion had been removed, and the 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 started back, for he knew him well; many a time he had watched him digging graves in the churchyard.What would he say to the returned convict?
"The old man raised his eyes to the stranger's face, bid him `good evening,'
and walked slowly on.He had forgotten him.
