The youngster went directly to the commissioner and told him what he had done. “I don't see that I am called on to interfere,” replied that functionary; “he was taken in the act; you have buried him, of course.”
“Not I. I let him lie for whoever chose to own him.”
“You let him lie? What, when there is a printed order from the government stuck over the whole mine that nobody is to leave carrion about! You go off directly and bury your carrion or you will get into trouble, young man.” And the official's manner became harsh and threatening.
If ever a man was “shot like a dog,” surely the assassin of Carlo was.
Mr. Meadows in the prison refused his food, and fell into a deep depression; but the third day he revived, and fell to scheming again. He sent to Mr. Levi and offered to give him a long lease of his old house if he would but be absent from the trial. This was a sore temptation to the old man. But meantime stronger measures were taken in his defense and without consulting him.
One evening that Susan and George were in the garden at Grassmere, suddenly an old woman came toward them with slow and hesitating steps. Susan fled at the sight of her—she hated the very name this old woman bore. George stood his ground, looking sheepish; the old woman stood before him trembling violently and fighting against her tears. She could not speak, but held out a letter to him. He took it, the ink was rusty, it was written twenty years ago; it was from his mother to her neighbor, Mrs. Meadows, then on a visit at Newborough, telling her how young John had fought for and protected her against a band of drunken ruffians, and how grateful she was.
“And I do hope, dame, he will be as good friends with my lads when they are men as you and I have been this many a day.”
George did not speak for a long time. He held the letter, and it trembled a little in his hand. He looked at the old woman, standing a piteous, silent supplicant. “Mrs. Meadows,” said he, scarce above a whisper, “give me this letter, if you will be so good. I have not got her handwriting, except our names in the Bible.”
She gave him the letter half reluctantly, and looked fearfully and inquiringly in his face. He smiled kindly, and a sort of proud curl came for a moment to his lip, and the woman read the man. This royal rustic would not have taken the letter if he had not granted the mother's unspoken prayer.
“God bless you both!” said she, and went on her way.