Mehalah. Baring-Gould Sabine

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.

      Phoebe Musset intended some day to marry. 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.

      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 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.

      De Witt descended and helped her to alight, then 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 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. "You have forgotten your promise."

      "What 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 � 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 with an amused look. She was neither angry nor jealous. She despised Phoebe too heartily to be either, though she perceived what the girl was about, and saw through all her affectation.

      "If I made the promise, I must 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, and 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.

      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. 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."

      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 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. I left the Ray as soon as all was settled, and I got home across the fields as quickly as I could, but was not here till after eleven. Mother 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. I laid hold of the rope that hangs there, and then souse over me came the water. 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."

      "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."

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

      "No. It is always hauled up directly I come home. We are as safe in the Pandora as you are at the Ray."

      Phoebe 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, galliwanting 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 was awe-struck by the appearance of Mrs. De Witt. However, at a sign from George she went down, and was followed by Mehalah. They 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,