Nor was Oliver inclined to speak; he gazed dreamily into the fire, with contracted brows, and hands that were clenched.
A quarter of an hour thus passed. Then Oliver looked up at his father, and said: “There is worse wrecking than that of ships. Can nothing be done for this poor little craft, drifting in fog—aimless!—and going on to the rocks?”
Uncle Zachie again wiped his cheek, and in his thoughtlessness wiped it with the bowl of his pipe and burnt himself. He shook his head.
“Now tell me what you meant when you said she was but half married,” said Oliver.
Then his father related to him the circumstances of Judith’s forced engagement, and of the incomplete marriage of the day before.
“By my soul!” exclaimed Oliver. “He must—he shall not treat her as he did our vessel.”
“Oh, Oliver! if I had had my way—I had designed her for you.”
“For me!”
Oliver bent his head and looked hard into the fire, where strange forms of light were dancing—dancing and disappearing.
Then Mr. Menaida said, between his whiffs: “Surely a change of wind, Oliver. A little while ago, and she was not to be considered; justice above all, and Judith sacrificed, if need be—now it is Judith above all.”
“Yes,” musingly, “above all.”
As a faithful, as a loving wife almost, did Judith attend to Coppinger for the day or two before he was himself again. He had been bruised, that was all. The waves had driven him against the boat, and he had been struck by an oar; but the very fact that he was driven against the boat had proved his salvation, for he was drawn on board, and his own men carried him swiftly to the bank, and, finding him unable to walk, conveyed him home. On reaching home a worse blow than that of the oar had struck him, and struck him on the heart, and it was dealt him by his wife. She bade him put away from him for ever the expectation, the hope, of her becoming his in more than name.
Pain and disappointment made him irritable. He broke out into angry complaint, and Judith had much to endure. She did not answer him. She had told him her purpose, and she would neither be bullied nor cajoled to alter it.
Judith had much time to herself; she wandered through the rooms of Pentyre during the day without encountering anyone, and then strolled on the cliffs; wherever she went she carried her trouble with her, gnawing at her heart. There was no deliverance for her, and she did not turn her mind in that direction. She would remain what she was—Coppinger’s half-wife, a wife without a wedding-ring, united to him by a most dubiously legal ceremony. She bore his name, she was content to do that; she must bear with his love turned to fury by disappointment. She would do that till it died away before her firm and unchangeable opposition.
“What will be said,” growled Coppinger, “when it is seen that you wear no ring?”
“I will wear my mother’s, and turn the stone within,” answered Judith, “then it will be like our marriage, a semblance, nothing more.”
She did appear next day with a ring. When the hand was closed, it looked like a plain gold wedding hoop. When she opened and turned her hand, it was apparent that within was a small brilliant. A modest ring, a very inexpensive one, that her father had given to her mother as a guard. Modest and inexpensive because his purse could afford no better; not because he would not have given her the best diamonds available, had he possessed the means to purchase them.
This ring had been removed from the dead finger of her mother, and Mr. Peter Trevisa had preserved it as a present for the daughter.
Almost every day Judith went to Polzeath to give lessons to Jamie, and to see how the boy was going on. Jamie was happy with Mr. Menaida, he liked a little desultory work, and Oliver was kind to him, took him walks, and talked to him of scenes in Portugal.
Very often, indeed, did Judith, when she arrived, find Oliver at his father’s. He would sometimes sit through the lesson, often attend her back to the gate of Pentyre. His conduct toward her was deferential, tinged with pity. She could see in his eyes, read in his manner of address, that he knew her story, and grieved for her, and would do anything he could to release her from her place of torment, if he knew how. But he never spoke to her of Coppinger, never of her marriage, and the peculiar features that attended it. She often ventured on the topic of the wreck, and he saw that she was probing him to discover the truth concerning it, but he on no occasion allowed himself to say anything that could give her reason to believe her husband was the cause of the ship being lost, nor did he tell her of his own desperate conflict with the wrecker captain on board the vessel.
He was a pleasant companion, cheerful and entertaining. Having been abroad, though not having travelled widely, he could tell much about Portugal, and something about Spain. Judith’s eager mind was greedy after information, and it diverted her thoughts from painful topics to hear and talk about orange and lemon groves, the vineyards, the flower-gardens, the manners and customs of the people of Portugal, to see sketches of interesting places, and of the costumes of the peasantry. What drew her to Oliver specially was, however, his consideration for Jamie, to whom he was always kind, and whom he was disposed to amuse.
The wreck of the merchantman on Doom Bar had caused a great commotion among the inhabitants of Cornwall. All the gentry, clergy, and the farmers and yeomen not immediately on the coast, felt that wrecking was not only a monstrous act of inhumanity, but was a scandal to the county, and ought to be peremptorily suppressed, and those guilty of it brought to justice. It was currently reported that the merchantman from Oporto was wilfully wrecked, and that an attempt had been made to rob and plunder the passengers and the vessel. But the evidence in support of this view was of little force. The only persons who had been found with a light on the cliffs were Mr. Menaida, whom every one respected for his integrity, and Judith, the daughter of the late rector of St. Enodoc, the most strenuous and uncompromising denouncer of wrecking. No one, however malicious, could believe either to be guilty of more than imprudence.
The evidence as to the attempt of wreckers to invade the ship, and plunder it and the passengers also broke down. One lady alone could swear that her purse had been forcibly taken from her. The Portuguese men could hardly understand English, and though she asserted that she had been asked for money, she could not say that anything had been taken from her. It was quite possible that she had misunderstood an order given her to descend into the boat.
The night had been dark, the lady who had been robbed could not swear to the identity of the man who had taken her purse, she could not even say that it was one of those who had come to the vessel, and was not one of the crew. The crew had behaved notoriously badly, some had been drunk, and it was possible that one of these fellows, flushed with spirits, had demanded and taken her money.
There were two or three St. Enodoc men arrested because found on the ship at the time, but they persisted in the declaration that, hearing signals of distress, they had kindled a light and set it in the tower window of the church as a guide to the shipwrecked, and had gone to the vessel aground on Doom Bar, with the intention of offering every assistance in their power to the castaways. They asserted that they had found the deck in confusion. The seamen drunk and lost to discipline, the passengers helpless and frightened, and that it was only owing to them that some sort of order was brought about, or attempted. The arrival of the coast-guard interfered with their efforts to be useful.
The magistrates were constrained to dismiss the case, although possessed with the moral conviction that the matter was not as the accused represented. The only person who could have given evidence that might have consigned them to prison was Oliver, and he was not called upon to give witness.
But, although the case had broken down completely, an uneasy and angry feeling prevailed. People were not convinced that the wreck was accidental, and they believed that but for the arrival of the guard, the passengers would have been robbed and the ship looted. It was true enough that a light had been exhibited from St. Enodoc tower, but that served as a guide to those who rushed upon the wreck, and was every whit as much to their advantage as to that of the shipwrecked men. For, suppose that the crew and passengers had got off in their boats, they would have made, naturally, for the light, and who could say but that a gang of ruffians was not waiting on the shore to plunder them as they landed.
The general feeling in the county was one of vexation that more prompt action had not been taken, or that the action taken had not been more successful. No man showed this feeling more fully than Mr. Scantlebray, who hunted with the coast-guard for his own ends, and who had felt sanguine that in this case Coppinger would be caught.
That Coppinger was at the bottom of the attempt, which had been partly successful, few doubted, and yet there was not a shadow of proof against him. But that, according to common opinion, only showed how deep was his craft.
The state of Judith’s mind was also one of unrest. She had a conviction seated in her heart that all was not right, and yet she had no sound cause for charging her husband with being a deliberate wrecker. Jamie had gone out with his ass and the lantern, that was true, but was Jamie’s account of the affair to be relied on? When questioned he became confused. He never could be trusted to recall, twenty-four hours after an event, the particulars exactly as they occurred. Any suggestive queries drew him aside, and without an intent to deceive he would tell what was a lie, simply because he could not distinguish between realities and fleeting impressions. She knew that if she asked him whether Coppinger had fastened the lantern to the head of his donkey, and had bidden him drive the creature slowly up and down the inequalities of the surface of the cliffs, he would assent, and say it was so; but, then, if she were to say to him, “Now, Jamie, did not Captain Coppinger tell you on no account to show the light till you reached the shore at St. Enodoc, and then to fix it steadily,” that his face would for a moment assume a vacant, then a distressed expression, and he would finally say that he believed it really was so. No reliance was to be placed on anything he said, except at the moment, and not always then. He was liable to misunderstand directions, and by a stupid perversity to act exactly contrary to the instructions given him.
Judith heard nothing of the surmises that floated in the neighborhood, but she knew enough to be uneasy. She had been somewhat reassured by Oliver Menaida; she could see no reason why he should withhold the truth from her. Was it, then, possible after all that Captain Coppinger had gone to the rescue of the wrecked people, that he had sent the light not to mislead, but to direct them aright?
It was Judith’s fate—so it seemed—to be never certain whether to think the worst of Coppinger, or to hold that he had been misjudged by her. He had been badly hurt in his attempt to rescue the crew and passengers—according to Aunt Dionysia’s account. If she were to believe this story, then he was deserving of respect.
Judith began to recover some of her cheerfulness, some of her freshness of looks. This was due to the abatement of her fears. Coppinger had angrily, sullenly, accepted the relation which she had assured him must subsist between them, and which could never be altered.
Aunt Dionysia was peevish and morose indeed. She had been disappointed in her hope of getting into Othello Cottage before Christmas; but she had apparently received a caution from Coppinger not to exhibit ill-will toward his wife by word or token, and she restrained herself, though with manifest effort. That sufficed Judith. She no longer looked for, cared for love from her aunt. It satisfied her if Miss Trevisa left her unmolested.
Moreover, Judith enjoyed the walk to Polzeath every day, and, somehow, the lessons to Jamie gave her an interest that she had never found in them before. Oliver was so helpful. When Jamie was stubborn, he persuaded him with a joke or a promise to laugh and put aside his ill-humor, and attack the task once more. The little gossiping talk after the lesson with Oliver, or with Oliver and his father, was a delight to her. She looked forward to it, from day to day, naturally, reasonably, for at the Glaze she had no one with whom to converse, no one with the same general interests as herself, the same knowledge of books, and pleasure in the acquisition of information.
On mountain sides there are floral zones. The rhododendron and the gentian luxuriate at a certain level, above is the zone of the blue hippatica, the soldanella, and white crocus; below is the belt of mealy primula and lilac clematis. So is it in the world of minds—they have their levels, and can only live on those levels. Transplant them to a higher or to a lower zone and they suffer, and die.
Judith found no one at Pentyre with whom she could associate with pleasure. It was only when she was at Polzeath with Uncle Zachie and Oliver that she could talk freely and feel in her element.
One day Oliver said to her, “Judith”—for, on the understanding that they were cousins, they called each other by their Christian names—“Judith! are you going to the ball at Wadebridge after Christmas?”
“Ball, Oliver, what ball?”
“That which Mr. Mules is giving for the restoration of his church.”
“I do not know. I—yes, I have heard of it; but I had clean forgotten all about it. I had rather not.”
“But you must, and promise me three dances, at least.”
“I do not know what to say. Captain Coppinger”—she never spoke of her husband by his Christian name, never thought of him as other than Captain Coppinger. Did she think of Oliver as Mr. Menaida, junior? “Captain Coppinger has not said anything to me about it of late. I do not wish to go. My dear father’s death——”
“But the dance is after Christmas. And, you know, it is for a sacred purpose. Think, every whirl you take puts a new stone on the foundations, and every setting to your partner in quadrille adds a pane of glass to the battered windows.”
“I do not know,” again said Judith, and became grave. Her heart fluttered. She would like to be at the ball—and dance three dances with Oliver—but would Captain Coppinger suffer her? Would he expect to dance with her all the evening? If that were so, she would not like to go. “I really do not know,” again she said, clasped her hands on her knees, and sighed.
“Why that sigh, Judith?”
She looked up, dropped her eyes in confusion, and said faintly, “I do not know,” and that was her first lie.
Poor little fool! Shrewd in maintaining her conflict with Cruel Coppinger—always on the defensive, ever on guard, she was sliding unconsciously, without the smallest suspicion of danger, into a state that must eventually make her position more desperate and intolerable. In her inexperience she had never supposed that her own heart could be a traitor within the city walls. She took pleasure in the society of Oliver, and thought no wrong in so doing. She liked him, and would have reproached herself had she not done so.
Her relations with Coppinger remained strained. He was a good deal from home; indeed, he went on a cruise in his vessel, the Black Prince, and was absent for a month. He hoped that in his absence she might come to a better mind. They met, when he was at home, at meals; at other times not at all. He went his way, she went hers. Whether the agitation of men’s minds relative to the loss of the merchantman, and the rumors concerning the manner of its loss, had made Captain Cruel think it were well for him to absent himself for a while, till they had blown away, or whether he thought that his business required his attention elsewhere, or that by being away from home his wife might be the readier to welcome him, and come out of her vantage castle, and lay down her arms, cannot be said for certain; probably all these motives combined to induce him to leave Pentyre for five or six weeks.
While he was away Judith was lighter in heart. He returned shortly before Christmas, and was glad to see her more like her old self, with cheeks rounder, less livid, eyes less sunken, less like those of a hunted beast, and with a step that had resumed its elasticity. But he did not find her more disposed to receive him with affection as a husband. He thought that probably some change in the monotony of life at Pentyre might be of advantage, and he somewhat eagerly entered into the scheme for the ball at Wadebridge. She had been kept to books and to the society of her father too much, in days gone by, and had become whimsical and prudish. She must learn some of the enjoyments of life, and then she would cling to the man who opened to her a new sphere of happiness.
“Judith,” said he, “we will certainly go to this ball. It will be a pleasant one. As it is for a charitable purpose, all the neighborhood will be there. Squire Humphrey Prideaux of Prideaux Place, the Matthews of Roscarrock, the Molesworths of Pencarrow, and every one worth knowing in the country round for twelve miles. But you will be the queen of the ball.”
Judith at first thought of appearing at the dance in her simplest evening dress; she was shy and did not desire to attract attention. Her own position was anomalous, because that of Coppinger was anomalous. He passed as a gentleman in a part of the country not very exacting that the highest culture should prevail in the upper region of society. He had means, and he owned a small estate. But no one knew whence he came, or what was the real source whence he derived his income. Suspicion attached to him as engaged in both smuggling and wrecking, neither of which were regarded as professions consonant with gentility. The result of this uncertainty relative to Coppinger was that he was not received into the best society. The gentlemen knew him and greeted him in the hunting-field, and would dine with him at his house. The ladies, of course, had never been invited, because he was an unmarried man. The gentlemen probably had dealings with him about which they said nothing to their wives. It is certain that the Bodmin wine-merchant grumbled that the great houses of the north of Cornwall did not patronize him as they ought, and that no wine-merchant was ever able to pick up a subsistence at Wadebridge. Yet the country gentry were by no means given to temperance, and their cellars were being continually refilled.
It was not their interest to be on bad terms with Coppinger, one must conjecture, for they went somewhat out of their way to be civil to him.
Coppinger knew this, and thought that now he was married an opportunity had come in this charity ball for the introduction of Judith to society, and that to the best society, and he trusted to her merits and beauty, and to his own influence with the gentlemen, to obtain for her admission to the houses of the neighborhood. As the daughter of the Rev. Peter Trevisa, who had been universally respected, not only as a gentleman and a scholar, but also as a representative of an ancient Cornish family of untold antiquity, she had a perfect right to be received into the highest society of Cornwall, but her father had been a reserved and poor man. He did not himself care for associating with fox-hunting and sporting squires, nor would he accept invitations when he was unable to return them. Consequently Judith had gone about very little when at St. Enodoc rectory. Moreover, she had been but a child, and was known only by name to those who lived in the neighborhood. She was personally acquainted with none of the county people.
Captain Cruel had small doubt but that, the ice once broken, Judith would make friends, and would be warmly received. The neighborhood was scantily peppered over with county family-seats, and the families found the winters tedious, and were glad of any accession to their acquaintance, and of another house opened to them for entertainment.
If Judith were received well, and found distraction from her morbid and fantastic thoughts, then she would be grateful to him—so thought Coppinger—grateful for having brought her into a more cheerful and bright condition of life than that in which she had been reared. Following thereon, her aversion for him, or shyness toward him, would give way.
And Judith—what were her thoughts? Her mind was a little fluttered, she had to consider what to wear. At first she would go simply clad, then her aunt insisted that, as a bride, she must appear in suitable garb, that in which she had been married, not that with the two sleeves for one side, which had been laid by. Then the question of the jewellery arose. Judith did not wish to wear it, but yielded to her aunt’s advice. Miss Trevisa represented to her that, having the diamonds, she ought to wear them, and that not to wear them would hurt and offend Captain Coppinger, who had given them to her. This she was reluctant to do. However, she consented to oblige and humor him in such a small matter.
The night arrived, and Judith was dressed for the ball. Never before had Coppinger seen her in evening costume, and his face beamed with pride as he looked on her in her white silk dress, with ornaments of white satiny bugles in sprigs edging throat and sleeves, and forming a rich belt about the waist. She wore the diamond butterfly in her bosom, and the two earrings to match. A little color was in her delicately pure cheeks, brought there by excitement. She had never been at a ball before, and with an innocent, childish simplicity she wondered what Oliver Menaida would think of her in her ball-dress.
Judith and Coppinger arrived somewhat late, and most of those who had taken tickets were already there. Sir William and Lady Molesworth were there, and the half-brother of Sir William, John Molesworth, rector of St. Breock, and his wife, the daughter of Sir John S. Aubyn. With the baronet and his lady had come a friend, staying with them at Pencarrow, and Lady Knighton, wife of an Indian judge. The Matthews were there; the Tremaynes came all the way from Heligan, as owning property in St. Enodoc, and so, in duty bound to support the charity; the Prideauxs were there from Place; and many, if not all, of the gentry of various degrees who resided within twelve to fifteen miles of Wadebridge were also there.
The room was not one of any interest, it was long, had a good floor, which is the main thing considered by dancers, a gallery at one end for the instrumentalists, and a draught which circulated round the walls, and cut the throats of the old ladies who acted as wall-fruit. There was, however, a room to which they could adjourn to play cards. And many of the dowagers and old maids had brought with them little silver linked purses in which was as much money as they had made up their minds to lose that evening.
The dowager Lady Molesworth in a red turban was talking to Lady Knighton, a lady who had been pretty, but whose complexion had been spoiled by Indian suns, and to her Sir William was offering a cup of tea.
“You see,” said Lady Knighton, “how tremulous my hand is. I have been like this for some years—indeed ever since I was in this neighborhood before.”
“I did not know you had honored us with a visit on a previous occasion,” said Sir William.
“It was very different from the present, I can assure you,” answered the lady. “Now it is voluntarily—then it was much the contrary. Now I have come among very dear and kind friends, then—I fell among thieves.”
“Indeed!”
“It was on my return from India,” said Lady Knighton. “Look at my hand!” She held forth her arm, and showed how it shook as with palsy. “This hand was firm then. I even played several games of spellikins on board ship on the voyage home, and, Sir William, I won invariably, so steady was my hold of the crook, so evenly did I raise each of the little sticks. But ever since then I have had this nervous tremor that makes me dread holding anything.”
“But how came it about?” asked the baronet.
“I will tell you, but—who is that just entered the room?” she pointed with trembling finger.
Judith had come in along with Captain Coppinger, and stood near the door, the light of the wax candles twinkling in her bugles, glancing in flashes from her radiant hair. She was looking about her, and her bosom heaved, she sought Oliver, and he was near at hand. A flush of pleasure sprang into her cheeks as she caught his eye, and held out her hand.
“I demand my dance!” said he.
“No, not the first, Oliver,” she answered.
Coppinger’s brows knit.
“Who is this?” he asked.
“Oh! do you not know? Mr. Menaida’s son, Mr. Oliver.”
The two men’s eyes met, their irises contracted.
“I think we have met before,” said Oliver.
“That is possible,” answered Captain Cruel, contemptuously, looking in another direction.
“When we met I knew you without your knowing me,” pursued the young man, in a voice that shook with anger. He had recognized the tone of the voice that had spoken on the wreck.
“Of that I, neither, have any doubt as to its possibility. I do not recollect every Jack I encounter.”
A moment after an idea struck him, and he turned his head sharply, fixed his eyes on young Menaida, and said, “Where did we meet?”
“Very well—encounter!”
“On Doom Bar.”
Coppinger’s color changed. A sinister flicker came into his sombre eyes.
“Then,” said he slowly, in low vibrating tones, “we shall meet again.”
“Certainly, we shall meet again, and conclude our—I use your term—‘encounter.’”
Judith did not hear the conversation. She had been pounced upon by Mr. Desiderius Mules.
“Now—positively I must walk through a quadrille with you,” said the rector. “This is all my affair; it all springs from me, I arranged everything. I beat up patrons and patronesses. I stirred up the neighborhood. It all turns as a wheel about me as the axle. Come along, the band is beginning to play. You shall positively walk through a quadrille with me.” Mr. Mules was not the man to be put on one side, not one to accept a refusal; he carried off the bride to the head of the room and set her in one square.
“Look at the decorations,” said Mr. Mules, “I designed them. I hope you will like the supper. I drew up the menu. I chose the wines, and I know they are good. The candles I got at wholesale price—because for a charity. What beautiful diamonds you are wearing. They are not paste, I suppose?”
“I believe not.”
“Yet good old paste is just as iridescent as real diamonds. Where did you get them? Are they family jewels? I have heard that the Trevisas were great people at one time. Well, so were the Mules. We are really De Moels. We came in with the Conqueror. That is why I have such a remarkable Christian name. Desiderius is the French Désiré, and a Norman Christian name. Look at the wreaths of laurel and holly. How do you like them?”
“The decorations are charming.”
“I am so pleased that you have come,” pursued Mr. Mules. “It is your first appearance in public as Mrs. Captain Coppinger. I have been horribly uncomfortable about—you remember what. I have been afraid I had put my foot into it, and might get into hot water. But now you have come here, it is all right; it shows me that you are coming round to a sensible view, and that to-morrow you will be at the rectory and sign the register. If inconvenient, I will run up with it under my arm to the Glaze. At what time am I likely to catch you both in? The witnesses, Miss Trevisa and Mr. Menaida, one can always get at. Perhaps you will speak to your aunt and see that she is on the spot, and I’ll take the old fellow on my way home.”
“Mr. Mules, we will not talk of that now.”
“Come! you must see, and be introduced to, Lady Molesworth.”
In the meanwhile Lady Knighton was telling her story to a party round her.
“I was returning with my two children from India; it is now some years ago. It is so sad, in the case of Indians, either the parents must part from their children, or the mother must take her children to England and be parted from her husband. I brought my little ones back to be with my husband’s sister, who kindly undertook to see to them. We encountered a terrible gale as we approached this coast; do you recollect the loss of the Andromeda?”
“Perfectly,” answered Sir William Molesworth; “were you in that?”
“Yes, to my cost. One of my darlings so suffered from the exposure that she died. But, really, I do not think it was the wreck of the vessel which was worst. It was not that, not that alone, which brought this nervous tremor on me.”
“I remember that case,” said Sir William. “It was a very bad one, and disgraceful to our county. We have recently had an ugly story of a wreck on Doom Bar, with suspicion of evil practices; but nothing could be proved, nothing brought home to anyone. In the case of the Andromeda there was something of the same sort.”
“Yes, indeed, there were evil practices. I was robbed.”
“You! surely, Lady Knighton, it was not of you that the story was told?”
“If you mean the story of the diamonds, it was,” answered the Indian lady. “We had to leave the wreck, and carry all our portable valuables with us. I had a set of jewellery of Indian work, given me by Sir James—well, he was only plain Mr. Knighton then. It was rather quaint in design: there was a brooch representing a butterfly, and two emeralds formed the——”
“Excuse me one moment, Lady Knighton,” said Sir William. “Here comes the new rector of St. Enodoc, with the bride, to introduce her to my wife. I am ashamed to say we have not made her acquaintance before.”
“Bride! what—his bride?”
“Oh, no; the bride of a certain Captain Coppinger, who lives near here.”
“She is pretty, very pretty; but how delicate!”
Suddenly Lady Knighton sprang to her feet, with an exclamation so shrill and startling that the dancers ceased, and the conductor of the band, thinking an accident had occurred, with his baton stopped the music. All attention was drawn to Lady Knighton, who, erect, trembling from head to foot, stood pointing with shaking finger to Judith.
“See! see! My jewels, that were torn from me! Look!” She lifted the hair, worn low over her cheeks, and displayed one ear; the lobe was torn away.
No one stirred in the ball-room; no one spoke. The fiddler stood with bow suspended over the strings, the flutist with fingers on all stops. Every eye was fixed on Judith. It was still in that room as though a ghost had passed through in winding-sheet. In this hush, Lady Knighton approached Judith, pointing still with trembling hand.
“I demand, whence comes that brooch? Where—from whom did you get those earrings? They are mine; given me in India by my husband. They are Indian work, and not to be mistaken. They were plucked from me one awful night of wreck by a monster in human form, who came to our vessel, as we sought to leave it, and robbed us of our treasures. Answer me—who gave you those jewels?”
Judith was speechless. The lights in the room died to feeble stars. The floor rolled like a sea under her feet; the ceiling was coming down on her.
She heard whispers, murmurs—a humming as of a swarm of bees approaching ready to settle on her and sting her. She looked round her. Every one had withdrawn from her. Mr. Desiderius Mules had released her arm, and stood back. She tried to speak, but could not. Should she make the confession which would incriminate her husband?
Then she heard a man’s deep voice, heard a step on the floor. In a moment an arm was round her, sustaining her, as she tottered.
“I gave her the jewels. I, Curll Coppinger, of Pentyre. If you ask where I got them—I will tell you. I bought them of Willy Mann, the pedlar. I will give you any further information you require to-morrow. Make room; my wife is frightened.”
Then, holding her, looking haughtily, threateningly, from side to side, Coppinger helped Judith along—the whole length of the ball-room—between rows of astonished, open-eyed, mute dancers. Near the door was a knot of gentlemen. They sprang apart, and Coppinger conveyed Judith through the door, out of the light, down the stairs, into the open air.
The incident of the jewellery of Lady Knighton occasioned much talk. On the evening of the ball it occupied the whole conversation, as the sole topic on which tongues could run and brains work. I say tongues run and brains work and not brains work and tongues run, for the former is the natural order in chatter. It was a subject that was thrashed by a hundred tongues of the dancers. Then it was turned over and rethrashed. Then it was winnowed. The chaff of the tale was blown into the kitchens and servants’ halls, it drifted into tap-rooms, where the coachmen and grooms congregated and drank; and there it was rethrashed and rewinnowed.
On the day following the ball, the jewels were returned to Lady Knighton, with a courteous letter from Captain Coppinger, to say that he had obtained them through the well-known Willy Mann, a pedlar who did commissions for the neighborhood, who travelled from Exeter along the south coast of Devon and Cornwall, and returned along the north coast of both counties.
Everyone had made use of this fellow to do commissions, and trustworthy he had always proved. That was not a time when there was a parcels’ post, and few could afford the time and the money to run at every requirement to the great cities, where were important shops when they required what could not be obtained in small country towns. He had been employed to match silks, to choose carpets, to bring medicines, to select jewellery, to convey love-letters.
But Willy Mann had, unfortunately, died a month ago, having fallen off a wagon and broken his neck.
Consequently it was not possible to follow up any further the traces of the diamond butterflies. Willy Mann, as was well known, had been a vehicle for conveying sundry valuables from ladies who had lost money at cards, and wanted to recoup by parting with bracelets and brooches. That he may have received stolen goods and valuables obtained from wrecks was also probable.
So, after all the thrashing and winnowing, folks were no wiser than before, and no nearer the solution of the mystery. Some thought that Coppinger was guilty, others thought not, and others maintained a neutral position. Some again thought one thing one day and the opposite the next, and some always agreed with the last speaker’s views. Whereas others again always took a contrary opinion to those who discussed the matter with them.
Moreover, the matter went through a course much like a fever. It blazed out, was furious, then died away; languor ensued—and it gave symptoms of disappearing.
The general mistrust against Coppinger was deepened, certainly, and the men who had wine and spirits and tobacco through him, resolved to have wine and spirits and tobacco from him, but nothing more. They would deal with him as a trader, and not acknowledge him as their social fellow. The ladies pitied Judith, they professed their respect for her; but as beds are made so must they be lain on, and as is cooked so must be eaten. She had married a man whom all mistrusted, and must suffer accordingly; one who is associated with an infected patient is certain to be shunned as much as the patient. Such is the way of the world, and we cannot alter it, as the making of that way has not been intrusted to us. On the day following the ball, Judith did not appear at Polzeath, nor again on the day after that.
Oliver became restless. The cheerful humor, the merry mood that his father had professed were his, had deserted him. He could not endure the thought that one so innocent, so child-like as Judith, should have her fortunes linked to those of a man of whom he knew the worst. He could not, indeed, swear to his identity with the man on the wreck who had attempted to rob the passengers, and who had fought with him. He had no doubt whatever in his own mind that his adversary and assailant had been Coppinger, but he was led to this identification by nothing more tangible than the allusion made to Wyvill’s death, and a certain tone of voice which he believed he recognized. The evidence was insufficient to convict him, of that Oliver was well aware. He was confident, moreover, that Coppinger was the man who had taken the jewels from Lady Knighton; but here again he was wholly unsupported by any sound basis of fact on which his conviction could maintain itself.
Toward Coppinger he felt an implacable anger, and a keen desire for revenge. He would like to punish him for that assault on the wreck, but chiefly for the wrongs done to Judith. She had no champion, no protector. His father, as he acknowledged to himself, was a broken reed for one to lean on, a man of good intentions, but of a confused mind, of weakness of purpose, and lack of energy. The situation of Judith was a pitiful one, and if she was to be rescued from it, he must rescue her. But when he came to consider the way and means, he found himself beset with difficulties. She was married after a fashion. It was very questionable whether the marriage was legal, but, nevertheless, it was known through the county that a marriage had taken place, Judith had gone to Coppinger’s house, and had appeared at the ball as his wife. If he established before the world that the marriage was invalid, what would she do? How would the world regard her? Was it possible for him to bring Coppinger to justice?
Oliver went about instituting inquiries. He endeavored to trace to their source, the rumors that circulated relative to Coppinger, but always without finding anything on which he could lay hold. It was made plain to him that Captain Cruel was but the head of a great association of men, all involved in illegal practices; men engaged in smuggling, and ready to make their profit of a wreck, when a wreck fell in their way. They hung together like bees. Touch one, and the whole hive swarmed out. They screened one another, were ready to give testimony before magistrates that would exculpate whoever of the gang was accused. They evaded every attempt of the coast-guard to catch them; they laughed at the constables and magistrates. Information was passed from one to another with incredible rapidity; they had their spies and their agents along the coast. The magistrates and country gentry, though strongly reprobating wrecking, and bitterly opposed to poaching, were of broad and generous views regarding smuggling, and the preventive officer complained that he did not receive that support from the squirearchy which he expected and had a right to demand.
There were caves along the whole coast, from Land’s End to Hartland, and there were, unquestionably, stores of smuggled goods in a vast number of places, centres whence they were distributed. When a vessel engaged in the contraband trade appeared off the coast, and the guard were on the alert in one place, she ran a few miles up or down, signalled to shore, and landed her cargo before the coast-guard knew where she was. They were being constantly deceived by false information, and led away in one direction while the contraband goods were being conveyed ashore in an opposite quarter.
Oliver learned much concerning this during the ensuing few days. He made acquaintance with the officer in command of the nearest station, and resolved to keep a close watch on Coppinger, and to do his utmost to effect his arrest. When Captain Cruel was got out of the way, then something could be done for Judith. An opportunity came in Oliver’s way of learning tidings of importance, and that when he least expected it. As already said, he was wont to go about on the cliffs with Jamie, and after Judith ceased to appear at Mr. Menaida’s cottage, in his unrest he took Jamie much with him, out of consideration for Judith, who, as he was well aware, would be content to have her brother with him, and kept thereby out of mischief.
On one of these occasions he found the boy lag behind, become uneasy, and at last refuse to go farther. He inquired the reason, and Jamie, in evident alarm, replied that he dare not—he had been forbidden.
“By whom?”
“He said he would throw me over, as he did my doggie, if I came here again.”
“Who did?”
“Captain Coppinger.”
“But why?”
Jamie was frightened, and looked round.
“I mustn’t say,” he answered, in a whisper.
“Must not say what, Jamie?”
“I was to let no one know about it.”
“About what?”
“I am afraid to say. He would throw me over. I found it out and showed it to Ju. I have never been down there since.”
“Captain Coppinger found you somewhere, and forbade your ever going to that place again?”
“Yes,” in a faltering voice.
“And threatened to fling you over the cliffs if you did!”
“Yes,” again timidly.
Oliver said quietly, “Now run home and leave me here.”
“I daren’t go by myself. I did not mean to come here.”
“Very well. No one has seen you. Let me see, this wall marks the spot. I will go back with you.”
Oliver was unusually silent as he walked to Polzeath with Jamie. He was unwilling further to press the boy. He would probably confuse him, by throwing him into a paroxysm of alarm. He had gained sufficient information for his purpose from the few words he let drop. “I have never been down there since,” Jamie had said. There was, then, something that Coppinger desired should not be generally known concealed between the point on the cliff where the “new-take” wall ended and the beach immediately beneath.
He took Jamie to his father, and got the old man to give him some setting up of birds to amuse and occupy him, and then returned to the cliff. It did not take him long to discover the entrance to the cave beneath, behind the curtain of slate reef, and as he penetrated this to the farthest point, he was placed in possession of one of the secrets of Coppinger and his band.
He did not tarry there, but returned home another way, musing over what he had learned, and considering what advantage he was to take of it. A very little thought satisfied him that his wisest course was to say nothing about what he had learned, and to await the turns of fortune, and the incautiousness of the smugglers.
From this time, moreover, he discontinued his visits to the coast-guard station, which was on the farther side of the estuary of the Camel, and which could not well be crossed without attracting attention. There was no trusting anyone, Oliver felt—the boatman who put him across was very possibly in league with the smugglers, and was a spy on those who were in communication with the officers of the revenue.
Another reason for his cessation of visits was that, on his return to his father’s house, after having explored the cave, and the track in the face of the cliff leading to it, he heard that Jamie had been taken away by Coppinger. The Captain had been there during his absence, and had told Mr. Menaida that Judith was distressed at being separated from her brother, and that, as there were reasons which made him desire that she should forego her walks to Polzeath, he, Captain Coppinger, deemed it advisable to bring Jamie back to Pentyre.
Oliver asked himself, when he heard this, with some unease, whether this was due to his having been observed with the boy on the downs near the place from which access to the cave was had. Also, whether the boy would be frightened at the appearance of Captain Cruel so soon after he had approached the forbidden spot, and, in his fear, reveal that he had been there with Oliver and had partially betrayed the secret.
There was another question he was also constrained to ask himself, and it was one that made the color flash into his cheek. What was the particular reason why Captain Coppinger objected to the visits of his wife to Polzeath at that time? Was he jealous? He recalled the flare in his eyes at the ball, when Judith turned to him, held out her hand, and called him by his Christian name.
From this time all communication with Pentyre Glaze was cut off; tidings relative to Judith and Jamie were not to be had. Judith was not seen, Aunt Dionysia rarely, and from her nothing was to be learned. It would hardly comport with discretion for inquiries to be made by Oliver of the servants of the Glaze; but his father, moved by Oliver and by his own anxiety, did venture to go to the house and ask after Judith. He was coldly received by Miss Trevisa, who took the opportunity to insult him by asking if he had come to have his bill settled—there being a small account in his favor for Jamie. She paid him, and sent the old fellow fuming, stamping, even swearing, home, and as ignorant of the condition of Judith as when he went. He had not seen Judith, nor had he met Captain Coppinger. He had caught a glimpse of Jamie in the yard with his donkey, but the moment the boy saw him he dived into the stable, and did not emerge from it till Uncle Zachie was gone.
Then Mr. Menaida, still urged by his son and by his own feelings, incapable of action unless goaded by these double spurs, went to the rectory to ask Mr. Mules if he had seen Judith, and whether anything had been done about the signatures in the register.
Mr. Desiderius was communicative.
He had been to Pentyre about the matter. He was, as he said, “in a stew over it” himself. It was most awkward; he had filled in as much as he could of the register, and all that lacked were the signatures—he might say all but that of the bride and Mr. Menaida, for there had been a scene. Mrs. Coppinger had come down, and, in the presence of the Captain and her aunt, he had expostulated with her, had pointed out to her the awkward position in which it placed himself, the scruple he felt at retaining the fee, when the work was only half done; how, that by appearing at the ball, she had shown to the whole neighborhood that she was the wife of Captain Coppinger, and that, having done this, she might as well append her name to the entry in the register. Then Captain Coppinger and Miss Trevisa had made the requisite entries, but Judith had again calmly, but resolutely, refused.
Mr. Mules admitted there had been a scene. Mr. Coppinger became angry, and used somewhat violent words. But nothing that he himself could say, no representations made by her aunt, no urgency on the part of her husband could move the resolution of Judith, “which was a bit of arrant tomfoolery,” said Mr. Desiderius, “and I told her so. Even that—the knowledge that she went down a peg in my estimation—even that did not move her.”
“And how was she?” asked Mr. Menaida.
“Obstinate,” answered the rector, “obstinate as a—I mean as a donkey, that is the position of affairs. We are at a dead-lock.”
Oliver Menaida was summoned to Bristol by the heads of the firm which he served, and he was there detained for ten days.
Whilst he was away, Uncle Zachie felt his solitude greatly. Had he had even Jamie with him he might have been content, but to be left completely alone was a trial to him, especially since he had become accustomed to having the young Trevisa in his house. He missed his music. Judith’s playing had been to him an inexpressibly great delight. The old man for many years had gone on strumming and fumbling at music by great masters, incapable of executing it, and unwilling to hear it performed by incompetent instrumentalists. At length Judith had seated herself at his piano, and had brought into life all that wondrous world of melody and harmony which he had guessed at, believed in, yearned for, but never reached. And now that he was left without her to play to him, he felt like one deprived of a necessary of life.
But his unrest did not spring solely from a selfish motive. He was not at ease in his mind about her. Why did he not see her anymore? Why was she confined to Pentyre! Was she ill? Was she restrained there against her will from visiting her old friends? Mr. Menaida was very unhappy because of Judith. He knew that she was resolved never to acknowledge Coppinger as her real husband; she did not love him, she shrank from him. And knowing what he did—the story of the invasion of the wreck, the fight with Oliver—he felt that there was no brutality, no crime which Coppinger was not capable of committing, and he trembled for the happiness of the poor little creature who was in his hands. Weak and irresolute though Mr. Menaida was, he was peppery and impulsive when irritated, and his temper had been roused by the manner of his reception at the Glaze, when he went there to inquire after Judith.
Whilst engaged on his birds, his hand shook, so that he could not shape them aright. When he smoked his pipe, he pulled it from between his lips every moment to growl out some remark. When he sipped his grog, he could not enjoy it. He had a tender heart, and he had become warmly attached to Judith. He firmly believed in identification of the ruffian with whom Oliver had fought on the deck, and it was horrible to think that the poor child was at his mercy; and that she had no one to counsel and to help her.
At length he could endure the suspense no longer. One evening, after he had drank a good many glasses of rum and water, he jumped up, put on his hat, and went off to Pentyre, determined to insist on seeing Judith.
As he approached the house he saw that the hall windows were lighted up. He knew which was Judith’s room, from what she had told him of its position. There was a light in that window also. Uncle Zachie, flushed with anger against Coppinger, and with the spirits he had drank, anxious about Judith, and resenting the way in which he had been treated, went boldly up to the front door and knocked. A maid answered his knock, and he asked to see Mrs. Coppinger. The woman hesitated, and bade him be seated in the porch. She would go and see.
Presently Miss Trevisa came, and shut the door behind her, as she emerged into the porch.
“I should like to see Mrs. Coppinger,” said the old man.
“I am sorry—you cannot,” answered Miss Trevisa.
“But why not?”
“This is not a fit hour at which to call.”
“May I see her if I come at any other hour?”
“I cannot say.”
“Why may I not see her?”
“She is unwell.”
“If she is unwell, then I am very certain she would be glad to see Uncle Zachie.”
“Of that I am no judge, but you cannot be admitted now.”
“Name the day, the hour, when I may.”
“That I am not at liberty to do.”
“What ails her? Where is Jamie?”
“Jamie is here—in good hands.”
“And Judith.”
“She is in good hands.”
“In good hands!” exclaimed Mr. Menaida, “I should like to see the good, clean hands worn by anyone in this house, except my dear, innocent little Judith. I must and will see her. I must know from her own lips how she is. I must see that she is happy—or at least not maltreated.”
“Your words are an insult to me, her aunt, and to Captain Coppinger, her husband,” said Miss Trevisa, haughtily.
“Let me have a word with Captain Coppinger.”
“He is not at home.”
“Not at home!—I hear a great deal of noise. There must be a number of guests in the hall. Who is entertaining them, you or Judith!”
“That is no concern of yours, Mr. Menaida.”
“I do not believe that Captain Coppinger is not at home. I insist on seeing him.”
“Were you to see him—you would regret it afterwards. He is not a person to receive impertinences and pass them over. You have already behaved in a most indecent manner, in encouraging my niece to visit your house, and sit, and talk, and walk with, and call by his Christian name, that young fellow, your son.”
“Oliver!” Mr. Menaida was staggered. It had never occurred to his fuddled, yet simple mind, that the intimacy that had sprung up between the young people was capable of misinterpretation. The sense that he had laid himself open to this charge made him very angry, not with himself, but with Coppinger and with Miss Trevisa.
“I’ll tell you what,” said the old man, “if you will not let me in I suppose you will not object to my writing a line to Judith?”
“I have received orders to allow of no communication of any kind whatsoever between my niece and you or your house.”
“You have received orders—from Coppinger?” the old man flamed with anger. “Wait a bit! There is no command issued that you are not to take a message from me to your master?”
He put his hand into his pocket, pulled out a note-book, and tore out of it a page. Then, by the light from the hall window, he scribbled on it a few lines in pencil.
“Sir!—You are a scoundrel. You bully your wife. You rob, and attempt to murder those who are shipwrecked.—Zachary Menaida.”
“There,” said the old man, “that will draw him, and I shall see him, and have it out with him.”
He had wafers in his pocket-book. He wetted and sealed the note. Then he considered that he had not said enough, so he opened the page again, and added: “I shall tell all the world what I know about you.” Then he fastened the note again, and directed it. But as it suddenly occurred to him that Captain Coppinger might refuse to open the letter, he added on the outside, “The contents I know by heart, and shall proclaim them on the house-tops.” He thrust the note into Miss Trevisa’s hand, and turned his back on the house, and walked home snorting and muttering. On reaching Polzeath, however, he had cooled, and thought that possibly he had done a very foolish thing, and that most certainly he had in no way helped himself to what he desired, to see Judith again. Moreover, with a qualm, he became aware that Oliver, on his return from Bristol, would in all probability greatly disapprove of this fiery outburst of temper. To what would it lead? Could he fight Captain Coppinger? If it came to that, he was ready. With all his faults Mr. Menaida was no coward.
On entering his house he found Oliver there, just arrived from Camelford. He at once told him what he had done. Oliver did not reproach him; he merely said, “A declaration of war, father! and a declaration before we are quite prepared.”
“Well—I suppose so. I could not help myself. I was so incensed.”
“The thing we have to consider,” said Oliver, “is what Judith wishes, and how it is to be carried out. Some communication must be opened with her. If she desires to leave the house of that fellow, we must get her away. If, however, she elects to remain, our hands are tied: we can do nothing.”
“It is very unfortunate that Jamie is no longer here; we could have sent her a letter through him.”
“He has been removed to prevent anything of the sort taking place.”
Then Oliver started up. “I will go and reconnoitre, myself.”
“No,” said the father. “Leave all to me. You must on no account meddle in this matter.”
“Why not?”
“Because”—the old man coughed. “Do you not understand—you are a young man.”
Oliver colored, and said no more. He had not great confidence in his father’s being able to do anything effectual for Judith. The step he had recently taken was injudicious and dangerous, and could further the end in view in no way.
He said no more to old Mr. Menaida, but he resolved to act himself, in spite of the remonstrance made and the objection raised by his father. No sooner was the elder man gone to bed, than he sallied forth and took the direction of Pentyre. It was a moonlight night. Clouds indeed rolled over the sky, and for awhile obscured the moon, but a moment after it flared forth again. A little snow had fallen and frosted the ground, making everything unburied by the white flakes to seem inky black. A cold wind whistled mournfully over the country. Oliver walked on, not feeling the cold, so glowing were his thoughts, and came within sight of the Glaze. His father had informed him that there were guests in the hall; but when he approached the house, he could see no lights from the windows. Indeed, the whole house was dark, as though everyone in it were asleep, or it were an uninhabited ruin. That most of the windows had shutters he was aware, and that these might be shut so as to exclude the chance of any ray issuing he also knew. He could not therefore conclude that all the household had retired for the night.
The moon was near its full. It hung high aloft in an almost cloudless sky. The air was comparatively still—still it never is on that coast, nor is it ever unthrilled by sound. Now, above the throb of the ocean, could be heard the shrill clatter and cry of the gulls. They were not asleep; they were about, fishing or quarrelling in the silver light.
Oliver rather wondered at the house being so hushed—wondered that the guests were all dismissed. He knew in which wing of the mansion was Judith’s room, and also which was Judith’s window. The pure white light shone on the face of the house and glittered in the window-panes.
As Oliver looked, thinking and wondering, he saw the casement opened, and Judith appeared at it, leaned with her elbow on the sill, and rested her face in her hand, looking up at the moon. The light air just lifted her fine hair. Oliver noticed how delicately pale and fragile she seemed—white as a gull, fragile as porcelain. He would not disturb her for a moment or two; he stood watching, with an oppression on his heart, and with a film forming over his eyes. Could nothing be done for the little creature? She was moped up in her room. She was imprisoned in this house, and she was wasting, dying in confinement.
And now he stole noiselessly nearer. There was an old cattle-shed adjoining the house, that had lost its roof. Coppinger concerned himself little about agriculture, and the shed that had once housed cows had been suffered to fall to ruin, the slates had been blown off, then the rain had wetted and rotted the rafters, and finally the decayed rafters had fallen with their remaining load of slates, leaving the walls alone standing.
Up one of the sides of this ruinous shed Oliver climbed, and then mounted to the gable, whence he could speak to Judith. But she must have heard him, and been alarmed, for she hastily closed the casement. Oliver, however, did not abandon his purpose. He broke off particles of mortar from the gable of the cow-house and threw them cautiously against the window. No notice was taken of the first or the second particle that clickered against a pane; but at the third a shadow appeared at the window, as though Judith had come to the casement to look out. Oliver was convinced that he could be seen; as he was on the very summit of the gable, and he raised his hands and arms to ensure attention.
Suddenly the shadow was withdrawn. Then hastily he drew forth a scrap of paper, on which he had written a few words before he left his father’s house, in the hopes of obtaining a chance of passing it to Judith, through Jamie, or by bribing a servant. This he now wrapped round a bit of stone and fastened it with a thread. Next moment the casement was opened and the shadow reappeared.
“Back!” whispered Oliver, sufficiently loud to be heard, and he dexterously threw the stone and the letter through the open window.
Next moment the casement was shut and the curtains were drawn.
He waited for full a quarter of an hour but no answer was returned.