THE WITCH'S HEAD (Occult & Supernatural Thriller). Henry Rider Haggard

she did not know what a blessing it is to be able really to /love/ a man at all, young, middle-aged, or old. Many women wait till they cannot love without shame to make that discovery. Perhaps she forgot that Ernest's youth was a fault which would mend day by day, and that he had abilities which, if she would consent to inspire them, might lead him to great things. At any rate, two facts remained in her mind after much thinking: she loved him with all her heart, and of it she was ashamed.

      But as yet she could not make up her mind to any fixed course. It would have been easy to crush poor Ernest, to tell him that his pretensions were ridiculous, to send him away, or to go away herself, and so to make an end of a position that she felt was growing absurd, and which we may be sure her elder sister Florence did nothing to make more pleasant. But she could not do it; that was the long and the short of the matter. The idea of living without Ernest made her feel cold all over; it seemed to her that the only hours that she really did live were the hours which they spent together, and that when he went away he took her heart with him. No, she could not make up her mind to that; the thought was too cruel. Then there was the other alternative, to encourage him a little and become engaged to him, to brave everything for his sake. But as yet she could not make up her mind to that either.

      Eva Ceswick was very loving, very sweet and very good, but she did not possess a determined mind.

      CHAPTER XII

       DEEPER YET

       Table of Content

      While Ernest was wooing and Eva doubting, Time, whose interest in earthly affairs is that of the sickle in the growing crop, went on his way as usual.

      The end of August came, as it has come so many thousand times since this globe gave its first turn in space, as it will come for many thousand times more, till at last, its appointed course run out, the world darkens, quivers, and grows still; and, behold! Ernest was still wooing, Eva still doubting.

      One evening--it was a very beautiful evening--this pair were walking together on the seashore. Whether they met by appointment or by accident does not matter; they did meet, and there they were, strolling along together, as fully charged with intense feeling as a thunder-cloud with electricity and almost as quiet. The storm had not yet burst.

      To listen to the talk of these two, they might have met for the first time yesterday. It was chiefly about the weather.

      Presently, in the course of their wanderings, they came to a little sailing-boat drawn up upon the beach--not far up, however, just out of the reach of the waves. By this boat, in an attitude of intense contemplation, there stood an ancient mariner. His hands were in his pockets, his pipe was in his mouth, his eyes were fixed upon the deep. Apparently he did not notice their approach till they were within two yards of him. Then he turned, "dashed" himself, and asked the lady, with a pull of his grizzled forelock, if she would not take a sail.

      Ernest looked surprised.

      "How's the wind?" he asked.

      "Straight on shore, sir; will turn with the turn of the tide, sir, and bring you back."

      "Will you come for a bit of a sail, Eva?"

      "O no, thank you. I must be getting home; it is seven o'clock."

      "There is no hurry for you to get home. Your aunt and Florence have gone to tea with the Smythes."

      "Indeed, I cannot come; I could not think of such a thing."

      Her words were unequivocal, but the ancient mariner put a strange interpretation upon them. First he hauled up the little sail, and then, placing his brown hands against the stern of the boat, he rested his weight upon them, and caused her to travel far enough into the waves to float her bow.

      "Now, miss."

      "I am not coming, indeed."

      "/Now/, miss."

      "I will /not/ come, Ernest."

      "Come," said Ernest, quietly holding out his hand to help her in.

      She took it and got in. Ernest and the mariner gave a strong shove, and as the light boat took the water the former leaped in, and at the same second a puff of wind caught the sail, and took them ten yards out or more.

      "Why, the sailor is left behind!" said Eva.

      "Ernest gave a twist to the tiller to get the boat's head straight off shore, and then leisurely looked round. The mariner was standing as they had found him, his hands in his pockets, his pipe in his mouth, his eyes fixed upon the deep.

      "He doesn't seem to mind it," he said, meditatively.

      "Yes, but I do; you must go back and fetch him."

      Thus appealed to, Ernest went through some violent manoeuvres with the tiller, without producing any marked effect on the course of the boat, which by this time had got out of the shelter of the cliff, and was bowling along merrily.

      "Wait till we get clear of the draught from the cliff, and I will bring her round."

      But when at last they were clear from the draught of the cliff, and he slowly got her head round, lo and behold, the mariner had vanished!

      "How unfortunate!" said Ernest, getting her head towards the open sea again; "he has probably gone to his tea." Eva tried hard to get angry, but somehow she could not: she only succeeded in laughing.

      "If I thought that you had done this on purpose, I would never come out with you again."

      Ernest looked horrified. "On purpose!" he said; and the subject dropped.

      They were sitting side by side in the stern-sheets of the boat, and the sun was just dipping all red-hot into the ocean. Under the lee of the cliff there were cool shadows; before them was a path of glory that led to a golden gate. The air was very sweet, and for those two all the world was lovely; there was no sorrow on the earth, there were no storms upon the sea.

      Eva took off her hat, and let the sweet breeze play upon her brow. Then she leaned over the side, and, dipping her hand into the cool water, watched the little track it made.

      "Eva."

      "Yes, Ernest."

      "Do you know I am going away?"

      The hand was withdrawn with a start.

      "Going away! when?"

      "The day after to-morrow; to Guernsey first, then to France."

      "And when are you coming back again?"

      "I think that depends upon you, Eva."

      The hand went back into the water. They were a mile or more from the shore now. Ernest manipulated the sail and tiller so as to sail slowly parallel with the coast-line. Then he spoke again.

      "Eva."

      No answer.

      "Eva, for God's sake look at me!"

      There was something in his voice that forced her to obey. She took her hand out of the water and turned her eyes on to his face. It was pale, and the lips were quivering.

      "I love you," he said, in a low, choked voice.

      She grew angry. "Why did you bring me here? I will go home. This is nonsense; you are nothing but a boy!"

      There are moments in life when the human face is capable of conveying a more intense and vivid impression than any words, when it seems to speak to the very soul in a language of its own. And so it was with Ernest now; he made no answer to her reproaches, but, if that were possible, his features grew paler yet, and his eyes, shining like stars, fixed themselves upon her, and drew her to him. What they said she and he knew alone, nor could any words convey it, for the tongue in which they talked is not spoken in this world.

      A moment still she wavered, fighting against the sweet mastery of his will with all her woman's strength, and then--O Heaven! it was done, and his arms were round