“Too true, indeed, Gahan. The lad who was reared in my house, whom my wife watched over in health, and nursed in sickness—whom we loved almost as if he were our own, has robbed us, and that not once or twice, but many times. He is silent, and sullen, too, and refuses to tell why he stole the money, which was never withheld from him when he wanted it. I can make nothing of him, and must only give him up to justice in the morning.”
“No, Sir, no. The boy saved your life; you can’t take his.”
“You’re raving, Gahan.”
“Listen to me, Sir, and you won’t say so. You remember this night twenty years? I came here with my motherless child, and yourself and the mistress pitied us, and spoke loving words to him. Well for us all you did so! That night—little you thought it!—I was banded with them that were sworn to take your life. They were watching you outside the window, and I was sent to inveigle you out, that they might shoot you. A faint heart I had for the bloody business, for you were ever and always a good master to me; but I was under an oath to them that I darn’t break, supposing they ordered me to shoot my own mother. Well! the hand of God was over you, and you wouldn’t come with me. I ran out to them, and I said—“Boys, if you want to shoot him, you must do it through the window,” thinking they’d be afeard of that; but they weren’t—they were daring fellows, and one of them, sheltered by the angle of the window, took deadly aim at you. That very moment you took Billy on your knee, and I saw his fair head on a line with the musket. I don’t know exactly then what I said or did, but I remember I caught the man’s hand, threw it up, and pointed to the child. Knowing I was a determined man, I believe they didn’t wish to provoke me; so they watched you for awhile, and when you didn’t put him down they got daunted, hearing the sound of soldiers riding by the road, and they stole away through the grove. Most of that gang swung on the gallows, but the last of them died this morning quietly in his bed. Up to yesterday he used to make me give him money,—sums of money to buy his silence—and it was for that I made my boy a thief. It was wearing out his very life. Often he went down on his knees to me, and said: ‘Father, I’d die myself sooner than rob my master, but I can’t see you disgraced. Oh, let us fly the country!’ Now, Sir, I have told you all—do what you like with me—send me to gaol, I deserve it—but spare my poor, deluded, innocent boy!”
It would be difficult to describe Mr. Hewson’s feelings, but his wife’s first impulse was to hasten to liberate the prisoner. With a few incoherent words of explanation she led him into the presence of his master, who, looking at him sorrowfully but kindly, said:
“William, you have erred deeply, but not so deeply as I supposed. Your father has told me everything. I forgive him freely and you also.”
The young man covered his face with his hands, and wept tears more bitter and abundant than he had ever shed since the day when he followed his mother to the grave. He could say but little, but he knelt on the ground, and clasping the kind hand of her who had supplied to him that mother’s place, he murmured:
“Will you tell him I would rather die than sin again.”
Old Gahan died two years afterwards, truly penitent, invoking blessings on his son and on his benefactors; and the young man’s conduct, now no longer under evil influence, was so steady and so upright, that his adopted parents felt that their pious work was rewarded, and that, in William Gahan, they had indeed a son.