“He was turned away. The cruel farmer tied a hare round his neck, and beat him unmercifully. Small wonder is it then that the poor lad left Stoke Ferry farm for good and for all.”
“He did not leave it for good—not for any good, as far as he was concerned.”
“He was the son of a gentleman, and could ill brook the cruel usage to which he was subjected.”
“We will not quarrel about that, Mrs. Grover,” said the ferryman; “it is hardly worth while. Mr. Jamblin was a worthy man—a litte headstrong, perhaps, but he was a good man for all that. Do not speak ill of the dead.”
“Oh, I don’t speak ill of Mr. Jamblin. Still, had he been a little more tolerant, the boy would not have been driven to seek his living in the streets; neither would he have associated with lawless characters.”
“Isabel Purvis, the thoughtlessness of man, and the bleeding of your own heart, drove you to a crime—you abandoned the child which you, as its mother, ought to have cherished. Is not this so?”
“It is—I do not deny it. But I have had a lifelong punishment.”
“True, you have repented. You are punished now, but you will be pardoned hereafter, let us hope,” he added, in a lower tone.
She shuddered, and felt half afraid of the mysterious man who spoke so calmly, and appeared to be so self-possessed.
“You have heard my last observations—have you not?”