“No, no; she never thought that; she knew me better than to believe it.”
“Well, indeed, Sir, it was what I thought myself, and I said in my own mind, ‘It’s more ashamed she is than afeard.’”
“Ashamed of what?” cried Sir Within, passionately. “What has shame to do with it?”
The subtle peasant saw through what a channel the misconception came, and, still bent on tracing out the mysterious tie between them, said:
“After all, Sir, for a young lady, and a handsome one too, to ask a great favour of a gentleman not belonging to her, kith or kin, is a thing that bad tongues would make the worst of if they got hold of it.”
Sir Within’s sallow cheek flushed up, and in a broken voice he said:
“Bad tongues are only tyrants to those who cannot brave them. Miss Kate Luttrell is not of their number. You shall soon see if these same bad tongues have any terrors for me.”
“I’m a poor man, but I wasn’t so always,” said O’Rorke, “and I know well that it was slander and lying crushed me.”
The diversion was intended to have awakened some curiosity as to his former condition, but Sir Within was perfectly indifferent on the subject. All the interest the messenger had in his eyes came from the fact that he came from her, that he had seen her, and was near her when she wrote.
“This island—I only know it by the map,” said Sir Within, trying to talk in an easy, unconcerned strain—“it is very poor, I believe?”