“MY DEAR COUSIN FANNY,—It was a year last April Fool’s Day, I left you on the sands there at Mablethorpe, no more than a stone’s throw from the Book-in-Hand Inn, swearing that you should never see me or hear from me again. You remember how we saw the coast-guards flash their lights here and there, as they searched the sands for me? how one came bundling down the bank, calling, ‘Who goes there?’ You remember that when I said, ‘A friend,’ he stumbled, and his light fell to the sands and went out, and in the darkness you and I stole away: you to your home, with a whispering, ‘God-bless-you, Cousin Dick,’ over your shoulder, and I with a bit of a laugh that, maybe, cut to the heart, and that split in a sob in my own throat—though you didn’t hear that.

“‘Twas a bad night’s work that, Cousin Fanny, and maybe I wish it undone, and maybe I don’t; but a devil gets into the heart of a man when he has to fly from the lass he loves, while the friends of his youth go hunting him with muskets, and he has to steal out of the backdoor of his own country and shelter himself, like a cold sparrow, up in the eaves of the world.

“Ay, lass, that’s how I left the fens of Lincolnshire a year last April Fool’s Day. There wasn’t a dyke from, Lincoln town to Mablethorpe that I hadn’t crossed with a running jump; and there wasn’t a break in the shore, or a sink-hole in the sand, or a clump of rushes, or a samphire bed, from Skegness to Theddlethorpe, that I didn’t know like every line of your face. And when I was a slip of a lad-ay, and later too—how you and I used to snuggle into little nooks of the sand-hills, maybe just beneath the coast-guard’s hut, and watch the tide come swilling in-water-daisies you used to call the breaking surf, Cousin Fanny. And that was like you, always with a fancy about everything you saw. And when the ships, the fishing-smacks with their red sails, and the tall-masted brigs went by, taking the white foam on their canvas, you used to wish that you might sail away to the lands you’d heard tell of from old skippers that gathered round my uncle’s fire in the Book-in-Hand. Ay, a grand thing I thought it would be, too, to go riding round the world on a well-washed deck, with plenty of food and grog, and maybe, by-and-by, to be first mate, and lord it from fo’castle bunk to stern-rail.

“You did not know, did you, who was the coast-guardsman that stumbled as he came on us that night? It looked a stupid thing to do that, and let the lantern fall. But, lass, ‘twas done o’ purpose. That was the one man in all the parish that would ha’ risked his neck to let me free. ‘Twas Lancy Doane, who’s give me as many beatings in his time as I him. We were always getting foul one o’ t’other since I was big enough to shy a bit of turf at him across a dyke, and there isn’t a spot on’s body that I haven’t hit, nor one on mine that he hasn’t mauled. I’ve sat on his head, and he’s had his knee in my stomach till I squealed, and we never could meet without back-talking and rasping ‘gainst the grain. The night before he joined the coast-guardsmen, he was down at the Book-in-Hand, and ‘twas little like that I’d let the good chance pass—I might never have another; for Gover’ment folk will not easy work a quarrel on their own account. I mind him sittin’ there on the settle, his shins against the fire, a long pipe going, and Casey of the Lazy Beetle, and Jobbin the mate of the Dodger, and Little Faddo, who had the fat Dutch wife down by the Ship Inn, and Whiggle the preaching blacksmith. And you were standin’ with your back to the shinin’ pewters, and the great jug of ale with the white napkin behind you; the light o’ the fire wavin’ on your face, and your look lost in the deep hollow o’ the chimney. I think of you most as you were that minute, Cousin Fanny, when I come in. I tell you straight and fair, that was the prettiest picture I ever saw; and I’ve seen some rare fine things in my travels. ‘Twas as if the thing had been set by some one, just to show you off to your best. Here you were, a slip of a lass, straight as a bulrush, and your head hangin’ proud on your shoulders; yet modest too, as you can see off here in the North the top of the golden-rod flower swing on its stem. You were slim as slim, and yet there wasn’t a corner on you; so soft and full and firm you were, like the breast of a quail; and I mind me how the shine of your cheeks was like the glimmer of an apple after you’ve rubbed it with a bit of cloth. Well, there you stood in some sort of smooth, plain, clingin’ gown, a little bit loose and tumblin’ at the throat, and your pretty foot with a brown slipper pushed out, just savin’ you from bein’ prim. That’s why the men liked you—you didn’t carry a sermon in your waist-ribbon, and the Lord’s Day in the lift o’ your chin; but you had a smile to give when ‘twas the right time for it, and men never said things with you there that they’d have said before many another maid.

“‘Twas a thing I’ve thought on off here, where I’ve little to do but think, how a lass like you could put a finger on the lip of such rough tykes as Faddo, Jobbin, and the rest, keepin’ their rude words under flap and button. Do you mind how, when I passed you comin’ in, I laid my hand on yours as it rested on the dresser? That hand of yours wasn’t a tiny bit of a thing, and the fingers weren’t all taperin’ like a simperin’ miss from town, worked down in the mill of quality and got from graftin’ and graftin’, like one of them roses from the flower-house at Mablethorpe Hall—not fit to stand by one o’ them that grew strong and sweet with no fancy colour, in the garden o’ the Book-in-Hand. Yours was a hand that talked as much as your lips or face, as honest and white; and the palm all pink, and strong as strong could be, and warmin’ every thread in a man’s body when he touched it. Well, I touched your hand then, and you looked at me and nodded, and went musin’ into the fire again, not seemin’ to hear our gabble.

“But, you remember—don’t you?—how Jobbin took to chaffin’ of Lancy Doane, and how Faddo’s tongue got sharper as the time got on, and many a nasty word was said of coast-guards and excisemen, and all that had to do with law and gover’ment. Cuts there were at some of Lancy’s wild doings in the past, and now and then they’d turn to me, saying what they thought would set me girdin’ Lancy too. But I had my own quarrel, and I wasn’t to be baited by such numskulls. And Lancy—that was a thing I couldn’t understand—he did no more than shrug his shoulder and call for more ale, and wish them all good health and a hundred a year. I never thought he could ha’ been so patient-like. But there was a kind of little smile, too, on his face, showin’ he did some thinkin’; and I guessed he was bidin’ his time.

“I wasn’t as sharp as I might ha’ been, or I’d ha’ seen what he was waitin’ for, with that quiet provokin’ smile on his face, and his eyes smoulderin’ like. I don’t know to this day whether you wanted to leave the room when you did, though ‘twas about half after ten o’clock, later than I ever saw you there before. But when my uncle come in from Louth, and give you a touch on the shoulder, and said: ‘To bed wi’ you, my lass,’ you waited for a minute longer, glancin’ round on all of us, at last lookin’ steady at Lancy; and he got up from his chair, and took off his hat to you with a way he had. You didn’t stay a second after that, but went away straight, sayin’ good-night to all of us, but Lancy was the only one on his feet.

“Just as soon as the door was shut behind you, Lancy turned round to the fire, and pushed the log with his feet in a way a man does when he’s think-in’ a bit. And Faddo give a nasty laugh, and said:

“’ Theer’s a dainty sitovation. Theer’s Mr. Thomas Doane, outlaw and smuggler, and theer’s Mr. Lancy Doane his brother, coast-guardsman. Now, if them two should ‘appen to meet on Lincolnshire coast, Lord, theer’s a sitovation for ye—Lord, theer’s a cud to chew! ‘Ere’s one gentleman wants to try ‘is ‘and at ‘elpin’ Prince Charlie, and when ‘is Up doesn’t amount to anythink, what does the King on ‘is throne say? He says, “As for Thomas Doane, Esquire, aw’ve doone wi’ ‘im.” And theer’s another gentleman, Mr. Lancy Doane, Esquire. He turns pious, and says, “Aw’m goin’ for a coast-guardsman.” What does the King on his throne say? ‘E says, “Theer’s the man for me.”’”

But aw says, “Aw’ve doone, aw’ve doone wi’ Mr. Lancy Doane, Esquire, and be damned to ‘im!” He! he! Theer’s a fancy sitovation for ye. Mr. Thomas Doane, Esquire, smuggler and outlaw, an’ Mr. Lancy Doane, Esquire, coast-guardsman. Aw’ve doone. Ho! ho! That gits into my crop.’

“I tell you these things, Cousin Fanny, because I’m doubtin’ if you ever heard them, or knew exactly how things stood that night. I never was a friend of Lancy Doane, you understand, but it’s only fair that the truth be told about that quarrel, for like as not he wouldn’t speak himself, and your father was moving in and out; and, I take my oath, I wouldn’t believe Faddo and the others if they was to swear on the Bible. Not that they didn’t know the truth when they saw it, but they did love just to let their fancy run. I’m livin’ over all the things that happened that night—livin’ them over to-day, when everything’s so quiet about me here, so lonesome. I wanted to go over it all, bit by bit, and work it out in my head, just as you and I used to do the puzzle games we played in the sands. And maybe, when you’re a long way off from things you once lived, you can see them and understand them better. Out here, where it’s so lonely, and yet so good a place to live in, I seem to get the hang o’ the world better, and why some things are, and other things aren’t; and I thought it would pull at my heart to sit down and write you a long letter, goin’ over the whole business again; but it doesn’t. I suppose I feel as a judge does when he goes over a lot of evidence, and sums it all up for the jury. I don’t seem prejudiced one way or another. But I’m not sure that I’ve got all the evidence to make me ken everything; and that’s what made me bitter wild the last time that I saw you. Maybe you hadn’t anything to tell me, and maybe you had, and maybe, if you ever write to me out here, you’ll tell me if there’s anything I don’t know about them days.

“Well, I’ll go back now to what happened when Faddo was speakin’ at my uncle’s bar. Lancy Doane was standin’ behind the settle, leanin’ his arms on it, and smokin’ his pipe quiet. He waited patient till Faddo had done, then he comes round the settle, puts his pipe up in the rack between the rafters, and steps in front of Faddo. If ever the devil was in a man’s face, it looked out of Lancy Doane’s that minute. Faddo had touched him on the raw when he fetched out that about Tom Doane. All of a sudden Lancy swings, and looks at the clock.

“‘It’s half-past ten, Jim Faddo,’ said he, ‘and aw’ve got an hour an’ a half to deal wi’ you as a Lincolnshire lad. At twelve o’clock aw’m the Gover’ment’s, but till then aw’m Lancy Doane, free to strike or free to let alone; to swallow dirt or throw it; to take a lie or give it. And now list to me; aw’m not goin’ to eat dirt, and aw’m goin’ to give you the lie, and aw’m goin’ to break your neck, if I swing for it to-morrow, Jim Faddo. And here’s another thing aw’ll tell you. When the clock strikes twelve, on the best horse in the country aw’ll ride to Theddlethorpe, straight for the well that’s dug you know where, to find your smuggled stuff, and to run the irons round your wrists. Aw’m dealin’ fair wi’ you that never dealt fair by no man. You never had an open hand nor soft heart; and because you’ve made money, not out o’ smugglin’ alone, but out o’ poor devils of smugglers that didn’t know rightly to be rogues, you think to fling your dirt where you choose. But aw’ll have ye to-night as a man, and aw’ll have ye to-night as a King’s officer, or aw’ll go damned to hell.’

“Then he steps back a bit very shiny in the face, and his eyes like torchlights, but cool and steady. ‘Come on now,’ he says, ‘Jim Faddo, away from the Book-in-Hand, and down to the beach under the sand-hills, and we’ll see man for man—though, come to think of it, y ‘are no man,’ he said—‘if ye’ll have the right to say when aw’m a King’s officer that you could fling foul words in the face of Lancy Doane. And a word more,’ he says; ‘aw wouldn’t trust ye if an Angel o’ Heaven swore for ye. Take the knife from the belt behind your back there, and throw it on the table, for you wouldn’t bide by no fair rules o’ fightin’. Throw the knife on the table,’ he says, comin’ a step forward.

“Faddo got on to his feet. He was bigger built than Lancy, and a bit taller, and we all knew he was devilish strong in his arms. There was a look in his face I couldn’t understand. One minute I thought it was fear, and another I thought it was daze; and maybe it was both. But all on a sudden something horrible cunnin’ come into it, and ugly too.

“‘Go to the well, then, since ye’ve found out all about it,’ he says, ‘but aw’ve an hour and a half start o’ ye, Lancy Doane.’

“‘Ye’ve less than that,’ says Lancy back to him, ‘if ye go with me to the sands first.’

“At that my uncle stepped in to say a word for peacemakin’, but Lancy would have none of it. ‘Take the knife and throw it on the table,’ he said to Faddo once more, and Faddo took it out and threw it down.

“‘Come on, then,’ Faddo says, with a sneerin’ laugh; ‘we’ll see by daybreak who has the best o’ this night’s work,’ and he steps towards the door.

“‘Wait a minute,’ says Lancy, gettin’ in front of him. ‘Now take the knife from your boot. Take it,’ he says again, ‘or aw will. That’s like a man, to go to a fist fight wi’ knives. Take it,’ he said. ‘Aw’ll gi’ ye till aw count four, and if ye doan’t take it, aw’ll take it meself. One!’ he says steady and soft. ‘Two!’ Faddo never moved. ‘Three!’ The silence made me sick, and the clock ticked like hammers. ‘Four!’ he said, and then he sprang for the boot, but Faddo’s hand went down like lightnin’ too. I couldn’t tell exactly how they clinched but once or twice I saw the light flash on the steel. Then they came down together, Faddo under, and when I looked again Faddo was lying eyes starin’ wide, and mouth all white with fear, for Lancy was holding the knife-point at his throat. ‘Stir an inch,’ says Lancy, ‘and aw’ll pin ye to the lid o’ hell.’

“Three minutes by the clock he knelt there on Faddo’s chest, the knife-point touching the bone in’s throat. Not one of us stirred, but just stood lookin’, and my own heart beat so hard it hurt me, and my uncle steadyin’ himself against the dresser. At last Lancy threw the knife away into the fire.

“‘Coward!’ he said. ‘A man would ha’ taken the knife. Did you think aw was goin’ to gie my neck to the noose just to put your knife to proper use? But don’t stir till aw gie you the word, or aw’ll choke the breath o’ life out o’ ye.’

“At that Faddo sprung to clinch Lancy’s arms, but Lancy’s fingers caught him in the throat, and I thought surely Faddo was gone, for his tongue stood out a finger-length, and he was black in the face.

“‘For God’s sake, Lancy,’ said my uncle, steppin’ forward, ‘let him go.’

“At that Lancy said: ‘He’s right enough. It’s not the first time aw’ve choked a coward. Throw cold water on him and gi’ ‘im brandy.’

“Sure enough, he wasn’t dead. Lancy stood there watchin’ us while we fetched Faddo back, and I tell you, that was a narrow squeak for him. When he got his senses again, and was sittin’ there lookin’ as if he’d been hung and brought back to life, Lancy says to him: ‘There, Jim Faddo, aw’ve done wi’ you as a man, and at twelve o’clock aw’ll begin wi’ you as King’s officer.’ And at that, with a good-night to my uncle and all of us, he turns on his heels and leaves the Book-in-Hand.

“I tell you, Cousin Fanny, though I’d been ripe for quarrel wi’ Lancy Doane myself that night, I could ha’ took his hand like a brother, for I never saw a man deal fairer wi’ a scoundrel than he did wi’ Jim Faddo. You see, it wasn’t what Faddo said about himself that made Lancy wild, but that about his brother Tom; and a man doesn’t like his brother spoken ill of by dirt like Faddo, be it true or false. And of Lancy’s brother I’m goin’ to write further on in this letter, for I doubt that you know all I know about him, and the rest of what happened that night and afterwards.”

“DEAR COUSIN FANNY, I canna write all I set out to, for word come to me, just as I wrote the last sentence above, that the ship was to leave port three days sooner than was fixed for when I began. I have been rare and busy since then, and I have no time to write more. And so ‘twill be another year before you get a word from me; but I hope that when this letter comes you’ll write one back to me by the ship that sails next summer from London. The summer’s short and the winter’s long here, Cousin Fanny, and there’s more snow than grass; and there’s more flowers in a week in Mablethorpe than in a whole year here. But, lass, the sun shines always, and my heart keeps warm in thinkin’ of you, and I ask you to forgive me for any harsh word I ever spoke, not forgettin’ that last night when I left you on the sands, and stole away like a thief across the sea. I’m going to tell you the whole truth in my next letter, but I’d like you to forgive me before you know it all, for ‘tis a right lonely and distant land, this, and who can tell what may come to pass in twice a twelve month! Maybe a prayer on lips like mine doesn’t seem in place, for I’ve not lived as parson says man ought to live, but I think the Lord will have no worse thought o’ me when I say, God bless thee, lass, and keep thee safe as any flower in His garden that He watereth with His own hand. Write to me, lass: I love thee still, I do love thee.