Through the snow, which the wind blew straight into their faces, Nell and half a dozen of her neighbors made their way across the marsh, the men carrying ropes and lanterns and the women restoratives for the half-frozen crew. It was a long and weary mile. The ground was hard with frost, the snow-drifts were already getting deep; the flares set burning from time to time by the crew of the wrecked ship flickered uncannily in the darkness whenever the snow ceased for a short time.
But the journey was not a fruitless one. The men of the party, seafarers themselves for the most part, and all used to the sea, succeeded, up to their waists in water, in launching a boat and bringing the crew safely to land.
The men were so benumbed by the cold that they had to be helped along as they limped and stumbled over the snow to the inn. There, however, they were soon restored through the kindly offices of a host of willing hands.
Every creature in the neighborhood had heard by this time of the unusual event of a ship wrecked in their own bay, and it was through quite a large crowd that the sailors made their way into the little Blue Lion.
Even Mrs. Lansdowne, the wife of the most prominent country gentleman of the neighborhood, had heard of the new excitement, and had driven over, having picked up the colonel and Miss Bostal on her way. On hearing that there was little hope of saving the schooner, and that in any case the sailors would lose their kit, Mrs. Lansdowne put into George Claris’s hands, for the benefit of the men, a sum of money which at once became the starting point of a collection, to which most of the crowd contributed something. Even the colonel, whose poverty was proverbial, gave a shilling, although his daughter watched his hand with anxious eyes as he volunteered the coin. Altogether between five and six pounds was collected; and George Claris tied the money up in a canvas bag, and locked it up in the till behind the bar. There were whispers in the crowd that George Claris’s house was not the safest place in the world to keep money in, but even the whisperers had no doubt of the honesty of Claris himself, while many were even glad of the opportunity of showing their confidence in a man who had undoubtedly been for some time under a cloud.
It was Nell, however, who watched this proceeding with the deepest anxiety. Her agitation was so evident, as she stood just within the doorway which led from the bar to the back of the inn, staring at her uncle, that one or two of the crowd looked at each other significantly. Suddenly the girl took a few rapid steps forward and touched the innkeeper’s arm.
“Uncle,” said she, in a low voice, “Uncle George, wouldn’t it be better to send the money into Stroan by—” She glanced at the men who were crowding in, and noticed one of the tradesmen of the town, “by Mr. Paramor?”
Her uncle frowned and Mr. Paramor shook his head, with the kindly intention of showing George Claris that his friends were on his side.
“No, no, Miss Claris, leave it where it is, where it’ll be ready to hand,” said he.
As Nell drew back, without a word, but with a curious look of constraint and trouble on her face, a little figure appeared at the door, and in her prim tones Miss Bostal, whom no emergency could induce to step over the threshold of an inn, called to her: