We shall pass over Beauchamp's grief, however, merely saying that he grieved sincerely. Nor shall we dwell upon the details of the funeral of the Earl of Ashborough--nor treat the reader to the full, true, and particular account of the execution of three criminals, against whom we have seen that a jury of their countrymen pronounced a just verdict, and to whom a judge had awarded a righteous punishment. Suffice it, that they died!
In regard to Harding alone, a few words must be said. To all appearance, he met his fate with the same determined coolness which he had shown through life; rendered, perhaps, a degree more stern and intense, from the awful situation in which he was placed. One circumstance, and one circumstance alone, seemed to show that the drop of better feeling, which almost every man has at the bottom of his heart, was not entirely polluted by the poisonous streams that flowed around it. On the night before his execution, after having obdurately rejected those religious consolations which were offered with persevering piety, by several zealous clergymen, he suddenly desired to speak with two magistrates; and then, in their presence, made a full and clear confession of all the particulars connected with the murder at Ryebury, confirming in every point the testimony of Walter Harrison. This he signed in the presence of the magistrates, and caused them to affix their names as witnesses; which being done, he added, "I have made this confession, gentlemen, because the act for which I am to die, has been attributed to a young gentleman who had nothing to do with it; and because--that gentleman, being well calculated to do service to himself, and his country, if every shade of imputation be removed from his character--I think the general considerations of utility require--Or rather," he said, breaking off abruptly the tirade in which he was about to indulge--"Or rather, I do it, because I have learned what mental, as well as bodily suffering is; and therefore would spare it to another, where there is no occasion for its infliction. So now, gentlemen, I have done with this world for ever, and I wish you good-night."
In the various accounts of the execution, which every one must have seen in the newspapers, a number of contradictory statements appeared; some journals affirming that Harding had died, maintaining his innocence to the last; some, with more truth, that he had made a full confession. His statement, however, was immediately sent up to London, properly authenticated, together with the case of Walter Harrison, and both were laid before the Home Secretary, for the consideration of his Majesty. The necessary measures for issuing a free pardon to the young sailor were immediately taken; and when it was presented for signature, the great personage paused, for a moment, to ask some questions in regard to Captain Delaware, expressing considerable indignation that so grave a charge should have been brought against a distinguished officer, on such light grounds. "Had that officer not run off," he said--"a point of which it may be as well to take no notice--had he not run off, it might have been necessary to make him some compensation. But that was a great error--that was a great error, to flinch from trial--a brave man too--a very brave man!"
"Sir A---- B----, the judge who presided at the trial, sir," replied the secretary, "informs me, that it was lucky he did make his escape, alleging that he would have been hanged to a certainty, before evidence of his innocence could have been procured. So that your Majesty has, at all events, saved a good officer."
"Always a great gain, sir," replied the personage whom he addressed; "and if that was the case. Captain Delaware did very right. Always stay in the ship till the last moment; but don't go down with her, if you can help it."
With these observations the pardon was signed, and despatched to the county town where the young sailor was still confined. Being set at liberty, he immediately took his way on foot towards the village of Emberton, where so many of our scenes have been laid. It was by this time winter, and a hard frost rendered the road firm and dry, so that Walter Harrison, though greatly debilitated, walked on, better than might have been expected. Night, however, had fallen ere he reached Emberton; and glad he was that darkness hid him from the cold and abhorrent eyes he must otherwise have encountered in the streets. But what tongue could tell the many painful and thrilling memories that were awakened in his bosom by every spot, as he passed through his native town, and saw again all the scenes of youth and innocence--as he marked the various resorts of his boyish hours, and felt that a night, far darker than that through which he wandered, had fallen over his life for ever?
At the door of his mother's cottage garden he paused, and gazed wistfully over the house, with feelings that would scarcely let him enter the gate. There was a light, however, within; and his step over the gravel of the footpath had instantly caught the mother's unerring ear--the light moved--the door was thrown open--and the worn and weary lad, weighed down with sin, and sickness, and sorrow, was pressed in his mother's arms, and his cold cheek bathed in her tears!
It was long ere either could speak, and for nearly half an hour the young sailor sat gazing upon the fire, while thick recollections of all the past, held him dull and voiceless. All the time his mother stood by his side, and fixed her eyes upon him, tracing every line that remorse had written, and every hue that sickness had spread over his face; but at length she laid her hand upon his arm, and said, "Walter, my beloved boy, we must go hence. You must not stay in this hateful place, which has seen our ruin, our poverty, and our shame. We must go across the sea, and I will lead you to a place that you will like to see."
"You forget, mother! You forget!" said the youth, with a deep sigh; "People travel not without money; neither can they live without it in foreign countries more than here. I am sure you do not think that I am going to take the reward the people offered me, for giving up the murderers--No, no! I will not take a price for their blood!"
"I would not have you, Walter!" cried his mother eagerly. "I would not have you touch it with the tip of a finger, if they offered you a world of gold on such an account. But fear not, my boy, I have the means. Look here--what I received but yesterday--two hundred golden sovereigns and this kind letter; and this deed of annuity to you and me, for one hundred pounds a-year as long as either of us live, charged upon the estates of Mr. Henry Beauchamp."