He cast at the harbor and the sky the anxious look habitual with the people of Windover; the stranger had already acquired it. He had not been a month in the fishing-town before he noticed that the women all spoke of their natural foe as “the terrible sea.”
The hall which the new people had leased for their services and entertainments had long borne the grim name of Seraph’s Rest; having been, in fact, for years, a sailors’ dance-hall of the darkest dye.
“Give us,” Bayard had said, “the worst spot in the worst street of this town. We will make it the best, or we will own ourselves defeated in our work.”
In such streets, and in such places, news has wings. There is no spot in Windover where rumor is run down so soon as in Angel Alley.
Bayard had talked perhaps half an hour, when he perceived by the restlessness in his crowded and attentive audience that something had happened. He read on for a moment:—
“‘Are you dying for him?’ she whispered. ‘And his wife and child. Hush! Yes.’”
Then, with the perfect ease which he always sought to cultivate in that place between speaker and hearer, “What is the matter?” he asked in a conversational tone.
“Sir,” said an old captain, rising, “there’s a vessel gone ashore off Ragged Rock.”
Bayard swept his book and manuscript off the desk.