Page:The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club.djvu/102

60 6<K'. POSTHUMOUS PAPfiRS OS"

aiid 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 Com- mandments 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 had he 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.

was warm, and the people were sitting at their doors, or strolling in their little gardens as he passed, enjoying the serenity of the evening, and their rest from labour. Many a look was turned towards him, and many a doubtful glance he cast on either side to see whether any knew and shunned him. There were strange faces in almost every house ; in some he recognised the burly form of some old schoolfellow — a boy when he last saw him — surrounded by a troop of merry chil- dren ; in others he saw, seated in an easy-chair at the cottage door a feeble and infirm old man, whom he only remembered as a hale and hearty labourer ; but they had all forgotten him, and he passed on unknown.
 * ' He walked down the hill, and through the village. The weather

" 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 in- fancy, 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, when 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 with 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 arras, appeared at the door, and they