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СКАЧАТЬ fact, and could not be told of it.

      The sardonic look which she had seen before appeared for a moment. “If Dr. Meredith was to pay for anything, miss, I reckon ’twould be for to have me clapped by the heels in gaol. But I wouldn’t have you think neither,” went on the runaway in a softer tone, “that I would have used violence on the reverend gentleman that evening, seeing he was your father, if I could ’a helped it!”

      “But it was my fault,” asserted Nest impulsively. “It was my fault for so foolishly screaming. If I had not——”

      But she broke off in astonishment, for Mark Thompson had suddenly hurled away the disreputable hat, and muttering, “I cannot keep this up any longer!” advanced several steps nearer. “Madam,” he said in quite a different tone, “you do nothing but blame yourself when you have, on the contrary, shown the most extraordinary kindness and courage, both in keeping my secret from the beginning, and in striving so generously to avoid recognising me on that unfortunate occasion. Believe me, it was partly in order to save you from an unpleasant dilemma that I was driven to resort to force. I deeply regretted it; I hope you believe that?”

      Speechless, Nest took a step backwards, as there burst upon her the full shock of the discovery which she knew now that she had been more than once on the point of making already. Not so talked any privateersman, runaway or no. That hybrid, intermittent accent and diction were as much thrown aside as the speaker’s lamentable hat; the mask was off with a vengeance. She grew crimson.

      “You are not a sailor or a labourer at all!” she exclaimed indignantly.

      “But I admitted, madam, at our first meeting, that I was not.”

      “Yet you pretended to be . . . you spoke as if . . . and all the time you are a gentleman!”

      “Your tone, madam, if I may say so, seems to imply some doubt of it!” returned the masquerader pleasantly.

      “If I had known, I should . . . I should not have . . .” Nest turned aside, tears of annoyance in her eyes, and began to poke at the close-growing wild thyme with the point of her shoe.

      “You mean,” interpreted the runaway, “that had you known I was . . . an educated man, let us say . . . you would have gone to a magistrate and had me taken back to Liverpool to pay the penalty of my desertion?”

      “No, sir, indeed I should not, but——”

      “At any rate, it seems that it was because you believed me of inferior station that you were willing to save me from that fate, and very nearly to tell a lie on my behalf to your father—a deed,” he added in a softer tone, “which I shall remember all my life with wonder and gratitude.”

      “I did tell a lie,” returned the heroine, almost crying. “At least, it amounted to a lie.”

      “For Mark Thompson, who never existed! ’Tis all the more miraculous and kind, then! Will you allow Mar—— the real individual to kiss your hand in sincerest gratitude, and then to go upon his way?” As she did not answer, the ex-haymaker very gently took her hand, lifted it to his lips, and let it drop again passive; Nest had once more turned her head away.

      “I fully understand,” went on the agreeable voice, “that while Miss Meredith can without fear of scandal be seen talking to a ragged unfortunate in whom she is good enough to interest herself, she would not wish it to be known that she had spent the same amount of time and charity over a man of her own class, even though the same rags covered him—and his plight was in fact much worse than that of a mere runaway sailor who could not find work!”

      This exact penetration of her feelings at once astonished and exasperated Miss Meredith. If he realised that, then he had no business to deceive her as he had done about his social position—and with such ease too! She ought to have recognised sooner—at moments she had almost recognised—that there was something odd about this deserter. Then curiosity and alarm began to battle with outraged feelings. What did the concluding phrase of that short speech signify?

      There was not much time left in which to find out, for its maker was obviously preparing to move on, since he was limping back to the spot where he had left his staff and bundle and was stooping to pick them up. What was his real plight then? An awful thought suddenly smote Nest—suppose he had committed forgery and that the gallows loomed in front of him? Forgery was the kind of crime which (she imagined) only an educated man would be able to commit. But surely not a man so young! Dr. Dodd, of whose fate not quite twenty years previously she had heard, had been, she believed, middle-aged . . . No, it could not be that; he must have been involved in some unfortunate “affair of honour” in which he had killed his man. That at least was a more respectable, even romantic, misdeed, though of course one must disapprove of the custom of duelling.

      The duellist (or forger) now had his stick and bundle and was going after his discarded hat. Nest followed him.

      “Sir,” she said, not without timidity, “I wish that you would tell me what your plight really is. I assure you that I would not divulge it.”

      The runaway faced her, his meagre belongings in his hand. “No, madam, I have troubled you too much already. I do not, believe me, wish to burden you still further.” But his tone was not repressive, and he gave her the attractive smile which she had seen once in the lane. No, he couldn’t be a forger!

      “But even though you are not . . . what I took you for, perhaps I could help you in some way,” she persisted.

      He shook his head, still with the smile. “You have helped me, madam.”

      But the more he resisted the more Nest found herself anxious to know the facts.

      “It is true that I am only a girl without influence; but my father, if I explained matters to him . . .”

      “But—forgive me for saying so, madam, you do not know what there is to explain! If you did, you would realise that neither the Precentor, nor, I imagine, the Bishop himself could procure for me the only thing which would help me now!”

      “Oh, sir, you must tell me! What is it that would help you? Do you mean money?”

      The shabby young man shook his head. “A sack of money could not buy what I need.” He came a little closer and lowered his voice. “If your prayers have influence with heaven, Miss Meredith, what I need is a Crown pardon.”

      But Nest retreated a step. “A Crown pardon!” she gasped. “But that means . . . you mean you . . . Oh, what have you done then, Mr. Thompson?”

      “My real name,” said “Mr. Thompson,” looking at her hard, “is Tyrrell, Martin Tyrrell. I think I had better not tell you what I am accused of,” he added, with a slight accent on the “accused,” “for I fancy that you are very patriotic here.”

      “Patriotic? Yes, we are patriotic; but what has that to do with it, sir?” she asked. “Why should you be afraid of patriotic people?” (Surely, surely, he had not run away from the Fair Penitent out of disloyalty—the idea was too repellent!)

      Mr. Martin Tyrrell, late Thompson, continued to look at her rather defiantly, and a tinge of defiance was audible in his voice also as he said: “After all, I think you at least, madam, have a right to know the truth about my situation. It is this: there has been a warrant for treason out against me since last May—and probably a warrant for murder also!”

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