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 sea-shore. 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 fore-lock, if she would not take a sail.
Ernest looked surprised.
“How’s the wind?” he asked.
“Straight off shore, sir; will turn with the turn of the tide, sir, and bring you back.”