There is Sorrow On The Sea - Gilbert Parker
"Oh, I have thanked God a hundred times, dear Cousin Dick, that you fired
no shot that night, but only helped a hunted, miserable man away, for you
did get free. Just in the nick of time your sail caught the wind, and you
steered for the open sea. Three days from that, Tom Doane was safe in the
Low Country, and you were on your way back to Lincolnshire. You came by a
fishing boat to Saltfleet Haven, and made your way down the coast towards
Mablethorpe. Passing Theddlethorpe, you went up to Faddo's house, and,
looking through the window, you saw Faddo, not dead, but being cared for
by his wife. Then you came on to Mablethorpe, and standing under my
window, at the very moment when I was on my knees praying for the safety
of those who travelled by sea, you whistled like a quail from the garden
below--the old signal. Oh, how my heart stood still a moment and then
leaped, for I knew it was you! I went down to the garden, and there you
were. Oh, but I was glad to see you, Cousin Dick!
"You remember how I let you take me in your arms for an instant, and then
I asked if he was safe. And when you told me that he was, I burst into
tears, and I asked you many questions about him. And you answered them
quickly, and then would have taken me in your arms again. But I would not
let you, for then I knew--I knew that you loved me, and, oh, a dreadful
feeling came into my heart, and I drew back, and could have sunk upon the
ground in misery, but that there came a thought of your safety! He was
safe, but you--you were here, where reward was posted for you. I begged
you to come into the house, that I might hide you there, but you would
not. You had come for one thing, you said, and only one. An hour or two,
and then you must be gone for London. And so you urged me to the beach. I
was afraid we might be seen, but you led me away from the cottages near
to the little bridge which crosses the dyke. By that way we came to the
sands, as we thought unnoted. But no, who should it be to see us but that
canting Baptist, Solby! And so the alarm was given. You had come, dear
Cousin Dick, to ask me one thing--if I loved you? and if, should you ever
be free to come back, I would be your wife? I did not answer you; I could
not answer you; and, when you pressed me, I begged you to have pity on me
and not to speak of it. You thought I was not brave enough to love a man
open to the law. As if--as if I knew not that what you did came out of a
generous, reckless heart. And on my knees--oh, on my knees--I ought to
have thanked you for it! But I knew not what to say; my lips were closed.
And just then shots were fired, and we saw the coast-guards' lights. Then
came Lancy Doane stumbling down the banks, and our parting--our parting.
Your bitter laugh as you left me has rung in my ears ever since.
"Do not think we have been idle here in your cause, for I myself went to
Earl Fitzwilliam and told him the whole story, and how you had come to
help Tom Doane that night. How do I know of it all? Because I have seen a
letter from Tom Doane. Well, the Earl promised to lay your case before
the King himself, and to speak for you with good eager entreaty. And so,
it may be, by next time I write, there will go good news to you,
and--will you then come back, dear Cousin Dick?
"And now I want to tell you what I know, and what you do not know. Tom
Doane had a wife in Mablethorpe. He married her when she was but
sixteen--a child. But she was afraid of her father's anger, and her
husband soon after went abroad, became one of Prince Charlie's men, and
she's never seen him since. She never really loved him, but she never
forgot that she was his wife; and she always dreaded his coming back; as
well she might, for you see what happened when he did come. I pitied her,
dear Cousin Dick, with all my heart; and when Tom Doane died on the field
of battle in Holland last year, I wept with her and prayed for her. And
you would have wept too, man though you are, if you had seen how grateful
she was that he died in honourable fighting and not in a smuggler's cave
at Theddlethorpe. She blessed you for that, and she never ceases to work
with me for the King's pardon for you.
"There is no more to say now, dear Cousin Dick, save that I would have
you know I think of you with great desire of heart for your well-being,
and I pray God for your safe return some day to the good country which,
pardoning you, will cast you out no more.
"I am, dear Cousin Dick,
"Thy most affectionate Cousin,
"FANNY."
"Afterword--Dear Dick, my heart bursts for joy. Enclosed here is thy
pardon, sent by the good Earl Fitzwilliam last night. I could serve him
on my knees for ever. Dick, she that was Tom Doane's wife, she loves
thee. Wilt thou not come back to her?
"In truth, she always loved thee. She was thy cousin; she is thy Fanny.
Now thou knowest all."