“Unfasten the sheet here,” she commanded, “and duck your head clear o’ the boom.”
As soon as their faces were set for home, the minister walked back to the cuddy roof and sat down to reflect. Not a word was spoken till they reached the harbor’s mouth again, and then he pulled out his watch. It was half-past four in the morning.
Outside the battery point the girl hauled down the sails and got out the sweeps; and together they pulled up under the still sleeping town to the minister’s quay-door. He was clumsy at this work, but she instructed him in whispers, and they managed to reach the ladder as the clocks were striking five. The tide was far down by this time, and she held the boat close to the ladder while he prepared to climb. With his foot on the first round he turned. She was white as a ghost, and trembling from top to toe.
“Nance—did you say your name was Nance?”
She nodded.
“What’s the matter?”
“I’ll—I’ll let you off if you want to be let off.”
“I’m not sure that I do,” he said, and stealing softly up the ladder stood at the top and watched her boat as she steered it back to Ruan.
Three months after they were married, to the indignant amazement of the minister’s congregation. It almost cost him his pulpit, but he held on and triumphed. There is no reason to believe that he ever repented of his choice, or, rather, of Nance’s. To be sure, she had kidnapped him by a lie; but perhaps she had wiped it out by fifty years of honest affection. On that point, however, I, who tell the tale, will not dogmatize.
