Part 3

'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 upset the boat, Glory! Sit still; a punt is an unsteady vessel, and won't bear dancing in. What is it that you have given me?'

'A keepsake.'

'I shall always keep it, Glory, for the sake of the girl I love best in the world. Now tell me; am I to row up Mersea channel or the Rhyn?'

'There is water enough in the Rhyn, though we shall not be able to reach our hard. You row on, and do not trouble yourself about the direction, I will steer. We shall land on the Saltings. That is why I have brought the lanthorn with me.'

'What are you doing with the light?'

'I must put it behind me. With the blaze in my eyes I cannot see where to steer.' She did as she said.

'Now tell me, Glory, what you have hung round my neck.'

'It is a medal, George.'

'Whatever it be, it comes from you, and is worth more than gold.'

'It is worth a great deal. It is a certain charm.'

'Indeed!'

'It preserves him who wears it from death by violence.'

At the word a flash shot out of the rushes, and a bullet whizzed past the stern.

George De Witt paused on his oars, startled, confounded.

'The bullet was meant for you or me,' said Mehalah in a low voice. 'Had the lanthorn been in the bows and not in the stern it would have struck you.'

Then she sprang up and held the lanthorn aloft, above her head.

'Coward, whoever you are, skulking in the reeds. Show a light, if you are a man. Show a light as I do. and give me a mark in return.'

'For heaven's sake, Glory, put out the candle,' exclaimed De Witt in agitation.

'Coward! show a light, that I may have a shot at you,' she cried again, without noticing what George said. In his alarm for her and for himself, he raised his oar and dashed the lanthorn out of her hand. It fell, and went out in the water.

Mehalah drew her pistol from her belt, and cocked it. She was standing, without trembling, immovable in the punt, her eye fixed unflinching on the reeds.

'George,' she said, 'dip the oars. Don't let her float away.'

He hesitated.

Presently a slight click was audible, then a feeble flash, as from flint struck with steel in the pitch blackness of the shore.

Then a small red spark burned steadily.

Not a sound, save the ripple of the retreating tide.

Mehalah's pistol was levelled at the spark. She fired, and the spark disappeared.

She and George held their breath.

'I have hit,' she said. 'Now run the punt in where the light was visible.'

'No, Glory; this will not do. I am not going to run you and myself into fresh danger.' He struck out.

'George, you are rowing away! Give me the oars. I will find out who it was that fired at us.'

'This is foolhardiness,' he said, but obeyed. A couple of strokes ran the punt among the reeds. Nothing was to be seen or heard. The night was dark on the water, it was black as ink among the rushes. Several times De Witt stayed his hand and listened, but there was not a sound save the gurgle of the water, and the song of the night wind among the tassels and harsh leaves of the bulrushes.

'She is aground,' said De Witt.

'We must back into the channel, and push on to the Ray,' said Mehalah.

The young man jumped into the water among the roots of the reeds, and drew the punt out till she floated; then he stepped in and resumed the oars.

'Hist!' whispered De Witt.

Both heard the click of a lock.

'Down!' he whispered, and threw himself in the bottom of the punt.

Another flash, report, and a bullet struck and splintered the bulwark.

De Witt rose, resumed the oars, and rowed lustily.

Mehalah had not stirred. She had remained erect in the stern and never flinched.

'Coward!' she cried in a voice full of wrath and scorn, 'I defy you to death, be you who you may!'

*CHAPTER III.*

*THE SEVEN WHISTLERS.*

The examination of old Abraham before George De Witt did not lead to any satisfactory result. The young man was unable to throw light on the mystery. He had not been with the shepherd all the while since the sale of the sheep; nor had he seen the money. Abraham had indeed told him the sum for which he had parted with the flock, and in so doing had chinked the bag significantly. George thought it was impossible for the shot and pennypieces that had been found in the pouch to have produced the metallic sound he had heard. Abraham had informed him of the sale in Colchester. Then they had separated, and the shepherd had left the town before De Witt.

The young man had overtaken him at the public-house called the Red Lion at Abberton, half-way between Colchester and his destination. He was drinking a mug of beer with some seafaring men; and they proceeded thence together. But at the Rose, another tavern a few miles further, they had stopped for a glass and something to eat. But even there De Witt had not been with the old man all the while, for the landlord had called him out to look at a contrivance he had in his punt for putting a false keel on her; with a bar, after a fashion he had seen among the South Sea Islanders when he was a sailor.

The discussion of this daring innovation had lasted some time, and when De Witt returned to the tavern, he found Abraham dozing, if not fast asleep, with his head on the table, and his money bag in his hand.

'It is clear enough,' said the widow, 'that the money was stolen either at the Lion or at the Rose.'

'I brought the money safe here,' said Abraham sullenly. 'It is of no use your asking questions, and troubling my head about what I did here and there. I was at the Woolpack at Colchester, at the Lion at Abberton, and lastly at the Rose. But I tell you I brought the money here all safe, and laid it there on that table every penny.'

'How can you be sure of that, Abraham?'

'I say I know it.'

'But Abraham, what grounds have you for such assurance? Did you count the money at the Rose?'

'I don't care what you may ask or say. I brought the money here. If you have lost it, or it has been bewitched since then, I am not to blame.'

'Abraham, it must have been stolen on the road. There was no one here to take the money.'

'That is nothing to me. I say I laid the money all right there!' He pointed to the table.

'You may go, Abraham,' said Mehalah.

'Do you charge me with taking the money?' the old man asked with moody temper.

'Of course not,' answered the girl. 'We did not suspect you for one moment.'

'Then whom do you lay it on?'

'We suspect some one whom you met at one of the taverns.'

'I tell you,' he said with an oath, 'I brought the money here.'

'You cannot prove it,' said De Witt; 'if you have any reasons for saying this, let us hear them.'

'I have no reasons,' answered the shepherd, 'but I know the truth all the same. I never have reasons, I do not want to have them, when I know a fact.'

'Did you shake the bag and make the money chink on the way?'

'I will not answer any more questions. If you suspect me to be the thief, say so to my face, and don't go ferriting and trapping to ketch me, and then go and lay it on me before a magistrate.'

'You had better go, Abraham. No one disputes your perfect honesty,' said Mehalah.

'But I will not go, if anyone suspects me.'

'We do not suspect you.'

'Then why do you ask questions? Who asks questions who don't want to lay a wickedness on one?'

'Go off to bed, Abraham,' said widow Sharland. 'We have met with a dreadful loss, and the Almighty knows how we are to come out of it.'

The old man went forth grumbling imprecations on himself if he answered any more questions.

'Well,' asked Mehalah of De Witt, when the shepherd was gone, 'what do you think has become of the money?'

'I suppose he was robbed at one of the taverns. I see no other possible way of accounting for the loss. The bag was not touched on the table from the moment Abraham set it down till you opened it.'

'No. My mother was here all the time. There was no one else in the room but Elijah Rebow.'

'He is out of the question,' said De Witt.

'Besides, my mother never left her seat whilst he was here. Did you, mother?'

The old woman shook her head.

'What are we to do?' she asked; 'we have no money now for the rent; and that must be paid next Thursday.'

'Have you none at all?'

'None but a trifle which we need for purchases against the winter. There was more in the bag than was needed for the rent, and how we shall struggle through the winter without it, heaven alone can tell.'

'You have no more sheep to sell?'

'None but ewes, which cannot be parted with.'

'Nor a cow?'

'It would be impossible for us to spare her.'

'Then I will lend you the money,' said George. 'I have something laid by, and you shall have what you need for the rent out of it. Mehalah will repay me some day.'

'I will, George! I will!' said the girl vehemently, and her eyes filled. She took the two hands of her lover in her own, and looked him full in the face. Her eyes expressed the depth of her gratitude which her tongue could not utter.

'Now that is settled,' said De Witt, 'let us talk of something else.'

'Come along, George,' said Mehalah, hastily, interrupting him. 'If you want to be put across on Fresh Marsh, you must not stay talking here any longer.'

'All right, Glory! I am ready to go with you, anywhere, to the world's end.'

As she drew him outside, she whispered, 'I was afraid of your speaking about the two shots to-night. I do not wish my mother to hear of that; it would alarm her.'

'But I want to talk to you about them,' said De Witt. 'Have you any notion who it was that fired at us?'

'Have you?' asked Mehalah, evading an answer.

'I have a sort of a notion.'

'So have I. As I was going down the Rhyn to fetch you, I was stopped by Elijah Rebow.'

'Well, what did he want?'

'He wanted me to take some curlew he had shot; but that was not all, he tried to prevent my going on. He said that I ought not to be on the water at night alone.'

'He was right. He knew a thing or two.'

'He did not like my going to Mersea--to you.'

'I dare say not. He knew what was in the wind.'

'What do you mean, George?'

'He tried to prevent your going on?'

'Yes, he did, more than once.'

'Then he is in it. I don't like Elijah, but I did not think so badly of him as that.'

'What do you mean, George?'

As they talked they walked down the meadow to the saltings. They were obliged to go slowly and cautiously. The tide had fallen rapidly, and left the pools brimming. Every runnel was full of water racing out with the rush of a mill stream. 'You see, Glory, the new captain of the coastguard has been giving a deal of trouble lately. He has noticed the single-flashing from the Leather Bottle at the city, and has guessed or found out the key; so he has been down there flashing false signals with a lanthorn. By this means he has brought some of the smugglers very neatly into traps he has laid for them. They are as mad as devils, they swear he is taking an unfair advantage of them, and that they will have his life for it. That is what I have heard whispered; and I hear a great many things.'

'Oh, George! have you not warned him?'

'I! my dear Glory! what can I do? He knows he is in danger as well as I. It is a battle between them, and it don't do for a third party to step between. That is what we have done to-night, and near got knocked over for doing it. Captain Macpherson is about, night and day. There never was a fellow more wide awake, at least not on this station. What do you think he did the other day? A vessel came in, and he overhauled her, but found nothing; he sought for some barrels drawn along attached behind her, below water level, but couldn't find them. As he was leaving, he just looked up at the tackling. "Halloo!" said he to the captain, "your cordage is begun to untwist, suppose I have your old ropes and give you new?" He sent a man aloft, and all the ropes were made of twisted tobacco. Now, as you may suppose, the smugglers don't much like such a man.'

'But, George, he would hardly go about at night with a lanthorn in his boat.'

'That is what he does--only it is a dark lanthorn, and with it he flashes his signals. That is what makes the men so mad. It is not my doctrine to shoot a man who does his duty. If a man is a smuggler let him do his duty as one. If he is a coastguard, let him do his duty by the revenue.'

'But, George! if he were out watching for smugglers, he would not have carried his light openly.'

'He might have thought all was safe in the Rhyn.'

'Then again,' pursued Mehalah, 'I spoke, and there was a second shot after that.'

'Whoever was there waiting for the captain may have thought you were a boy. I do not believe the shot was at you, but at me.'

'But I held the light up. It would have been seen that I was a woman.'

'Not a bit. All seen would be your cap and jersey, which are such as sailor boys wear.'

Mehalah shook her head thoughtfully and somewhat doubtfully, and paced by the side of De Witt. She did not speak for some time. She was not satisfied with his explanation, but she could not state her reasons for dissatisfaction.

Presently she said, 'Do you think that it was Rebow who fired?'

'No, of course I do not. He knew you were out, and with a light; and he knows your voice.'

'But you said he was in the plot.'

'I said that I supposed he knew about it; he knew that there were men out in punts waiting for the captain, he probably knew that there was some fellow lurking in the Rhyn; but I did not say that he would shoot the captain. I do not for a moment suppose he would. He is not greatly affected by his vigilance. He gets something out of the trade, but not enough to be of importance to him. A man of his means would not think it worth his while to shoot an officer.'

'Then you conjecture that he warned me, and went home.'

'That is most likely, I would have done the same; nay more, I would not have let you go on, if I knew there were fellows about this night with guns on the lookout. He did not dare to speak plainly what he knew, but he gave you a broad hint, and his best advice, and I admire and respect him for it.'

'You and Rebow are cousins?'

'His father's sister is my mother. The land and money all went to Elijah's father who is now dead, and is now in Elijah's hands. My mother got nothing. The family were angry with her for marrying off the land on to the water. But you see at Red Hall she had lived, so to speak, half in and half out of the sea; she took to one element as readily as to the other.'

'I can trace little resemblance in your features, but something in your voice.'

'Now, Glory!' said the young man, 'here is the boat. How fast the tide ebbs here! She is already dry, and we must shove her down over the grass and mud till she floats. You step in, I will run her along.'

The wind had risen, and was wailing over the marshes, sighing among the harsh herbage, the sea-lavender, sovereign wood, and wild asparagus. Not a cloud was visible. The sky was absolutely unblurred and thick besprint with stars. Jupiter burned in the south, and cast a streak of silver over the ebbing waters.

The young people stood silent by each other for a moment, and their hearts beat fast. Other matters had broken in on and troubled the pleasant current of their love; but now the thought of these was swept aside, and their hearts rose and stretched towards each other. They had known each other for many years, and the friendship of childhood had insensibly ripened in their hearts to love.

'I have not properly thanked you, George, for the promise of help in our trouble.'

'Nor I, Mehalah, for the medal you have given me.'

'Promise me, George, to wear it ever. It saved your life to-night, I doubt not.'

'What! Does it save from death?'

'From sudden death,' answered Mehalah. 'I told you so before, in the boat.'

'I forgot about it, Glory.'

'I will tell you now all about it, my friend. The charm belonged to my mother's mother. She, as I daresay you have heard, was a gipsy. My grandfather fell in love with her and married her. He was a well-to-do man, owning a bit of land of his own; but he would go to law with a neighbour and lost it, and it went to the lawyer. Well, my grandmother brought the charm with her, and it has been in the family ever since. It had been in the gipsy family of my grandmother time out of mind, and was lent about when any of the men went on dangerous missions. No one who wears it can die a sudden death from violence--that is'--Mehalah qualified the assertion, 'on land.'

'It does not preserve one on the water then?' said George, with an incredulous laugh.

'I won't say that. It surely did so to-night. It saves from shot and stab.'

'Not from drowning?'

'I think not.'

'I must get a child's caul, and then I shall be immortal.'

'Don't joke, George,' said Mehalah gravely. 'What I say is true.'

'Glory!' said De Witt, 'I always thought you looked like a gipsy with your dark skin and large brown eyes, and now from your own lips comes the confession that you are one.'

'There is none of the blood in my mother,' said she, 'she is like an ordinary Christian. I fancy it jumps a generation.'

'Well, then, you dear gipsy, here is my hand. Tell my fortune.'

'I cannot do that. But I have given you a gipsy charm against evil men and accidents.'

'Hark!'

Out of the clear heaven was heard plaintive whistles, loud, high up, inexpressibly weird and sad, 'Ewe! ewe! ewe!' They burst shrilly on the ears, then became fainter, then burst forth again, then faded away. It was as though spirits were passing in the heavens wailing about a brother sprite that had flickered into nothingness.

'The curlew are in flight. What is the matter, Mehalah?'

The girl was shivering.

'Are you cold!'

'George! those are the Seven Whistlers.'

'They are the long-beaked curlew going south.'

'They are the Seven Whistlers, and they mean death or deathlike woe. For God's sake, George,' she threw her arms round him, 'swear, swear to me, never to lay aside the medal I have given you, but to wear it night and day.'

'There! Glory, I swear it.'

*CHAPTER IV.*

*RED HALL.*

The rent-paying day was bright and breezy. The tide was up in the morning, and Mehalah and her mother in a boat with sail and jib and spritsail flew before a north-east wind down the Mersea Channel, and doubling Sunken Island, entered the creek which leads to Salcot and Virley, two villages divided only by a tidal stream, and connected by a bridge.

The water danced and sparkled, multitudes of birds were on the wing, now dipping in the wavelets, now rising and shaking off the glittering drops. A high sea-wall hid the reclaimed land on their left. Behind it rose the gaunt black structure of a windmill used for pumping the water out of the dykes in the marsh. It was working now, the great black arms revolving in the breeze, and the pump creaking as if the engine groaned remonstrances at being called to toil on such a bright day. A little further appeared a tiled roof above the wall.

'There is Red Hall,' said Mehalah, as she ran the boat ashore and threw out the anchor. 'I have brought the stool, mother,' she added, and helped the old woman to land dry-footed. The sails were furled, and then Mehalah and her mother climbed the wall and descended into the pastures. These were of considerable extent, reclaimed saltings, but of so old a date that the brine was gone from the soil, and they furnished the best feed for cattle anywhere round. Several stagnant canals or ditches intersected the flat tract and broke it into islands, but they hung together by the thread of sea-wall, and the windmill drained the ditches into the sea.

In the midst of the pasture stood a tall red-brick house. There was not a tree near it. It rose from the flat like a tower. The basement consisted of cellars above ground, and there were arched entrances to these from the two ends. They were lighted by two small round windows about four feet from the ground. A flight of brick stairs built over an arch led from a paved platform to the door of the house, which stood some six feet above the level of the marsh. The house had perhaps been thus erected in view of a flood overleaping the walls, and converting the house for a while into an island, or as a preventive to the inhabitants against ague. The sea-walls had been so well kept that no tide had poured over them, and the vaults beneath served partly as cellars, and being extensive, were employed with the connivance of the owner as a storeplace for run spirits. The house was indeed very conveniently situated for contraband trade. A 'fleet' or tidal creek on either side of the marsh allowed of approach or escape by the one when the other was watched. Nor was this all. The marsh itself was penetrated by three or four ramifications of the two main channels, to these the sea-wall accommodated itself instead of striking across them, and there was water-way across the whole marsh, so that if a boat were lifted over the bank on one side, it could be rowed across, again lifted, and enter the other channel, before a pursuing boat would have time to return to and double the spit of land that divided the fleets. The windmill which stood on this spit was in no favour with the coastguard, for it was thought to act the double purpose of pump and observatory. The channel south of these marshes, called the Tollesbury Fleet, was so full of banks and islets as to be difficult to navigate, and more than once a revenue boat had got entangled and grounded there, when in pursuit of a smuggled cargo, which the officers had every reason to believe was at that time being landed on the Red Hall marshes, and carted into Salcot and Virley with the farmer's horses.

The house was built completely of brick, the windows were of moulded brick, mullions and drip stone, and the roof was of tile. How the name of Red Hall came to be given it, was obvious at a glance.

Round the house was a yard paved with brick, and a moat filled with rushes and weed. There were a few low outhouses, stable, cowsheds, bakehouse, forming a yard at the back, and into that descended the stair from the kitchen-door over a flying arch, like that in front.

Perhaps the principal impression produced by the aspect of Red Hall on the visitor was its solitariness. The horizon was bounded by sea wall; only when the door was reached, which was on a level with the top of the mound, were the glittering expanse of sea, the creeks, and the woods on Mersea Island and the mainland visible. Mehalah and her mother had never been at Red Hall before, and though they were pretty familiar with the loneliness of the marshes, the utter isolation of this tall gaunt house impressed them. The thorn-trees at the Ray gave their farm an aspect of snugness compared with this. From the Ray, village-church towers and cultivated acres were visible, but so long as they were in the pasture near the Hall, nothing was to be seen save a flat tract of grass land intersected with lines of bulrush, and bounded by a mound.

Several cows and horses were in the pasture, but no human being was visible. Mehalah and her mother hesitated before ascending the stair.

'This is the queerest place for a Christian to live in I ever saw,' said the widow. 'Look there, Mehalah, there is a date on the door, sixteen hundred and thirty-six. Go up and knock.'

'Do you see that little window in the sea face of the house, mother?'

'Yes. There is none but it.'

'I can tell you what that is for. It is to signal from with a light.'

'I don't doubt it. Go on.'