There is Sorrow on the Sea | Page 5

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 Laney 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 Laney'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.
"DICK ORRY."

II
THE BOOK-IN-HAND INN, MABLETHORPE, LINCOLNSHIRE.
May-Day, 1749.
"DEAR COUSIN DICK,--I think I have not been so glad in many years
as when I got your letter last Guy Fawkes Day. I was coming from the
church where the parson preached on plots and treasons, and obedience
to the King, when I saw the old postman coming down the road. I made
quickly to him, I know not why, for I had not thought to hear from you,
and before I reached him he held up his hand, showing me the stout
packet which brought me news of you. I hurried with it to the inn, and
went straight to my room and sat down by the window, where I used to
watch for your coming with the fishing fleet, down the sea from the
Dogger Bank. I was only a girl, a young girl, then, and the Dogger

Bank was, to my mind, as far off as that place you call York Factory, in
Hudson's Bay, is to me now. And yet I did not know how very far it
was until our schoolmaster showed me on a globe how few days' sail it
is to the Dogger Bank, and how many to York Factory.
"But I will tell you of my reading of your letter, and of what I thought.
But first I must go back a little. When you went away that wild, dark
night, with bitter words on your lips to me, Cousin Dick, I thought I
should never feel the same again. You did not know it, but I was
bearing the misery of