“Dear lady, pray be present with me; I know not how to meet him!”
The door just then opened, and in came Mr. Barry, with the governor’s pardon in his hand. He approached Margaret, as she clung to Mrs. Palmer, agitated beyond measure. She regarded him with more solemn feelings than she did the judge who condemned her twice to death. She dropped upon her knees, and hid her face before her deliverer. He lifted her up and seated her, and, in the language of gentleness and tenderness, addressed her thus:—
“Margaret, I have brought you a free pardon from the governor. Need I remind you that God has mercifully sent me before you in this instance to be your friend? To Him I know you will give all the thanks and praises of a grateful heart.”
“To Him I do first, sir; and to you, as his instrument, in the next place. I am afraid to look upon you, and I am unworthy to be looked upon by you. I am a——”
“You need not tell me, Margaret, what you have been. I know all. Think not of what you were, but what you are. You are no longer a convict; you are no longer under the ban of disgrace; you are no longer under the sentence of the offended laws of man; you are now a free subject; and if your fellow-creatures do not all forgive you, they cannot themselves hope for forgiveness. You are at liberty to settle wherever you please.”
“Oh! dear sir; and to you I owe all this! What will they say to you in England, when I again embrace my dear friends there, and bless you for the liberty thus granted me?”
“Margaret, hear me again. Remember, when I last saw you, I told you then what I dreaded, if you refused to come out to this country with me. How true those fears were, you can now judge. You made a choice then which gave me anguish to be surpassed only by the present moment. You speak now of returning to England. You have got your pardon, and are at liberty so to do. It may seem ungenerous to me, at such a moment, to urge your stay; but hear now my opinion and advice, and give them the weight only of your calm judgement. If you return to England, take my word for it you will not be happy. You will never be as happy as you may be here. I speak this with feelings as much alive to your interest now as they were when I last parted with you. I will suppose you returned. Your own good heart makes you imagine that every one would be as glad to see you there as you would truly be to see them. Your own heart deceives you. I have known those who so bitterly lamented their return to England, that they have come again to settle in this country, and have offended those friends who would have respected them had they remained here. When at a distance they felt much for them; but when they came near to them, the pride of society made them ashamed of those who had been convicts. It may be that some would be glad to see you; your good mistress, your uncle and aunt: but circumstances might prevent their being able to do you any great service. Your former mistress has a large family, your uncle the same; you have no independence to live upon there. The eye of envy would be upon you if you had wealth, and detraction would be busy with your name. People would talk of your sins, but would never value you for your integrity. You would probably soon wish yourself in this country again, where your rising character would be looked upon with respect, and all the past be forgiven, and in time forgotten. Here you would have an established character: there you would always be thought to have a dubious one. Besides all this, you are here prospering. You can have the great gratification of relieving the necessities of your aged relatives, and of obliging your best friends. You would, believe me, be looked upon by them with far greater respect and esteem than if you were nearer to them. Think, Margaret, of what I now state, and divest yourself of that too great idea of happiness in England. You are at liberty to go; but you will enjoy far greater liberty if you stay in this country.”
“What you say, sir, may be true in some respects; but I think I should die happy if I once more saw my dear friends and relatives.”
“God forbid that I should not approve your feeling! I, too, have a father, and mother, and brothers in England, but I hear from them continually, and they rejoice in my welfare. I love them dearly as they do me. Two sisters have come out to me, and both have married and settled in the country. One I have lost, who has left a husband and seven children to lament her loss. I have strong ties, you see, in these young people, to bind me to this country, for they look up to me as they do to their father. But they are without female protection.”
“If, my dear sir, I can be of any service to you or them for a term of years, I shall feel it part of the happiness of that freedom you have obtained for me to abide as long in this land. But I own that I still feel that I should like to return one day to England. I am very grateful for all your goodness, and shall ever bless you for the interest you have taken in one so unworthy your favour.”