|
The early sun was melting
away the coronets of grey clouds on the brows of the mountains, and the
lark, as if proud of its plumage, and surveying itself in an illuminated
mirror, carolled over the bright water of Keswick, when two strangers met
upon the side of the lofty Skiddaw. Each carried a small bag and a hammer,
betokening that their common errand was to search for objects of
geological interest. The one appeared about fifty, the other some twenty
years younger. There is something in the solitude of the everlasting
hills, which makes men, who are strangers to each other, despise the
ceremonious introductions of the drawing-room. So was it with our
geologists—their place of meeting, their common pursuit, produced an
instantaneous familiarity. They spent the day, and dined on the
mountainside together. They shared the contents of their flasks with each
other; and, ere they began to descend the hill, they felt, the one towards
the other, as though they had been old friends. They had begun to take the
road towards Keswick, when the elder said to the younger, "My meeting with
you to-day recalls to my recollection a singular meeting which took place
between a friend of mine and a stranger, about seven years ago, upon the
same mountain. But, sir, I will relate to you the circumstances connected
with it; and they might be called the history of the Prodigal Son."
He paused for a few moments
and proceeded:—About thirty years ago, a Mr. Fenwick was possessed of
property in Bamboroughshire worth about three hundred per annum. He had
married while young, and seven fair children cheered the hearth of a glad
father and a happy mother. Many years of joy and of peace had flown over
them, when Death visited their domestic circle, and passed his icy hand
over the cheek of their first-born; and, for five successive years, as
their children opened into manhood and womanhood, the unwelcome visitor
entered their dwelling, till of their little flock there was but one, the
youngest, left. And, O sir, in the leaving of that one lay the cruelty of
Death—to have taken him, too, would have been an act of mercy. His name
was Edward, and the love, the fondness, and the care which his parents had
borne for all their children, were concentrated on him. His father, whose
soul was stricken with affliction, yielded to his every wish: and his poor
mother
‘would not permit
The winds of heaven to visit his cheek too roughly.’
But you shall hear how
cruelly he repaid their love—how murderously he returned their kindness.
He was headstrong and wayward; and, though the small, still voice of
affection was never wholly silent in his breast, it was stifled by the
storm of his passions and propensities. His first manifestation of open
viciousness was a delight in the brutal practice of cock-flghting; and he
became a constant attender at every ‘main’ that took place in
Northumberland. He was habitual ‘better’ and his losses were
frequent; but hitherto his father, partly through fear, and partly from a
too tender affection, had supplied him with money. A ‘main’ was to take
place in the neighbourhood of Morpeth, and he was present. Two noble birds
were disfigured, the savage instruments of death were fixed upon them, and
they were pitted against each other. ‘A hundred to one on the Feltor
Grey!’ shouted Fenwick. ‘Done! for guineas!’ replied another. ‘Done! for
guineas!—Done!’ repeated the prodigal—and the next moment the Felton Grey
lay dead on the ground, pierced through the skull with the spur of the
other. He rushed out of the cockpit—‘I shall expect payment to-morrow,
Fenwick!’ cried the other. The prodigal mounted his horse, and rode
homeward with the fury of a madman. Kind as his father was, and had been,
he feared to meet him, or tell him the amount of his loss. His mother
perceived his agony, and strove to soothe him.
‘What is’t that troubles
thee, my bird?’ inquired she; ‘come, tell thy mother, darling?’
With an oath he cursed the
mention of birds, and threatened to destroy himself.
‘O Edward, love!’ cried
she, ‘thou wilt kill thy poor mother—what can I do for thee?’
‘Do for me!’ he exclaimed,
wildly tearing his hair as he spoke, ‘do for me, mother! get me a hundred
pounds, or my heart’s blood shall flow at your feet.’
‘Child! child!’ said she,
‘thou hast been at thy black trade of betting again!—thou wilt ruin thy
father, Edward, and break thy mother’s heart. But give me thy hand on’t,
dear, that thou’lt bet no more, and I’ll get thy father to give thee the
money.’
‘My father must not know,’
he exclaimed; ‘I will die rather.’
‘Love! love!’ replied she;
‘but, without asking thy father, where could I get thee a hundred pounds?’
‘You have some money,
mother,’ added he; ‘and you have trinkets—jewellery.’ He gasped, and hid
his face as he spoke.
‘Thou shalt have them!—thou
shalt have them, child!’ said she, ‘and all the money thy mother has, only
say thou wilt bet no more. Best thou promise, Edward, oh, dost thou
promise thy poor mother this?’
‘Yes, yes!’ he cried. And
he burst into tears as he spoke. He received the money, and the trinkets,
which his mother had not worn for thirty years, and hurried from the
house, and with them discharged a portion of his dishonourable debt.
He, however, did bet again;
and I might tell you how he became a horse-racer also; but you shall hear
that too. He was now about two and twenty, and for several years he had
been acquainted with Eleanor Robinson; a fair being, made up of gentleness
and love, if ever woman was. She was an orphan, and had a fortune at her
own disposal of three thousand pounds. Her friends had often warned her
against the dangerous habits of Edward Fenwick. But she had given him her
young heart—to him she had plighted her first vow—and, though she beheld
his follies, she trusted that time and affection would wean him from them;
and, with a heart full of hope and love, she bestowed on him her hand and
fortune. Poor Eleanor! her hopes were vain, her love unworthily bestowed.
Marriage produced no change on the habits of the prodigal son and
thoughtless husband. For weeks he was absent from his own house, betting
and carousing with his companions of the turf; while one vice led the way
to another, and, by almost imperceptible degrees, he unconsciously sunk
into all the habits of a profligate.
It was about four years
after his marriage, when, according to his custom, he took leave of his
wife for a few days, to attend the meeting at Doncaster.
‘Good-by, Eleanor, dear,’
said he, gaily, as he rose to depart, and he kissed her cheek; ‘I shall be
back within five days.’
‘Well, Edward,’ said she,
tenderly, ‘if you will go, you must, but think of me, and think of these
our little ones.’ And, with a tear in her eye, she desired a lovely boy
and girl to kiss their father. ‘Now, think of us, Edward,’ she added; ‘and
do not bet, dearest, do not bet.’
‘Nonsense, duck! nonsense!’
said he; ‘did you ever see me lose? do you suppose that Ned Fenwick is not
‘wide awake?’ I know my horse, and its rider too; Barrymore’s Highlander
can distance everything. But, if it could not, I have it from a sure hand,
the other horses are all ‘safe.’ Do you understand that, eh?’
‘No, I do not understand
it, Edward, nor do I wish to understand it,’ added she; ‘but, dearest, as
you love me, as you love our children, risk nothing.’
‘Love you, little gipsy!
you know I’d die for you,’ said he--and, with all his sins, the prodigal
spoke the truth. ‘Come, Nell, kiss me again, my dear—no long faces—don’t
take a leaf out of my old mother’s book; you know the saying—‘Never
venture never win—faint heart never won fair lady.’ Good-by, love—’by
Ned—good-by mother’s darling,’ said he, addressing the children as he left
the house.
He reached Doncaster; he
had paid his guinea for admission to the betting-rooms; he had whispered
with, and slipped a fee to all the shrivelled, skin-and-bone, half melted
little manikins, called jockeys, to ascertain the secrets of their horses.
‘All’s safe,’ said the prodigal to himself, rejoicing in his heart. The
great day of the festival—the important St. Leger—arrived. Hundreds were
ready to back Highlander against the field—amongst them was Edward
Fenwick; he would take any odds—he did take them—he staked his all. ‘A
thousand to five hundred on Highlander against the field,’ he cried, as he
stood near a betting post. ‘Done!’ shouted a mustachioed peer of the
realm, in a barouche by his side. ‘Done,’ cried Fenwick, ‘for the double,
if you like, my lord.’ ‘Done,’ added the peer; and I’ll treble it if you
dare.’ ‘Done,’ rejoined the prodigal, in the confidence and excitement of
the moment—‘Done, my lord.’ The eventful hour arrived. There was a false
start. The horses took the ground beautifully. Highlander led the way at
his ease; and his rider, in a tartan jacket and mazarine cap, looked
confident. Fenwick stood near the winning post, grasping the rails with
his hands; he was still confident, but he could not chase the admonition
of his wife from his mind. The horses were not to be seen. His very soul
became like a solid and sharp-edged substance within his breast. Of the
twenty horse that started, four again appeared in sight. ‘The tartan yet!
The tartan yet!’ shouted the crowd. Fenwick raised his eyes--he was blind
with anxiety—he could not discern them; still he heard the cry of ‘The
tartan! the tartan!’ and his heart sprang to his mouth. ‘Well done,
orange!—the orange will have it!’ was the next cry. He again looked up,
but he was more blind than before. ‘Beautiful! beautiful! Go it, tartan!
Well done orange!’ shouted the spectators; ‘a noble race!—neck and neck;
six to five on the orange. He became almost deaf as well as blind. ‘Now
for it!—now for it!—it won’t do, tartan!—hurra! hurra!—orange has it.’
‘Liar!’ exclaimed Fenwick,
starting as if from a trance, and grasping the spectator who stood next to
him by the coat, ‘I am not ruined.’ In a moment he dropped his hands by
his side, he leaned over the railing, and gazed vacantly on the ground.
His flesh writhed, and his soul groaned in agony. ‘Eleanor, my poor
Eleanor,’ cried the prodigal. The crowd hurried towards the winning-post;
he was left alone. The peer with whom he had betted, came up behind him;
he touched him on the shoulder with his whip, ‘Well, my covey,’ said the
nobleman, ‘you have lost it.’
Fenwick gazed upon him with
a look of fury and despair, and repeated, ‘Lost it! I am ruined, soul and
body, wife and children ruined.’
‘Well, Mr. Fenwick,’ said
the sporting peer, ‘I suppose, if that be the case, you won’t come to
Doncaster again in a hurry. But my settling day is to-morrow—you know I
keep sharp accounts, and if you have not the ‘ready’ at hand, I
shall expect an equivalent—you understand me.’
So saying, he rode off,
leaving the prodigal to commit suicide if he chose. It is enough for me to
tell you that, in his madness and his misery, and from the influence of
what he called his sense of honour, he gave the winner a bill for the
money, payable at sight. My feelings will not permit me to tell you how
the poor infatuated madman more than once made attempts upon his own life;
but the latent love of his wife and of his children prevailed over the
rash thought and in a state bordering on insanity, he presented himself
before the beings he had so deeply injured.
I might describe to you how
poor Eleanor was sitting in their little parlour, with her boy upon a
stool by her side, and her little girl on her knee, telling them fondly
that their father would be home soon, and anon singing to them the simple
nursery rhyme—
‘Hush, my babe, baby buntin,
Your father’s at the hunting, &c.
when the door opened, and
the guilty father entered, his hair clotted, his eyes rolling with the
wildness of despair, and the cold sweat raining down his pale cheeks.
‘Eleanor! Eleanor!’ he
cried, as he flung himself upon a sofa.
She placed her little
daughter on the floor; she flew towards him, ‘My Edward!—oh, my Edward!’
she cried, ‘what is it love? something troubles you.’
‘Curse me, Eleanor,’
exclaimed the wretched prodigal, turning his face from her; ‘I have ruined
you, I have ruined my children, I am lost for ever.’
‘No, my husband,’ exclaimed
the best of wives, ‘your Eleanor will not curse you. Tell me the worst and
I will bear it, cheerfully bear it, for my Edward’s sake.’
‘You will not—you cannot,’
cried he; ‘I have sinned against you as never man sinned against woman.
Oh! if you would spit upon the very ground where I tread, I would feel it
as an alleviation of my sufferings, but your sympathy, your affection,
makes my very soul destroy itself. Eleanor! Eleanor! if you have mercy
hate me, tell me, shew me that you do.’
‘O Edward! said she
imploringly, ‘was it thus when your Eleanor spurned every offer for your
sake, when you pledged to her everlasting love? She has none but you, and
can you speak thus? O husband, if you will forsake me, forsake not
my poor children. Tell me, only tell me the worst, and I will rejoice to
endure it with my Edward.’
‘Then,’ cried Fenwick, ‘if
you will add to my misery by professing love to a wretch like me, know you
are a beggar, and I have made you one. Now, can you share beggary with
me?’
She repeated the word
‘Beggary!’ she clasped her hands together, for a few moments she stood in
silent anguish, her bosom heaved, the tears gushed forth, she flung her
arms around her husband’s neck, ‘Yes,’ she cried, ‘I can meet even beggary
with my Edward.’
‘O Heaven!’ cried the
prodigal, ‘would that the earth would swallow me. I cannot stand this.’
I will not dwell upon the
endeavours of the fond, forgiving wife, to soothe and to comfort her
unworthy husband; nor yet will I describe to you the anguish of the
prodigal’s father and of his mother, when they heard the extent of his
folly and of his guilt. Already he had cost the old man much, and, with a
heavy and sorrowful heart, he proceeded to his son’s house, to comfort his
daughter-in-law. When he entered, she was endeavouring to cheer her
husband with a tune on the harpsichord—though Heaven knows, there was no
music in her breast, save that of love—enduring love.
‘Well, Edward,’ said the
old man, as he took a seat, ‘what is this thou hast done now?’
The prodigal was silent.
‘Edward,’ continued the
grey-haired parent, ‘I have had deaths in my family—many deaths, and thou
knowest it— but I never had to blush for a child but thee. I have
felt sorrow, but thou hast added shame to sorrow’—
‘O father,’ cried Eleanor,
imploringly, ‘do not upbraid my poor husband.’
The old man wept, he
pressed her hand, and, with a groan, said, ‘I am ashamed that thou
shouldst call me father, sweetest; but, if thou canst forgive him, I
should. He is all that is left me—all that the hand of death has spared me
in this world. Yet, Eleanor, his conduct is a living death to me—it is
worse than all that I have suffered. When affliction pressed heavily upon
me, and, year after year, I followed my dear children to the grave, my
neighbours sympathised with me; they mingled their tears with mine; but
now, child—oh, now, I am ashamed to hold up my head amongst them! O
Edward, man! if thou hast no regard for thy father or thy heart-broken
mother, hast thou no affection for thy poor wife?—canst thou bring her and
thy helpless children to ruin? But that, I may say, thou hast done
already! Son! son! if thou wilt murder thy parents, hast thou no mercy for
thine own flesh and blood?—wilt thou destroy thine own offspring? O
Edward! if there be any sin that I will repent upon my deathbed, it will
be that I have been a too-indulgent father to thee— that I am the author
of thy crimes!’
‘No, father! no!’ cried the
prodigal; ‘my sins are my own! I am their author, and my soul carries its
own punishment! Spurn me! cast me off!—disown me for ever!— it is all I
ask of you! You despise me—hate me too, and I will be less miserable!’
‘O Edward!’ said the old
man, ‘thou art a father, but, little dost thou know a father’s heart!
Disown thee! Cast thee off, sayest thou! As soon could the graves of thy
brothers give up their dead! Never, Edward, never! O son, wouldst thou but
reform thy ways—wouldst thou but become a husband worthy of our dear
Eleanor; and, after all the suffering thou hast brought upon her, and the
shame thou hast brought upon thy family, I would part with my last
shilling for thee, Edward, though I should go into the workhouse myself.’
You are affected, sir—I
will not harrow up your feelings by further describing the interview
between the father and his son. The misery of the prodigal was remorse not
penitence. It is sufficient for me to say, that the old man took a heavy
mortgage on his property, and Edward Fenwick commenced business as a wine
and spirit merchant in Newcastle. But, sir, he did not attend upon
business; and I need not tell you that such being the case, business was
too proud a customer to attend upon him. Neither did he forsake his old
habits, and, within two years, he became involved— deeply involved.
Already, to sustain his tottering credit, his father had been brought to
the verge of ruin. During his residence in Bamboroughshire, he had become
acquainted with many individuals carrying on a contraband trade with
Holland. To amend his desperate fortunes, he recklessly embarked in it. In
order to obtain a part in the ownership of a lagger, he used his
father’s name! This was the crowning evil in the prodigal’s
drama. He made the voyage himself. They were pursued and overtaken when
attempting to effect a landing near the Coquet. He escaped. But the papers
of the vessel bespoke her as being chiefly the property of his father.
Need I tell you that this was a finishing blow to the old man?
Edward Fenwick had ruined
his wife and family—he had brought ruin upon his father, and was himself a
fugitive. He was pursued by the law—he fled from them; and he would have
fled from their remembrance, if he could. It was now, sir, that the wrath
of Heaven was showered upon the head, and began to touch the heart of the
prodigal. Like Cain, he was a fugitive and a vagabond on the face of the
earth. For many months he wandered in a distant part of the country; his
body was emaciated and clothed with rags, and hunger preyed upon his very
heart-strings. It is a vulgar thing, sir, to talk of hunger—but they who
have never felt it, know not what it means. He was fainting by the
wayside, his teeth were grating together, the tears were rolling down his
cheeks. ‘The servants of my father’s house,’ he cried, ‘have bread enough,
and to spare, while I perish with hunger;’ and, continuing the language of
the prodigal in the Scriptures, he said—‘I will arise and go unto my
father, and say, I have sinned against Heaven, and in thy sight.’
With a slow and
tottering step, he arose to proceed on his iourney to his father’s house.
A month had passed—for every day he made less progress—ere the home of his
infancy appeared in sight. It was noon, and, when he saw it, he sat down
in a littla wood by a hill-side, and wept, until it had become dusk; for
he was ashamed of his rags. He drew near the house, but none came forth to
welcome him. With a timid hand he rapped at the door, but none answered
him. A stranger came from one of the outhouses and inquired, ‘What dost
thou want, man?’
‘Mr Fenwick,’ feebly
answered the prodigal.
‘Why, naebody lives there,’
said the other, ‘and auld Fenwick died in Morpeth jail, mair than three
months sin!’
‘Died in Morpeth jail!’
groaned the miserable being, and fell against the door of the house that
had been his father’s.
‘I tell ye, ye cannot get
in there,’ continued the other. ‘Sir,’ replied Edward, ‘pity me—and, oh,
tell me, is not Mrs Fenwick here—or her daughter-in-law?’
‘I knaws noughts
about them,’ said the stranger; ‘I’m put in charge here by the trustees.’
Want and misery kindled all
their fires in the breast of the fugitive. He groaned, and, partly from
exhaustion, partly from agony, sank upon the ground. The other lifted him
to a shed, where cattle were wont to be fed. His lips were parched, his
languid eyes rolled vacantly. ‘Water! give me water!’ he muttered, in a
feeble voice; and a cup of water was brought to him. He gazed wistfully in
the face of the person who stood over him—he would have asked for bread;
but, in the midst of his sufferings, pride was yet strong in his heart,
and he could not. The stranger, however, was not wholly destitute of
humanity.
‘Poor wretch,’ said he, ‘ye
look very fatigued; dow ye think ye cud eat a bit of bread, if I were
gi’en it to thee?’
Tears gathered in the
lustreless eyes of the prodigal; but he could not speak. The stranger left
him, and, returning, placed a piece of coarse bread in his hand. He ate a
morsel; but his very soul was sick, and his heart loathed to receive the
food for lack of which he was perishing.
Vain, sir, were the
inquiries after his wife, his children, and his mother; all that he could
learn was, that they had kept their sorrow and their shame to themselves,
and had left Northumberland together, but where, none knew. He also
learned that it was understood amongst his acquaintances that he had put a
period to his existence, and that this belief was entertained by his
family. Months of wretchedness followed, and Fenwick, in despair, enlisted
into a foot regiment, which, within twelve months, was ordered to embark
for Egypt. At that period, the British were anxious to hide the
remembrance of their unsuccessful attack upon Cadiz, and resolved to
wrench the ancient kingdom of the Pharaohs from the grasp of the proud
armies of Napoleon. The cabinet, therefore, on the surrender of Malta,
having seconded the views of Sir Ralph Abercrombie, several transports
were fitted out to join the squadron under Lord Keith. In one of those
transports, the penitent prodigal embarked. You are too young to remember
it, sir; but at that period a love of country was more widely than ever
becoming the ruling passion of every man in Britain; and, with all his
sins, his follies, and his miseries, such a feeling glowed in the breast
of Edward Fenwick. He was weary of existence, and he longed to listen to
the neighing of the war-horse, and the shout of its rider, and as they
might rush on the invulnerable phalanx, and its breastwork of bayonets, to
mingle in the ranks of heroes; and, rather than pine in inglorious grief,
to sell his life for the welfare of his country; or, like the gallant
Graham, amidst the din of war, and the confusion of glory, to forget his
sorrows. The regiment to which he belonged, joined the main army off the
Bay of Marmorice, and was the first that, with the gallant Moore at its
head, on the memorable seventh of March, raised the shout of victory on
the shores of Aboukir.
In the moment of victory,
Fenwick fell wounded on the field, and his comrades, in their triumph,
passed over him. He had some skill in surgery, and he was enabled to bind
up his wound. He was fainting upon the burning sand, and he was creeping
amongst the bodies of the slain for a drop of moisture to cool his parched
tongue, when he perceived a small bottle in the hands of a dead officer.
It was half filled with wine—he eagerly raised it to his
lips—‘Englishman!’ cried a feeble voice, ‘for the love of Heaven, give me
one drop—only one—or I die!’ He looked around. A French officer,
apparently in the agonies of death, was vainly endeavouring to raise
himself on his side, and stretching his hand towards him. ‘Why should I
live!’ cried the wretched prodigal; ‘take it, take it, and live, if you
desire life?’ He raised the wounded Frenchman’s head from the sand; he
placed the bottle to his lips; he untied his sash and bound up his wounds.
The other pressed his hand in gratitude. They were conveyed from the field
together. Fenwick was unable to follow the army, and he was disabled from
continuing in the service. The French officer recovered, and he was
grateful for the poor service that had been rendered to him; and, previous
to his being sent off with other prisoners, he gave a present of a
thousand francs to the joyless being whom he called his deliverer.
I have told you that
Fenwick had some skill in surgery; he had studied some years for the
medical profession, but abandoned it for the turf and its vices. He
proceeded to Alexandria, where he began to practise as a surgeon, and,
amongst an ignorant people, gained reputation. Many years passed, and he
had acquired, if not riches, at least an independency. Repentance also had
penetrated his soul. He had inquired long and anxiously after his family.
He had but few other relatives; and to all of them he had anxiously
written, imploring them to acquaint him with the residence of the beings
whom he had brought to ruin, but whom he still loved. Some returned no
answer to his applications, and others only said that they knew nothing of
his wife, of his mother, or of his children, nor whether they yet lived;
all they knew was, that they had endeavoured to hide the shame he had
brought upon them from the world. These words were daggers to his bruised
spirit; but he knew he deserved them, and he prayed that Heaven would
grant him the consolation and the mercy that was denied him on earth.
Somewhat more than seven
years ago, he returned to his native country; and he was wandering on the
very mountain where, to-day, I met you, when he entered into conversation
with a youth apparently about three or four and twenty years of age; and
they spent the day together as we have done. Fenwick was lodging in
Keswick, and as towards evening they proceeded along the road together,
they were overtaken by a storm. ‘You must accompany me home,’ said the
young man, ‘until the storm be passed; my mother’s house is at hand.’ And
he conducted him to yonder lonely cottage, whose white walls you perceive
peering through the trees by the water-side. It was dusk when the youth
ushered him into a little parlour where two ladies sat; the one appeared
about forty, the other threescore and ten. They welcomed the stranger
graciously. He ascertained that they let out the rooms of their cottage to
visitors to the lakes, during the summer season. He expressed a wish to
become their lodger, and made some observations on the beauty of the
situation.
‘Yes, sir,’ said the
younger lady, ‘the situation is, indeed, beautiful; but I have seen it
when the water, and the mountains around it, could impart no charm to its
dwellers. Providence has, indeed, been kind to us; and our lodgings have
seldom been empty; but, sir, when we entered it, it was a sad house
indeed. My poor mother-in-law and myself had experienced many sorrows; yet
my poor fatherless children—for I might call them fatherless,’ and she
wept as she spoke, ‘with their innocent prattle, soothed our affliction.
But my little Eleanor, who was loved by every one, began to droop day by
day. It was a whiter night—the snow was on the ground—I heard my little
darling give a deep sigh upon my bosom. I started up. I called to my poor
mother. She brought a light to the bedside, and I found my sweet child
dead upon my breast. It was a long and sad night, as we sat by the dead
body of my Eleanor, with no one near us, and, after she was buried, my
poor Edward there, as he sat by our side at night, would draw forward to
his knee the stool on which his sister sat, while his grandmother would
glance at him fondly, and push aside the stool with her foot, that I might
not see it; but I saw it all.’
The twilight had deepened
in the little parlour, and its inmates could not perfectly distinguish the
features of each other; but, as the lady spoke, the soul of Edward Fenwick
glowed within him; his heart throbbed; his breathing became thick; the
sweat burst upon his brow. ‘Pardon me, lady,’ he cried in agony, ‘but oh!
tell me your name?’
‘Fenwick, sir,’ replied
she.
‘Eleanor, my injured
Eleanor!’ he exclaimed, flinging himself at her feet; ‘I am Edward, your
guilty husband. – ‘Mother! can you forgive me? My son! my son! intercede
for your guilty father?’
Ah, sir, there needed no
intercession; their arms were around his neck; the prodigal was forgiven.
‘Behold,’ continued the narrator, ‘yonder, from the cottage, comes the
mother, the wife, and the son of whom I have spoken. I will introduce you
to them; you shall witness the happiness and penitence of the prodigal;
you must stop with me to-night. Start not, sir, I am Edward Fenwick, the
Prodigal Son!’ |
