"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.