Mehalah (Gothic Classic). Baring-Gould Sabine

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