‘I have written to you often. Why did they not give you my letters? But you would not think because you did not hear from me that I was forgetting you?’
‘Have you heard from me, Marian?’
‘No, Tom.’
‘I have written. But a prison-governor may stop a felon’s letters, and mine have been stopped, and they have not given me yours. We may have written too strongly.’
He started and looked at me a little wildly and cried:
‘Marian, why are you here? This atmosphere is pollution. Look at my dress; look at these hands. I have worn chains; I am driven as though I were a mad and dangerous beast; I am herded with ruffians, and I am innocent! I swear by your pure heart, Marian, I am guiltless of the crime for which they have put me into this ship and for which they send me ashore by day to—to—— Why are you here, dear?’ he cried, still wildly, and now a little incoherently. ‘They have hellishly sworn me, innocent as I am, into this. They have made a felon of me. They are sending me from my country, and my heart must break—my heart must break!’ he said, sobbing convulsively. ‘And they will bury me in a convict’s grave. Oh, Marian, it is at an end between us—it must be so. I am a convict, ruined and for ever dishonoured. Look at me!’
My heart was bursting whilst I listened to him, but the great God, who knew that my sweetheart was a cruelly and terribly wronged man, gave me, of His mercy, heart and spirit. I had much to say, and the moments were flying. I looked at him with a smile and grasped his hand in both mine. He struggled faintly, but I continued to hold his hand.
‘Tom, you are not dishonoured, you are not ruined. You are wronged. Only that, my darling; no more. Hear me, dear,’ and I softened my voice, for I was sensible of the deep thrill of my earnestness in every syllable that fell from me. ‘I have come to tell you that my love is unchangeable; that my love for you now is sanctified by your misery, and that it is deeper, truer and holier, Tom, than ever it was before. Oh, hear me, love, and take heart! Wherever you go, I will go. I shall learn where they send you and accompany you or follow you. Nothing but death can separate us. I have walked night after night beside the prison walls that I might be near you, and whilst you are here I shall be near you. They cannot separate us. Always believe, always know, that whilst you are in this ship—yes, whilst they are trying to break your heart ashore—I am present—oh, not in sympathy, not in love, not in spirit only, Tom, but near you, but close as they will let me be to you in my own person. Does that comfort you?’
He lifted my hand and bowed his head upon it.
‘Something may happen at any time to prove your innocence,’ I continued.