CHAPTER XI
A DUTCH AUCTION
Mehalah returned sadly to the Ray. The hope that had centred in help from Wyvenhoe had been extinguished.
Her mother was greatly disappointed at the ill-success of the application, but flattered at her cousin's recollection of her.
"If it had not been for that woman's coming in when she did, we should have had the money," said Mrs. Sharland. "What a pity she did not remain away a little longer! Charles is very well disposed, and would help us if he could pluck up courage to defy his wife. Suppose you try again, Mehalah, some other day, and choose your time well."
"I will not go there again, mother."
"If we do get turned out of this place we might settle at Wyvenhoe, and then choose our opportunity."
"Mother, the man is completely under his wife's thumb. There is no help to be found there."
"Then, Mehalah, the only chance that remains is to get the money from the Mersea parson."
"He cannot help us."
"There is no harm trying."
The day on which Mrs. De Witt had threatened to come had passed, without her appearing. True it had blown great guns, and there had been storms of rain. Mrs. Sharland hoped that the danger was over. The primitive inhabitants of the marshes had dwelt on piles, she built on straws. Some people do not realise a danger till it is on them and they cannot avert it. Mrs. Sharland was one of these. She liked her grievance, and loved to moan over it; if she had not a real one she invented one, just as children celebrate funerals over dolls. She had been so accustomed to lament over toy troubles that when a real trouble threatened she was unable to measure its gravity.
She was a limp and characterless woman. Mehalah had inherited the rich red blood of her grandparents, and Mrs. Sharland had assimilated only the water, and this flowed feebly through her pale veins. Her nature was parasitic. She could not live on her own root, but must
