upshot have to strike her colours to a boy of twenty-one, even though he did stand six feet high, and had more wits in his young head and more love in his young heart than all her middle-aged admirers put together.
Perhaps, though she was a woman grown, she was not herself quite old enough to appreciate the great advantage it is to any girl to stamp her image upon the heart of the man she loves while the wax is yet soft and undefaced by the half worn-out marks of many shallow dies; perhaps 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
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?”
