“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, perfectly5; 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. Nay6, 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 devoted7 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 deserted8. I was enlisted9 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 muskets10 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 tottered11 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 beseech12 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 wrung13 me by the hand, and turned away to conceal14 his distress15. I nodded my head in assent16, for I could not speak for emotion, and followed Stapleton and the soldiers who had taken Mary out. As soon as she was recovered sufficiently17 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 stupor18 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 countenance19. The whole of the next week was the most distressing20 that I ever passed; arising from my anxiety for Tom, my daily exertions22 to reason Mary into some degree of submission23 to the will of Providence—her accusations24 of herself and her own folly25—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 solitude26, came all to me for intelligence, for comfort, and for what, alas27! 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 exertion21, which changed me to almost a skeleton.
At last the court-martial was held, and Tom was condemned28 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 proximity29 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 toils30 I did myself escape. Yet is she exceeding fair and comely31, and now that it is unavailing, appeareth to be penitent32.”
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 miserable33, when many might be made so happy?” And the Dominie blew his nose, the trumpet34 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?”
I went out, and returned with the old woman on my arm, followed by old Tom, who stumped36 after me with the assistance of his stick. Poor old Mrs Beazeley fell on her son’s neck, sobbing37 convulsively.
“My boy—my boy—my dear, dear boy!” said she at last, and she looked up steadfastly38 in his face. “My God! he’ll be dead to-morrow!”
Her head again sank on his shoulder, and her sobs39 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 agitated40 spectator of the scene. Every muscle in his weather-beaten countenance twitched41 convulsively, and the tears at last forced their way through the deep furrows42 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 torrents43; “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 frigate44 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 suffocating45 voice, extending both his hands towards Tom, as they rose up; but the equilibrium46 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 respite47.” 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 gasping48 for breath, from intensity49 of feeling, she walked up to Tom where he was standing50, 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 misery51—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 horrid52 conviction of my own guilt53. 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 wretch54 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, dame55, 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 imploring56 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.
“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 expressive60 of anguish61 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 fervent62 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 wedded63, to join you will be my only wish—and if there could be a boon64 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 climax65; 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 forth66, 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 mighty67, 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 beckoned68 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 assuage69 their anguish; they want His help more than I do.”
A passionate70 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 eternity71 is but short.”
Tom threw himself into my arms, where he remained for some minutes; he then broke gently away, and pointed72 to the door. I once more took his hand and we parted.
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收听单词发音
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1
sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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sentry
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| n.哨兵，警卫 | |
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notching
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| adj.多级的（指继电器）n.做凹口，开槽v.在（某物）上刻V形痕( notch的现在分词 )；赢得；赢取；获得高分 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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enlisted
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| adj.应募入伍的v.（使）入伍， （使）参军( enlist的过去式和过去分词 )；获得（帮助或支持） | |
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muskets
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| n.火枪，（尤指）滑膛枪( musket的名词复数 ) | |
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tottered
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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accusations
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| n.指责( accusation的名词复数 )；指控；控告；（被告发、控告的）罪名 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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proximity
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| n.接近，邻近 | |
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toils
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| 网 | |
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comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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stumped
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| 僵直地行走，跺步行走( stump的过去式和过去分词 )； 把（某人）难住； 使为难； （选举前）在某一地区作政治性巡回演说 | |
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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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furrows
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| n.犁沟( furrow的名词复数 )；（脸上的）皱纹v.犁田，开沟( furrow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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torrents
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| n.倾注；奔流( torrent的名词复数 )；急流；爆发；连续不断 | |
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frigate
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| n.护航舰，大型驱逐舰 | |
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suffocating
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| a.使人窒息的 | |
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equilibrium
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| n.平衡，均衡，相称，均势，平静 | |
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respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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51
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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66
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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67
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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68
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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69
assuage
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| v.缓和，减轻，镇定 | |
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70
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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71
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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72
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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