“Thank you, sir. It is very good of you. I do not deserve it,” said he, in a faint whisper.
“My poor boy, you mustn't say that; I am your friend. I told you already I would be so.”
“But you 'll not be my friend when I tell you—when I tell you—all;” and as the last word dropped, he covered his face with both his hands, and burst into a heavy passion of tears.
“Come, come, Tom, this is not manly; bear up bravely, bear up with courage, man. You used to say you had plenty of pluck if it were to be tried.”
“So I thought I had, sir, but it has all left me;” and he sobbed as if his heart was breaking. “But I believe I could bear anything but this,” said he, in a voice shaken by convulsive throes. “It is the disgrace,—that 's what unmans me.”
“Take a glass of wine, collect yourself, and tell me all about it.”
“No, sir. No wine, thank you; give me a glass of water. There, I am better now; my brain is not so hot. You are very good to me, Mr. Conyers, but it 's the last time I'll ever ask it,—the very last time, sir; but I 'll remember it all my life.”
“If you give way in this fashion, Tom, I 'll not think you the stout-hearted fellow I once did.”
“No, sir, nor am I. I 'll never be the same again. I feel it here. I feel as if something gave, something broke.” And he laid his hand over his heart and sighed heavily.
“Well, take your own time about it, Tom, and let me hear if I cannot be of use to you.”