Фредерик Марриет
Jacob Faithful
Chapter Forty Four
I am made very happy—In other respects a very melancholy chapter, which, we are sorry to inform the reader, will be followed up by one still more so
I left Mary, and hastened home to dress for dinner. I mentioned the subject of wishing to obtain Tom’s discharge to Mr Wharncliffe, who recommended my immediately applying to the Horse Guards; and, as he was acquainted with those in office, offered to accompany me. I gladly accepted his offer; and the next morning he called for me in his carriage, and we went there. Mr Wharncliffe sent up his card to one of the secretaries, and we were immediately ushered up, when I stated my wishes. The reply was:– “If you had time to procure a substitute it would be easily arranged; but the regiment is so weak, and the aversion to the West Indies so prevalent after this last very sickly season, that I doubt if His Royal Highness would permit any man to purchase his discharge. However, we will see. The Duke is one of the kindest-hearted of men, and I will lay the case before him. But let us see if he is still at the depôt; I rather think not.” The secretary rang the bell.
“The detachment of the 47th Fusiliers from the depôt—has it marched? And when does it embark?”
The clerk went out, and in a few minutes returned with some a papers in his hand. “It marched the day before yesterday, and was to embark this morning, and sail as soon as the wind was fair.”
My heart sank at this intelligence.
“How is the wind, Mr G—? Go down and look at the tell-tale.”
The clerk returned. “East North East, sir, and has been steadily so these two days.”
“Then,” replied the secretary, “I am afraid you are too late to obtain your wish. The orders to the port-admiral are most peremptory to expedite the sailing of the transports, and a frigate has been now three weeks waiting to convoy them. Depend upon it, they have sailed to-day.”
“What can be done?” replied I, mournfully.
“You must apply for his discharge, and procure a substitute. He can then have an order sent out, and be permitted to return home. I am very sorry, as I perceive you are much interested; but I’m afraid it is too late now. However, you may call to-morrow. The weather is clear with this wind, and the port-admiral will telegraph to the Admiralty the sailing of the vessels. Should anything detain them, I will take care that His Royal Highness shall be acquainted with the circumstances this afternoon, if possible, and will give you his reply.”
We thanked the secretary for his politeness, and took our leave. Vexed as I was with the communications I had already received, I was much more so when one of the porters ran to the carriage to show me, by the secretary’s order, a telegraphic communication from the Admiralty, containing the certain and unpleasant information, “Convoy to West Indies sailed this morning.”
“Then it is all over for the present,” said I, throwing myself back in the carriage; and I continued in a melancholy humour until Mr Wharncliffe, who had business in the city, put me down as near as the carriage went to the house of Mr Drummond. I found Sarah, who was the depository of all my thoughts, pains, and pleasures, and I communicated to her this episode in the history of young Tom. As most ladies are severe judges of their own sex, she was very strong in her expressions against the conduct of Mary, which she would not allow to admit of any palliation. Even her penitence had no weight with her.
“And yet, how often is it the case, Sarah, not perhaps to the extent carried on by this mistaken girl; but still, the disappointment is as great, although the consequences are not so calamitous. Among the higher classes, how often do young men receive encouragement, and yield themselves up to a passion, to end only in disappointment! It is not necessary to plight troth; a young woman may not have virtually committed herself, and yet, by merely appearing pleased with the conversation and company of a young man, induce him to venture his affections in a treacherous sea, and eventually find them wrecked.”
“You are very nautically poetical, Jacob,” replied Sarah. “Such things do happen; but I think that women’s affections are, to use your phrase, oftener wrecked than those of men. That, however, does not exculpate either party. A woman must be blind, indeed, if she cannot perceive, in a very short time, whether she is trifling with a man’s feelings, and base, indeed, if she continues to practise upon them.”
“Sarah,” replied I, and I stopped.
“Well?”
“I was,” replied I, stammering a little—“I was going to ask you if you were blind.”
“As to what, Jacob?” said Sarah, colouring up.
“As to my feelings towards you.”
“No; I believe you like me very well,” replied she, smiling.
“Do you think that that is all?”
“Where do you dine to-day, Jacob,” replied Sarah.
“That must depend upon you and your answer. If I dine here to-day, I trust to dine here often. If I do not dine here to-day, probably I never may again. I wish to know, Sarah, whether you have been blind to my feelings towards you; for, with the case of Mary and Tom before me, I feel that I must no longer trust to my own hopes, which may end in disappointment. Will you have the kindness to put me out of my misery?”
“If I have been blind to your feelings I have not been blind to your merit, Jacob. Perhaps I have not been blind to your feelings, and I am not of the same disposition as Mary Stapleton. I think you may venture to dine here to-day,” continued she, colouring and smiling, as she turned away to the window.
“I can hardly believe that I’m to be so happy, Sarah,” replied I, agitated. “I have been fortunate, very fortunate; but the hopes you have now raised are so much beyond my expectations—so much beyond my deserts—that I dare not indulge in them. Have pity on me, and be more explicit.”
“What do you wish me to say?” replied Sarah, looking down upon her work, as she turned round to me.
“That you will not reject the orphan who was fostered by your father, and who reminds you of what he was, that you may not forget at this moment what I trust is the greatest bar to his presumption—his humble origin.”
“Jacob, that was said like yourself—it was nobly said; and if you were not born noble, you have true nobility of mind. I will imitate your example. Have I not often, during our long friendship, told you that I loved you?”
“Yes, as a child you did, Sarah.”
“Then, as a woman, I repeat it. And now are you satisfied?”
I took Sarah by the hand; she did not withdraw it, but allowed me to kiss it over and over again.
“But your father and mother, Sarah?”
“Would never have allowed our intimacy if they had not approved of it, Jacob, depend upon it. However, you may make yourself easy on that score by letting them know what has passed; and then, I presume, you will be out of your misery.”
Before the day was over I had spoken to Mrs Drummond, and requested her to open the business to her husband, as I really felt it more than I could dare to do. She smiled as her daughter hung upon her neck; and when I met Mr Drummond at dinner-time I was “out of my misery,” for he shook me by the hand, and said, “You have made us all very happy, Jacob; for that girl appears determined either to marry you or not to marry at all. Come; dinner is ready.”
I will leave the reader to imagine how happy I was, what passed between Sarah and me in our tête-à-tête of that evening, how unwilling I was to quit the house, and how I ordered a post-chaise to carry me home, because I was afraid to trust myself on that water on which the major part of my life had been safely passed, lest any accident should happen to me and rob me of my anticipated bliss. From that day I was as one of the family, and finding the distance too great, took up my abode at apartments contiguous to the house of Mr Drummond. But the course of other people’s love did not run so smooth, and I must now return to Mary Stapleton and Tom Beazeley.
I had breakfasted, and was just about to take my wherry and go down to acquaint the old couple with the bad success of my application. I had been reflecting with gratitude upon my own happiness in prospect, indulging in fond anticipations, and then, reverting to the state in which I had left Mary Stapleton and Tom’s father and mother, contrasting their misery with my joy, arising from the same source, when, who should rush into the dining-room but young Tom, dressed in nothing but a shirt and a pair of white trousers, covered with dust, and wan with fatigue and excitement.
“Good heavens! Tom! are you back? then you must have deserted.”
“Very true,” replied Tom, sinking on a chair, “I swam on shore last night, and have made from Portsmouth to here since eight o’clock. I hardly need say that I am done up. Let me have something to drink, Jacob, pray.”
I went to the cellaret and brought him some wine, of which he drank off a tumbler eagerly. During this I was revolving in my mind the consequences which might arise from this hasty and imprudent step. “Tom,” said I, “do you know the consequences of desertion?”
“Yes,” replied he, gloomily, “but I could not help it. Mary told me in her letter that she would do all I wished, would accompany me abroad; she made all the amends she could, poor girl! and, by heavens, I could not leave her; and when I found myself fairly under weigh, and there was no chance, I was almost mad; the wind baffled us at the Needles, and we anchored for the night; I slipped down the cable and swam on shore, and there’s the whole story.”
“But, Tom, you will certainly be recognised and taken up for a deserter.”
“I must think of that,” replied Tom; “I know the risk I run; but if you obtain my discharge, they may let me off.”
I thought this was the best plan to proceed upon, and requesting Tom to keep quiet, I went to consult with Mr Wharncliffe. He agreed with me that it was Tom’s only chance, and I pulled to his father’s, to let them know what had occurred, and then went on to the Drummonds. When I returned home late in the evening the gardener told me that Tom had gone out and had not returned. My heart misgave me that he had gone to see Mary, and that some misfortune had occurred, and I went to bed with most anxious feelings. My forebodings were proved to be correct, for the next morning I was informed that old Stapleton wished to see me. He was ushered in, and as soon as he entered, he exclaimed, “All’s up, Master Jacob—Tom’s nabbed—Mary fit after fit—human natur’.”
“Why, what is the matter, Stapleton?”
“Why, it’s just this—Tom desarts to come to Mary. Cause why?—he loves her—human natur’. That soldier chap comes in and sees Tom, clutches hold, and tries to take possession of him. Tom fights, knocks out sergeant’s starboard eye, and tries to escape—human natur’. Soldiers come in, pick up sergeant, seize Tom, and carry him off. Mary cries, and screams, and faints—human natur’—poor girl can’t keep her head up—two women with burnt feathers all night. Sad job, Mister Jacob. Of all the senses love’s the worst, that’s sartain—quite upset me, can’t smoke my pipe this morning—Mary’s tears quite put my pipe out,”—and old Stapleton looked as if he was ready to cry himself.
“This is a sad business, Stapleton,” replied I. “Tom will be tried for desertion, and God knows how it will end. I will try all I can; but they have been very strict lately.”
“Hope you will, Mister Jacob. Mary will die, that’s sartain. I’m more afraid that Tom will. If one does, t’other will. I know the girl—just like her mother, never could carry her helm amidships, hard a port, or hard a starboard. She’s mad now to follow him—will go to Maidstone. I take her as soon as I go back to her. Just come up to tell you all about it.”
“This is a gloomy affair, Stapleton.”
“Yes, for sartain—wish there never was such a thing as human natur’.”
After a little conversation, and a supply of money, which I knew would be acceptable, Stapleton went away, leaving, me in no very happy state of mind. My regard for Tom was excessive, and his situation one of peculiar danger. Again I repaired to Mr Wharncliffe for advice, and he readily interested himself most warmly.
“This is, indeed, an awkward business,” said he, “and will require more interest than I am afraid that I command. If not condemned to death, he will be sentenced to such a flogging as will break him down in spirit as well as in body, and sink him into an early grave. Death were preferable of the two. Lose no time, Mr Faithful, in going down to Maidstone, and seeing the colonel commanding the depôt. I will go to the Horse Guards, and see what is to be done.”
I wrote a hurried note to Sarah to account for my absence, and sent for post-horses. Early in the afternoon I arrived at Maidstone, and finding out the residence of the officer commanding the depôt, sent up my card. In few words I stated to him the reason of my calling upon him.
“It will rest altogether with the Horse Guards, Mr Faithful, and I am afraid I can give you but little hope. His Royal Highness has expressed his determination to punish the next deserter with the utmost severity of the law. His leniency on that point has been very injurious to the service, and he must do it. Besides, there is an aggravation of the offence in his attack upon the sergeant, who has irrecoverably lost his eye.”
“The sergeant first made him drunk, and then persuaded him to enlist.” I then stated the rivalship that subsisted between them, and continued, “Is it not disgraceful to enlist men in that way—can that be called voluntary service?”
“All very true,” replied the officer, “but still expediency winks at even more. I do not attempt to defend the system, but we must have soldiers. The seamen are impressed by force, the soldiers are entrapped by other means, even more discreditable: the only excuse is expediency, or, if you like it better, necessity. All I can promise you, sir, is, to allow the prisoner every comfort which his situation will permit, and every advantage at his court-martial, which mercy, tempered by justice, will warrant.”
“I thank you, sir; will you allow me and his betrothed to see him?”
“Most certainly; the order shall be given forthwith.”
I thanked the officer for his kindness, and took my leave.
Chapter Forty Five
Read it
I hastened to the black hole where Tom was confined, and the order for my admission having arrived before me, I was permitted by the sergeant of the guard to pass the sentry. I found Tom sitting on a bench notching a stick with his knife, whistling a slow tune.
“This is kind, Jacob, but not more than I expected of you—I made sure that I should see you to-night or to-morrow morning. How’s poor Mary? I care only for her now—I am satisfied—she loves me, and—I knocked out the sergeant’s eye—spoilt his wooing, at all events.”
“But, Tom, are you aware of the danger in which you are placed?”
“Yes, Jacob, perfectly; I shall be tried by a court-martial and shot. I’ve made up my mind to it—at all events, it’s better than being hung like a dog, or being flogged to death like a nigger. I shall die like a gentleman, if I have never been one before, that’s some comfort. Nay, I shall go out of the world with as much noise as if a battle had been fought, or a great man had died.”
“How do you mean?”
“Why there’ll be more than one bullet-in.”
“This is no time for jesting, Tom.”
“Not for you, Jacob, as a sincere friend, I grant; not for poor Mary, as a devoted girl; not for my poor father and mother—no, no,” continued Tom. “I feel for them, but for myself I neither fear nor care. I have not done wrong—I was pressed against the law and Act of Parliament, and I deserted. I was enlisted when I was drunk and mad, and I deserted. There is no disgrace to me; the disgrace is to the government which suffers such acts. If I am to be a victim, well and good—we can only die once.”
“Very true, Tom; but you are young to die, and we must hope for the best.”
“I have given up all hope, Jacob. I know the law will be put in force. I shall die and go to another and a better world, as the parson says, where, at all events, there will be no muskets to clean, no drill, and none of your confounded pipe-clay, which has almost driven me mad. I should like to die in a blue jacket—in a red coat I will not, so I presume I shall go out of the world in my shirt, and that’s more than I had when I came in.”
“Mary and her father are coming down to you, Tom.”
“I’m sorry for that, Jacob; it would be cruel not to see her—but she blames herself so much that I cannot bear to read her letters. But, Jacob, I will see her, to try if I can comfort her—but she must not stay; she must go back again till after the court-martial, and the sentence, and then—if she wishes to take her farewell, I suppose I must not refuse.” A few tears dropped from his eyes as he said this. “Jacob, will you wait and take her back to town?—she must not stay here—and I will not see my father and mother until the last. Let us make one job of it, and then all will be over.”
As Tom said this the door of the cell again opened, and Stapleton supported in his daughter. Mary tottered to where Tom stood, and fell into his arms in a fit of convulsions. It was necessary to remove her, and she was carried out. “Let her not come in again, I beseech you, Jacob; take her back, and I will bless you for your kindness. Wish me farewell now, and see that she does not come again.” Tom wrung me by the hand, and turned away to conceal his distress. I nodded my head in assent, for I could not speak for emotion, and followed Stapleton and the soldiers who had taken Mary out. As soon as she was recovered sufficiently to require no further medical aid, I lifted her into the post-chaise, and ordered the boys to drive back to Brentford. Mary continued in a state of stupor during the journey; and when I arrived at my own house, I gave her into the charge of the gardener’s wife, and despatched her husband for medical assistance. The application of Mr Wharncliffe was of little avail, and he returned to me with disappointment in his countenance. The whole of the next week was the most distressing that I ever passed; arising from my anxiety for Tom, my daily exertions to reason Mary into some degree of submission to the will of Providence—her accusations of herself and her own folly—her incoherent ravings, calling herself Tom’s murderer, which alarmed me for her reason; the distress of old Tom and his wife, who, unable to remain in their solitude, came all to me for intelligence, for comfort, and for what, alas! I dare not give them—hope. All this, added to my separation from Sarah during my attendance to what I considered my duty, reduced me to a debility, arising from mental exertion, which changed me to almost a skeleton.
At last the court-martial was held, and Tom was condemned to death. The sentence was approved of, and we were told that all appeals would be unavailing. We received the news on the Saturday evening, and Tom was to suffer on the Tuesday morning. I could no longer refuse the appeals of Mary; indeed, I received a letter from Tom, requesting that all of us, the Dominie included, would come down and bid him farewell. I hired a carriage for old Tom, his wife, Stapleton, and Mary, and putting the Dominie and myself in my own chariot, we set off early on the Sunday morning for Maidstone. We arrived about eleven o’clock, and put up at an inn in close proximity to the barracks. It was arranged that the Dominie and I should see Tom first, then his father and mother, and lastly, Mary Stapleton.
“Verily,” said the Dominie, “my heart is heavy, exceeding heavy; my soul yearneth after the poor lad, who is thus to lose his life for a woman—a woman from whose toils I did myself escape. Yet is she exceeding fair and comely, and now that it is unavailing, appeareth to be penitent.”
I made no reply; we had arrived at the gate of the barracks. I requested to be admitted to the prisoner, and the doors were unbarred. Tom was dressed with great care and cleanliness in white trousers and shirt and waistcoat, but his coat lay on the table; he would not put it on. He extended his hand towards me with a faint smile.
“It’s all over now, Jacob; and there is no hope that I am aware of, and I have made up my mind to die; but I wish these last farewells were over, for they unman me. I hope you are well, sir,” continued Tom to the Dominie.
“Nay, my poor boy, I am as well as age and infirmity will permit, and why should I complain when I see youth, health, and strength about to be sacrificed; and many made miserable, when many might be made so happy?” And the Dominie blew his nose, the trumpet sound of which re-echoed through the cell, so as to induce the sentry to look through the bars.
“They are all here, Tom,” said I. “Would you like to see them now?”
“Yes; the sooner it is over the better.”
“Will you see your father and mother first?”
“Yes,” replied Tom, in a faltering tone.
I went out, and returned with the old woman on my arm, followed by old Tom, who stumped after me with the assistance of his stick. Poor old Mrs Beazeley fell on her son’s neck, sobbing convulsively.
“My boy—my boy—my dear, dear boy!” said she at last, and she looked up steadfastly in his face. “My God! he’ll be dead to-morrow!”
Her head again sank on his shoulder, and her sobs were choking her. Tom kissed his mother’s forehead as the tears coursed down his cheeks, and motioned me to take her away. I placed her down on the floor, where she remained silent, moving her head up and down with a slow motion, her face buried in her shawl. It was but now and then that you heard a convulsive drawing of her breath. Old Tom had remained a silent but agitated spectator of the scene. Every muscle in his weather-beaten countenance twitched convulsively, and the tears at last forced their way through the deep furrows on his cheeks. Tom, as soon as his mother was removed, took his father by the hand, and they sat down together.
“You are not angry with me, father, for deserting?”
“No, my boy, no; I was angry with you for ’listing, but not for deserting. What business had you with the pipeclay? But I do think I have reason to be angry elsewhere, when I reflect that after having lost my two legs in defending her, my country is now to take from me my boy in his prime. It’s but a poor reward for long and hard service—poor encouragement to do your duty; but what do they care? they have had my sarvices, and they have left me a hulk. Well, they may take the rest of me if they please, now that they—Well, it’s no use crying; what’s done can’t be helped,” continued old Tom, as the tears ran down in torrents; “they may shoot you, Tom; but this I know well, you’ll die game, and shame them by proving to them they have deprived themselves of the sarvices of a good man when good men are needed. I would not have so much cared,” continued old Tom, after a pause—”(look to the old woman, Jacob, she’s tumbling over to port)—if you had fallen on board a king’s ship in a good frigate action; some must be killed when there’s hard fighting; but to be drilled through by your own countrymen, to die by their hands, and, worst of all, to die in a red coat, instead of a true blue—”
“Father, I will not die in a red coat—I won’t put it on.”
“That’s some comfort, Tom, anyhow, and comfort’s wanted.”
“And I’ll die like a man, father.”
“That you will, Tom, and that’s some comfort.”
“We shall meet again, father.”
“Hope so, Tom, in heaven—that’s some comfort.”
“And now, father, bless me, and take care of my poor mother.”
“Bless you, Tom, bless you!” cried the old man, in a suffocating voice, extending both his hands towards Tom, as they rose up; but the equilibrium was no longer to be maintained, and he reeled back in the arms of me and Tom. We lowered him gently down by the side of his wife; the old couple turned to each other, and embracing, remained sobbing in each other’s arms.
“Jacob,” said Tom, squeezing me by the hand, with a quivering lip, “by your regard for me, let now the last scene be got over—let me see Mary, and let this tortured heart once more be permitted a respite.” I sent out the Dominie. Tom leant against the wall, with his arms folded, in appearance summoning up all his energy for the painful meeting. Mary was led in by her father. I expected she would have swooned away, as before; but, on the contrary, although she was pale as death, and gasping for breath, from intensity of feeling, she walked up to Tom where he was standing, and sat down on the form close to him. She looked anxiously round upon the group, and then said, “I know that all I now say is useless, Tom; but still I must say it—it is I who, by my folly, have occasioned all this distress and misery—it is I who have caused you to suffer a—dreadful death—yes, Tom, I am your murderer.”
“Not so, Mary, the folly was my own,” replied Tom, taking her hand.
“You cannot disguise or palliate to me, dearest Tom,” replied Mary; “my eyes have been opened, too late it is true, but they have been opened; and although it is kind of you to say so, I feel the horrid conviction of my own guilt. See what misery I have brought about. There is a father who has sacrificed his youth and his limbs to his country, sobbing in the arms of a mother whose life is bound up with that of her only son. To them,” continued Mary, falling down upon her knees, “to them I must kneel for pardon, and I ask it as they hope to be forgiven. Answer me—oh! answer me! can you forgive a wretch like me?”
A pause ensued. I went up to old Tom, and kneeling by his side, begged him to answer.
“Forgive her, poor thing—yes; who could refuse it, as she kneels there? Come,” continued he, speaking to his wife, “you must forgive her. Look up, dame, at her, and think that our poor boy may be asking the same of heaven to-morrow at noon.”
The old woman looked up, and her dimmed eyes caught a sight of Mary’s imploring and beautiful attitude; it was not to be withstood.
“As I hope for mercy to my poor boy, whom you have killed, so do I forgive you, unhappy young woman.”
“May God reward you, when you are summoned before Him,” replied Mary. “It was the hardest task of all. Of you, Jacob, I have to ask forgiveness for depriving you of your early and truest friend—yes, and for much more. Of you, sir,” addressing the Dominie, “for my conduct towards you, which was cruel and indefensible—will you forgive me?”
“Yes, Mary, from my heart, I do forgive you,” replied I.
“Bless thee, maiden, bless thee!” sobbed the Dominie.
“Father, I must ask of you the same—I have been a wilful child—forgive me!”
“Yes, Mary; you could not help it,” replied old Stapleton, blubbering; “it was all human natur’.”
“And now,” said Mary, turning round on her knees to Tom, with a look expressive of anguish and love, “to you, Tom, must be my last appeal. I know you will forgive me—I know you have—and this knowledge of your fervent love makes the thought more bitter that I have caused your death. But hear me, Tom, and all of you hear me. I never loved but you; I have liked others much; I liked Jacob; but you only ever did make me feel I had a heart; and alas, you only have I sacrificed. When led away by my folly to give you pain, I suffered more than you—for you have had my only, you shall have my eternal and unceasing love. To your memory I am hereafter wedded, to join you will be my only wish—and if there could be a boon granted me from heaven, it would be to die with you, Tom—yes, in those dear arms.”
Mary held out her arms to Tom, who falling down on his knees, embraced her, and thus they remained with their faces buried in each other’s shoulders. The whole scene was now at its climax; it was too oppressive, and I felt faint, when I was aroused by the voice of the Dominie, who, lifting up both his arms, and extending them forth, solemnly prayed, “O Lord, look down upon these Thy servants in affliction; grant to those who are to continue in their pilgrimage strength to bear Thy chastening—grant to him who is to be summoned to Thee that happiness which the world cannot give; and O God most mighty, God most powerful, lay not upon us burdens greater than we can bear.—My children let us pray.”
The Dominie knelt down and repeated the Lord’s prayer; all followed his example, and then there was a pause.
“Stapleton,” said I, pointing to Mary. I beckoned to the Dominie. We assisted up old Tom, and then his wife, and led them away; the poor old woman was in a state of stupefaction, and until she was out in the air was not aware that she had quitted her son. Stapleton had attempted to detach Mary from Tom, but in vain; they were locked together as if in death. At last Tom, roused by me, suffered his hold to be loosened, and Mary was taken out in a happy state of insensibility, and carried to the inn by her father and the Dominie.
“Are they all gone?” whispered Tom to me, as his head reclined on my shoulder.
“All, Tom.”
“Then the bitterness of death is past; God have mercy on them, and assuage their anguish; they want His help more than I do.”
A passionate flood of tears, which lasted some minutes, relieved the poor fellow; he raised himself, and drying his eyes, became more composed.
“Jacob, I hardly need tell my dying request, to watch over my poor father and mother, to comfort poor Mary—God bless you, Jacob! you have indeed been a faithful friend, and may God reward you. And now, Jacob, leave me; I must commune with my God, and pray for forgiveness. The space between me and eternity is but short.”
Tom threw himself into my arms, where he remained for some minutes; he then broke gently away, and pointed to the door. I once more took his hand and we parted.
