It chanced in the spring of that year that my sister and the doctor and I came unfortuitously into a situation of grave peril: wherein (as you shall know) the doctor was precipitate in declaring a sentiment, which, it may be, he should still have kept close within his heart, withholding it until a happier day. But for this there is some excuse: for not one of us hoped ever again to behold the rocks and placid water of our harbour, to continue the day’s work to the timely close of the day, to sit in quiet places, to dream a fruitful future, to aspire untroubled in security and ease: and surely a man, whatever his disposition and strength of mind, being all at once thus confronted, may without blame do that which, as a reward for noble endeavour, he had hoped in all honour to do in some far-off time.

Being bound across the bay from Heart’s Delight of an ominously dull afternoon—this on a straight-away course over the ice which still clung to the coast rocks—we were caught in a change of wind and swept to sea with the floe: a rising wind, blowing with unseasonable snow from the northwest, which was presently black as night. Far off shore, the pack was broken in pieces by the sea, scattered broadcast by the gale; so that by the time of deep night—while the snow still whipped past in clouds that stung and stifled us—our pan rode breaking water: which hissed and flashed on every hand, the while ravenously eating at our narrow raft of ice. Death waited at our feet.... We stood with our backs to the wind, my sister and I cowering, numb and silent, in the lee of the doctor.... Through the long night ’twas he that sheltered us.... By and by he drew my sister close. She sank against his breast, and trembled, and snuggled closer, and lay very still in his arms.... I heard his voice: but was careless of the words, which the wind swept overhead—far into the writhing night beyond.

“No, zur,” my sister answered. “I’m not afraid—with you.”

A long time after that, when the first light of dawn was abroad—sullen and cheerless—he spoke again.

“Zur?” my sister asked, trembling.

He whispered in her ear.

“Ay, zur,” she answered.

Then he kissed her lips....

Late in the day the snow-clouds passed. Ice and black water mercilessly encompassed us to the round horizon of gray sky. There was no hope anywhere to be descried.... In the dead of night a change of wind herded the scattered fragments of the pack. The ice closed in upon us—great pans, crashing together: threatening to crush our frailer one.... We were driven in a new direction.... Far off to leeward—somewhere deep in the black night ahead—the floe struck the coast. We heard the evil commotion of raftering ice. It swept towards us. Our pan stopped dead with a jolt. The pack behind came rushing upon us. We were tilted out of the water—lifted clear of it all—dropped headlong with the wreck of the pan....

I crawled out of a shallow pool of water. “Bessie!” I screamed. “Oh, Bessie, where is you?”

The noise of the pack passed into distance—dwindling to deepest silence.

“Davy,” my sister called, “is you hurt?”

“Where is you, Bessie?”

“Here, dear,” she answered, softly. “The doctor has me safe.”

Guided by her sweet voice, I crept to them; and then we sat close together, silent all in the silent night, waiting for the dawn....

We traversed a mile or more of rugged, blinding ice—the sky blue in every part, the sun shining warm, the wind blowing light and balmy from the south. What with the heat, the glare, the uneven, treacherous path—with many a pitfall to engulf us—’twas a toilsome way we travelled. The coast lay white and forsaken beyond—desolate, inhospitable, unfamiliar: an unkindly refuge for such castaways as we. But we came gratefully to the rocks, at last, and fell exhausted in the snow, there to die, as we thought, of hunger and sheer weariness. And presently the doctor rose, and, bidding us lie where we were, set out to discover our whereabouts, that he might by chance yet succour us: which seemed to me a hopeless venture, for the man was then near snow-blind, as I knew....

Meantime, at our harbour, where the world went very well, the eye of Skipper Tommy Lovejoy chanced in aimless roving to alight upon the letter from Wolf Cove, still securely fastened to the wall, ever visible warning to that happy household against the wiles o’ women. I fancy that (the twins being gone to Trader’s Cove to enquire for us) the mild blue eye wickedly twinkled—that it found the tender missive for the moment irresistible in fascination—that the old man approached, stepping in awe, and gazed with gnawing curiosity at the pale, sprawling superscription, his very name—that he touched the envelope with his thick forefinger, just to make sure that ’twas tight in its place, beyond all peradventure of catastrophe—that, merely to provide against its defilement by dust, he removed and fondled it—that then he wondered concerning its contents, until, despite his crying qualms of conscience (the twins being gone to Trader’s Cove and Davy Roth off to Heart’s Delight to help the doctor heal the young son of Agatha Rundle), this fateful dreaming altogether got the better of him. At any rate, off he hied through the wind and snow to Tom Tot’s cottage: where, as fortune had it, Tom Tot was mending a caplin seine.

“Tom Tot,” said he, quite shamelessly, “I’m fair achin’ t’ know what’s in this letter.”

The harbour was cognizant of Skipper Tommy’s state and standing temptation: much concerned, as well, as to the outcome.

“Skipper Tommy,” Tom Tot asked, and that most properly, “is you got leave o’ the boss’s son?”

“Davy?”

“Ay, Davy.”

“I is not,” the skipper admitted, with becoming candour.

“Is you spoke t’ the twins?”

“I is not.”

“Then,” Tom Tot concluded, “shame on you!”

Skipper Tommy tweaked his nose. “Tom Tot,” said he, “you got a wonderful power for readin’. Don’t you go tellin’ me you hasn’t! I knows you has.”

“Well,” Tom Tot admitted, “as you’re makin’ a p’int of it, I’m fair on print, but poor on writin’.”

“Tom Tot,” Skipper Tommy went on, with a wave (I fancy) of uttermost admiration, “I’ll stand by it that you is as good at writin’ as print. That I will,” he added, recklessly, “agin the world.”

Tom Tot yielded somewhat to this blandishment. He took the proffered letter. “I isn’t denyin’, Skipper Tommy,” he said, “that I’m able t’ make out your name on this here letter.”

“Ecod!” cried Skipper Tommy, throwing up his hands. “I knowed it!”

“I isn’t denyin’,” Tom Tot repeated, gravely, “that I’m fair on writin’. Fair, mark you! No more.”

“Ay,” said the skipper, “but I’m wantin’ you t’ know that this here letter was writ by a woman with a wonderful sight o’ l’arnin’. I’ll warrant you can read it. O’ course,” in a large, conclusive way, “an you can’t——”

“Skipper Tommy,” Tom interrupted, quickly, “I isn’t sayin’ I can’t.”

“Isn’t you?” innocently. “Why, Tom Tot, I was thinkin’——”

“No, zur!” Tom answered with heat. “I isn’t!”

“Well, you wouldn’t——”

“I will!”

“So be,” said the skipper, with a sigh of infinite satisfaction. “I’m thinkin’, somehow,” he added, his sweet faith now beautifully radiant (I am sure), as was his way, “that the Lard is mixed up in this letter. He’s mixed up in ’most all that goes on, an’ I’d not be s’prised if He had a finger in this. ‘Now,’ says the Lard, ‘Skipper Tommy,’ says He, ‘the mail-boat went t’ the trouble o’ leavin’ you a letter,’ says He, ‘an’——’”

“Leave the Lard out o’ this,” Tom Tot broke in.

“Sure, an’ why?” Skipper Tom mildly asked.

“You’ve no call t’ drag Un in here,” was the sour reply. “You leave Un alone. You’re gettin’ too wonderful free an’ easy with the Lard God A’mighty, Thomas Lovejoy. He’ll be strikin’ you dead in your tracks an you don’t look out.”

“Tom Tot,” the skipper began, “the Lard an’ me is wonderful——”

“Leave the Lard alone,” Tom Tot snapped. “Come, now! Is you wantin’ this here letter read?”

“I is.”

Without more ado, Tom Tot opened the letter from Wolf Cove. I have no doubt that sensitive blood flushed the bronzed, wrinkled cheeks of Skipper Tommy Lovejoy, and that, in a burst of grinning modesty, he tweaked his nose with small regard for that sorely tried and patient member. And I am informed that, while my old friend thus waited in ecstasy, Tom Tot puzzled over the letter, for a time, to make sure that his learning would not be discomfited in the presence of Skipper Tommy Lovejoy, before whom he had boasted. Then——

“Skipper Tommy,” he implored, in agony, “how long—oh, how long—is you had this letter?”

Skipper Tommy stared.

“How long, oh, how long?” Tom Tot repeated.

“What’s gone amiss?” Skipper Tommy entreated, touching Tom Tot’s shaking hand. “It come in the fall o’ the year, Tom, lad. But what’s gone amiss along o’ you?”

“She’ve been waitin’—since then? Oh, a wretched father, I!”

“Tom, lad, tell me what ’tis all about.”

“’Tis from she—Mary! ’Tis from my lass,” Tom Tot cried. “’Twas writ by that doctor-woman—an’ sent t’ you, Skipper Tommy—t’ tell me—t’ break it easy—that she’d run off from Wayfarer’s Tickle—because o’ the sin she’d found there. I misdoubt—oh, I misdoubt—that she’ve been afeared I’d—that I’d mistook her, poor wee thing—an’ turn her off. I call the Lard God A’mighty t’ witness,” he cried, passionately, “that I’d take her home, whatever come t’ pass! I calls God t’ witness that I loves my lass! She’ve done no wrong,” he continued. “She’ve but run away from the sin t’ Wayfarer’s Tickle. She’ve taken shelter t’ Wolf Cove—because—she’ve been afeared that—I’d mistook—an’ cast her off!”

“An’ she’s waitin’ there for you?”

“Ay—for me—t’ bring her home.”

“For her father t’ come?”

“Her father.”

There was a moment of silence. “Tom Tot,” Skipper Tommy declared, fetching his thigh a resounding slap, “that letter’s been tacked t’ my wall the winter long. Is you hearin’ me, Tom Tot? It’s been lyin’ idle agin my wall. While she’ve been waitin’, Tom! While she’ve been waitin’!”

“Oh, ay!”

“I’m fair glad you’re hearin’ me,” said the skipper. “For I calls you t’ witness this: that when I cotches them twins o’ mine I’ll thwack un till they’re red, Tom Tot—till they’re red and blistered below decks. An’ when I cotches that young Davy Roth—when I cotches un alone, ’ithout the doctor—I’ll give un double watches.”

“We’ll get underway for Wolf Cove, Skipper Tommy,” said Tom Tot, “when the weather lightens. An’ we’ll fetch that lass o’ mine,” he added, softly, “home.”

“That we will, Tom Tot,” said Skipper Tommy Lovejoy.

And ’twas thus it came about that we were rescued: for, being old and wise, they chose to foot it to Wolf Cove—over the ’longshore hills—fearing to chance the punt at sea, because of the shifting ice. Midway between our harbour and Wolf Cove, they found the doctor sitting blind in the snow, but still lustily entreating the surrounding desolation for help—raising a shout at intervals, in the manner of a faithful fog-horn. Searching in haste and great distress, they soon came upon my sister and me, exhausted, to be sure, and that most pitiably, but not beyond the point of being heartily glad of their arrival. Then they made a tiny fire with birch rind and billets from Tom Tot’s pack—and the fire crackled and blazed in a fashion the most heartening—and the smutty tin kettle bubbled as busily as in the most immaculate of kitchens: and presently the tea and hard-bread were doing such service as rarely, indeed, save in our land, it is their good fortune to achieve. And having been refreshed and roundly scolded, we were led to the cove beyond, where we lay the night at the cottage of Tiltworthy Cutch: whence, in the morning, being by that time sufficiently restored, we set out for our harbour, under the guidance of Skipper Tommy Lovejoy, whose continued separation from the woman at Wolf Cove I made sure of by commanding his presence with us.

“You may beat me, Skipper Tommy,” said I, “when you gets me home, an’ I wish you joy of it. But home you goes!”

“But, Davy, lad,” he protested, “there’s that poor Tom Tot goin’ on alone——”

“Home you goes!”

“An’ there’s that kind-hearted doctor-woman. Sure, now, Davy,” he began, sweetly, “I’d like t’ tell she——”

“That’s just,” said I, “what I’m afeared of.”

Home the skipper came; and when the twins and I subsequently presented ourselves for chastisement, with solemn ceremony, gravely removing whatever was deemed in our harbour superfluous under the circumstances, he was so affected by the spectacle that (though I wish I might write it differently) he declared himself of opinion, fixed and unprejudiced, that of all the works of the Lord, which were many and infinitely blessed, none so favoured the gracious world as the three contrite urchins there present: and in this ecstasy of tenderness (to our shame) quite forgot the object of our appearance.

When Tom Tot brought Mary home from Wolf Cove, my sister and the doctor and I went that night by my sister’s wish to distinguish the welcome, so that, in all our harbour, there might be no quibble or continuing suspicion; and we found the maid cutting her father’s hair in the kitchen (for she was a clever hand with the scissors and comb), as though nothing had occurred—Skipper Tommy Lovejoy meanwhile with spirit engaging the old man in a discussion of the unfailing topic; this being the attitude of the Lord God Almighty towards the wretched sons of men, whether feeling or not.

In the confusion of our entrance Mary whispered in my ear. “Davy lad,” she said, with an air of mystery, “I got home.”

“I’m glad, Mary,” I answered, “that you got home.”

“An’, hist!” said she, “I got something t’ tell you,” said she, her eyes flashing, “along about hell.”

“Is you?” I asked, in fear, wishing she had not.

She nodded.

“Is you got t’ tell me, Mary?”

“Davy,” she whispered, pursing her lips, in the pause regarding me with a glance so significant of darkest mystery that against my very will I itched to share the fearful secret, “I got t’.”

“Oh, why?” I still protested.

“I been there!” said she.

’Twas quite enough to entice me beyond my power: after that, I kept watch, all in a shiver of dread, for some signal; and when she had swept her father’s shorn hair from the floor, and when my sister had gone with Tom Tot’s wife to put the swarm of little Tots to bed, and when Tom Tot had entered upon a minute description of the sin at Wayfarer’s Tickle, from which his daughter, fearing sudden death and damnation, had fled, Mary beckoned me to follow: which I did. Without, in the breathless, moonlit night, I found her waiting in a shadow; and she caught me by the wrist, clutching it cruelly, and led me to the deeper shadow and seclusion of a great rock, rising from the path to the flake. ’Twas very still and awesome, there in the dark of that black rock, with the light of the moon lying ghostly white on all the barren world, and the long, low howl of some forsaken dog from time to time disturbing the solemn silence.

I was afraid.

“Davy, lad,” she whispered, bending close, so that she could look into my eyes, which wavered, “is you listenin’?”

“Ay,” I answered, breathless.

Her voice was then triumphant. “I been t’ hell,” said she, “an’ back!”

“What’s it like, Mary?”

She shuddered.

“What’s it like,” I pleaded, lusting for the unholy knowledge, “in hell?”

For a moment she stared at the moonlit hills. Her grasp on my wrist relaxed. I saw that her lips were working.

“What’s it like,” I urged, “in hell?” for I devoutly wished to have the disclosure over with.

“’Tis hell,” she answered, low, “at Wayfarer’s Tickle. The gate t’ hell! Rum an’ love, Davy, dear,” she added, laying a fond hand upon my head, “leads t’ hell.”

“Not love!” I cried, in sudden fear: for I had thought of the driving snow, of my dear sister lying in the doctor’s arms, of his kiss upon her lips. “Oh, love leads t’ heaven!”

“T’ hell,” said she.

“No, no!”

“T’ hell.”

I suffered much in the silence—while, together, Mary and I stared at the silent world, lying asleep in the pale light.

“’Twas rum,” she resumed, “that sent the crew o’ the Right an’ Tight t’ hell. An’ ’twas a merry time they had at the gate. Ay, a merry time, with Jagger fillin’ the cups an’ chalkin’ it down agin the fish! But they went t’ hell. They went t’ hell! She was lost with all hands in the gale o’ that week—lost on the Devil’s Fingers—an’ all hands drunk! An’ Jack Ruddy o’ Helpful Harbour,” she muttered, “went down along o’ she. He was a bonnie lad,” she added, tenderly, “an’ he kissed me by stealth in the kitchen.” Very sorrowfully she dreamed of that boisterous kiss. “But,” she concluded, “’twas love that put Eliza Hare in th’ etarnal fires.”

“Not love!” I complained.

“Davy,” she said, not deigning to answer me, “Davy,” she repeated, her voice again rising splendidly triumphant, “I isn’t goin’ t’ hell! For I’ve looked in an’ got away. The Lard’ll never send me, now. Never!”

“I’m glad, Mary.”

“I’m not a goat,” she boasted. “’Twas all a mistake. I’m a sheep. That’s what I is!”

“I’m wonderful glad.”

“But you, Davy,” she warned, putting an arm about my waist, in sincere affection, “you better look out.”

“I isn’t afeared.”

“You better look out!”

“Oh, Mary,” I faltered, “I—I—isn’t much afeared.”

“You better look out!”

“Leave us go home!” I begged.

“The Lard’ll ship you there an you don’t look out. He’ve no mercy on little lads.”

“Oh, leave us go home!”

“He’ll be cotchin’ you!”

I could bear it no longer: nor wished to know any more about hell. I took her hand, and dragged her from the black shadow of the rock: crying out that we must now go home. Then we went back to Tom Tot’s cheerful kitchen; and there I no longer feared hell, but could not forget, try as I would, what Mary Tot had told me about love.

Skipper Tommy Lovejoy was preaching what the doctor called in his genial way “The Gospel According to Tommy.”

“Sure, now, Tom Tot,” said he, “the Lard is a Skipper o’ wonderful civil disposition. ‘Skipper Tommy,’ says He t’ me, ‘an you only does the best——’”

“You’re too free with the name o’ the Lard.”

Skipper Tommy looked up in unfeigned surprise. “Oh, no, Tom,” said he, mildly, “I isn’t. The Lard an’ me is——-”

“You’re too free,” Tom Tot persisted. “Leave Un be or you’ll rue it.”

“Oh, no, Tom,” said the skipper. “The Lard an’ me gets along wonderful well together. We’re wonderful good friends. I isn’t scared o’ He!”

As we walked home, that night, the doctor told my sister and me that, whatever the greater world might think of the sin at Wayfarer’s Tickle, whether innocuous or virulent, Jagger was beyond cavil flagrantly corrupting our poor folk, who were simple-hearted and easy to persuade: that he was, indeed, a nuisance which must be abated, come what would.