up your chin, then," said De Witt with a sigh. 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."
George 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 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.
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."
"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 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 6 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.
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
