Mehalah. S. (Sabine) Baring-Gould
these without a light on a dark night is not safe even to one knowing the lie of the land.
A little light still lingered in the sky. There was a yellow grey glow in the west over the Bradwell shore. Its fringe of trees, and old barn chapel standing across the walls of the buried city Othona, stood sombre against the light, as though dabbed in pitch on a faded golden ground. The water was still, as no wind was blowing, and it reflected the sky and the stars that stole out, with such distinctness that the boat seemed to be swimming in the sky, among black tatters of clouds, these being the streaks of land that broke the horizon and the reflection.
Gulls were screaming, and curlew uttered their mournful cry. Mehalah rowed swiftly down the Rhyn, as the channel was called that divided the Ray from the mainland, and that led to the 'hard' by the Rose inn, and formed the highway by which it drew its supplies, and from which every farm in the parish of Peldon carried its casks of strong liquor. To the west extended a vast marsh from which the tide was excluded by a dyke many miles in length. Against the northern horizon rose the hill of Wigborough crowned by a church and a great tumulus, and some trees that served as landmarks to the vessels entering the Blackwater. In ancient days the hill had been a beacon station, and it was reconverted to this purpose in time of war. A man was placed by order of Government in the tower, to light a crescet on the summit, in answer to a similar beacon at Mersea, in the event of a hostile fleet being seen in the offing.
Now and then the boat—it was a flat-bottomed punt—hissed among the asters, as Mehalah shot over tracts usually dry, but now submerged; she skirted next a bed of bulrushes. These reeds are only patient of occasional flushes with salt water, and where they grow it is at the opening of a land drain, or mark a fresh spring. Suddenly as she was cutting the flood, the punt was jarred and arrested. She looked round. A boat was across her bows. It had shot out of the rushes and stopped her.
'Whither are you going, Glory?'
The voice was that of Elijah Rebow, the last man Mehalah wished to meet at night, when alone on the water.
'That is my affair, not yours,' she answered. 'I am in haste, let me pass.'
'I will not. I will not be treated like this, Glory. I have shot you a couple of curlew, and here they are.'
He flung the birds into her boat. Mehalah threw them back again.
'Let it be an understood thing between us, Elijah, that we will accept none of your presents. You have brought my mother a keg of rum, and I have sworn to beat in the head of the next you give her. She will take nothing from you.'
'There you are mistaken, Glory; she will take as much as I will give her. You mean that you will not. I understand your pride, Glory! and I love you for it.'
'I care nothing for your love or your hate. We are naught to each other.'
'Yes we are, I am your landlord. We shall see how that sentiment of yours will stand next Thursday.'
'What do you mean?' asked Mehalah hastily.
'What do I mean? Why, I suppose I am intelligible enough in what I say for you to understand me without explanation. When you come to pay the rent to me next Thursday, you will not be able to say we are naught to each other. Why! you will have to pay me for every privilege of life you enjoy, for the house you occupy, for the marshes that feed your cow and swell its udder with milk, for the saltings on which your sheep fatten and grow their wool.'
The brave girl's heart failed for a moment. She had not the money. What would Elijah say and do when he discovered that she and her mother were defaulters? However, she put a bold face on the matter now, and thrusting off the boat with her oar, she said impatiently, 'You are causing me to waste precious time. I must be back before the water is out of the fleets.'
'Whither are you going?' again asked Rebow, and again he drove his boat athwart her bows. 'It is not safe for a young girl like you to be about on the water after nightfall with ruffians of all sorts poaching on my saltings and up and down my creeks.'
'I am going to Mersea City,' said Mehalah.
'You are going to George De Witt.'
'What if I am? That is no concern of yours.'
'He is my cousin.'
'I wish he were a cousin very far removed from you.'
'Oh Glory! you are jesting.' He caught the side of the punt with his hand, for she made an effort to push past him. 'I shall not detain you long. Take these curlew. They are plump birds; your mother will relish them. Take them, and be damned to your pride. I shot them for you.'
'I will not have them, Elijah.'
'Then I will not either,' and he flung the dead birds into the water.
She seized the opportunity, and dipping her oars in the tide, strained at them, and shot away. She heard him curse, for his boat had grounded and he could not follow.
She laughed in reply.
In twenty minutes Mehalah ran her punt on Mersea beach. Here a little above high-water mark stood a cluster of wooden houses and an old inn, pretentiously called the 'City,' a hive of smugglers. On the shore, somewhat east, and away from the city, lay a dismasted vessel, fastened upright by chains, the keel sunk in the shingle. She had been carried to this point at spring flood and stranded, and was touched, not lifted by the ordinary tides. Mehalah's punt, drawing no draught, floated under the side of this vessel, and she caught the ladder by which access was obtained to the deck.
'Who is there?' asked George De Witt, looking over the side.
'I am come after you, George,' answered Mehalah.
'Why, Glory! what is the matter?'
'There is something very serious the matter. You must come back with me at once to the Ray.'
'Is your mother ill?'
'Worse than that.'
'Dead?'
'No, no! nothing of that sort. She is all right. But I cannot explain the circumstances now. Come at once and with me.'
'I will get the boat out directly.'
'Never mind the boat. Come in the punt with me. You cannot return by water to-night. The ebb will prevent that. You will be obliged to go round by the Strood. Tell your mother not to expect you.'
'But what is the matter, Glory?'
'I will tell you when we are afloat.'
'I shall be back directly, but I do not know how the old woman will take it.' He swung himself down into the cabin, and announced to his mother that he was going to the Ray, and would return on foot by the Strood.
A gurgle of objurgations rose from the hatchway, and followed the young man as he made his escape.
'I wouldn't have done it for another,' said he; 'the old lady is put out, and will not forgive me. It will be bad walking by the Strood, Glory! Can't you put me across to the Fresh Marsh?'
'If there is water enough I will do so. Be quick now. There is no time to spare.'
He came down the ladder and stepped into the punt.
'Give me the oars, Glory. You sit in the stern and take the lanthorn.'
'It is in the bows.'
'I know that. But can you not understand, Glory, that when I am rowing, I like to see you. Hold the lanthorn so that I may get a peep of your face now and then.'
'Do not be foolish, George,' said Mehalah. However, she did as he asked, and the yellow dull light fell on her face, red handkerchief and cap.
'You look like a witch,' laughed De Witt.
'I will steer, row as hard as you can, George,' said the girl; then abruptly she exclaimed, 'I have something for you. Take it now, and look at it afterwards.'
She drew the medal from her bosom, and passing the riband over her head, leaned forward, and tossed the loop across his shoulders.
'Don't