The huge, lumbering, good-hearted fisherman was in a sad plight: he knew not in the least what to do; he stood there irresolute, the deepest concern and sympathy in his eyes, himself unable or not daring to utter a word. But help was at hand. For here was Martha, hurrying along as fast as her aged limbs would allow, and bringing with her a great fur rug.
"Dear, dear me!" she exclaimed, as she came up. "What could mek Miss Stanley venture out o' the house on a day like this?"
And therewith she put the rug round the girl's shoulders, and got her to her feet, and, with many encouragements and consolatory phrases, assisted her on her way up from the shore.
"I will get a nice warm bed ready for you at once, mem," said the old dame, "with plenty of blankets; and I will bring you something hot and comfortable for you, for you hef got ferry, ferry wet. Dear, dear me!—but we'll soon hef you made all right; for Mr. Ross would be an angry man, ay, indeed, if he was hearing that Miss Stanley had come to Heimra, and not everything done for her that could be done."
But when, after struggling through the blinding rain, they reached the porch, and when Martha had opened the front-door, Miss Stanley did not go further than the hall: she sank exhausted into the solitary chair there.
"Martha," she said, "do not trouble about me. I want to ask you a question. Did Mr. Ross say where he was going when he left in the Sirène this morning?"
"No, mem—not a word," Martha answered her, "about where he was going, or when he was coming back. It was a strange way of leaving—and in the face of such weather; but young people they hef odd fancies come in their head. Think of this, mem, that he never was near the house last night; he was aweh up the hill; and I'm feared that he was saying good-bye to his mother's grave, and that it will be long ere we see him back in Heimra again. For he is a strange young man—and not like others. But you'll come aweh now, mem, and get off your wet things: it is Mr. Ross himself would be terrible angry if you were not well cared for in this house."
The day without was sombre and dark; and the light entering here was wan: perhaps that was the cause of the singular alteration in Mary Stanley's appearance. She—who had hitherto been always and ever the very embodiment of buoyant youth, and health, and high spirits—now looked old. And her eyes were as if night had fallen upon them.
CHAPTER VIII.
A MISSION.