The Witch's Head. H. Rider Haggard
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did you bring me here? I will go home. This is nonsense; you are nothing but a boy!”
There are moments in life when the human face is capable of conveying a more intense and vivid impression than any words, when it seems to speak to the very soul in a language of its own. And so it was with Ernest now; he made no answer to her reproaches, but, if that were possible, his features grew paler yet, and his eyes, shining like stars, fixed themselves upon her, and drew her to him. What they said she and he knew alone, nor could any words convey it, for the tongue in which they talked is not spoken in this world.
A moment still she wavered, fighting against the sweet mastery of his will with all her woman's strength, and then—O Heaven! it was done, and his arms were round about her, her head upon his breast, and her voice was lost in sobs and broken words of love.
O, radiant-winged hour of more than mortal joy; the hearts which you have touched will know when their time comes that they have not been quite in vain!
And so they sat, those two, quite silent, for there seemed to be no need for speech; words could not convey half they had to say. Indeed, to tell the honest truth, their lips were, for the most part, otherwise employed.
Meanwhile the sun went down, and the sweet moon arose over the quiet sea, and turned their little ship to silver. Eva gently disengaged herself from his arms, and half rose to look at it; she had never thought it half so beautiful before. Ernest looked at it too. It is a way that lovers have.
“Do you know the lines?” he said; “I think I can say them:
“'With a swifter motion, Out upon the ocean, Heaven above and round us, and you along with me: Heaven around and o'er us, Floating on for ever, upon the flowing sea.'”
“Go on,” she said, softly.
“'What time is it, dear, now? We are in the year now Of the New Creation, one million, two, or three; But where are we now, love? We are, as I trow, love, In the Heaven of Heavens, upon the Crystal Sea.'”
“That is how I hope it may be with us, dear,” she said, taking his hand, as the last words passed his lips.
“Are you happy now?” he asked her.
“Yes, Ernest, I am happy indeed. I do not think that I shall ever be so happy again; certainly I never was so happy before. Do you know, dear, I wish to tell you so, that you may see how mean I have been; I have fought so hard against my love for you.”
He looked pained. “Why?” he asked.
“I will tell you quite truly, Ernest—because you are so young. I was ashamed to fall in love with a boy, and yet you see, dear, you have been too strong for me.”
“Why, there is no difference in our ages!”
“Ah, Ernest, but I am a woman, and ever so much older than you. We age so much quicker, you know. I feel about old enough to be your mother,” she said, with a pretty assumption of dignity.
“And I feel quite old enough to be your lover,” he replied, impertinently.
“So it seems. But, Ernest, if three months ago anybody had told me that I should be in love to-day with a boy of twenty-one, I would not have believed them. Dear, I have given you all my heart; you will not betray me, will you? You know very young men are apt to change their minds.”
He flushed a little as he answered, feeling that it was tiresome to have the unlucky fact that he was only twenty-one so persistently thrust before him.
“Then they are young men who have not had the honour of winning your affections. A man who has once loved you could never forget you. Indeed, it is more likely that you will forget me; you will have plenty of temptation to do so.”
She saw that she had vexed him. “Don't be angry, dear; but you see the position is a very difficult one, and, if I could not be quite sure of you, it would be intolerable.”
“My darling, you may be as sure of me as woman can be of man; but don't begin your doubts over again. They are settled now. Let us be quite happy just this one evening. No doubt there are plenty coming when we shall not be able.”
So they kissed each other and sailed on—homeward, alas! for it was getting late—and were perfectly happy.
Presently they drew near the shore, and there, at the identical spot where they had left him, stood the ancient mariner. His hands were in his pockets, his pipe was in his mouth, his eyes were fixed upon the deep.
Ernest grounded the little boat skilfully enough, and, jumping over the bow, he and the mariner pulled it up. Then Eva got out, and as she did so she thought, in the moonlight, that she noticed something resembling a twinkle in the latter's ancient eye. She felt confused—there is nothing so confusing as a guilty conscience—and, to cover her confusion, plunged into conversation while Ernest was finding some money to pay for the boat.
“Do you often let boats?” she asked.
“No, miss, only to Mr. Ernest in a general way” (so that wicked Ernest had set a trap to catch her).
“O, then, I suppose you go out fishing?”
“No, miss, only for rikkration, like.”
“Then what do you do?”—she was getting curious on the point.
“Times I does nothing; times I stands on the beach and sees things; times I runs cheeses, miss.”
“Run cheeses!”
“Yes, miss, Dutch ones.”
“He means that he brings cargoes of Dutch cheeses to Harwich.”
“Oh!” said Eva.
Ernest paid the man, and they turned to go. She had not gone many yards when she felt a heavy hand laid upon her shoulder. Turning round in astonishment, she perceived the mariner.
“I say, miss,” he said, in a hoarse whisper.
“Well, what?”
“Niver you eat the rind of a Dutch cheese! I says it as knows.”
Eva did not forget his advice.
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