George Leatrim | Page 9

you were doing your duty."
'He closed the door softly, and staggered up to his own chamber.
'What was there in that look that went so home to the heart of the stern
father--in those loving, broken words of the poor abused boy? If they
did not stagger the conviction of his guilt, they made him feel most
unhappy. Had he acted well, or wisely, or like a Christian? Was the
punishment that he had inflicted--so harsh and degrading to a sensitive
mind--likely to produce the desired effect? He could not answer the
question in a manner at all satisfactory to his mind, or still the sharp
upbraidings of conscience; and flinging himself upon his knees, he
buried his face in his hands, and offered up to God an agony of
repentant tears.
CHAPTER III.

'George Leatrim's first thought was to go to his mother; but then she
was ill, and happily unconscious of what had taken place. Besides, like
his father, she might believe the evidence that Ralph had witnessed
against him, and he had not the fortitude to bear that. As his passion
subsided, he had courage to recall the painful events of the past hour,
and to acknowledge that the circumstances by which he was
surrounded were suspicious enough to condemn him in any court of
law, and must be maddening to a proud, sensitive man like his father.
Struggling with the shame and agony of his position, he could not
recognise this before, or admit that both his father and Ralph might be
deceived.
'He had never felt the severe corporeal punishment during its infliction.
His mind was in too violent a state of agitation to care for bodily
suffering; but now that he was alone, the fiery indignation that had
upheld his spirit in the hour of his humiliation flickered and went out,
and the sense of degradation and intolerable wrong alone remained.
'He remembered how his father had spurned him from his feet, had
called him a thief and a liar, and witnessed unmoved the infliction of a
cruel punishment, administered by the hand of the menial who had
accused him of the crime; and had ordered him from his presence
without one word of pity or affection.
'These after-thoughts were terrible. George felt that he had not deserved
this severity, and the tears which pride had restrained while under the
weight of Ralph Wilson's unsparing hand now burst forth in a torrent,
and he wept until the lamp of life flickered to extinction in his panting
breast.
'The mother whom he wished to save from the knowledge of his
degradation awoke suddenly from a short and disturbed sleep. She
heard the sobs and moans in the adjoining room, and recognised the
voice of her son. The next moment saw her seated upon his bed, her
arms around the weeping boy. All sense of her own sickness, of her
weak state, was gone. She was only conscious of his intense mental
agony.

'He placed his aching head upon her faithful breast, he wound his
trembling arms around her slender neck, and poured into her
sympathizing ear the terrible tale of his wrongs,--how he had been
falsely accused of the commission of a heinous crime, his protestations
of innocence disregarded, and had been sentenced by his father to
receive a punishment more galling to him than death; that he had been
tempted to rebel against his father's authority, and curse the hand that
smote him--to hate where he had loved with such fond idolatry.
'The good mother listened attentively, and weighed every circumstance.
The frankness of his unreserved confession convinced her of its truth.
When all the sad tale was told, she took him in her pitying arms, and
told him that, though all the world should believe him guilty, she felt
that he was innocent from her very soul.
'"God bless you, dearest, best mother," sobbed the poor boy, covering
her hand with kisses. "I knew you would not condemn me. I never have,
nor ever will give you cause to be ashamed of me. But my father--it
seems unnatural, monstrous that he should believe me guilty at once. I
shall never get over it. It crushes my heart; it presses out my life. If I
could only convince him of my innocence I could die in peace."
'"Don't talk of dying, George. Leave your cause to God. He can bring to
light the hidden things of darkness, and make the black cloud that now
envelopes you as clear as the noonday. Let me go to your father,
George; I think I can convince him of your innocence, and that he has
acted too hastily."
'Exhausted as he was, George grasped his mother's hand, and held her
fast. "I could not see him again while this