“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!”
This stunning information, so much exceeding anything that Nest had imagined, had the effect of sweeping her legs from under her; at all events she found herself, a moment or two later, sinking into a sitting posture on the slope. Her eyes, wide with horror, were still fixed upon the maker of this shocking avowal; finding voice at last she got out: “Treason . . . treason! . . . Then you are a Jacobin, a revolutionary of some kind!”
“Not in the least,” answered Mr. Tyrrell, quite cheerfully this time, presumably because his dread secret was now disclosed; and he too lowered himself on to the turf at a little distance. “No more than the oldest canon of your Cathedral; no more than your dog, Miss Meredith, who so strongly objects to anyone resembling a sans-culotte. I am merely unlucky; more unlucky than I could have imagined any man with honest intentions becoming in so short a space of time. But I realise,” he added quickly, “that you have only my word for this. I do not know whether you can place any more reliance upon it because, like yours, my father is in orders, though he is not a Cathedral dignitary, but merely a poor country parson!”
“How terrible!” murmured Nest, referring of course not to the less exalted position of the Reverend Mr. Tyrrell, but to the whole situation, intensified to her by a half-vision of her own father receiving, for instance, the news of his son William’s pursuit by the law on two capital charges. And somehow it did not occur to her, any more (apparently) than to the fugitive, that this statement about his father’s profession, though he tendered it as a proof of good faith, had exactly the same claim to belief as his previous statement about his ill-luck, no more and no less. “Is your father aware of your misfortunes, sir?”
“I am not certain how much the dear old man knows,” replied Martin Tyrrell with a sigh. “Enough to wreck his peace of mind, at any rate, for I expect the parsonage was searched for me, and though I hope he would not credit the charge of treason, yet appearances could be made to look so black against me on that count, and are so black upon the other . . .” He paused, now wearing a very gloomy look.
“If your father does not know the truth,” said Nest impulsively, “you must, sir, communicate with him in some way! Does he even know where you are?” And as the ex-privateersman shook his head, she went on: “But perhaps you are meaning now to make your way back to him? Forgive me for the question, but—have you money enough for the journey?”
“Again it is not a question of money, madam. I cannot go home in any case. It is there above all that I should be looked for—just as I dared not return in the Vrijheid to Liverpool, where . . . I know they must be waiting for me. I deserted from her rather than risk that. No, until I came ashore here the other day I have had no chance at all of writing to my father, and now I am afraid to do it, lest it should lead to my capture, which would be the worst blow of all to him. His correspondence,” he explained, “is probably watched with that object, and any letter in my handwriting, of which the authorities doubtless have specimens, would be opened.”
“But that is terrible for your father,” said the girl once more. “Something should be done to relieve his anxiety. What if I asked my own father to write to him? No,” she caught herself up, “I am afraid——”
“No, indeed,” agreed the runaway. “I certainly could not expect Dr. Meredith to intervene after the other evening’s doings in the ruin, which alone must have given him a pretty unfavourable impression of my character—again my persistent ill-luck!”
For a moment Nest plucked at the wild thyme in silence. “There would be nothing to prevent my writing to your father,” she said at last in a small voice. “You could instruct me, sir, in what to say.”
Martin Tyrrell’s face lit up, and he leant forward. “You cannot mean that,” he said eagerly; “it is too kind, too . . .” In a sudden gust of emotion he also had recourse to the unfortunate thyme, and tugged out an entire tuft, roots and all. Studying it rather attentively he went on, in a voice which was not quite steady: “The thought of what my poor father must have been suffering all these weeks on my account has been, I think, the bitterest element in my cup. If indeed you could . . . somehow . . . but I ought not to ask it . . .”
“It seems to me, sir, that it is only right that I should do what I can in so distressing a case,” replied Nest firmly. “But I must know what I am to put in my letter, must I not—the tale of your . . . of your misfortunes?”
Mr. Tyrrell wrinkled his forehead. “But if I tell you I shall make you an accessory after the fact. Heavens!” a look of horror suddenly overspread his sunburnt features, “you are that in some measure already!” He made as though to spring up, but subsided again. “I ought not to have told you my name; I have perhaps even by that rendered you liable to punishment as an accomplice!”
“Pray do not be so horrified, sir,” returned the young lady with outward composure and a not unpleasant thrill of excitement. “The law, I am sure, does not regard females—and females under age especially—as accountable for such things in the same degree as men. And to be of service to your father (she did not say “to you”) I ought surely to be in possession of the facts, or as much of them as you are disposed to tell me.” She looked at the ill-starred Mr. Martin Tyrrell, sitting upon the same carpet of thyme—but at a proper distance—the blue waters of St. Bride’s Bay shimmering behind him, with a sympathetic and expectant air.
And after gazing all round the little valley, which was perfectly deserted but for a raven or two, Mr. Tyrrell let himself slide some feet further down the slope, perhaps hoping thus to render himself invisible to any passer-by, while Miss Meredith would appear to be enjoying a solitary prospect of the ocean. Then he began his story, while the stream dripped to the rocks below, and now and again the shadow of a wheeling gull swept over the sunlit turf of Ogof-y-Ffôs.
II
ODYSSEY OF MR. MARTIN TYRRELL
“ ‘Sir, I am bold to ask thee first of this. Who art thou of the sons of men, and whence? Who gave thee this raiment? Didst thou not say indeed that thou camest wandering over the deep?’
“Then Odysseus of many counsels answered her, and said: ‘ ’Tis hard, O queen, to tell my griefs, for that the gods of heaven have given me griefs in plenty.’ ”
Odyssey VII.