“Part of this,” said the girl, “I have drawn out from other people at the house I tell you of, for I have only seen him twice, and both times he was covered up in a large cloak. I think that’s all I can give you to know him by. Stay though,” she added. “Upon his throat: so high that you can see a part of it below his neckerchief when he turns his face: there is—’
“A broad red mark, like a burn or scald?” cried the gentleman.
“How’s this?” said the girl. “You know him!”
The young lady uttered a cry of surprise, and for a few moments they were so still that the listener could distinctly hear them breathe.
“I think I do,” said the gentleman, breaking silence. “I should by your description. We shall see. Many people are singularly like each other. It may not be the same.”
As he expressed himself to this effect, with assumed carelessness, he took a step or two nearer the concealed spy, as the latter could tell from the distinctness with which he heard him mutter, “It must be he!”
“Now,” he said, returning: so it seemed by the sound: to the spot where he had stood before, “you have given us most valuable assistance, young woman, and I wish you to be the better for it. What can I do to serve you?”
“Nothing,” replied Nancy.
“You will not persist in saying that,” rejoined the gentleman, with a voice and emphasis of kindness that might have touched a much harder and more obdurate heart. “Think now. Tell me.”
“Nothing, sir,” rejoined the girl, weeping. “You can do nothing to help me. I am past all hope, indeed.”
“You put yourself beyond its pale,” said the gentleman. “The past has been a dreary waste with you, of youthful energies mis-spent, and such priceless treasures lavished, as the Creator bestows but once and never grants again, but, for the future, you may hope. I do not say that it is in our power to offer you peace of heart and mind, for that must come as you seek it; but a quiet asylum, either in England, or, if you fear to remain here, in some foreign country, it is not only within the compass of our ability but our most anxious wish to secure you. Before the dawn of morning, before this river wakes to the first glimpse of daylight, you shall be placed as entirely beyond the reach of your former associates, and leave as utter an absence of all trace behind you, as if you were to disappear from the earth this moment. Come! I would not have you go back to exchange one word with any old companion, or take one look at any old haunt, or breathe the very air which is pestilence and death to you. Quit them all, while there is time and opportunity!”
“She will be persuaded now,” cried the young lady. “She hesitates, I am sure.”
“I fear not, my dear,” said the gentleman.
“No, sir, I do not,” replied the girl, after a short struggle. “I am chained to my old life. I loathe and hate it now, but I cannot leave it. I must have gone too far to turn back,—and yet I don’t know, for if you had spoken to me so, some time ago, I should have laughed it off. But,” she said, looking hastily round, “this fear comes over me again. I must go home.”
“Home!” repeated the young lady, with great stress upon the word.
“Home, lady,” rejoined the girl. “To such a home as I have raised for myself with the work of my whole life. Let us part. I shall be watched or seen. Go! Go! If I have done you any service, all I ask is, that you leave me, and let me go my way alone.”
“It is useless,” said the gentleman, with a sigh. “We compromise her safety, perhaps, by staying here. We may have detained her longer than she expected already.”
“Yes, yes,” urged the girl. “You have.”
“What,” cried the young lady, “can be the end of this poor creature’s life!”