“No, no!”
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.”