Presently she said, 'Do you think that it was Rebow who fired?'

'No, of course I do not. He knew you were out, and with a light; and he

knows your voice.'

'But you said he was in the plot.'

'I said that I supposed he knew about it; he knew that there were men

out in punts waiting for the captain, he probably knew that there was

some fellow lurking in the Rhyn; but I did not say that he would shoot

the captain. I do not for a moment suppose he would. He is not greatly

affected by his vigilance. He gets something out of the trade, but not

enough to be of importance to him. A man of his means would not think

it worth his while to shoot an officer.'

'Then you conjecture that he warned me, and went home.'

'That is most likely, I would have done the same; nay more, I would not

have let you go on, if I knew there were fellows about this night with

guns on the lookout. He did not dare to speak plainly what he knew, but

he gave you a broad hint, and his best advice, and I admire and respect

him for it.'

'You and Rebow are cousins?'

'His father's sister is my mother. The land and money all went to

Elijah's father who is now dead, and is now in Elijah's hands. My

mother got nothing. The family were angry with her for marrying off the

land on to the water. But you see at Red Hall she had lived, so to

speak, half in and half out of the sea; she took to one element as

readily as to the other.'

'I can trace little resemblance in your features, but something in your

voice.'

'Now, Glory!' said the young man, 'here is the boat. How fast the tide

ebbs here! She is already dry, and we must shove her down over the

grass and mud till she floats. You step in, I will run her along.'

The wind had risen, and was wailing over the marshes, sighing among the

harsh herbage, the sea-lavender, sovereign wood, and wild asparagus.

Not a cloud was visible. The sky was absolutely unblurred and thick

besprint with stars. Jupiter burned in the south, and cast a streak of

silver over the ebbing waters.

The young people stood silent by each other for a moment, and their

hearts beat fast. Other matters had broken in on and troubled the

pleasant current of their love; but now the thought of these was swept

aside, and their hearts rose and stretched towards each other. They had

known each other for many years, and the friendship of childhood had

insensibly ripened in their hearts to love.

'I have not properly thanked you, George, for the promise of help in our

trouble.'

'Nor I, Mehalah, for the medal you have given me.'

'Promise me, George, to wear it ever. It saved your life to-night, I

doubt not.'

'What! Does it save from death?'

'From sudden death,' answered Mehalah. 'I told you so before, in the

boat.'

'I forgot about it, Glory.'

'I will tell you now all about it, my friend. The charm belonged to my

mother's mother. She, as I daresay you have heard, was a gipsy. My

grandfather fell in love with her and married her. He was a well-to-do

man, owning a bit of land of his own; but he would go to law with a

neighbour and lost it, and it went to the lawyer. Well, my grandmother

brought the charm with her, and it has been in the family ever since.

It had been in the gipsy family of my grandmother time out of mind, and

was lent about when any of the men went on dangerous missions. No one

who wears it can die a sudden death from violence--that is'--Mehalah

qualified the assertion, 'on land.'

'It does not preserve one on the water then?' said George, with an

incredulous laugh.

'I won't say that. It surely did so to-night. It saves from shot and

stab.'

'Not from drowning?'

'I think not.'

'I must get a child's caul, and then I shall be immortal.'

'Don't joke, George,' said Mehalah gravely. 'What I say is true.'

'Glory!' said De Witt, 'I always thought you looked like a gipsy with

your dark skin and large brown eyes, and now from your own lips comes

the confession that you are one.'

'There is none of the blood in my mother,' said she, 'she is like an

ordinary Christian. I fancy it jumps a generation.'

'Well, then, you dear gipsy, here is my hand. Tell my fortune.'

'I cannot do that. But I have given you a gipsy charm against evil men

and accidents.'

'Hark!'

Out of the clear heaven was heard plaintive whistles, loud, high up,

inexpressibly weird and sad, 'Ewe! ewe! ewe!' They burst shrilly on the

ears, then became fainter, then burst forth again, then faded away. It

was as though spirits were passing in the heavens wailing about a

brother sprite that had flickered into nothingness.

'The curlew are in flight. What is the matter, Mehalah?'

The girl was shivering.

'Are you cold!'

'George! those are the Seven Whistlers.'

'They are the long-beaked curlew going south.'

'They are the Seven Whistlers, and they mean death or deathlike woe.

For God's sake, George,' she threw her arms round him, 'swear, swear to

me, never to lay aside the medal I have given you, but to wear it night

and day.'

'There! Glory, I swear it.'

*CHAPTER IV.*

*RED HALL.*

The rent-paying day was bright and breezy. The tide was up in the

morning, and Mehalah and her mother in a boat with sail and jib and

spritsail flew before a north-east wind down the Mersea Channel, and

doubling Sunken Island, entered the creek which leads to Salcot and

Virley, two villages divided only by a tidal stream, and connected by a

bridge.

The water danced and sparkled, multitudes of birds were on the wing, now

dipping in the wavelets, now rising and shaking off the glittering

drops. A high sea-wall hid the reclaimed land on their left. Behind it

rose the gaunt black structure of a windmill used for pumping the water

out of the dykes in the marsh. It was working now, the great black arms

revolving in the breeze, and the pump creaking as if the engine groaned

remonstrances at being called to toil on such a bright day. A little

further appeared a tiled roof above the wall.

'There is Red Hall,' said Mehalah, as she ran the boat ashore and threw

out the anchor. 'I have brought the stool, mother,' she added, and

helped the old woman to land dry-footed. The sails were furled, and

then Mehalah and her mother climbed the wall and descended into the

pastures. These were of considerable extent, reclaimed saltings, but of

so old a date that the brine was gone from the soil, and they furnished

the best feed for cattle anywhere round. Several stagnant canals or

ditches intersected the flat tract and broke it into islands, but they

hung together by the thread of sea-wall, and the windmill drained the

ditches into the sea.

In the midst of the pasture stood a tall red-brick house. There was not

a tree near it. It rose from the flat like a tower. The basement

consisted of cellars above ground, and there were arched entrances to

these from the two ends. They were lighted by two small round windows

about four feet from the ground. A flight of brick stairs built over an

arch led from a paved platform to the door of the house, which stood

some six feet above the level of the marsh. The house had perhaps been

thus erected in view of a flood overleaping the walls, and converting

the house for a while into an island, or as a preventive to the

inhabitants against ague. The sea-walls had been so well kept that no

tide had poured over them, and the vaults beneath served partly as

cellars, and being extensive, were employed with the connivance of the

owner as a storeplace for run spirits. The house was indeed very

conveniently situated for contraband trade. A 'fleet' or tidal creek on

either side of the marsh allowed of approach or escape by the one when

the other was watched. Nor was this all. The marsh itself was

penetrated by three or four ramifications of the two main channels, to

these the sea-wall accommodated itself instead of striking across them,

and there was water-way across the whole marsh, so that if a boat were

lifted over the bank on one side, it could be rowed across, again

lifted, and enter the other channel, before a pursuing boat would have

time to return to and double the spit of land that divided the fleets.

The windmill which stood on this spit was in no favour with the

coastguard, for it was thought to act the double purpose of pump and

observatory. The channel south of these marshes, called the Tollesbury

Fleet, was so full of banks and islets as to be difficult to navigate,

and more than once a revenue boat had got entangled and grounded there,

when in pursuit of a smuggled cargo, which the officers had every reason

to believe was at that time being landed on the Red Hall marshes, and

carted into Salcot and Virley with the farmer's horses.

The house was built completely of brick, the windows were of moulded

brick, mullions and drip stone, and the roof was of tile. How the name

of Red Hall came to be given it, was obvious at a glance.

Round the house was a yard paved with brick, and a moat filled with

rushes and weed. There were a few low outhouses, stable, cowsheds,

bakehouse, forming a yard at the back, and into that descended the stair

from the kitchen-door over a flying arch, like that in front.

Perhaps the principal impression produced by the aspect of Red Hall on

the visitor was its solitariness. The horizon was bounded by sea wall;

only when the door was reached, which was on a level with the top of the

mound, were the glittering expanse of sea, the creeks, and the woods on

Mersea Island and the mainland visible. Mehalah and her mother had

never been at Red Hall before, and though they were pretty familiar with

the loneliness of the marshes, the utter isolation of this tall gaunt

house impressed them. The thorn-trees at the Ray gave their farm an

aspect of snugness compared with this. From the Ray, village-church

towers and cultivated acres were visible, but so long as they were in

the pasture near the Hall, nothing was to be seen save a flat tract of

grass land intersected with lines of bulrush, and bounded by a mound.

Several cows and horses were in the pasture, but no human being was

visible. Mehalah and her mother hesitated before ascending the stair.

'This is the queerest place for a Christian to live in I ever saw,' said

the widow. 'Look there, Mehalah, there is a date on the door, sixteen

hundred and thirty-six. Go up and knock.'

'Do you see that little window in the sea face of the house, mother?'

'Yes. There is none but it.'

'I can tell you what that is for. It is to signal from with a light.'

'I don't doubt it. Go on.'

Mehalah slowly ascended the stair; it was without a balustrade. She

struck against the door. The door was of strong plank thickly covered

with nails, and the date of which the widow had spoken was made with

nail-heads at the top.

Her knock met with no response, so she thrust the door open and entered,

followed by her mother.

The room she stepped into was large and low. It was lighted by but one

window to the south, fitted with lead lattice. The floor was of brick,

for the cellarage was vaulted and supported a solid basement. There was

no ceiling, and the oak rafters were black with age and smoke. The only

ornaments decorating the walls were guns and pistols, some of curious

foreign make.

The fire-place was large; on the oak lintel was cut deep the

inscription:--

'WHEN I HOLD (1636) I HOLD FAST.'

Mehalah had scarce time to notice all this, when a trap-door she had not

observed in the floor flew up, and the head, then the shoulders, and

finally the entire body, of Elijah Rebow emerged from the basement.

Without taking notice of his tenants, he leisurely ran a stout iron bolt

through a staple, making fast the trap at the top, then he did the same

with a bolt at the bottom.

At the time, this conduct struck Mehalah as singular. It was as though

Rebow were barring a door from within lest he should be broken in on

from the cellar.

Elijah slowly drew a leather armchair over the trap-door, and seated

himself in it. The hole through which he had ascended was near the

fire-place, and now that he sat over it he occupied the ingle nook.

'Well, Glory!' said he suddenly, addressing Mehalah. 'So you have _not_

brought the rent. You have come with your old mother to blubber and beg

compassion and delay. I know it all. It is of no use. Tears don't

move me, I have no pity, and I grant no delay. I want my money. Every

man does. He wants his money when it's due. I calculated on it, I've a

debt which I shall wipe off with it, so there; now no excuses, I tell

you they won't do. Sheer off.'

'Master Rebow--' began the widow.

'You may save your speech,' said Elijah, cutting her short. 'Faugh!

when I've been down there.'--he pointed with his thumb towards the

cellar--'I need a smoke.' He drew forth a clay pipe and tobacco-box and

leisurely filled the bowl. Whilst he was lighting his pipe at the

hearth, where an old pile was smouldering, and emitting an odour like

gunpowder, Mehalah drew a purse from her pocket and counted the amount

of the rent on the table. Rebow did not observe her. He was engaged in

making his pipe draw, and the table was behind the chair.

'Well!' said he, blowing a puff of smoke, and chuckling, 'I fancy you

are in a pretty predicament. Read that over the fire, cut yonder, do

you see? "When I hold, I hold fast." I didn't cut that, but my

fore-elders did, and we all do that. Why, George De Witt's mother

thought to have had some pickings out of the marsh, she did, but my

father got hold of it, and he held fast. He did not let go a penny; no,

not a farthing. It is a family characteristic. It is a family

pleasure. We take a pride in it. I don't care what it is, whether it

is a bit of land, or a piece of coin, or a girl, it is all the same, and

I think you'll find it is so with me. Eh! Glory! When I hold, I hold

fast.' He turned in his chair and leered at her.

'There, there,' said she, 'lay hold of your rent, and hold fast till

death. We want none of it.'

'What is that?' exclaimed Rebow, starting out of his seat, 'What money

is that?'

'The rent,' said Mehalah; she stood erect beside the table in her

haughty beauty, and laughed at the surprised and angry expression that

clouded Rebow's countenance.

'I won't take it. You have stolen it.'

'Master Rebow,' put in the widow, 'the money is yours; it is the rent,

not a penny short.'

'Where did you get the money?' he asked with a curse.

'You bid me bring the money on rent-day, and there it is,' said Mehalah.

'But now I will ask a question, and I insist on an answer.'

'Oh! you insist, do you?'

'I insist on an answer,' repeated the girl. 'How did you come to think

we were without money?'

'Suppose I don't choose to answer.'

'If you don't--' she began, then hesitated.

'I will tell you,' he said, sulkily. 'Abraham Dowsing, your shepherd,

isn't dumb, I believe. He talks, he does, and has pretty well spread

the news all round the country how he was robbed of his money at the

Rose.'

'Abraham has never said anything of the sort. He denies that he was

robbed.'

'Then he says he is accused of being robbed, which is the same. I

suppose the story is true.'

'It is quite true, Master Rebow,' answered the widow. 'It was a terrible

loss to us. We had sold all the sheep we could sell.'

'Oh! a terrible loss, indeed!' scoffed the man. 'You are so flush of

money, that a loss of ten or fifteen, or may be twenty pounds is nought

to you. You have your little store in one of those cupboards in every

corner of the old house, and you put your hand in, and take out what you

like. You call yourself poor, do you, and think nothing of a loss like

this?'

'We are very poor,' said the widow; 'Heaven knows we have a hard battle

to fight to make both ends meet, and to pay our rent.'

'I don't believe it. You are telling me lies.'

He took the coin, and counted it; his dark brow grew blacker; and he

ground his teeth. Once he raised his wolfish eyes and glared on

Mehalah. 'That guinea is bad,' he said, and he threw it on the floor.

'It rings like a good one,' answered the girl, 'pick it up and give it

to me. I will let you have another in its place.'

'Oh ho! your pocket is lined with guineas, is it? I will raise the rent

of the Ray. I thought as much, the land is fatter than mine on this

marsh. You get the place dirt cheap. I'll raise the rent ten pounds.

I'll raise it twenty.'

'Master Rebow!' pleaded the widow, 'the Ray won't allow us to pay it.'

'Do not put yourself out, mother,' said Mehalah, 'we have a lease of

twenty-one years; and there are seven more years to run, before Rebow

can do what he threatens.'

'Oh, you are clever, you are, Glory! cursed clever. Now look here,

Mistress Sharland, I'm going to have a rasher, and it's about dinner

time, stop and bite with me; and that girl there, she shall bite too.

You can't be back till evening, and you'll be perished with hunger.'

'Thank you, master,' answered the widow eagerly.

'And I'll give you a sup of the very primest brandy.'

'Mother, we must return at once. The tide will ebb, and we shall not be

able to get away.'

'That's a lie,' said Elijah angrily, 'as you've got here, you can get

away. There's plenty of water in the fleet, and will be for three

hours. I knew you'd come and so I got some rashers all ready on the

pan; there they be.'

'You're very kind,' observed the widow.

'A landlord is bound to give his tenantry a dinner on rent-day,' said

Rebow, with an ugly laugh which displayed his great teeth. 'It's

Michaelmas, but I have no goose. I keep plenty on the marshes. They do

well here, and they pay well too.'

'I will have a witness that I have paid the rent,' said Mehalah. 'Call

one of your men.'

'Go and call one yourself. I am going to fry the rashers.'

'That guinea is still on the floor,' said Mehalah.

'I have refused it. Pick it up, and give me another.'

'I will not pick it up; and I will not give you another till you have

convinced me that the coin is bad.'

'Then let it lie.'

'Where are your men?'

'I don't know, go and find them. They're at their dinner now. I dare

say near the pump.'

Mehalah left the house, but before she descended the steps, she looked

over the flat. There was a sort of shed for cattle half a mile off, and

she thought she saw some one moving there. She went at once in that

direction.

Scarce was she gone when Elijah beckoned the widow to draw over a chair

to the fire.

'You cook the wittles,' said he; 'I'm my own cook in general, but when a

woman is here, why, I'm fain to let her take the job off my hands.'

The old woman obeyed with as much activity as she was mistress of.

Whilst thus engaged, Elijah walked to the door, opened it, and looked

out.

'She's going as straight as a wild duck,' he said, and laughed; 'she is

a damned fine girl. Listen to me, mistress, that daughter of yours,

Glory, is too good-looking to be mewed up on the Ray. You should marry

her, and then settle yourself comfortably down for the rest of your days

in your son-in-law's house.'

'Ah! Master Rebow, she is poor, she is, and now young men look out for

money.'

'You don't want a very young man for such as she. Why, she is as wild as

a gipsy, and needs a firm hand to keep her. He that has hold of her

should hold fast.'

The widow shook her head. 'We don't see many folks on the Ray. She

will have to marry a fellow on the water.'

'No, she won't,' said Rebow angrily. 'Damn her, she shall marry a

farmer, who owns land and marshes, and saltings, and housen, and takes

rents, and don't mind to drop some eight hundred pound on a bit of a

farm that takes his fancy.'

'Such men are not easy to be got.'

'No, there you are right, mistress; but when you find one, why----' he

drew his pipe over the inscription on the fireplace. 'I'm the man, and

now you hold me, hold fast.'

'You, master!'

'Aye, I. I like the girl. By God! I _will_ have Glory. She was born

for me. There is not another girl I have seen that I would give an

oystershell for, but she--she--she makes my blood run like melted lead,

and my heart here gnaws and burns in my breast like a fiery rat. I tell

you I _will_ have her. I _will_.'

'If it only rested with me,' moaned the widow.

'Look here,' said Rebow. 'Lay that pan on one side and follow me. I'll

show you over the house.' He caught her by the wrist, and dragged her

from room to room, and up the stairs. When he had brought her back to

the principal apartment in which they had been sitting, he chuckled with

pride. 'Ain't it a good house? It's twenty times better than the Ray.

It is more comfortable, and there are more rooms. And all these marshes

and meadows are mine, and I have also some cornfields in Virley, on the

mainland. And then the Ray is mine, with the saltings and all

thereon;--I bought it for eight hundred pounds.'

'We are very much honoured,' said the widow, 'but you do not consider

how poor Mehalah is; she has nothing.'

Elijah laughed. 'Not so very poor neither, I fancy. You lost the price

of your sheep, and yet you had money in store wherewith to pay the

rent.'

'Indeed, indeed we had not.'

'Where then did you get the money?'

'It was lent us.'

'Lent you, who by?' asked Elijah sharply.

'George De Witt was so good----'

Elijah uttered a horrible curse.

'Tell me,' he said furiously, coming up close to the old woman and

scowling at her--into her eyes. 'Answer me without a lie; why, by what

right did De Witt lend, or give you, the money? What claim had you on

him?'

'Well, Elijah, I must tell you. Mehalah----'

'Here I am,' said the girl throwing open the door. 'Why am I the subject

of your talk?' A couple of shepherds followed her.

'Look here,' she said, counting the coin; 'there is a guinea on the

floor. Pick it up and try it, if it be good.'

'That's all right,' said one of the men, ringing the coin and then

trying it between his teeth.

'This is the sum due for our half-year's rent,' she went on. 'Is it not

so, Master Rebow? Is not this the sum in full?'

He sullenly gave an affirmative.

'You see that I pay this over to him. I don't want a written receipt.

I pay before witnesses.'

Rebow signed to the men to leave, and then with knitted brow collected

the money and put it in his pocket. The widow went on with the frying

of the bacon.

'Come along with me, mother, to the boat. We cannot stay to eat.'

'You shall eat with me. You have come for the first time under my roof

to-day, and you shall not go from under it without a bite.'

'I have no appetite.'

'But I have,' said the widow testily. 'I don't see why you are in such

a hurry, Mehalah; and what is more, I don't see why you should behave so

unpolitely to Master Rebow when he fares to be so civil.'

'Eat then, if you will, mother,' said Mehalah; 'but I cannot. I have no

hunger,' after a pause, firmly, 'I will not.'

'Oh, you have a will indeed,' remarked Rebow with a growl. 'A will it

would be a pleasure to break, and I'll do it.'

The bacon was fried, and the widow proceeded to dish it up. There was a

rack in the next room, as Elijah told her, with plates in it, and there

were knives and forks in the drawer.

Whilst the old woman was getting the necessary articles, Rebow was

silent, seated in his leather chair, his elbows on his knees, with the

pipe in one hand, and his head turned on one side, watching Mehalah out

of his fierce, crafty eyes. The girl had seated herself on a chair

against the wall, as far away from him as possible. Her arms were folded

over her breast, and her head was bent, to avoid encountering his

glance. She was angry with her mother for staying to eat with the man

whom she hated.

During this quiet--neither speaking--a curious grating noise reached her

ear, and then a clank like that of a chain. She could not quite make

out whence the noise came. It was some little while before it

sufficiently attracted her attention to make her consider about it; and

before she had formed any conclusion, her mother returned, and spread

the table, and placed the meat on a dish.

'I'll go and fetch the liquor,' said Rebow, and went away. Whilst he

was absent, again the sound met the girl's ears. Neither she nor her

mother had spoken, but now she said, 'Listen, mother, what is that

sound?'

The old woman stood still for a moment, and then proceeded with her

task.

'It is nothing,' she said indifferently, 'the sound comes up from below

the floor. I reckon Master Rebow has cows fastened there.'

'By a chain,' added Mehalah, and dismissed the matter from her mind; the

explanation satisfied her.

Rebow returned the next moment with a bottle.

'This is prime spirit, this is,' said he. 'You can't drink water here,

it gives the fever. You must add spirits to it to make it harmless.'

'You have no beautiful spring here, as we have on the Ray,' observed the

widow.

'Not likely to have,' answered the surly landlord. 'Now sit down and

eat. Come, Glory.'

She did not move.

'Come, Mehalah, draw up your chair,' said her mother.

'I am not going to eat,' she answered resolutely.

'You shall,' shouted Elijah, rising impetuously, and thrusting his chair

back. 'You are insulting me in my own house if you refuse to eat with

me.'

'I have no appetite.'

'You will not eat, I heard you say so. I know the devilry of your

heart. You will not, but I will? In his rage he stamped on the

trap-door that he had uncovered, when removing the chair. Instantly a

prolonged, hideous howl rose from the depths and rang through the room.

Mistress Sharland started back aghast. Mehalah raised her head, and the

colour left her cheek.

'Oh ho!' roared Elijah. 'You will join in also, will you?' He drew the

bolts passionately back.

'Look here,' he cried to Mehalah. 'Come here!'

Involuntarily she obeyed, and looked down. She saw into a vault feebly

illuminated by daylight through one of the circular windows she had

noticed on approaching the house. There she saw looking up, directly

under the trap, a face so horrible in its dirt and madness that she

recoiled.

'She won't eat, she won't bite with me,' shouted Rebow, 'then neither

shall her mother eat, nor will I. You shall have the whole.' He caught

up the dish, and threw down the rashers. The man below snapped, and

caught like a wild beast, and uttered a growl of satisfaction.

Rebow flung the door back into its place, and rebolted it. Then he

placed his chair in its former position, and looked composedly from the

widow to Mehalah and seemed to draw pleasure from their fear.

'My brother,' he explained. 'Been mad from a child. A good job for me,

as he was the elder. Now I have him in keeping, and the land and the

house and the money are mine. What I hold, I hold fast. Amen.'

*CHAPTER V.*

*THE DECOY.*

There was commotion on the beach at Mersea City.

A man-of-war, a schooner, lay off the entrance to the Blackwater, and

was signalling with bunting to the coastguard ship, permanently anchored

off the island, which was replying. War had been declared with France

some time, but as yet had not interfered with the smuggling trade, which

was carried on with the Low Countries. Cruisers in the Channel had made

it precarious work along the South Coast, and this had rather stimulated

the activity of contraband traffic on the East. It was therefore with

no little uneasiness that a war ship was observed standing off the

Mersea flats. Why was she there? Was a man-of-war to cruise about the

mouth of the Colne and Blackwater continually? What was the purport of

the correspondence carried on between the schooner and the coastguard?

Such were the queries put about among those gathered on the shingle.

They were not long left in doubt, for a boat manned by coastguards left

the revenue vessel and ran ashore; the captain sprang out, and went up

the beach to his cottage, followed by a couple of the crew. The eager

islanders crowded round the remainder, and asked the news.

The captain was appointed to the command of the schooner, the

'Salamander,' which had come from the Downs under the charge of the

first lieutenant, to pick him up. The destiny of the 'Salamander' was,

of course, unknown.

Captain Macpherson was a keen, canny Scot, small and dapper; as he

pushed through the cluster of men in fishing jerseys and wading boots he

gave them a nod and a word, 'You ought to be serving your country

instead of robbing her, ye loons. Why don't you volunteer like men,

there's more money to be made by prizes than by running spirits.'

'That won't do, captain,' said Jim Morrell, an old fisherman. 'We know

better than that. There's the oysters.'

'Oysters!' exclaimed the captain; 'there'll be no time for eating

oysters now, and no money to pay for them neither. Come along with me,

some of you shore crabs. I promise you better sport than sneaking about

the creeks. We'll have at Johnny Crapaud with gun and cutlass.'

Then he entered his cottage, which was near the shore, to say farewell

to his wife.

'If there's mischief to be done, that chap will do it,' was the general

observation, when his back was turned.

Attention was all at once distracted by a young woman in a tall taxcart

who was endeavouring to urge her horse along the road, but the animal,

conscious of having an inexperienced hand on the rein, backed, and

jibbed, and played a number of tricks, to her great dismay.

'Oh, do please some of you men lead him along. I daresay he will go if

his head be turned east, but he is frightened by seeing so many of you.'

'Where are you going, Phoebe?' asked old Morrell.

'I'm only going to Waldegraves,' she answered. 'Oh, bother the creature!

there he goes again!' as the horse danced impatiently, and swung round.

'De Witt!' she cried in an imploring tone, 'do hold his head. It is a

shame of you men not to help a poor girl.'

George at once went to the rescue.

'Lead him on, De Witt, please, till we are away from the beach.'

The young man good-naturedly held the bit, and the horse obeyed without

attempting resistance.

'There's a donkey on the lawn by Elm Tree Cottage,' said the girl; 'she

brays whenever a horse passes, and I'm mortal afeared lest she scare

this beast, and he runs away with me. If he do so, I can't hold him in,

my wrists are so weak.'

'Why, Phoebe,' said De Witt, 'what are you driving for? Waldegraves is

not more than a mile and a half off, and you might have walked the

distance well enough.'

'I've sprained my ankle, and I can't walk. I must go to Waldegraves, I

have a message there to my aunt, so Isaac Mead lent me the horse.'

'If you can't drive, you may do worse than sprain your ankle, you may

break your neck.'

'That is what I am afraid of, George. The boy was to have driven me,

but he is so excited, I suppose, about the man-of-war coming in, that he

has run off. There! take care!'

'Can't you go on now?' asked De Witt, letting go the bridle.

Immediately the horse began to jib and rear.

'You are lugging at his mouth fit to break his jaw, Phoebe. No wonder

the beast won't go.'

'Am I, George? It is the fright. I don't understand the horse. O

dear! O dear! I shall never get to Waldegraves by myself.'

'Let the horse go, but don't job his mouth in that way.'

'There he is turning round. He will go home again. O George! save me.'

'You are pulling him round, of course he will turn if you drag at the

rein.'

'I don't understand horses,' burst forth Phoebe, and she threw the reins

down. 'George, there's a good, dear fellow, jump in beside me. There's

room for two, quite cosy. Drive me to Waldegraves. I shall never

forget your goodness.' She put her two hands together, and looked

piteously in the young man's face.

Phoebe Musset was a very good-looking girl, fair with bright blue eyes,

and yellow hair, much more delicately made than most of the girls in the

place. Moreover, she dressed above them. She was a village coquette,

accustomed to being made much of, and of showing her caprices. Her

father owned the store at the city where groceries and drapery were

sold, and was esteemed a well-to-do man. He farmed a little land.

Phoebe was his only child, and she was allowed to do pretty much as she

liked. Her father and mother were hard-working people, but Phoebe's

small hands were ever unsoiled, for they were ever unemployed. She

neither milked the cows nor weighed the sugar. She liked indeed to be in

the shop, to gossip with anyone who came in, and perhaps the only goods

she condescended to sell was tobacco to the young sailors, from whom she

might calculate on a word of flattery and a lovelorn look. She was

always well and becomingly dressed. Now, in a chip bonnet trimmed with

blue riband, and tied under the chin, with a white lace-edged kerchief

over her shoulders, covering her bosom, she was irresistible. So at

least De Witt found her, for he was obliged to climb the gig, seat

himself beside her, and assume the reins.

'I am not much of a steersman in a craft like this,' said George

laughing, 'but my hand is stronger than yours, and I can save you from

wreck.'

Phoebe looked slyly round, and her great blue eyes peeped timidly up in

the fisherman's face. 'Thank you so much, George. I shall never, never

forget your great kindness.'

'There's nothing in it,' said the blunt fisherman; 'I'd do the same for

any girl.'

'I know how polite you are,' continued Phoebe; then putting her hand on

the reins, 'I don't think you need drive quite so fast, George; I don't

want to get the horse hot, or Isaac will scold.'

'A jog trot like this will hurt no horse.'

'Perhaps you want to get back. I am sorry I have taken you away. Of

course you have pressing business. No doubt you want to get to the Ray.'

A little twinkling sly look up accompanied this speech. De Witt waxed

red.

'I'm in no hurry, myself,' he said.

'How delightful, George, nor am I.'

The young man could not resist stealing a glance at the little figure

beside him, so neat, so trim, so fresh. He was a humble fellow, and

never dreamed himself to be on a level with such a refined damsel.

Glory was the girl for him, rough and ready, who could row a boat, and

wade in the mud. He loved Glory. She was a sturdy girl, a splendid

girl, he said to himself. Phoebe was altogether different, she belonged

to another sphere, he could but look and admire--and worship perhaps.

She dazzled him, but he could not love her. She was none of his sort,

he said to himself.

'A penny for your thoughts!' said Phoebe roguishly. He coloured. 'I

know what you were thinking of. You were thinking of me.'

De Witt's colour deepened. 'I was sure it was so. Now I insist on

knowing what you were thinking of me.'

'Why,' answered George with a clumsy effort at gallantry, 'I thought

what a beauty you were.'

'Oh, George, not when compared with Mehalah.'

De Witt fidgeted in his seat.

'Mehalah is quite of another kind, you see, Miss.'

'I'm no Miss, if you please. Call me Phoebe. It is snugger.'

'She's more--' he puzzled his head for an explanation of his meaning.

'She is more boaty than you are--'

'Phoebe.'

'Than you are,' with hesitation, 'Phoebe.'

'I know;--strides about like a man, smokes and swears, and chews

tobacco.'

'No, no, you mistake me, M----.'

'Phoebe.'

'You mistake me, Phoebe.'

'I have often wondered, George, what attracted you to Mehalah. To be

sure, it will be a very convenient thing for you to have a wife who can

swab the deck, and tar the boat and calk her. But then I should have

fancied a man would have liked something different from a--sort of a

man-woman--a jack tar or Ben Brace in petticoats, to sit by his

fireside, and to take to his heart. But of course it is not for me to

speak on such matters, only I somehow can't help thinking about you,

George, and it worries me so, I lie awake at nights, and wonder and

wonder, whether you will be happy. She has the temper of a tom cat, I'm

told. She blazes up like gunpowder.'

De Witt fidgeted yet more uneasily. He did not like this conversation.

'Then she is half a gipsy. So you mayn't be troubled with her long.

She'll keep with you as long as she likes, and then up with her pack, on

with her wading boots. Yo heave hoy! and away she goes.'

De Witt, in his irritation, gave the horse a stinging switch across the

flank, and he started forward. A little white hand was laid, not now on

the reins, but on his hand.

'I'm so sorry, George my friend; after your kindness, I have teased you

unmercifully, but I can't help it. When I think of Mehalah in her wading

boots and jersey and cap, it makes me laugh--and yet when I think of her

and you together, I'm ashamed to say I feel as if I could cry. George!'

she suddenly ejaculated.

'Yes, Miss!'

'Phoebe, not Miss, please.'

'I wasn't going to say Miss.'

'What were you going to say?'

'Why, mate, yes, mate! I get into the habit of it at sea,' he

apologised.

'I like it. Call me mate. We are on a cruise together, now, you and I,

and I trust myself entirely in your hands, captain.'

'What was it you fared to ask, mate, when you called "George"?'

'Oh, this. The wind is cold, and I want my cloak and hood, they are

down somewhere behind the seat in the cart. If I take the reins will

you lean over and get them?'

'You won't upset the trap?'

'No.' He brought up the cloak and adjusted it round Phoebe's shoulders,

and drew the hood over her bonnet, she would have it to cover her head.

'Doesn't it make me a fright?' she asked, looking into his face.

'Nothing can do that,' he answered readily.

'Well, push it back again, I feel as if it made me one, and that is as

bad. There now. Thank you, mate! Take the reins again.'

'Halloo! we are in the wrong road. We have turned towards the Strood.'

'Dear me! so we have. That is the horse's doing. I let him go where he

liked, and he went down the turn. I did not notice it. All I thought of

was holding up his head lest he should stumble.'

De Witt endeavoured to turn the horse.

'Oh don't, don't attempt it!' exclaimed Phoebe. 'The lane is so narrow,

that we shall be upset. Better drive on, and round by the Barrow Farm,

there is not half-a-mile difference.'

'A good mile, mate. However, if you wish it.'

'I do wish it. This is a pleasant drive, is it not, George?'

'Very pleasant,' he said, and to himself added, 'too pleasant.'

So they chatted on till they reached the farm called Waldegraves, and

there Phoebe alighted.

'I shall not be long,' she said, at the door, turning and giving him a

look which might mean a great deal or nothing, according to the

character of the woman who cast it.

When she came up she said, 'There, George, I cut my business as short as

possible. Now what do you say to showing me the Decoy? I have never

seen it, but I have heard a great deal of it, and I cannot understand

how it is contrived.'

'It is close here,' said De Witt.

'I know it is, the little stream in this dip feeds it. Will you show me

the Decoy?'

'But your foot--Phoebe. You have sprained your ankle.'

'If I may lean on your arm I think I can limp down there. It is not

very far.'

'And then what about the horse?'

'Oh! the boy here will hold it, or put it up in the stable. Run and

call him, George.'

'I could drive you down there, I think, at least within a few yards of

the place, and if we take the boy he can hold the horse by the gate.'

'I had rather hobble down on your arm, George.'

'Then come along, mate.'

The Decoy was a sheet of water covering perhaps an acre and a half in

the midst of a wood. The clay that had been dug out for its

construction had been heaped up, forming a little hill crowned by a

group of willows. No one who has seen this ill-used tree in its

mutilated condition, cut down to a stump which bristles with fresh

withes, has any idea what a stately and beautiful tree it is when

allowed to grow naturally. The old untrimmed willow is one of the

noblest of our native trees. It may be seen thus in well-timbered parts

of Suffolk, and occasionally in Essex. The pond was fringed with

rushes, except at the horns, where the nets and screens stood for the

trapping of the birds. From the mound above the distant sea was

visible, through a gap in the old elm trees that stood below the pool.

In that gap was visible the war-schooner, lying as near shore as

possible. George De Witt stood looking at it. The sea was glittering

like silver, and the hull of the vessel was dark against the shining

belt. A boat with a sail was approaching her.

'That is curious,' observed George. 'I could swear to yon boat. I know

her red sail. She belongs to my cousin Elijah Rebow. But he can have

nought to do with the schooner.'

Phoebe was impatient with anything save herself attracting the attention

of the young fisherman. She drew him from the mound, and made him

explain to her the use of the rush-platted screens, the arched and

funnel-shaped net, and the manner in which the decoy ducks were trained

to lead the wild birds to their destruction.

'They are very silly birds to be led like that,' said she.

'They little dream whither and to what they are being drawn,' said De

Witt.

'I suppose some little ducks are dreadfully enticing,' said Phoebe, with

a saucy look and a twinkle of the blue eyes. 'Look here, George, my

bonnet-strings are untied, and my hands are quite unable to manage a

bow, unless I am before a glass. Do you think you could tie them for

me?'

'Put up your chin, then,' said De Witt with a sigh. He knew he was a

victim; he was going against his conscience. He tried to think of

Mehalah, but could not with those blue eyes looking so confidingly into

his. He put his finger under her chin and raised it. He was looking

full into that sweet saucy face.

'What sort of a knot? I can tie only sailor's knots.'

'Oh George! something like a true lover's knot.'

Was it possible to resist, with those damask cheeks, those red lips, and

those pleading eyes so close, so completely in his power? George did

not resist. He stooped and kissed the wicked lips, and cheeks, and

eyes.

Phoebe drew away her face at once, and hid it. He took her arm and led

her away. She turned her head from him, and did not speak.

He felt that the little figure at his side was shaken with some

hysterical movement, and felt frightened.

'I have offended you, I am very sorry. I could not help it. Your lips

did tempt me so; and you looked up at me just as if you were saying,

"Kiss me!" I could not help it. You are crying. I have offended you.'

'No, I am laughing. Oh, George! Oh, George!'

They walked back to the farm without speaking. De Witt was ashamed of

himself, yet felt he was under a spell which he could not break. A

rough fisher lad flattered by a girl he had looked on as his superior,

and beyond his approach, now found himself the object of her advances;

the situation was more than his rude virtue could withstand. He knew

that this was a short dream of delight, which would pass, and leave no

substance, but whilst under the charm of the dream, he could not cry out

nor move a finger to arouse himself to real life.

Neither spoke for a few minutes. But, at last, George De Witt turned,

and looking with a puzzled face at Phoebe Musset said, 'You asked me on

our way to Waldegraves what I was thinking about, and offered me a penny

for my thoughts. Now I wonder what you are lost in a brown study about,

and I will give you four farthings for what is passing in your little

golden head.'

'You must not ask me, George--dear George.'

'Oh mate, you must tell me.'

'I dare not. I shall be so ashamed.'

'Then look aside when you speak.'

'No, I can't do that. I must look you full in the face; and do you look

me in the face too. George, I was thinking--Why did you not come and

talk to me, before you went courting that gipsy girl, Mehalah. Are you

not sorry now that you are tied to her?'

His eyes fell. He could not speak.

*CHAPTER VI.*

*BLACK OR GOLD.*

When De Witt drove up to the 'City' with Phoebe Musset, the first person

he saw on the beach was the last person that, under present

circumstances, he wished to see--Mehalah Sharland. Phoebe perceived her

at once, and rejoiced at the opportunity that offered to profit by it.

For a long time Phoebe had been envious of the reputation as a beauty

possessed by Mehalah. Her energy, determination and courage made her

highly esteemed among the fishermen, and the expressions of admiration

lavished on her handsome face and generous character had roused all the

venom in Phoebe's nature. She desired to reign as queen paramount of

beauty, and, like Elizabeth, could endure no rival. George De Witt was

the best built and most pleasant faced of all the Mersea youths, and he

had hitherto held aloof from her and paid his homage to the rival queen.

This had awakened Phoebe's jealousy. She had no real regard, no warm

affection for the young fisherman; she thought him handsome, and was

glad to flirt with him, but he had made no serious impression on her

heart, for Phoebe had not a heart on which any deep impression could be

made. She had laid herself out to attract and entangle him from love of

power, and desire to humble Mehalah. She did not know whether any actual

engagement existed between George and Glory, probably she did not care.

If there were, so much the better, it would render her victory more

piquant and complete.

She would trifle with the young man for a few weeks or a month, till he

had broken with her rival, and then she would keep him or cast him off

as suited her caprice. By taking him up, she would sting other admirers

into more fiery pursuit, blow the smouldering embers into flaming

jealousy, and thus flatter her vanity and assure her supremacy. The

social laws of rural life are the same as those in higher walks, but

unglossed and undisguised. In the realm of nature it is the female who

pursues and captures, not captivates, the male. As in Eden, so in this

degenerate paradise, it is Eve who walks Adam, at first in wide, then in

gradually contracting circles, about the forbidden tree, till she has

brought him to take the unwholesome morsel. The male bird blazes in

gorgeous plumage and swims alone on the glassy pool, but the sky is

speckled with sombre feathered females who disturb his repose, drive him

into a corner and force him to divide his worms, and drudge for them in

collecting twigs and dabbing mud about their nest. The male glow-worm

browses on the dewy blades by his moony lamp; it is the lack-light

female that buzzes about him, coming out of obscurity, obscure herself,

flattering and fettering him and extinguishing his lamp.

Where culture prevails, the sexes change their habits with ostentation,

but remain the same in proclivities behind disguise. The male is

supposed to pursue the female he seeks as his mate, to hover round her;

and she is supposed to coyly retire, and start from his advances. But

her modesty is as unreal as the _nolo episcopari_ of a simoniacal

bishop-elect. Bashfulness is a product of education, a mask made by

art. The cultured damsel hunts not openly, but like a poacher, in the

dark. Eve put off modesty when she put on fig-leaves; in the simplicity

of the country, her daughters walk without either. The female gives

chase to the male as a matter of course, as systematically and

unblushingly in rustic life, as in the other grades of brute existence.

The mother adorns her daughter for the war-path with paint and feathers,

and sends her forth with a blessing and a smile to fulfil the first duty

of woman, and the meed of praise is hers when she returns with a

masculine heart, yet hot and mangled, at her belt.

The Early Church set apart one day in seven for rest; the Christian

pagans set it apart for the exercise of the man hunt. The Stuart

bishops published a book on Sunday amusements, and allowed of Sabbath

hunting. They followed, and did not lead opinion. It is the coursing

day of days when marriage-wanting maids are in full cry and scent of all

marriageable men.

A village girl who does not walk about her boy is an outlaw to the

commonwealth, a renegade to her sex. A lover is held to be of as much

necessity as an umbrella, a maiden must not go out without either. If

she cannot attract one by her charms, she must retain him with a fee.

Rural morality moreover allows her to change the beau on her arm as

often as the riband in her cap, but not to be seen about, at least on

Sunday, devoid of either.

Phoebe Musset intended some day to marry, but had not made up her mind

whom to choose, and when to alter her condition. She would have liked a

well-to-do young farmer, but there happened to be no man of this kind

available. There were, indeed, at Peldon four bachelor brothers of the

name of Marriage, but they were grown grey in celibacy and not disposed

to change their lot. One of the principal Mersea farmers was named

Wise, and had a son of age, but he was an idiot. The rest were

afflicted with only daughters--afflicted from Phoebe's point of view,

blessed from their own. There was a widower, but to take a widower was

like buying a broken-kneed horse.

George was comfortably off. He owned some oyster pans and gardens, and

had a fishing smack.

But he was not a catch. There were, however, no catches to be angled,

trawled or dredged for. Phoebe did not trouble herself greatly about

the future. Her father and mother would, perhaps, not be best pleased

were she to marry off the land, but the wishes of her parents were of no

weight with Phoebe, who was determined to suit her own fancy.

As she approached the 'City,' she saw Glory surrounded by young boatmen,

eager to get a word from her lips or a glance from her eyes. Phoebe's

heart contracted with spite, but next moment swelled with triumph at the

thought that it lay in her power to wound her rival and exhibit her own

superiority, before the eyes of all assembled on the beach.

'There is the boy from the Leather Bottle, George,' said she, 'he shall

take the horse.'

De Witt descended and helped her to alight, then directly, to her great

indignation, made his way to Mehalah. Glory put out both hands to him

and smiled. Her smile, which was rare, was sweet; it lighted up and

transformed a face somewhat stern and dark.

'Where have you been, George?'

'I have been driving that girl yonder, what's-her-name, to Waldegraves.'

'What, Phoebe Musset? I did not know you could drive.'

'I can do more than row a boat and catch crabs, Glory.'

'What induced you to drive her?'

'I could not help myself, I was driven into doing so. You see, Glory, a

fellow is not always his own master. Circumstances are sometimes

stronger than his best purposes, and like a mass of seaweed arrest his

oar and perhaps upset his boat.'

'Why, bless the boy!' exclaimed Mehalah. 'What are all these excuses

for? I am not jealous.'

'But I am,' said Phoebe who had come up. 'George, you are very

ungallant to desert me. You have forgotten your promise, moreover.'

'What promise?'

'There! what promise you say, as if your head were a riddle and

everything put in except clots of clay and pebbles fell through.

Mehalah has stuck in the wires, and poor little I have been sifted out.'

'But what did I promise?'

'To show me the hull in which you and your mother live, the "Pandora" I

think you call her.'

'Did I promise?'

'Yes, you did, when we were together at the Decoy under the willows. I

told you I wished greatly to be introduced to the interior and see how

you lived.' Turning to Mehalah, 'George and I have been to the Decoy.

He was most good-natured, and explained the whole contrivance to me,

and--and illustrated it. We had a very pleasant little trot together,

had we not, George?'

'Oh! this is what's-her-name, is it?' said Mehalah in a low tone with an

amused look. She was neither angry nor jealous, she despised Phoebe too

heartily to be either, though with feminine instinct she perceived what

the girl was about, and saw through all her affectation.

'If I made the promise, I must of course keep it,' said George, 'but it

is strange I should not remember having made it.'

'I dare say you forget a great many things that were said and done at

the Decoy, but,' with a little affected sigh, 'I do not, I never shall,

I fear.'

George De Witt looked uncomfortable and awkward. 'Will not another day

do as well?'

'No, it will not, George,' said Phoebe petulantly. 'I know you have no

engagement, you said so when you volunteered to drive me to

Waldegraves.'

De Witt turned to Mehalah, and said, 'Come along with us, Glory! my

mother will be glad to see you.'

'Oh! don't trouble yourself, Miss Sharland--or Master Sharland, which is

it?'--staring first at the short petticoats, and then at the cap and

jersey.

'Come, Glory,' repeated De Witt, and looked so uncomfortable that

Mehalah readily complied with his request.

'I can give you oysters and ale, natives, you have never tasted better.'

'No ale for me, George,' said Phoebe. 'It is getting on for five

o'clock when I take a dish of tea.'

'Tea!' echoed De Witt, 'I have no such dainty on board. But I can give

you rum or brandy, if you prefer either to ale. Mother always has a

glass of grog about this time; the cockles of her heart require it, she

says.'

'You must give me your arm, George, you know I have sprained my ankle.

I really cannot walk unsupported.'

De Witt looked at Mehalah and then at Phoebe, who gave him such a

tender, entreating glance that he was unable to refuse his arm. She

leaned heavily on it, and drew very close to his side; then, turning her

head over her shoulder, with a toss of the chin, she said, 'Come along,

Mehalah!'

Glory's brow began to darken. She was displeased. George also turned

and nodded to the girl, who walked in the rear with her head down. He

signed to her to join him.

'Do you know, Glory, what mother did the other night when I failed to

turn up--that night you fetched me concerning the money that was stolen?

She was vexed at my being out late, and not abed at eleven. As you

know, I could not be so. I left the Ray as soon as all was settled, and

as you put me across to the Fresh Marsh, I got home across the pasture

and the fields as quickly as I could, but was not here till after

eleven. Mother was angry, she had pulled up the ladder, but before that

she tarred the vessel all round, and she stuck a pail of sea water atop

of the place where the ladder goes. Well, then, I came home and found

the ladder gone, so I laid hold of the rope that hangs there, and then

souse over me came the water. I saw mother was vexed, and wanted to

serve me out for being late; however, I would not be beat, so I tried to

climb the side, and got covered with tar.'

'You got in, however?'

'No, I did not, I went to the public-house, and laid the night there.'

'I would have gone through tar, water, and fire,' said Glory vehemently.

'I would not have been beat.'

'I have no doubt about it, you would,' observed George, 'but you forget

there might be worse things behind. An old woman after a stiff glass of

grog, when her monkey is up, is better left to sleep off her liquor and

her displeasure before encountered.'

'I would not tell the story,' said Mehalah; 'it does you no credit.'

'This is too bad of you, Glory! You ran me foul of her, and now

reproach me for my steering.'

'You will run into plenty of messes if you go after Mehalah at night,'

put in Phoebe with a saucy laugh.

'Glory!' said De Witt, 'come on the other side of Phoebe and give her

your arm. She is lame. She has hurt her foot, and we are coming now to

the mud.'

'Oh, I cannot think of troubling Mehalah,' said Phoebe sharply; 'you do

not mind my leaning my whole weight on you, I know, George. You did not

mind it at the Decoy.'

'Here is the ladder,' said De Witt; 'step on my foot and then you will

not dirty your shoe-leather in the mud. Don't think you will hurt me.

A light feather like you will be unfelt.'

'Do you keep the ladder down day and night?' asked Glory.

'No. It is always hauled up directly I come home. Only that one night

did mother draw it up without me. We are as safe in the "Pandora" as you

are at the Ray.'

'And there is this in the situation which is like,' said Phoebe, pertly,

'that neither can entice robbers, and need securing, as neither has

anything to lose.'

'I beg your pardon,' answered George, 'there are my savings on board.

My mother sleeps soundly, so she will not turn in till the ladder is up.

That is the same as locking the door on land. If you have money in the

till----'

'There always is money there, plenty of it too.'

'I have no doubt about it, Phoebe. Under these circumstances you do not

go to bed and leave your door open.'

'I should think not. You go first up the ladder, I will follow.

Mehalah can stop and paddle in her native mud, or come after us as suits

her best.' Turning her head to Glory she said, 'Two are company, three

are none.' Then to the young man, 'George, give me your hand to help me

on deck, you forget your manners. I fear the Decoy is where you have

left and lost them.'

She jumped on deck. Mehalah followed without asking for or expecting

assistance.

The vessel was an old collier, which George's father had bought when no

longer seaworthy for a few pounds. He had run her up on the Hard,

dismasted her, and converted her into a dwelling. In it George had been

born and reared. 'There is one advantage in living in a house such as

this,' said De Witt; 'we pay neither tax, nor tithe, nor rate.'

'Is that you?' asked a loud hard voice, and a head enveloped in a huge

mob cap appeared from the companion ladder. 'What are you doing there,

gallivanting with girls all day? Come down to me and let's have it

out.'

'Mother is touchy,' said George in a subdued voice; 'she gets a little

rough and knotty at times, but she is a rare woman for melting and

untying speedily.'

'Come here, George!' cried the rare woman.

'I am coming, mother.' He showed the two girls the ladder; Mrs. De Witt

had disappeared. 'Go down into the fore cabin, then straight on. Turn

your face to the ladder as you descend.' Phoebe hesitated. She was

awestruck by the voice and appearance of Mrs. De Witt. However, at a

sign from George she went down, and was followed by Mehalah. Bending

her head, she passed through the small fore-cabin where was George's

bunk, into the main cabin, which served as kitchen, parlour, and bedroom

to Mrs. De Witt. A table occupied the centre, and at the end was an

iron cooking stove. Everything was clean, tidy, and comfortable. On a

shelf at the side stood the chairs. Mrs. De Witt whisked one down.

'Your servant,' said she to Phoebe, with more amiability than the girl

anticipated. 'Yours too, Glory,' curtly to Mehalah.

Mrs. De Witt was not favourable to her son's attachment to Glory. She

was an imperious, strong-minded woman, a despot in her own house, and

she had no wish to see that house invaded by a daughter-in-law as strong

of will and iron-headed as herself. She wished to see George mated to a

girl whom she could browbeat and manage as she browbeat and managed her

son. George's indecision of character was due in measure to his

bringing up by such a mother. He had been cuffed and yelled at from

infancy. His intimacy with the maternal lap had been contracted head

downwards, and was connected with a stinging sensation at the rear.

Self-assertion had been beat or bawled out of him. She was not a bad,

but a despotic woman. She liked to have her own way, and she obtained

it, first with her husband, and then with her son, and the ease with

which she had mastered and maintained the sovereignty had done her as

much harm as them.

If a beggar be put on horseback he will ride to the devil, and a woman

in command will proceed to unsex herself. She was a good-hearted woman

at bottom, but then that bottom where the good heart lay was never to be

found with an anchor, but lay across the course as a shoal where deep

water was desired. Her son knew perfectly where it was not, but never

where it was. Mrs. De Witt in face somewhat resembled her nephew, Elijah

Rebow, but she was his senior by ten years. She had the same hawk-like

nose and dark eyes, but was without the wolfish jaw. Nor had she the

eager intelligence that spoke out of Elijah's features. Hers were hard

and coarse and unillumined with mind.

When she saw Phoebe enter her cabin she was both surprised and

gratified. A fair, feeble, bread-and-butter Miss, such as she held the

girl to be, was just the daughter she fancied. Were she to come to the

'Pandora' with whims and graces, the month of honey with George would

assume the taste of vinegar with her, and would end in the new

daughter's absolute submission. She would be able to convert such a

girl very speedily into a domestic drudge and a recipient of her abuse.

Men make themselves, but women are made, and the making of women,

thought Mrs. De Witt, should be in the hands of women; men botched them,

because they let them take their own way.

Mrs. De Witt never forgave her parents for having bequeathed her no

money; she could not excuse Elijah for having taken all they left,

without considering her. She found a satisfaction in discharging her

wrongs on others. She was a saving woman, and spent little money on her

personal adornment. 'What coin I drop,' she was wont to say, 'I drop in

rum, and smuggled rum is cheap.'

But though an article is cheap, a great consumption of it may cause the

item to be a serious one; and it was so with Mrs. De Witt.

The vessel to which she acted as captain, steward, and cook, was named

the 'Pandora.' The vicar was wont to remark that it was a 'Pandora's'

box full of all gusts, but minus gentle Zephyr.

'Will you take a chair?' she said obsequiously to Phoebe, placing the

chair for h er, after having first breathed on the seat and wiped it

with her sleeve. Then turning to Mehalah, she asked roughly, 'Well,

Glory! how is that old fool, your mother?'

'Better than your manners,' replied Mehalah.

'I am glad you are come, Glory,' said Mrs. De Witt, 'I want to have it

out with you. What do you mean by coming here of a night, and carrying

off my son when he ought to be under his blankets in his bunk? I won't

have it. He shall keep proper hours. Such conduct is not decent. What

do you think of that?' she asked, seating herself on the other side of

the table, and addressing Phoebe, but leaving Mehalah standing. 'What do

you think of a girl coming here after nightfall, and asking my lad to go

off for a row with her all in the dark, and the devil knows whither they

went, and the mischief they were after. It is not respectable, is it?'

'George should not have gone when she asked him,' said the girl.

'Dear Sackalive! she twists him round her little finger. He no more

dare deny her anything than he dare defy me. But I will have my boy

respectable, I can promise you. I combed his head well for him when he

came home, I did by cock! He shall not do the thing again.'

'Look here, mother,' remonstrated George; 'wash our dirty linen in

private.'

'Indeed!' exclaimed Mrs. De Witt. 'That is strange doctrine! Why, who

would know we wore any linen at all next our skin, unless we exposed it

when washed over the side of the wessel? Now you come here. I have a

bone to pick along with you, George!'

To be on a level with her son, and stare him full in the eyes, a way she

had with everyone she assailed, she sat on the table, and put her feet

on the chair.

'What has become of the money? I have been to the box, and there are

twenty pounds gone out of it, all in gold. I haven't took it, so you

must have. Now I want to know what you have done with it. I will have

it out. I endure no evasions. Where is the money? Fork it out, or I

will turn all your pockets inside out, and find and retake it. You want

no money, not you. I provide you with tobacco. Where is the money?

Twenty pounds, and all in gold. I was like a shrimp in scalding water

when I went to the box to-day and found the money gone. I turned that

red you might have said it was erysipelas. I shruck out that they might

have heard me at the City. Turn your pockets out at once.'

George looked abashed; he was cowed by his mother.

'I'll take the carving knife to you!' said the woman, 'if you do not

hand me over the cash at once.'

'Oh don't, pray don't hurt him!' cried Phoebe, interposing her arm, and

beginning to cry.

'Dear Sackalive!' exclaimed Mrs. De Witt, 'I am not aiming at his

witals, but at his pockets. Where is the money?'

'I have had it,' said Mehalah, stepping forward and standing between De

Witt and his mother. 'George has behaved generously, nobly by us. You

have heard how we were robbed of our money. We could not have paid our

rent for the Ray had not George let us have twenty pounds. He shall not

lose it.'

'You had it, you!--you!' cried Mrs. De Witt in wild and fierce

astonishment. 'Give it up to me at once.'

'I cannot do so. The greater part is gone. I paid the money to-day to

Rebow, our landlord.'

'Elijah has it! Elijah gets everything. My father left me without a

shilling, and now he gets my hard-won earnings also.'

'It seems to me, mistress, that the earnings belong to George, and

surely he has a right to do with them what he will,' said Mehalah

coldly.

'That is your opinion, is it? It is not mine.' Then she mused: 'Twenty

pounds is a fortune. One may do a great deal with such a sum as that,

Mehalah; twenty pounds is twenty pounds whatever you may say; and it

must be repaid.'

'It shall be.'

'When?'

'As soon as I can earn the money.'

Mrs. De Witt's eyes now rested on Phoebe, and she assumed a milder

manner. Her mood was variable as the colour of the sea; 'I'm obliged to

be peremptory at times,' she said; 'I have to maintain order in the

wessel. You will stay and have something to eat?'

'Thank you; your son has already promised us some oysters,--that is,

promised me.'

'Come on deck,' said George. 'We will have them there, and mother shall

brew the liquor below.'

The mother grunted a surly acquiescence.

When the three had re-ascended the ladder, the sun was setting. The

mouth of the Blackwater glittered like gold leaf fluttered by the

breath. The tide had begun to flow, and already the water had

surrounded the 'Pandora.' Phoebe and Mehalah would have to return by

boat, or be carried by De Witt.

The two girls stood side by side. The contrast between them was

striking, and the young man noticed it. Mehalah was tall, lithe, and

firm as a young pine, erect in her bearing, with every muscle well

developed, firm of flesh, her skin a rich ripe apricot, and her eyes,

now that the sun was in them, like volcanic craters, gloomy, but full of

fire. Her hair, rich to profusion, was black, yet with coppery hues in

it when seen with a side light. It was simply done up in a knot, neatly

not elaborately. Her navy-blue jersey and skirt, the scarlet of her cap

and kerchief, and of a petticoat that appeared below the skirt, made her

a rich combination of colour, suitable to a sunny clime rather than to

the misty bleak east coast. Phoebe was colourless beside her, a faded

picture, faint in outline. Her complexion was delicate as the rose, her

frame slender, her contour undulating and weak. She was the pattern of

a trim English village maiden, with the beauty of youth, and the

sweetness of ripening womanhood, _sans_ sense, _sans_ passion, _sans_

character, _sans_ everything--pretty vacuity. She seemed to feel her

own inferiority beside the gorgeous Mehalah, and to be angry at it. She

took off her bonnet, and the wind played with her yellow curls, and the

setting sun spun them into a halo of gold about her delicate face.

'Loose your hair, Mehalah,' said the spiteful girl.

'What for?'

'I want to see how it will look in the sun.'

'Do so, Glory!' begged George. 'How shining Phoebe's locks are. One

might melt and coin them into guineas.'

Mehalah pulled out a pin, and let her hair fall, a flood of warm black

with red gleams in it. It reached her waist, and the wind scattered it

about her like a veil.

If Phoebe's hair resembled a spring fleecy cloud gilded by the sun,

buoyant in the soft warm air, that of Mehalah was like an angry thunder

shower with a promise of sunshine gleaming through the rain.

'Black or gold, which do you most admire, George?' asked the saucy girl.

'That is not a fair question to put to me,' said De Witt in reply; but

he put his fingers through the dark tresses of Mehalah, and raised them

to his lips. Phoebe bit her tongue.

'George,' she said sharply. 'See the sun is in my hair. I am in glory.

That is better than being so only in name.'

'But your glory is short-lived, Phoebe; the sun will be set in a minute,

and then it is no more.'

'And hers,' she said spitefully, 'hers--you imply--endures eternally. I

will go home.'

'Do not be angry, Phoebe, there cannot be thunder in such a golden

cloud. There can be nothing worse than a rainbow.'

'What have you got there about your neck, George?' she asked, pacified

by the compliment.

'A riband.'

'Yes, and something at the end of it--a locket containing a tuft of

black horsehair.'

'No, there is not.'

'Call me "mate," as you did when we were at the Decoy. How happy we

were there, but then we were alone, that makes all the difference.'

George did not answer. Mehalah's hot blood began to fire her dark

cheek.

'Tell me what you have got attached to that riband; if you love me, tell

me, George. We girls are always inquisitive.'

'A keepsake, Phoebe.'

'A keepsake! Then I must see it.' She snatched at the riband where it

showed above De Witt's blue jersey.

'I noticed it before, when you were so attentive at the Decoy.'

Mehalah interposed her arm, and placing her open hand on George's

breast, thrust him out of the reach of the insolent flirt.

'For shame of you, how dare you behave thus!' she exclaimed.

'Oh dear!' cried Phoebe, 'I see it all. Your keepsake. How

sentimental! Oh, George! I shall die of laughing.'

She went into pretended convulsions of merriment. 'I cannot help it,

this is really too ridiculous.'

Mehalah was trembling with anger. Her gipsy blood was in flame. There

is a flagrant spirit in such veins which soon bursts into an explosion

of fire.

Phoebe stepped up to her, and holding her delicate fingers beside the

strong hand of Mehalah, whispered, 'Look at these little fingers. They

will pluck your love out of your rude clutch.' She saw that she was

stinging her rival past endurance. She went on aloud, casting a saucy

side glance at De Witt, 'I should like to add my contribution to the

trifle that is collecting for you since you lost your money. I suppose

there is a brief. Off with the red cap and pass it round. Here is a

crown.'

The insult was unendurable. Mehalah's passion overpowered her. In a

moment she had caught up the girl, and without considering what she was

doing, she flung her into the sea. Then she staggered back and panted

for breath.

A cry of dismay from De Witt. He rushed to the side.

'Stay!' said Mehalah, restraining him with one hand and pressing the

other to her heart. 'She will not drown.'

The water was not deep. Several fisherlads had already sprung to the

rescue, and Phoebe was drawn limp and dripping towards the shore.

Mehalah stooped, picked up the girl's straw hat, and slung it after her.

A low laugh burst from someone riding in a boat under the side of the

vessel.

'Well done, Glory! You served the pretty vixen right. I love you for

it.'

She knew the voice. It was that of Rebow. He must have heard, perhaps

seen all.

*CHAPTER VII.*

*LIKE A BAD PENNY.*

'For shame, Glory!' exclaimed De Witt when he had recovered from his

surprise but not from his dismay. 'How could you do such a wicked and

unwomanly act?'

'For shame, George!' answered Mehalah, gasping for breath. 'You stood

by all the while, and listened whilst that jay snapped and screamed at

me, and tormented me to madness, without interposing a word.'

'I am angry. Your behaviour has been that of a savage!' pursued George,

thoroughly roused. 'I love you, Glory, you know I do. But this is

beyond endurance.'

'If you are not prepared, or willing to right me, I must defend myself,'

said Mehalah; 'and I will do it. I bore as long as I could bear,

expecting every moment that you would silence her, and speak out, and

say, "Glory is mine, and I will not allow her to be affronted." But not

a step did you take, not a finger did you lift; and then, at last, the

fire in my heart burst forth and sent up a smoke that darkened my eyes

and bewildered my brain. I could not see, I could not think. I did not

know, till all was over, what I had done. George! I know I am rough and

violent, when these rages come over me, I am not to be trifled with.'

'I hope they never may come over you when you have to do with me,' said

De Witt sulkily.

'I hope not, George. Do not trifle with me, do not provoke me. I have

the gipsy in me, but under control. All at once the old nature bursts

loose, and then I do I know not what. I cannot waste my energy in words

like some, and I cannot contend with such a girl as that with the

tongue.'

'What will folks say of this?'

'I do not care. They may talk. But now, George, let me warn you. That

girl has been trifling with you, and you have been too blind and foolish

to see her game and keep her at arm's length.'

'You are jealous because I speak to another girl besides you.'

'No, I am not. I am not one to harbour jealousy. Whom I trust I trust

with my whole heart. Whom I believe I believe with my entire soul. I

know you too well to be jealous. I know as well that you could not be

false to me in thought or in act as I know my truth to you. I cannot

doubt you, for had I thought it possible that you would give me occasion

to doubt, I could not have loved you.'

'Sheer off!' exclaimed George, looking over his shoulder. 'Here comes

the old woman.'

The old woman appeared, scrambling on deck, her cap-frills bristling

about her ears, like the feathers of an angry white cockatoo.

'What is all this? By jaggers! where is Phoebe Musset? What have you

done with her? Where have you put her? What were those screams about?'

'Sheer off while you may,' whispered De Witt; 'the old woman is not to

be faced when wexed no more than a hurricane. Strike sail, and run

before the wind.'

'What have you done with the young woman? Where is she? Produce the

corpse. I heard her as she shruck out.'

'She insulted me,' said Mehalah, still agitated by passion, 'and I flung

her overboard.'

Mrs. De Witt rushed to the bulwarks, and saw the dripping damsel being

carried--she could not walk--from the Strand to her father's house.

'You chucked her overboard!' exclaimed the old woman, and she caught up

a swabbing-mop. 'How dare you? She was my visitor; she came to sip my

grog and eat my natives at my hospitable board, and you chucked her into

the sea as though she were a picked cockleshell!'

'She insulted me,' said Mehalah angrily.

'I will teach you to play the dog-fish among my herrings, to turn this

blessed peaceful "Pandora" into a cage of bears!' cried Mrs. De Witt,

charging with her mop.

Mehalah struck the weapon down, and put her foot on it.

'Take care!' she exclaimed, her voice trembling with passion. 'In

another moment you will have raised the devil in me again.'

'He don't take much raising,' vociferated Mrs. De Witt. 'I will teach

you to assault a genteel young female who comes a wisiting of me and my

son in our own wessel. Do you think you are already mistress here?

Does the "Pandora" belong to you? Am I to be chucked overboard along

with every lass that wexes you? Am I of no account any more in the eyes

of my son, that I suckled from my maternal bottle, and fed with egg and

pap out of my own spoon?'

'For heaven's sake,' interrupted George, 'sheer off, Mehalah. Mother is

the dearest old lady in the world when she is sober. She is a Pacific

Ocean when not vexed with storms. She will pacify presently.'

'I will go, George,' said Mehalah, panting with anger, her veins

swollen, her eye sparkling, and her lip quivering; 'I will go, and I

will never set foot in this boat again, till you and your mother have

asked my pardon for this conduct; she for this outrage, you for having

allowed me to receive insult, white-livered coward that you are.'

She flung herself down the ladder, and waded ashore.

Mrs. De Witt's temper abated as speedily as it rose. She retired to her

grog. She set feet downwards on the scene; the last of her stalwart

form to disappear was the glowing countenance set in white rays.

George was left to his own reflections. He saw Mehalah get into her

boat and row away. He waved his cap to her, but she did not return the

salute. She was offended grievously. George was placed in a difficult

situation. The girl to whom he was betrothed was angry, and had

declared her determination not to tread the planks of the 'Pandora'

again, and the girl who had made advances to him, and whom his mother

would have favoured, had been ejected unceremoniously from it, and

perhaps injured, at all events irretrievably offended.

It was incumbent on him to go to the house of the Mussets and enquire

for Phoebe. He could do no less; so he descended the ladder and took

his way thither.

Phoebe was not hurt, she was only frightened. She had been wet through,

and was at once put to bed. She cried a great deal, and old Musset vowed

he would take out a summons against the aggressor. Mrs. Musset wept in

sympathy with her daughter, and then fell on De Witt for having

permitted the assault to take place unopposed.

'How could I interfere?' he asked, desperate with his difficulties. 'It

was up and over with her before I was aware.'

'My girl is not accustomed to associate with cannibals,' said Mrs.

Musset, drawing herself out like a telescope.

As George returned much crestfallen to the beach, now deserted, for the

night had come on, he was accosted by Elijah Rebow.

'George!' said the owner of Red Hall, laying a hand on his cousin's

shoulder, 'you ought not to be here.'

'Where ought I to be, Elijah? It seems to me that I have been

everywhere to-day where I ought not to be. I am left in a hopeless

muddle.'

'You ought not to allow Glory to part from you in anger.'

'How can I help it? I am sorry enough for the quarrel, but you must

allow her conduct was trying to the temper.'

'She had great provocation. I wonder she did not kill that girl. She

has a temper, has Mehalah, that does not stick at trifles; but she is

generous and forgiving.'

'She is so angry with me that I doubt I shall not be able to bring her

back to good humour.'

'I doubt so, too, unless you go the right way to work with her; and that

is not what you are doing now.'

'Why, what ought I to do, Elijah?'

'Do you want to break with her, George? Do you want to be off with

Glory and on with milk-face?'

'No, I do not.'

'You are set on Glory still? You will cleave to her till naught but

death shall you part, eh?'

'Naught else.'

'George! That other girl has good looks and money. Give up Mehalah,

and hitch on to Phoebe. I know your mother will be best pleased if you

do, and it will suit your interests well. Glory has not a penny, Phoebe

has her pockets lined. Take my word for it you can have milk-face for

the asking, and now is your opportunity for breaking with Glory if you

have a mind to do so.'

'But I have not, Elijah.'

'What can Glory be to you, or you to Glory? She with her great heart,

her stubborn will, her strong soul, and you--you--bah!'

'Elijah, say what you like, but I will hold to Glory till death us do

part.'

'Your hand on it. You swear that.'

'Yes, I do. I want a wife who can row a boat, a splendid girl, the

sight of whom lights up the whole heart.'

'I tell you Glory is not one for you. See how passionate she is, she

blazes up in a moment, and then she is one to shiver you if you offend

her. No, she needs a man of other stamp than you to manage her.'

'She shall be mine,' said George: 'I want no other.'

'This is your fixed resolve?'

'My fixed resolve.'

'For better for worse?'

'For better for worse, till death us do part.'

'Till death you do part,' Elijah jerked out a laugh. 'George, if you are

not the biggest fool I have set eyes on for many a day, I am much

mistaken.'

'Why so?'

'Because you are acting contrary to your interests. You are unfit for

Glory, you do not now, you never will, understand her.'

'What do you mean?'

'You let the girl row away, offended, angry, eating out her heart, and

you show no sign that you desire reconciliation.'

'I have though. I waved my hat to her, but she took no notice.'

'Waved your hat!' repeated Rebow, with suppressed scorn. 'You never

will read that girl's heart, and understand her moods. Oh, you fool!

you fool! straining your arms after the unapproachable, unattainable,

star! If she were mine----' he stamped and clenched his fists.

'But she is not going to be yours, Elijah,' said George with a careless

laugh.

'No, of course not,' said Elijah, joining in the laugh. 'She is yours

till death you do part.'

'Tell me, what have I done wrong?' asked De Witt.

'There--you come to me, after all, to interpret the writing for you. It

is there, written in letters of fire, Mene, mene, tekel, Upharsin! Thou

art weighed in the balance and found wanting, and this night shall thy

kingdom be taken from thee and given to----'

'Elijah, I do not understand this language. What ought I to do to

regain Mehalah's favour?'

'You must go after her. Do you not feel it in every fibre, that you

must, you mud-blood? Go after her at once. She is now at home, sitting

alone, brooding over the offence, sore at your suffering her to be

insulted without making remonstrance. Her wrong will grow into a

mountain in her heart unless it be rooted up to-night. Her pride will

flame up as her passion dies away, and she will not let you speak to her

another tender word. She will hate and despise you. The little crack

will split into a wide chasm. I heard her call you a white-livered

coward.'

'She did; you need not repeat it. She will be sorry when she is cool.'

'That is just it, George. As soon as passion abates, her generous heart

will turn to self-reproach, and she will be angry with herself for what

she has done. She will accuse herself with having been violent, with

having acted unworthily of her dignity, with having grown in too great a

heat about a worthless doll. She will be vexed with herself, ashamed of

herself, unable in the twilight of her temper to excuse herself.

Perhaps she is now in tears. But this mood will not last. To-morrow her

pride will have returned in strength, she will think over her wrongs and

harden herself in stubbornness; she will know that the world condemns

her, and she will retire into herself in defiance of the world. Look up

at the sky. Do you see, there is Charles' Wain, and there is

Cassiopaea's Chair. There the Serpent and there the Swan. I can see

every figure plain, but your landsman rarely can. So I can see every

constellation in the dark heaven of Mehalah's soul, but you cannot. You

would be wrecked if you were to sail by it. Now, George, take Glory

while she is between two moods, or lose her for ever. Go after her at

once, George, ask her forgiveness, blame yourself and your mother, blame

that figure-head miss, and she will forgive you frankly, at once. She

will fall on your neck and ask your pardon for what she has done.'

'I believe you are right,' said De Witt, musing.

'I know I am. As I have been working in my forge, I have watched the

flame on the hearth dance and waver to the clinking of the hammer.

There was something in the flame, I know not what, which made it wince

or flare, as the blows fell hard or soft. So there are things in Nature

respond to each other without your knowing why it is, and in what their

sympathy consists. So I know all that passes in Mehalah's mind. I feel

my own soul dance and taper to her pulses. If you had not been a fool,

George, you would already have been after her. What are you staying for

now?'

'My mother; what will she say?'

'Do you care for her more than for Glory? If you think of her now, you

lose Glory for ever. Once more I ask you, do you waver? Are you

inclined to forsake Mehalah for milk-face?'

'I am not,' said De Witt impatiently; 'why do you go on with this? I

have said already that Glory is mine.'

'_Unless_ death you do part.'

'_Till_ death us do part, is what I said.'

'Then make haste. An hour hence the Ray house will be closed, and the

girl and her mother in bed.'

'I will get my boat and row thither at once.'

'You need not do that. I have my boat here, jump in. We will each take

an oar, and I will land you on the Ray.'

'You take a great interest in my affairs.'

'I take a very great interest in them,' said Rebow dryly.

'Lead the way, then.'

'Follow me.'

Rebow walked forward, over the shingle towards his boat, then suddenly

turned, and asked in a suppressed voice, 'Do you know whither you are

going?'

'To the Ray.'

'To the Ray, of course. Is there anyone on the Hard?'

'Not a soul. Had I not better go to my mother before I start and say

that I am going with you?'

'On no account. She will not allow you to go to the Ray. You know she

will not.'

De Witt was not disposed to dispute this.

'You are sure,' asked Rebow again, 'that there is no one on the Hard.

No one sees you enter my boat. No one sees you push off with me. No one

sees whither we go.'

'Not a soul.'

'Then here goes!' Elijah Rebow thrust the boat out till she floated,

sprang in and took his oar. De Witt was already oar in hand on his

seat.

'The red curtain is over the window at the Leather Bottle,' said George.

'No signalling to-night, the schooner is in the offing.'

'A red signal. It may mean more than you understand.'

They rowed on.

'Is there a hand on that crimson pane,' asked Rebow in a low tone, 'with

the fingers dipped in fire, writing?'

'Not that I can see.'

'Nor do you see the writing, Mene, mene, tekel, Upharsin.'

'You jest, Elijah!'

'A strange jest. Perhaps the writing is in the vulgar tongue, thou art

weighed and found wanting, feeble fool, and thy kingdom is taken from

thee, and given to ME.'

Mehalah sat by the hearth, on the floor, in the farmhouse at the Ray.

Her mother was abed and asleep. The girl had cast aside the cap and

thrown off her jersey. Her bare arms were folded on her lap; and the

last flicker of the red embers fell on her exposed and heaving bosom.

Elijah Rebow on the Hard at Mersea had read accurately the workings and

transitions in the girl's heart. Precisely that was taking place which

he had described. The tempest of passion had roared by, and now a tide

of self-reproach rose and overflowed her soul. She was aware that she

had acted wrongly, that without adequate cause she had given way to an

outburst of blind fury. Phoebe was altogether too worthless a creature

for her jealousy, too weak to have been subjected to such treatment.

Her anger against George had expired. He did well to be indignant with

her. It was true he had not rebuked Phoebe nor restrained his mother,

but the reason was clear. He was too forbearing with women to offend

them, however frivolous and intemperate they might be. He had relied on

the greatness of his Glory's heart to stand above and disregard these

petty storms.

She had thrown off her boots and stockings, and sat with her bare feet

on the hearth. The feet moved nervously in rhythm to her thoughts. She

could not keep them still. Her trouble was great. Tears were not on

her cheeks; in this alone was Elijah mistaken. Her dark eyes were fixed

dreamily on the dying fire--they were like the marsh-pools with the

will-o'-the-wisp in each. They did not see the embers, they looked

through the iron fireback, and the brick wall, over the saltings, over

the water, into infinity.

She loved George. Her love for him was the one absorbing passion of her

life. She loved her mother, but no one else--only her and George. She

had no one else to love. She was without relations. She had been

brought up without playfellows on that almost inaccessible islet, only

occasionally visiting Mersea, and then only for an hour. She had seen

and known nothing of the world save the world of morass. She had mixed

with no life, save the life of the flocks on the Ray, of the fishes and

the seabirds. Her mind hungered for something more than the little

space of the Ray could supply. Her soul had wings and sought to spread

them and soar away, whither, however, she did not know. She had a dim

prevision of something better than the sordid round of common cares

which made up the life she knew.

With a heart large and full of generous impulses, she had spent her

girlhood without a recognition of its powers. She felt that there was a

voice within which talked in a tongue other from that which struck her

ears each day, but what that language was, and what the meaning of that

voice, she did not know. She had met with De Witt. Indeed they had

known each other, so far as meeting at rare intervals went, for many

years; she had not seen enough of him to know him as he really was, she

therefore loved him as she idealised him. The great cretaceous sea was

full of dissolved silex penetrating the waters, seeking to condense and

solidify. But there was nothing in the ocean then save twigs of weed

and chips of shells, and about them that hardest of all elements drew

together and grew to adamant. The soul of Mehalah was some such vague

sea full of ununderstood, unestimated elements, seeking their several

centres for precipitation, and for want of better, condensing about

straws. To her, George De Witt was the ideal of all that was true and

manly. She was noble herself, and her ideal was the perfection of

nobility. She was rude indeed, and the image of her worship was rough

hewn, but still with the outline and carriage of a hero. She could not,

she would not, suppose that George De Witt was less great than her fancy

pictured.

The thought of life with him filled her with exultation. She could leap

up, like the whooper swan, spread her silver wings, and shout her song

of rapture and of defiance, like a trumpet. He would open to her the

gates into that mysterious world into which she now only peeped, he

would solve for her the perplexities of her troubled soul, he would lead

her to the light which would illumine her eager mind.

Nevertheless she was ready to wait patiently the realisation of her

dream. She was in no hurry. She knew that she could not live in the

same house or boat with George's mother. She could not leave her own

ailing mother, wholly dependent on herself. Mehalah contentedly tarried

for what the future would unfold, with that steady confidence in the

future that youth so generally enjoys.

The last embers went out, and all was dark within. No sound was audible,

save the ticking of the clock, and the sigh of the wind about the eaves

and in the thorntrees. Mehalah did not stir. She dreamed on with her

eyes open, still gazing into space, but now with no marsh fires in the

dark orbs. The grey night sky and the stars looked in at the window at

her.

Suddenly, as she thus sat, an inexpressible distress came over her, a

feeling as though George were in danger, and were crying to her for

help. She raised herself on the floor, and drew her feet under her, and

leaning her chin on her fingers listened. The wind moaned under the

door; everything else was hushed.

Her fear came over her like an ague fit. She wiped, her forehead, there

were cold drops beading it. She turned faint at heart; her pulse stood

still. Her soul seemed straining, drawn as by invisible attraction, and

agonised because the gross body restrained it. She felt assured that

she was wanted. She must not remain there. She sprang to her feet and

sped to the door, unbolted it and went forth. The sky was cloudless,

thick strewn with stars. Jupiter glowed over Mersea Isle. A red gleam

was visible, far away at the 'City.' It shone from the tavern window, a

coloured star set in ebony. She went within again. The fire was out.

Perhaps this was the vulgar cause of the strange sensation. She must

shake it off. She went to her room and threw herself on the bed.

Again, as though an icy wave washed over her, lying on a frozen shore,

came that awful fear, and then, again, that tension of her soul to be

free, to fly somewhere, away from the Ray, but whither she could not

tell.

Where was George? Was he at home? Was he safe? She tried in vain to

comfort herself with the thought that he ran no danger, that he was

protected by her talisman. She felt that without an answer to these

questions she could not rest, that her night would be a fever dream.

She hastily drew on her jersey and boots; she slipped out of the house,

unloosed her punt, and shot over the water to Mersea. The fleet was

silent, but as she flew into the open channel she could hear the distant

throb of oars on rowlocks, away in the dark, out seaward. She heard the

screech of an owl about the stacks of a farm near the waterside. She

caught as she sped past the Leather Bottle muffled catches of the

nautical songs trolled by the topers within.

She met no boat, she saw no one. She ran her punt on the beach and

walked to the 'Pandora,' now far above the water. The ladder was still

down; therefore George was not within. 'Who goes there?' asked the

voice of Mrs. De Witt. 'Is that you, George? Are you coming home at

last? Where have you been all this while?'

Mehalah drew back. George was not only not there, but his mother knew

not where he was.

The cool air and the exercise had in the mean time dissipated Mehalah's

fear. She argued with herself that George was in the tavern, behind the

red curtain, remaining away from his mother's abusive tongue as long as

he might. His boat lay on the Hard. She saw it, with the oars in it.

He was therefore not on the water; he was on land, and on land he was

safe. He wore the medal about his neck, against his heart.

How glad and thankful she was that she had given him the precious charm

that guarded from all danger save drowning.

She rowed back to the Ray, more easy in her mind, and anchored her punt.

She returned cautiously over the saltings, picking her way by the

starlight, leaping or avoiding the runnels and pools, now devoid of

water, but deep in mud most adhesive and unfathomable.

She felt a little uneasy lest her mother should have awoke during her

absence, and missed her daughter. She entered the house softly; the door

was without a lock, and merely hasped, and stole to her mother's room.

The old woman was wrapt in sleep, and breathing peacefully.

Mehalah drew off her boots, and seated herself again by the hearth. She

was not sleepy. She would reason with herself, and account for the

sensation that had affected her.

Hark! she heard some one speak. She listened attentively with a flutter

at her heart. It was her mother. She stole back on tiptoe to her. The

old woman was dreaming, and talking in her sleep. She had her hands out

of bed together and parted them, and waved them, 'No, Mehalah, no! Not

George! not George!' she gave emphasis with her hand, then suddenly

grasped her daughter's wrist, 'But Elijah!' Next moment her grasp

relaxed, and she slept calmly, apparently dreamlessly again.

Mehalah went back.

It was strange. No sooner was she in her place by the hearth again than

the same distress came over her. It was as though a black cloud had

swept over her sky and blotted out every light, so that neither sun, nor

moon, nor star appeared, as though she were left drifting without a

rudder and without a compass in an unknown sea, under murky night with

only the phosphorescent flash of the waves about, not illumining the way

but intensifying its horror. It was as though she found herself

suddenly in some vault, in utter, rayless blackness, knowing neither how

she came there nor whether there was a way out.

Oppressed by this horror, she lifted her eyes to the window, to see a

star, to see a little light of any sort. What she there saw turned her

to stone.

At the window, obscuring the star's rays, was the black figure of a man.

She could not see the face, she saw only the shape of the head, and

arms, and hands spread out against the panes. The figure stood looking

in and at her.

Her eyes filmed over, and her head swam.

She heard the casement struck, and the tear of the lead and tinkle of

broken glass on the brick floor, and then something fell at her feet

with a metallic click.

When she recovered herself, the figure was gone, but the wind piped and

blew chill through the rent lattice.

How many minutes passed before she recovered herself sufficiently to

rise and light a candle she never knew, nor did it matter. When she had

obtained a light she stooped with it, and groped upon the floor.

* * * * * *

Mrs. Sharland was awakened by a piercing scream.

She sprang from her bed and rushed into the adjoining room. There stood

Mehalah, in the light of the broken candle lying melting and flaring on

the floor, her hair fallen about her shoulders, her face the hue of

death, her lips bloodless, her eyes distended with terror, gazing on the

medal of Paracelsus, which she held in her hand, the sea-water dripping

from the wet riband wound about her fingers.

'Mother! Mother! He is drowned. I have seen him. He came and

returned me this.'

Then she fell senseless on the floor, with the medal held to her heart.

*CHAPTER VIII.*

*WHERE IS HE?*

If there had been excitement on the Hard at Mersea on the preceding day

when the schooner anchored off it, there was more this morning. The

war-vessel had departed no one knew whither, and nobody cared. The bay

was full of whiting; the waters were alive with them, and the gulls were

flickering over the surface watching, seeing, plunging. The fishermen

were getting their boats afloat, and all appliances ready for making

harvest of that fish which is most delicious when fresh from the water,

most flat when out of it a few hours.

Down the side of the 'Pandora' tumbled Mrs. De Witt, her nose sharper

than usual, but her cap more flabby. She wore a soldier's jacket,

bought second-hand at Colchester. Her face was of a warm complexion,

tinctured with rum and wrath. She charged into the midst of the

fishermen, asking in a loud imperative tone for her son.

To think that after the lesson delivered him last week, the boy should

have played truant again! The world was coming to a pretty pass. The

last trumpet might sound for aught Mrs. De Witt cared, and involve

mankind in ruin, for mankind was past 'worriting' about.

George had defied her, and the nautical population of the 'City' had

aided and abetted him in his revolt.

'This is what comes of galiwanting,' said Mrs. De Witt; 'first he

galiwants Mehalah, and then Phoebe. No good ever came of it. I'd pass a

law, were I king, against it, but that smuggling in love would go on as

free under it as smuggling in spirits. Young folks now-a-days is grown

that wexing and wicious---- Where is my George?' suddenly laying hold

of Jim Morell.

The old sailor jumped as if he had been caught by a revenue officer.

'Bless my life, Mistress! You did give me a turn. What is it you want?

A pinch of snuff?'

'I want my George,' said the excited mother. 'Where is he skulking to?'

'How should I know?' asked Morell, 'he is big enough to look after

himself.'

'He is among you,' said Mrs. De Witt; 'I know you have had him along

with a party of you at the Leather Bottle yonder. You men get together,

and goad the young on into rebellion against their parents.'

'I know nothing about George. I have not even seen him.'

'I've knitted his guernseys and patched his breeches these twenty years,

and now he turns about and deserts me.'

'Tom!' shouted Morell to a young fisherman, 'have you seen George De

Witt this morning?'

'No, I have not, Jim.'

'Oh, you young fellows!' exclaimed the old lady, loosing her hold on the

elder sailor, and charging among and scattering the young boatmen.

'Where is my boy? What have you done with him that he did not come home

last night, and is nowhere wisible?'

'He went to the Mussets' last evening, Mistress. We have not set eyes on

him since.'

'Oh! he went there, did he? Galiwanting again!' She turned about and

rushed over the shingle towards the grocery, hardware, drapery, and

general store.

Before entering that realm of respectability, Mrs. De Witt assumed an

air of consequence and gravity.

She reduced her temper under control, and with an effort called up an

urbane smile on her hard features when saluting Mrs. Musset, who stood

behind the counter.

'Can I serve you with anything, ma'am?' asked the mother of Phoebe, with

cold self-possession.

'I want my George.'

'We don't keep him in stock.'

'He was here last night.'

'Do you suppose we kept him here the night? Are you determined to

insult us, madam? You have been drinking, and have forgot yourself and

where you are. We wish to see no more of your son. My Phoebe is not

accustomed to demean herself by association with cannibals. It is

unfortunate that she should have stepped beyond her sphere yesterday,

but she has learned a lesson by it which will be invaluable for the

future. I do not know, I do not care, whether the misconduct was that

of your son or of your daughter-in-law. Birds of a feather flock

together, and lambs don't consort with wolves. I beg, madam, that it be

an understood matter between the families that, except in the way of

business, as tobacco, sugar, currants, or calico, intimacy must cease.'

'Oh indeed!' exclaimed Mrs. De Witt, the colour mottling her cheek.

'You mean to insinuate that our social grades are so wery different.'

'Providence, madam, has made distinctions in human beings as in

currants. Some are all fruit, and some half gravel.'

'You forget,' said Mrs. De Witt, 'that I was a Rebow--a Rebow of Red

Hall. It was thence I inherit the blood in my weins and the bridge of

my nose.'

'And that was pretty much all you did inherit from them,' observed Mrs.

Musset. 'Much value they must be to you, as you have nothing else to

boast of.'

'Oh, indeed, Mistress Musset!'

'Indeed, Mistress De Witt!' with a profound curtsey.

Mrs. De Witt attempted an imitation, but having been uninstructed in

deportment as a child, and inexperienced in riper years, she got her

limbs entangled, and when she had arrived at a sitting posture was

unable to extricate herself with ease.

In attempting to recover her erect position she precipitated herself

against a treacle barrel and upset it. A gush of black saccharine matter

spread over the floor.