"Now, listen." Mrs. Jessop's voice was compelling. "You men love this girl. Have any of you got the spunk to marry her and take the responsibility of her? Have you? Because if you have—and she'll agree—I'll pronounce her innocent this minute, and she can set on the bank while you fools make it up between you which it's to be. Will anybody marry this Delight Mainprize?" Her big voice shook with sardonic laughter. "A handsome filly—sound in wind and limb—will not shy at anything—guaranteed to be fond of gentlemen."
A shrill chorus of laughter rose from the other women, exhilarated beyond measure by all the unloosed passions of the senses.
"Tak' that lass out of the water," yelled Kirke, mopping his bleeding forehead, "or I'll have you hanged."
"Hanging's nothing new in our family. My grandfather was hanged." Mrs. Jessop cast all those cherished years of respectability from her now, as a snake casts its skin. In new, fierce colours she reared her flat head and sparkling eyes among them.
"Will you marry her?" she demanded.
"I will," shouted Kirke.
He had forgotten his fine ambitions. He had forgotten the mayor's daughter. He was only Duncan Kirke, who had been a wild bare-legged boy among the heather. He wanted, more than anything on earth, to marry the half-drowned servant, Delight.
Mrs. Jessop, now that her lust for revenge was satisfied, now that she had crushed the girl, became almost tender with her. With a fawning gesture, she bent over her and whispered, and hung waiting for an answer. When she had got it, her voice came with a cooing note across the lagoon.
"She says she'll marry anyone."
