“Uncle, I like him too much,” answered the girl, steadily. “If it had been in the old time, now, he should have had it quickly enough. But until this miserable business, that’s been the ruin of everything to us all, is cleared up, I’ll not let any man I care about involve himself in my disgrace.”
“Disgrace, Nell!” echoed George Claris in a low voice. “Don’t say that, child, don’t say that.”
In his tone the girl detected all the emotions which the story and the rumors about it had set stirring in her uncle’s simple mind. She felt keenly the affection, the doubt, the anger, which had tortured him during the long weeks of the winter. She gave a little sigh, and tucking her hand under his arm, whispered:
“We won’t say disgrace, then, but misfortune.”
“Aye, that’s better, dear,” agreed the poor fellow mournfully.
At that moment they emerged from the shelter afforded by the trees of Stroan Court, the mansion which stood just outside of the walls of the old town. They were within sight of the spot where the body of Jem Stickels had been discovered; but any emotions they might have felt at the recollection were overpowered by a sense of actual physical danger. For the wind, which had been boisterous all the morning, was now so strong that they were afraid that the dog-cart would be blown over; while at the same time a blinding snow-fall made it almost impossible for them to discern the road a yard in front of the horse’s head.
“It blows straight on the shore,” said George Claris. “It’ll be a lucky thing if none of the ships in the channel get drove out of their course to-night.”
Nell shuddered. Living as she did by the sea-shore, she was accustomed to storms and the horrors attendant upon them to the ships at sea. Every gale brought disaster; and although, the inn being on the shore of a bay, most of the accidents of which Nell heard happened some few miles away, yet she and her uncle were always among the first to hear of them, from the lips of the frequenters of the inn.
Both Nell and her uncle thought it prudent to finish their short journey on foot, leading the horse, and finding their way with some difficulty through the snow storm.
It was about eight o’clock that night when they learned that a schooner had gone ashore in the bay itself, within a mile of the inn. She had lost her steering-gear in the storm, and the force of the wind had driven her upon the sands at the edge of the marsh. It was high tide when the disaster happened, but it was thought that the ship was in no danger of breaking up, and that her crew would all be got off in safety as the tide went down. The life-boat from Courtstairs was already on its way to the wrecked vessel when the news came to the inn.