Yes; she would send him the old signal by one of the fishermen’s children.
No; only if all other means failed. He was better now, and would be about. She would watch for him, and, as she called it, meet him by accident, and then plead her cause.
And so a week glided away, and there was only about one more before the judge would arrive, and Abel and his companion be brought up in the assize court. Mary had haunted every road and lane leading toward the big house, and had met the captain riding and walking, but always with Mistress Armstrong, and she could not speak before her.
There was nothing for it but to take the bold step, and after long hesitation that step was taken; the piece of sea-weed was wrapped up in paper, entrusted to a little messenger, and that evening Mary Dell left the cottage and walked round the western point towards Torcross, her cheeks flushed, her eyes unusually bright, and her heart full of care.
She was not long in reaching the well-known spot—their old trysting-place, where the coarse sand was white, and the rocks which shut in the retired tiny cove rough with limpet, barnacle, and weed.
This was the first time she had been there since James Armstrong had wearied of the prude, as he called her, and jilted her for his wealthy wife; and now the question arose; Would he come?
The evening was glorious; but one thought filled Mary’s breast—Abel shut up behind the prison bars, still obdurate, and believing her false to him, and his faithful friend.
The grey look on the face of the sea was reflected upon that of the watcher; and as the sky grew dark, so grew Mary Dell’s eyes, only that there was a lurid light now and then glowing in their depths.
“He will not come,” she said. “He hates me now as I hate him, and—”
She stopped short, for her well-trained ear caught the sound of a pebble falling as if from a height upon the strand below, and gazing fixedly above the direction of the sound, she made out something dark moving high up on the cliff track.