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Chapter LXVIII
Lighted rooms, bright fires, cheerful faces, the music of glad voices,
words of love and welcome, warm hearts, and tears of happiness -
what a change is this! But it is to such delights that Kit is hastening.
They are awaiting him, he knows. He fears he will die of joy, before he
gets among them.
They have prepared him for this, all day. He is not to be carried off to-
morrow with the rest, they tell him first. By degrees they let him know
that doubts have arisen, that inquiries are to be made, and perhaps
he may be pardoned after all. At last, the evening being come, they
bring him to a room where some gentlemen are assembled. Foremost
among them is his good old master, who comes and takes him by the
hand. He hears that his innocence is established, and that he is
pardoned. He cannot see the speaker, but he turns towards the voice,
and in trying to answer, falls down insensible.
They recover him again, and tell him he must be composed, and bear
this like a man. Somebody says he must think of his poor mother. It is
because he does think of her so much, that the happy news had
overpowered him. They crowd about him, and tell him that the truth
has gone abroad, and that all the town and country ring with
sympathy for his misfortunes. He has no ears for this. His thoughts,
as yet, have no wider range than home. Does she know it? what did
she say? who told her? He can speak of nothing else.
They make him drink a little wine, and talk kindly to him for a while,
until he is more collected, and can listen, and thank them. He is free
to go. Mr Garland thinks, if he feels better, it is time they went away.
The gentlemen cluster round him, and shake hands with him. He feels
very grateful to them for the interest they have in him, and for the
kind promises they make; but the power of speech is gone again, and
he has much ado to keep his feet, even though leaning on his master's
arm.
As they come through the dismal passages, some officers of the jail
who are in waiting there, congratulate him, in their rough way, on his
release. The newsmonger is of the number, but his manner is not
quite hearty - there is something of surliness in his compliments. He
looks upon Kit as an intruder, as one who has obtained admission to
that place on false pretences, who has enjoyed a privilege without
being duly qualified. He may be a very good sort of young man, he
thinks, but he has no business there, and the sooner he is gone, the
better.
The last door shuts behind them. They have passed the outer wall,
and stand in the open air - in the street he has so often pictured to
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