After all (he told himself), that would do in the morning. No fear of the man's escaping, unless he escaped to the Grave. So he tried to banish the phantom voices and shapes which came unbidden to his brain, and to recall his balance of mind by walking calmly and slowly, and noticing everything which struck his senses. It was a warm soft evening in spring, and there were many persons in the streets. Among others, a nurse with a little girl in her charge, conveying her home from some children's gaiety; a dance most likely, for the lovely little creature was daintily decked out in soft, snowy muslin; and her fairy feet tripped along by her nurse's side as if to the measure of some tune she had lately kept time to. Suddenly up behind her there came a rough, rude errand-boy, nine or ten years of age; a giant he looked by the fairy-child, as she fluttered along.
I don't know how it was, but in some awkward way he knocked the poor little girl down upon the hard pavement as he brushed rudely past, not much caring whom he hurt, so that he got along. The child arose, sobbing with pain; and not without cause, for blood was dropping down from the face, but a minute before so fair and bright--dropping down on the pretty frock, making those scarlet marks so terrible to little children. The nurse, a powerful woman, had seized the boy, just as Mr Carson (who had seen the whole transaction) came up. "You naughty little rascal! I'll give you to a policeman, that I will!
Do you see how you've hurt the little girl? Do you?" accompanying every sentence with a violent jerk of passionate anger. The lad looked hard and defying; but withal terrified at the threat of the policeman, those ogres of our streets to all unlucky urchins. The nurse saw it, and began to drag him along, with a view of making what she called "a wholesome impression." His terror increased, and with it his irritation; when. the little sweet face, choking away its sobs, pulled down nurse's head, and said, "Please, dear nurse, I'm not much hurt; it was very silly to cry, you know.
He did not mean to do it. He did not know what he was doing, did you, little boy? Nurse won't call a policeman, so don't be frightened."
And she put up her little mouth to be kissed by her injurer, just as she had been taught to do at home to "make peace." "That lad will mind, and be more gentle for the time to come, I'll be bound, thanks to that little lady," said a passer-by, half to himself, and half to Mr Carson, whom he had observed to notice the scene. The latter took no apparent heed of the remark but passed on. But the child's pleading reminded him of the low, broken voice he had so lately heard, penitently and humbly urging the same extenuation of his great guilt. "I did not know what I was doing." He had some association with those words; he had heard, or read of that plea somewhere before. Where was it? "Could it be----?" He would look when he got home. So when he entered his house he went straight and silently upstairs to his library, and took down the great largeBible, all grand and golden, with its leaves adhering together from the bookbinder's press, so little had it been used. On the first page (which fell open to Mr Carson's view) were written the names of his children, and his own. "Henry John, son of the above John and Elizabeth Carson. Born, Sept. 29th, 1815." To make the entry complete, his death should now be added. But the page became hidden by the gathering mist of tears. Thought upon thought, and recollection upon recollection came crowding in, from the remembrance of the proud day when he had purchased the costly book, in order to write down the birth of the little babe of a day old. He laid his head down on the open page, and let the tears fall slowly on the spotless leaves. His son's murderer was discovered; had confessed his guilt; and yet (strange to say) he could not hate him with the vehemence of hatred he had felt, when he had imagined him a young man, full of lusty life, defying all laws, human and divine. In spite of his desire to retain the revengeful feeling he considered as a duty to his dead son, something of pity would steal in for the poor, wasted skeleton of a man, the smitten creature, who had told him of his sin, and implored his pardon that night. In the days of his childhood and youth, Mr Carson bad been accustomed to poverty; but it was honest, decent poverty; not the grinding squalid misery he had remarked in every part of John Barton's house, and which contrasted strangely with the pompous sumptuousness of the room in which he now sat.
Unaccustomed wonder filled his mind at the reflection of the different lots of the brethren of mankind. Then he roused himself from his reverie, and turned to the object of his search--the Gospel, where he half expected to find the tender pleading: