The Convict: A TaleJames, G. P. R. (George Payne Rainsford)
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The Convict: A Tale
James, G. P. R. (George Payne Rainsford)
Prisoners -- Fiction
It was morning, and the soft early light was stealing gently over
everything, amongst the leaves of the trees, through the breaks in the
rocks, down into the deep basin of the hills, into the caverns of the
lava, along the smooth unruffled surface of the lake; and Charles
Dudley and Edgar Adelon were seated together upon the top of the bold
crags which towered over the crater of the extinct volcano. The whole
scene was softened to their eyes; a slight mist hung over the woody
world on the one hand, and profound shadows, only broken here and
there by the quiet morning ray, lay in the deep abyss upon the other
side. It was a fit scene for such conversation as they were to hold,
and Dudley, with his head resting on his hands, listened with eager
attention to his young companion's words, sometimes, indeed,
interrupting him by a question, but generally too intensely moved for
any inquiry.
"Then she loves me still!" he said: "then she loves me still!"
"As deeply and devotedly as ever," answered Edgar; "and you have
wronged her if you have doubted, Dudley."
"Never, never!" murmured Dudley.
"But let me proceed," said Edgar Adelon. "Matters pursued this course
for many months. I recovered completely from the fever. The trials of
the rioters at Barhampton took place, and almost every man who
underwent the ordeal was condemned. Men thought the government very
lenient in not pressing a more serious crime upon them, and banishment
for life was judged a mild sentence. I heard nothing of Mr. Clive or
Helen, and you can imagine, Dudley, how my too eager and impatient
spirit could bear such suspense. I inquired of Filmer. I asked
everybody connected with the farm, but I received no intelligence. The
priest assured me that he was acting on Mr. Clive's behalf without any
other authority or directions than those which he had received on that
fatal night which brought so much misery along with it. Yet Helen had
promised to write, and I never knew her break her word. My father,
though long detained in London, returned at length to Brandon.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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