It Is Never Too Late to Mend. Charles Reade Reade

      Poor George could read no more, the kind words, coming after his affronts and troubles, brought his heart to his mouth.

      Susan took the letter from him, and read out—

      “And an upright, downright honest man”—“AND SO YOU ARE, GEORGE!” cried she, warmly, drawing to George's side, and darting glances of defiance vaguely around. Then she continued to read—

      “If the answer is favorable, a word is enough. Meet me at 'The Crown,' in Newborough, to-night, and we will go up to Town by the mail train.”

      “The answer is, Yes,” said George to the servant, who was at some distance.

      Susan, bending over the letter, heard, but could not realize the word, but the servant now came nearer. George said to him, “Tell your master, Yes.”

      “Yes? George!” cried Susan, “what do you mean by yes? It is about going to Australia.”

      “The answer is yes,” said George.

      The servant went away with the answer.

      The others remained motionless.

      “This nobleman's son respects me if worse folk don't. But it is not the great bloodhounds and greyhounds that bark at misfortune's heels, it is only the village curs, when all is done. This is my path. I'll pack up my things and go.” And he did not look at Susan or any of them, but went into the house like a man walking in his sleep.

      There was a stupefied pause.

      Then Susan gave a cry like a wounded deer.

      “Father! what have you done?”

      Merton himself had been staggered, but he replied stoutly:

      “No more than my duty, girl, and I hope you will do no less than yours.”

      At this moment Robinson threw up the window and jumped out into the yard.

      Meadows, under stronger interests, had forgotten Robinson; but now at sight of him he looked round, and catching the eye of a man who was peering over the farmyard wall, made him a signal.

      “What is the matter?” cried Robinson.

      “George is going to Australia,” replied Merton, coldly.

      “Australia!” roared Robinson—“Australia! He's mad. Who ever goes there unless they are forced? He shan't go there! I wouldn't go there if my passage was paid, and a new suit of clothes given me, and the governor's gig to take me ashore to a mansion provided for my reception, fires lighted, beds aired and pipes laid across upon the table.”

      As Robinson concluded this tirade the policeman and constable, who had crept round the angle of the farm-house, came one on each side, put each a hand on one of his elbows and—took him!

      He looked first down at their hands in turn, then up at their faces in turn, and when he saw the metropolitan's face a look of simple disgust diffused itself over his whole countenance.

      “Ugh!!!” interjected Robinson.

      “Ay!” replied the policeman, while putting handcuffs on him. “To Australia you'll go, for all that, Tom Lyon, alias Scott, alias Robinson, and you'll have a new suit of clothes, mostly one color, and voyage paid, and a large house ashore waiting for you; and the governor's gig will come alongside for you, provided they can't find the convicts' barge,” and the official was pleased with himself and his wit and allowed it to appear.

      But by this time Robinson was on his balance again. “Gentlemen,” answered he with cold dignity, “what am I to understand by this violence from persons to whom I am an utter stranger?” and he might have set for the picture of injured innocence. “I am not acquainted with you, sir,” added he; “and by the titles you give me it seems you are not acquainted with me.”

      The police laughed, and took out of this injured man's pocket the stolen notes which Meadows instantly identified.

      Then Mr. Robinson started off into another key equally artistical in its way.

      “Miss Merton,” snuffled he, “appearances are against me, but mark my words, my innocence will emerge all the brighter for this temporary cloud.”

      Susan Merton ran indoors, saying, “Oh! I must tell George.” She was not sorry of an excuse to be by George's side, and remind him by her presence that if home had its thorns it had its rose tree, too.

      News soon spreads; rustic heads were seen peeping over the wall to see the finale of the fine gentleman from “Lunnun.” Meantime the constable went to put his horse in a four-wheeled chaise destined to convey Robinson to the county jail.

      If the rural population expected to see this worthy discomposed by so sudden a change of fortune, they were soon undeceived.

      “Well, Jacobs,” said he, with sudden familiarity, “you seem uncommon pleased, and I am content. I would rather have gone to California; but any place is better than England. Laugh those who win. I shall breathe a delicious climate; you will make yourself as happy as a prince, that is to say, miserable, upon fifteen shillings and two colds a week; my sobriety and industry will realize a fortune under a smiling sun. Let chaps that never saw the world, and the beautiful countries there are in it, snivel at leaving this island of fogs and rocks and taxes and nobs, the rich man's paradise, the poor man's—I never swear, it's vulgar.”

      While he was crushing his captors with his eloquence, George and Susan came together from the house; George's face betrayed wonder and something akin to horror.

      “A thief!” cried he. “Have I taken the hand of a thief?”

      “It is a business like any other,” said Robinson deprecatingly.

      “If you have no shame I have; I long to be gone now.”

      “George!” whined the culprit, who, strange to say, had become attached to the honest young farmer. “Did ever I take tithe of you? You have got a silver candle cup, a heavenly old coffee-pot, no end of spoons double the weight those rogues the silversmiths make them now; they are in a box under your bed in your room,” added he, looking down. “Count them, they are all right; and Miss Merton, your bracelet, the gold one with the cameo: I could have had it a hundred times. Miss Merton, ask him to shake hands with me at parting. I am so fond of him, and perhaps I shall never see him again.

      “Shake hands with you?” answered George sternly; “if your hands were loose I doubt I should ram my fist down your throat; but there, you are not worth a thought at such a time, and you are a man in trouble, and I am another. I forgive you, and I pray Heaven I may never see your face again.”

      And Honesty turned his back in Theft's face.

      Robinson bit his lip and said nothing, but his eyes glistened; just then a little boy and girl, who had been peering about mighty curious, took courage and approached hand in hand. The girl was the speaker, as a matter of course.

      “Farmer Fielding,” said she curtsying, a mode of reverence which was instantly copied by the boy, “we are come to see the thief; they say you have caught one. Oh, dear!” (and her bright little countenance was overcast), “I couldn't have told it from a man!”

      We don't know all that is in the hearts of the wicked. Robinson was observed to change color at these silly words.

      “Mr. Jacobs,” said he, addressing the policeman, “have you authority to put me in the pillory before trial?” He said this coldly and sternly; and then added, “Perhaps you are aware that I am a man, and I might say a brother, for you were a thief, you know!” Then changing his tone entirely, “I say, Jacobs,” said he, with cheerful briskness, “do you remember cracking the silversmith's shop in Lambeth along with Jem Salisbury and Black George, and—”

      “There, the gig is ready,” cried Mr. Jacobs; “you come along,” and the ex-thief pushed the thief hastily off the premises and drove him away with speed.