In the hall a servant approached Marion.
'There is a man in the kitchen, mistress, a sailor man from Garth, wishful to see you. He is but anchored at the Swan in Chelsey this afternoon, and has walked across. 'Tis urgent business.'
Marion's eyes widened, as of old, as she looked at the servant. A sudden fear tore at her heart. 'Bring him into the sitting-room at once,' she said.
CHAPTER XII
CHARITY'S LETTER
Heavy footsteps sounded in the hall. There was a shuffling pause, and Bob Tregarthen stood in the doorway in his rough seaman's clothes, his cap in his awkward fingers. The blue eyes looked at Marion from under the tangled mane of fair hair in the way she remembered so well, as if she had been a spot on a distant sea. It seemed that as the sailor stood there, the village and harbour lay behind him, and the smell of salt crept into the room.
'This is a great pleasure, Bob,' said Marion, as he stumbled awkwardly forward. 'How is your mother?'
'Her's well and hearty,' said the sailor, his eyes in shyness wandering about the room. 'Leastways when I left her. You'm looking uncommon well, Mistress Marion.' The far-sighted look came back to rest on the lady.
'Sit down and tell me your news. Have you come from my father?'
There was no tremor in the clear voice as Marion calmly seated herself in the high-backed oaken chair that stood before the window. Instinctively she was keeping her face from the light.