“Don’t know, William, dear; she ain’t been here for hours and hours. Maybe she’s on the shore.”
“Maybe she is. I’ll go and have a look,” returned William.
It must not be supposed for a moment that William Jones had become afflicted with a sudden and tender interest in Matt—he merely wanted to get quit of the cabin, that was all, and he saw in this a reasonable excuse for walking out alone. He accordingly made his escape, and went wandering off along the shore.
It was ten o’clock when he returned; he was still pale, and drenched to the skin. The old man was dozing beside the fire, and alone.
“Where’s Matt?” asked William again.
“Ain’t you seen her, William, dear? Well, she ain’t here.”
William Jones did look a little uneasy this time, and it is but due to him to confess that his uneasiness was caused by Matt’s prolonged absence. Erratic as she was in her movements, she had not been accustomed to staying out so late, especially on a night when the rain was pouring, and not a glimmer of star or moon was to be seen.
“Wonder what she’s doin’ of?” said William; “suppose I’d best wait up for her.. Here, old man, you go to bed, d’ye: hear—you ain’t wanted anyhow.”
The old man accordingly went to bed, and William sat up to await Matt’s return. He sat beside the hearth, looked into the smouldering fire, and listened to the rain as it poured down steadily upon the roof. Occasionally he got up, and went to the door; he could see nothing, but he heard the patter of the falling rain, and the low dreary moan of the troubled sea.
Hour after hour passed, and Matt did not come. William Jones began to doze by the fire—then he sank into a heavy sleep.