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Elisha Cuthbert Gallery Books: Martin Eden The Pickwick Papers The Sea Wolf |
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
the shadows of the orchard trees, as he stood before the old house
--the home of his infancy--to which his heart had yearned with
an intensity of affection not to be described, through long and
weary years of captivity and sorrow. The paling was low, though
he well remembered the time that it had 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 there were the
old trees still--the very tree under which he had lain a thousand
times when tired of playing in the sun, and felt the soft, mild sleep
of happy boyhood steal gently upon him. There were voices
within the house. He listened, but they fell strangely upon his ear;
he knew them not. They were merry too; and he well knew that
his poor old mother could not be cheerful, and he away. The door
opened, and a group of little children bounded out, shouting and
romping. The father, with a little boy in his arms, appeared at the
door, and they crowded round him, clapping their tiny hands,
and dragging him out, to join their joyous sports. The convict
thought on the many times he had shrunk from his fathers sight
in that very place. He remembered how often he had buried his
trembling head beneath the bedclothes, and heard the harsh word,
and the hard stripe, and his mothers 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 a fierce and deadly passion.
And such was the return to which he had looked through the
weary perspective of many years, and for which he had undergone
so much suffering! No face of welcome, no look of forgiveness,
no house to receive, no hand to help him--and this too in the old
village. What was 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
had thought of his native place as it was when he left it; and not
as it would 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, or to present himself to the only person who was
likely to receive him with kindness and compassion. He walked
slowly on; and shunning the roadside 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; his garments 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, and his face was wrinkled and yellow. His dress denoted
him an inmate of the workhouse: he had the appearance of being
very old, but it looked more the effect of dissipation or disease,
than the length of years. He was staring hard at the stranger, and
though his eyes were lustreless and heavy at first, they appeared
to glow with an unnatural and alarmed expression after they had
been fixed upon him for a short time, until they seemed to be
starting from their sockets. Edmunds gradually raised himself to
his knees, and looked more and more earnestly on the old mans
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 drew closer to him.
"Stand off!" shrieked the old man. Furious with terror, he
raised his stick, and struck Edmunds a heavy blow across the face.
"Father--devil!" murmured the convict between his set
teeth. He rushed wildly forward, and clenched the old man by
the throat--but he was his father; and his arm fell powerless by
his side.
The old man The Pickwick Papers page 38 The Pickwick Papers page 40 |