"Indeed they are," answered Thomas. "I think I must have killed myself before now, if it hadn't been for those two."
So saying, he shook hands with Mr. Potts, and, turning to the captain, said:
"Thank you, thank you, captain, but I am quite safe with this gentleman. I will come and see you to-morrow."
"He shall sleep at my house to-night," said Mr. Fuller; "and no harm shall happen to him, I promise you."
"Thank you, sir;" and "Good-night, gentlemen," said both, and went through the silent, wide church with a kind of awe that rarely visited either of them.
Without further preface than just the words, "Now, I will tell you all about it, sir," Thomas began his story. When he had finished it, having answered the few questions he put to him in its course, Mr. Fuller was satisfied that he did know all about it, and that if ever there was a case in which he ought to give all the help he could, here was one. He did not utter a word of reproof. Thomas's condition of mind was such that it was not only unnecessary, but might have done harm. He had now only to be met with the same simplicity which he had himself shown. The help must match the confession.
"Well, we must get you out of this scrape, somehow," he said, heartily.
"I don't see how you can, sir."
"It rests with yourself chiefly. Another can only help. The feet that walked into the mire must turn and walk out of it again. I don't mean to reproach you—only to encourage you to effort."
"What effort?" said Tom. "I have scarcely heart for anything. I have disgraced myself forever. Suppose all the consequences of my—doing as I did"—he could not yet call the deed by its name—"were to disappear, I have a blot upon me to all eternity, that nothing can wash out. For there is the fact. I almost think it is not worth while to do anything."