Immediately on receipt of Freeling's letter and affidavit, Mr. Dinneford had taken steps to procure a pardon for George Granger. It came within a few days after the application was made, and the young man was taken from the asylum where he had been for three years.
Mr. Dinneford went to him with Freeling's affidavit and the pardon, and placing them in his hands, watched him closely to see the effect they would produce. He found him greatly changed in appearance, looking older by many years. His manner was quiet, as that of one who had learned submission after long suffering. But his eyes were clear and steady, and without sign of mental aberration. He read Freeling's affidavit first, folded it in an absent kind of way, as if he were dreaming, reopened and read it through again. Then Mr. Dinneford saw a strong shiver pass over him; he became pale and slightly convulsed. His face sunk in his hands, and he sat for a while struggling with emotions that he found it almost impossible to hold back.
When he looked up, the wild struggle was over.
“It is too late,” he said.
“No, George, it is never too late,” replied Mr. Dinneford. “You have suffered a cruel wrong, but in the future there are for you, I doubt not, many compensations.”
He shook his head in a dreary way, murmuring,
“I have lost too much.”
“Nothing that may not be restored. And in all you have not lost a good conscience.”
“No, thank God!” answered the young man, with a sudden flush in his face. “But for that anchor to my soul, I should have long ago drifted out to sea a helpless wreck. No thank God! I have not lost a good conscience.”
“You have not yet read the other paper,” said Mr. Dinneford. “It is your pardon.”