Judith and Jamie were together in Othello Cottage—banished from Pentyre with a dark and threatening shadow over them, but this, however, gave the boy but little concern; he was delighted to be away from a house where he had been in incessant terror, and where he was under restraint; moreover, it was joy to him to be now where he need not meet Coppinger at every turn.
Judith forbade his going to Polzeath to see Uncle Zachie and Oliver Menaida, as she thought it advisable, under the circumstances, to keep themselves to themselves, and above all not to give further occasion for the suspicions and jealousy of Coppinger. This was to her, under the present condition of affairs, specially distressing, as she needed some counsel as to what she should do. Uncle Zachie at his best was a poor adviser, but on no account now would she appeal to his son. She was embarrassed and alarmed. And she had excuse for embarrassment and alarm. She had taken upon herself the attempt that had been made on the life of Coppinger, and he would, she supposed, believe her to be guilty.
What would he do? Would he proceed against her for attempted murder? If so, the case against her was very complete. It could be shown that Mr. Menaida had given her this arsenic, that she had kept it by her in her workbox while at the Glaze, that she had been on the most unsatisfactory terms with Captain Coppinger, and that she had refused to complete her marriage with him by appending her signature to the register. She was now aware—and the thought made her feel sick at heart and faint—that her association with the Menaidas had been most injudicious and had been capable of misinterpretation. It had been misinterpreted by Coppinger, and probably also by the gossips of Polzeath. It could be shown that a secret correspondence had been carried on between her and Oliver, which had been intercepted by her husband. This was followed immediately by the attempt to poison Coppinger. The arsenic had been given him in the porridge her own hands had mixed, and which had been touched by no one else. It was natural to conclude that she had deliberately purposed to destroy her husband, that she might be free to marry Oliver Menaida.
If she were prosecuted on the criminal charge of attempted murder, the case could be made so conclusive against her that her conviction was certain.
Her only chance of escape lay in two directions—one that she should tell the truth, and allow Jamie to suffer the consequences of what he had done, which would be prison or a lunatic asylum. The other was that she should continue to screen him and trust that Coppinger would not prosecute her. He might hesitate about proceeding with such a case, which would attract attention to himself, to his household, and lay bare to the public eye much that he would reasonably be supposed to wish to keep concealed. If, for instance, the case were brought into court the story of the enforced marriage must come out, and that would rake up once more the mystery of the wreckers on Doom Bar, and of Lady Knighton’s jewels. Coppinger might and probably would grasp at the other alternative—take advantage of the incompletion of the marriage, repudiate her, and let the matter of the poisoned porridge remain untouched.
The more Judith turned the matter over in her head the more sure she became that the best course, indeed the only one in which safety lay, was for her to continue to assume to herself the guilt of the attempt on Coppinger’s life. He would see by her interference the second time, and prevention of his taking a second portion of the arsenic, that she did not really seek his life, but sought to force him, through personal fear, to drive her from his house and break the bond by which he bound her to him. For the sake of this going back from a purpose of murder, or from thinking that she had never intended to do more than drive him to a separation by alarm for his own safety; for the sake of the old love he had borne her, he might forbear pressing this matter to its bitter consequences, and accept what she desired—their separation.
But if Judith allowed the truth to come out, then her husband would have no such compunction. It would be an opportunity for him to get rid of the boy he detested, and even if he did not have him consigned to jail, then it would be only because he would send him to an asylum.
Judith went out on the cliffs. The sea was troubled, far as the horizon, strewn with white horses shaking their manes, pawing and prancing in their gallop landward. There was no blue, no greenness in the ocean now. The dull tinctures of winter were in it. The Atlantic wore its scowl, was leaden and impatient. The foam on the rocks was driven up in spouts into the air and carried over the downs, it caught in the thorn bushes like flocks of wool, and was no cleaner. It lay with the thin melting snow and melted with it into a dirty slush. It plastered the face of Othello Cottage as though, in brutal insolence, Ocean had been spitting at the house that was built of the wreck he had failed to gulp down, though he had chewed the life out of it. The foam rested in flakes on the rushes where it hung and fluttered like tufts of cotton-grass. It was dropped about by the wind for miles inland as though the wind were running in a paper chase. It was as though sky and sea were contending in a game of pelting the land, the one with snow, the other with foam, the one sweet, the other salt. Judith walked where, near the edge of the cliffs, there was no snow, and looked out at the angry ocean. All without was cold, rugged, ruffled, wretched; and within her heart burned a fire of apprehension, distress, almost of despair. All at once she came upon Mr. Desiderius Mules, walking in an opposite direction, engaged in wiping the foam-flakes out of his eyes.
“Halloo! you here Mrs. Coppinger?” exclaimed the rector; “glad to see you. I’m not here like S. Anthony preaching to the fishes, because I am a practical man. In the first place, in such a disturbed sea the fishes would have enough to do to look after themselves and would be ill-disposed to lend me an ear. In the next place the wind is on shore, and they would not hear me were I to lift up my voice. So I don’t waste words and over-strain my larynx. If the bishop were a mile or a mile and a half inland, it might be different, he might admire my zeal. And what brings you here?”
“Oh, Mr. Mules!” exclaimed Judith, with a leap of hope in her heart—here was someone who might if he would be a help to her. She had indeed made up her own mind as to what was the safest road on which to set her feet, but she was timid, shrank from falsehood, and earnestly craved for someone to whom she could speak, and from whom she could obtain advice.
“Oh, Mr. Mules! will you give me some advice and assistance?”
“Advice, by all means,” said the rector. “I’ll turn and walk your way, the froth is blown into my face and stings it. My skin is sensitive, so are my eyes. Upon my word, when I get home my face will be as salt as if I had flooded it with tears—fancy me crying. What did you say you wanted—advice?”
“Advice and assistance.”
“Advice you shall have, it is my profession to give it. I mix it with pepper and salt and serve it out in soup plates every week—am ready with it every day, Mrs. Coppinger. I have buckets of it at your disposal, bring your tureen and I’ll tip in as much of the broth as you want, and may you like it. As to assistance, that is another matter. Pecuniary assistance I never give. I am unable to do so. My principles stand in the way. I have set up a high standard for myself and I stick to it. I never render pecuniary assistance to any one, as it demoralizes the receiver. I hope and trust it was not pecuniary assistance you wanted.”
“No, Mr. Mules—not that, only guidance.”
“Oh, guidance! I’m your sign-post, where do you want to go!”
“It is this, sir. I have given poison to Mr. Coppinger.”
“Mercy on me!” the rector jumped back and turned much the tinge of the foam plasters that were on his face.
“That is to say, I gave him arsenic mixed with his porridge the day before yesterday, and it made him very ill. Yesterday——”
“Hush, hush!” said Mr. Mules, “no more of this. This is ghastly. Let us say it is hallucination on your part. You are either not right in your head or are very wicked. If you please—don’t come nearer to me. I can hear you quite well, hear a great deal more than pleases me. You ask my advice, and I give it: Sign the register, that will set me square, and put me in an unassailable position with the public, and also, secondarily, it will be to your advantage. You are now a nondescript, and a nondescript is objectionable. If you please—you will excuse me—I should prefer not standing between you and the cliff. There is no knowing what a person who confesses to poisoning her husband might do. If it be a case of lunacy—well, more reason that I should use precautions. My life is valuable. Come, there is only one thing you can do to make me comfortable—sign the register.”
“You will not mention what I have told you to anyone?”
“Save and defend us! I speak of it!—I! Come, come, be rational. Sign the register and set my mind at ease, that is all I want and ask for, and then I wash my hands of you.”
Then away went Mr. Desiderius Mules, with the wind catching his coat tails, twisting them, throwing them up against his back, parting them, and driving them one on each of him, taking and cutting them and sending them between his legs.
Judith stood mournfully looking after him. The sign-post, as he had called himself was flying from the traveller whom it was his duty to direct.
Then a hand was laid on her arm. She started, turned and saw Oliver Menaida, flushed with rapid walking and with the fresh air he had encountered.
“I have come to see you,” he said. “I have come to offer you my father’s and my assistance. We have just heard——”
“What?”
“That Captain Coppinger has turned you and Jamie out of his house.”
“Have you heard any reason assigned?”
“Because—so it is said—he had beaten the boy, and you were incensed, angry words passed—and it ended in a rupture.”
“That, then, is the common explanation?”
“Everyone is talking about it. Everyone says that. And now, what will you do?”
“Thank you. Jamie and I are at Othello Cottage, where we are comfortable. My aunt had furnished it intending to reside in it herself. As for our food, we receive that from the Glaze.”
“But this cannot continue.”
“It must continue for a while.”
“And then?”
“The future is not open to my eyes.”
“Judith, that has taken place at length which I have been long expecting.”
“What do you mean?”
“This miserable condition of affairs has reached its climax, and there has been a turn.”
Judith sighed. “It has taken a turn, indeed.”
“Now that Captain Coppinger has been brought to his senses, and he sees that your resolve is not to be shaken, and he releases you, or you have released yourself from the thraldom you have been in. I do not suppose the popular account of the matter is true, wholly.”
“It is not at all true.”
“That matters not. The fact remains that you are out of Pentyre Glaze and your own mistress. The snare is broken and you are delivered.”
Again Judith sighed, and she shook her head despondingly.
“You are free,” persisted Oliver, “just consider. You were hurried through a marriage when insensible, and when you came to consciousness you did what was the only thing you could do—you absolutely refused your signature that would validate what had taken place. That was conclusive. That ceremony was as worthless as this sea-foam that blows by. No court in the world would hold that you were bound by it. The consent, the free consent, of each party in such a convention is essential. As to your being at Pentyre, nothing against that can be alleged; Miss Trevisa was your aunt and constituted your guardian by your father. Your place was by her. To her you went when my father’s house was no longer at your service through my return. At Pentyre you remained as long as Miss Trevisa was there. She went, and at once you left the house.”
“You do not understand.”
“Excuse me, I think I do. But no matter as to details. When your aunt went, you went also—as was proper under the circumstances. We have heard, I do not know whether it be true, that your aunt has come in for a good property.”
“For a little something.”
“Then, shall you go to her and reside with her?”
“No; she will not have Jamie and me.”
“So we supposed. Now my father has a proposal to make. The firm to which I belong has been good enough to take me into partnership, esteeming my services far higher than they deserve, and I am to live at Oporto, and act for them there. As my income will now be far larger than my humble requirements, I have resolved to allow my dear father sufficient for him to live upon comfortably where he wills, and he has elected to follow me, and take up his abode in Portugal. Now what he has commissioned me to say is—will you go with him? Will you continue to regard him as Uncle Zachie, and be to him as his dear little niece, and keep house for him in the sunny southern land?”
Judith’s eyes filled with tears.
“And Jamie is included in the invitation. He is to come also, and help my father to stuff the birds of Portugal. A new ornithological field is opening before him, he says and he must have help in it.”
“I cannot,” said Judith, in a low tone, with her head sunk on her breast. “I cannot leave here till Captain Coppinger gives me leave.”
“But, surely, you are no longer bound to him?”
“He holds me faster than before.”
“I cannot understand this.”
“No; because you do not know all.”
“Tell me the whole truth. Let me help you. Let my father help you. You little know how we both have our hearts in your service.”
“Well, I will tell you.”
But she hesitated and trembled. She fixed her eyes on the wild, foaming, leaden sea, and pressed her bosom with both hands.
“I poisoned him.”
“Judith!”
“It is true, I gave him arsenic, once; that your father had let me have for Jamie. If he had taken it the second time, when I offered it him in his bowl of porridge, he would be dead now. Do you see—he holds me in his hands and I cannot stir. I could not escape till I know what he intends to do with me. Now go—leave me to my fate.”
“Judith—it is not true! Though I hear this from your lips I will not believe it. No; you need my father’s, you need my help more than ever.” He put her hand to his lips. “It is white—innocent. I know it, in spite of your words.”
When Judith returned to Othello Cottage, she was surprised to see a man promenading around it, flattening his nose at the window, so as to bring his eyes against the glass, then, finding that the breath from his nostrils dimmed the pane, wiping the glass and again flattening his nose. At first he held his hands on the window-ledge, but being incommoded by the refraction of the light, put his open hands against the pane, one on each side of his face. Having satisfied himself at one casement, he went to another, and made the same desperate efforts to see in at that.
Judith coming up to the door, and putting the key in, disturbed him, he started, turned, and with a nose much like putty, but rapidly purpling with returned circulation, disclosed the features of Mr. Scantlebray, Senior.
“Ah, ha!” said that gentleman, in no way disconcerted; “here I have you, after having been looking for my orphing charmer in every direction but the right one. With your favor I will come inside and have a chat.”
“Excuse me,” said Judith, “but I do not desire to admit visitors.”
“But I am an exception. I’m the man who should have looked after your interests, and would have done it a deal better than others. And so there has been a rumpus, eh? What about?”
“I really beg your pardon, Mr. Scantlebray, but I am engaged and cannot ask you to enter, nor delay conversing with you on the doorstep.”
“Oh, Jimminy! don’t consider me. I’ll stand on the doorstep and talk with you inside. Don’t consider me; go on with what you have to do and let me amuse you. It must be dull and solitary here, but I will enliven you, though I have not my brother’s gifts. Now, Obadiah is a man with a genius for entertaining people. He missed his way when he started in life; he would have made a comic actor. Bless your simple heart, had that man appeared on the boards, he would have brought the house down—”
“I have no doubt whatever he missed his way when he took to keeping an asylum,” said Judith.
“We have all our gifts,” said Scantlebray. “Mine is architecture, and ’pon my honor as a gentleman, I do admire the structure of Othello Cottage, uncommon. You won’t object to my pulling out my tape and taking the plan of the edifice, will you?”
“The house belongs to Captain Coppinger; consult him.”
“My dear orphing, not a bit. I’m not on the best terms with that gent. There lies a tract of ruffled water between us. Not that I have given him cause for offence, but that he is not sweet upon me. He took off my hands the management of your affairs in the valuation business, and let me tell you—between me and you and that post yonder”—he walked in and laid his hand on a beam—“that he mismanaged it confoundedly. He is your husband, I am well aware, and I ought not to say this to you. He took the job into his hands because he had an eye to you, I knew that well enough. But he hadn’t the gift—the faculty. Now I have made all that sort of thing my specialty. How many rooms have you in this house? What does that door lead to?”
“Really, Mr. Scantlebray, you must excuse me; I am busy.”
“O, yes—vastly busy. Walking on the cliffs, eh! Alone, eh? Well, mum is the word. Come, make me your friend and tell me all about it. How came you here? There are all kind of stories afloat about the quarrel between you and your husband, and he is an Eolus, a Blustering Boreas, all the winds in one box. Not surprised. He blew up a gale against me once. Domestic felicity is a fable of the poets. Home is a region of cyclones, tornadoes, hurricanes—what you like; anything but a Pacific Ocean. Now, you won’t mind my throwing an eye round this house, will you—a scientific eye? Architecture is my passion.”
“Mr. Scantlebray, that is my bedroom; I forbid you touching the handle. Excuse me—but I must request you to leave me in peace.”
“My dear creature,” said Scantlebray, “scientific thirst before all. It is unslakable save by the acquisition of what it desires. The structure of this house, as well as its object, has always been a puzzle to me. So your aunt was to have lived here—the divine, the fascinating Dionysia, as I remember her years ago. It wasn’t built for the lovely Dionysia, was it? No. Then for what object was it built? And why so long untenanted? These are nuts for you to crack.”
“I do not trouble myself about these questions. I must pray you to depart.”
“In half the twinkle of an eye,” said Scantlebray. Then he seated himself. “Come, you haven’t a superabundance of friends. Make me one and unburden your soul to me. What is it all about? Why are you here? What has caused this squabble? I have a brother a solicitor at Bodmin. Let me jot down the items, and we’ll get a case out of it. Trust me as a friend, and I’ll have you righted. I hear Miss Trevisa has come in for a fortune. Be a good girl, set your back against her and show fight.”
“I will thank you to leave the house,” said Judith, haughtily. “A moment ago you made reference to your honor as a gentleman. I must appeal to that same honor which you pride yourself on possessing, and, by virtue of that, request you to depart.”
“I’ll go, I’ll go. But, my dear child, why are you in such a hurry to get rid of me? Are you expecting some one? It is an odd thing, but as I came along I was overtaken by Mr. Oliver Menaida, making his way to the downs—to look at the sea, which is rough, and inhale the breeze of the ocean, of course. At one time, I am informed, you made daily visits to Polzeath, daily visits while Captain Coppinger was on the sea. Since his return, I am informed, these visits have been discontinued. Is it possible that instead of your visiting Mr. Oliver, Mr. Oliver is now visiting you—here, in this cottage?”
A sudden slash across the back and shoulders made Mr. Scantlebray jump and bound aside. Coppinger had entered, and was armed with a stout walking-stick.
“What brings you here?” he asked.
“I came to pay my respects to the grass-widow,” sneered Scantlebray, as he sidled to the door and bolted, but not till, with a face full of malignity, he had shaken his fist at Coppinger, behind his back.
“What brings this man here?” asked the Captain.
“Impertinence—nothing else,” answered Judith.
“What was that he said about Oliver Menaida?”
“His insolence will not bear reporting.”
“You are right. He is a cur, and deserves to be kicked, not spoken to or spoken of. I heed him not. There is in him a grudge against me. He thought at one time that I would have taken his daughter—do you recall speaking to me once about the girl that you supposed was a fit mate for me! I laughed—I thought you had heard the chatter about Polly Scantlebray and me. A bold, fine girl, full of blood as a cherry is full of juice—one of the stock—but with better looks than the men, yet with the assurance, the effrontery of her father. A girl to laugh and talk with, not to take to one’s heart. I care for Polly Scantlebray! Not I! That man has never forgiven me the disappointment because I did not take her. I never intended to. I despised her. Now you know all. Now you see why he hates me. I do not care. I am his match. But I will not have him insolent to you. What did he say?”
It was a relief to Judith that Captain Coppinger had not heard the words that Mr. Scantlebray had used. They would have inflamed his jealousy, and fired him into fury against the speaker.
“He told me that he had been passed, on his way hither, by Mr. Oliver Menaida, coming to the cliffs to inhale the sea air and look at the angry ocean.”
Captain Coppinger was satisfied, or pretended to be so. He went to the door and shut it, but not till he had gone outside and looked round to see, so Judith thought, whether Oliver Menaida were coming that way, quite as much as to satisfy himself that Mr. Scantlebray was not lurking round a corner listening.
No! Oliver Menaida would not come there. Of that Judith was quite sure. He had the delicacy of mind and the good sense not to risk her reputation by approaching Othello Cottage. When he had made that offer to her she had known that his own heart spoke, but he had veiled its speech and had made the offer as from his father, and in such a way as not to offend her. Only when she had accused herself of attempted murder did he break through his reserve to show her his rooted confidence in her innocence, in spite of her confession.
When the door was fast, Coppinger came over to Judith, and, standing at a little distance from her, said:
“Judith, look at me.”
She raised her eyes to him. He was pale and his face lined, but he had recovered greatly since that day when she had seen him suffering from the effects of the poison.
“Judith,” said he, “I know all.”
“What do you know?”
“You did not poison me.”
“I mixed and prepared the bowl for you.”
“Yes—but the poison had been put into the oatmeal before, not by you, not with your knowledge.”
She was silent. She was no adept at lying; she could not invent another falsehood to convince him of her guilt.
“I know how it all came about,” pursued Captain Coppinger. “The cook, Jane, has told me. Jamie came into the kitchen with a blue paper in his hand, asked for the oatmeal, and put in the contents of the paper so openly as not in the least to arouse suspicion. Not till I was taken ill and made inquiries did the woman connect his act with what followed. I have found the blue paper, and on it it is written, in Mr. Menaida’s handwriting, which I know, ‘Arsenic. Poison: for Jamie, only to be used for the dressing of bird-skins, and a limited amount to be served to him at a time.’ Now I am satisfied, because I know your character, and because I saw innocence in your manner when you came down to me on the second occasion, and dashed the bowl from my lips—I saw then that you were innocent.”
Judith said nothing. Her eyes rested on the ground.
“I had angered that fool of a boy, I had beaten him. In a fit of sullen revenge, and without calculating either how best to do it, or what the consequences would be, he went to the place where he knew the arsenic was—Mr. Menaida had impressed on him the danger of playing with the poison—and he abstracted it. But he had not the wit or cunning generally present in idiots——”
“He is no idiot,” said Judith.
“No, in fools,” said Coppinger, “to put the poison into the oatmeal secretly when no one was in the kitchen. He asked the cook for the meal and mingled the contents of the paper into it so openly as to disarm suspicion.”
He paused for Judith to speak, but she did not.
He went on: “Then you, in utter guilelessness, prepared my breakfast for me, as instructed by Miss Trevisa. Next morning you did the same, but were either suspicious of evil through missing the paper from your cabinet, or drawer, or wherever you kept it, or else Jamie confessed to you what he had done. Thereupon you rushed to me to save me from taking another portion. I do not know that I would have taken it; I had formed a half-suspicion from the burning sensation in my throat, and from what I saw in the spoon—but there was no doubt in my mind after the first discovery that you were guiltless. I sought the whole matter out, as far as I was able. Jamie is guilty—not you.”
“And,” said Judith, drawing a long breath, “what about Jamie?”
“There are two alternatives,” said Coppinger; “the boy is dangerous. Never again shall he come under my roof.”
“No,” spoke Judith, “no, he must not go to the Glaze again. Let him remain here with me. I will take care of him that he does mischief to no one. He would never have hurt you had not you hurt him. Forgive him, because he was aggravated to it by the unjust and cruel treatment he received.”
“The boy is a mischievous idiot,” said Coppinger; “he must not be allowed to be at large.”
“What, then, are your alternatives?”
“In the first place, I propose to send him back to that establishment whence he should never have been released, to Scantlebray’s Asylum.”
“No—no—no!” gasped Judith. “You do not know what that place is. I do. I got into it. I saw how Jamie had been treated.”
“He cannot be treated too severely. He is dangerous. You refuse this alternative?”
“Yes, indeed, I do.”
“Very well. Then I put the matter in the hands of justice, and he is proceeded against and convicted as having attempted my life with poison. To jail he will go.”
It was as Judith had feared. There were but two destinations for Jamie, her dear, dear brother, the son of that blameless father—jail or an asylum.
“Oh, no! no—no! not that!” cried Judith.
“One or the other. I give you six hours to choose,” said Coppinger. Then he went to the door, opened it, and stood looking seaward. Suddenly he started, “Ha! the Black Prince.” He turned in the door and said to Judith: “One hour after sunset come to Pentyre Glaze. Come alone, and tell me your decision. I will wait for that.”
The Black Prince had been observed by Oliver Menaida. He did not know for certain that the vessel he saw in the offing was the smuggler’s ship, but he suspected it, as he knew that Coppinger was in daily expectation of her arrival. He brought his father to the cliffs, and the old man at once identified her.
Oliver considered what was to be done.
A feint was to be made at a point lower down the coast so as to attract the coast-guard in that direction; whereas, she was to run for Pentyre as soon as night fell, with all lights hidden, and to discharge her cargo in the little cove.
Oliver knew pretty well who was confederate with Coppinger, or were in his employ. His father was able to furnish him with a good deal of information, not perhaps very well authenticated, all resting on gossip. He resolved to have a look at these men, and observe whether they were making preparations to assist Coppinger in clearing the Black Prince the moment she arrived off the cove. But he found that he had not far to look. They were drawn to the cliffs one after another to observe the distant vessel.
Oliver now made his way to the coast-guard station, and to reach it went round by Wadebridge, and this he did because he wished to avoid being noticed going to the Preventive Station across the estuary at the Doom Bar above St. Enodoc. On reaching his destination he was shown into an ante-room, where he had to wait some minutes, because the captain happened to be engaged. He had plenty to occupy his mind. There was that mysterious confession of Judith that she had tried to poison the man who persisted in considering himself as her husband, in spite of her resistance, and who was holding her in a condition of bondage in his house. Oliver did not for a moment believe that she had intentionally sought his life. He had seen enough of her to gauge her character, and he knew that she was incapable of committing a crime. That she might have given poison in ignorance and by accident was possible; how this had happened it was in vain for him to attempt to conjecture; he could, however, quite believe that an innocent and sensitive conscience like that of Judith might feel the pangs of self-reproach when hurt had come to Coppinger through her negligence.
Oliver could also believe that the smuggler captain attributed her act to an evil motive. He was not the man to believe in guilelessness, and when he found that he had been partly poisoned by the woman whom he daily tortured almost to madness, he would at once conclude that a premeditated attempt had been made on his life. What course would he pursue? Would he make this wretched business public and bring a criminal action against the unfortunate and unhappy girl who was linked to him against her will?
Oliver saw that if he could obtain Coppinger’s arrest on some such a charge as smuggling, he might prevent this scandal, and save Judith from much humiliation and misery. He was therefore most desirous to effect the capture of Coppinger at once and flagrante delicto.
As he waited in the ante-room a harsh voice within was audible which he recognized as that of Mr. Scantlebray. Presently the door was half opened, and he heard the coast-guard captain say:
“I trust you rewarded the fellow for his information. You may apply to me——”
“O royally, royally.”
“And for furnishing you with the code of signals?”
“Imperially—imperially.”
“That is well—never underpay in these matters.”
“Do not fear! I emptied my pockets. And as to the information you have received through me—rely on it as you would on the Bank of England.”
“You have been deceived and befooled,” said Oliver, unable to resist the chance of delivering a slap at a man for whom he entertained a peculiar aversion, having heard much concerning him from his father.
“What do you mean?”
“That the shilling you gave the clerk for his information, and the half-crown for his signal table were worth what you got—the information was false, and was intended to mislead.”
Scantlebray colored purple. “What do you know? You know nothing. You are in league with them.”
“Take care what you say,” said Oliver.
“I maintain,” said Scantlebray, somewhat cowed by his demeanor, “that what I have said to the captain here is something of which you know nothing—and which is of importance to him to know.”
“And I maintain that you have been hoodwinked,” answered Oliver. “But it matters not. The event will prove which of us is on the right track.”
“Yes,” laughed Scantlebray, “so be it; and let me bet you, Captain, and you Mr. Oliver Menaida—that I am on the scent of something else. I believe I know where Coppinger keeps his stores, and—but you shall see, and Captain Cruel also, ha, ha!”
Rubbing his hands he went out.
Then Oliver begged a word with the Preventive captain, and told him what he had overheard, and also that he knew where was the cave in which the smugglers had their boat and to which they ran the cargo first, before removing it to their inland stores.
“I’m not so certain the Black Prince dare venture nigh the coast to-night,” said the Captain, “because of the sea and the on-shore wind. But the glass is rising and the wind may change. Then she’ll risk it for certain. Now, look you here. I can’t go with you myself to-night, because I must be here; and I can only let you have six men.”
“That will suffice.”
“Under Wyvill. I cannot, of course, put them under you, but Wyvill shall command. He bears a grudge against Coppinger, and will be rejoiced to have the chance of paying it out. But, mind you, it is possible that the Black Prince dare not run in, because of the weather, at Pentyre Cove, she may run somewhere else, either down the coast or higher up. Coppinger has other ovens than one. You know the term. His store-places are ovens. We can’t find them, but we know that there are several of them along the coast, just as there are a score of landing-places. When one is watched, then another is used, and that is how we are thrown out. There are plenty of folk interested in defrauding the revenue in every parish between Hartland and Land’s End, and let the Black Prince, or any other smuggling vessel appear where she will, there she has ready helpers to shore her cargo, and convey it to the ovens. When we appear it is signalled at once to the vessel, and she runs away up or down the coast, and discharges somewhere else, before we can reach the point. Now, I do not say that what you tell me is not true, and that it is not Coppinger’s intent to land the goods in the Pentyre Cove, but if we are smelt, or if the wind or sea forbid a landing there, away goes the Black Prince and runs her cargo somewhere else. That is why I cannot accompany you, nor can I send you with more than half a dozen men. I must be on the look out, and I must be prepared in the event of her coming suddenly back and attempting to land her goods at Porth-leze, or Constantine, or Harlyn. What you shall do is—remain here with me till near dusk, and then you shall have a boat and my men and get round Pentyre, and you shall take possession of that cave. You shall take with you provisions for twenty-four hours. If the Black Prince intends to make that bay and discharge there, then she will wait her opportunity. If she cannot to-night, she will to-morrow night. Now, seize every man who comes into that cave, and don’t let him out. You see?”
“Perfectly.”
“Very well. Wyvill shall be in command, and you shall be the guide, and I will speak to him to pay proper attention to what you recommend. You see?”
“Exactly.”
“Very well—now we shall have something to eat and to drink, which is better, and drink that is worth the drinking, which is best of all. Here is some cognac, it was run goods that we captured and confiscated. Look at it. I wish there were artificial light and you would see, it is liquid amber—a liqueur. When you’ve tasted that, ah-ha! you will say, ‘Glad I lived to this moment.’ There is all the difference, my boy, between your best cognac and common brandy—the one, the condensed sunshine in the queen of fruit sublimed to an essence; the other, coarse, raw fire—all the difference that there is between a princess of blood royal and a gypsy wench. Drink and do not fear. This is not the stuff to smoke the head and clog the stomach.”
When Oliver Menaida finally started, he left the first officer of the coast-guard, in spite of his assurances, somewhat smoky in brain, and not in the condition to form the clearest estimate of what should be done in a contingency. The boat was laden with provisions for twenty-four hours, and placed under the command of Wyvill.
The crew had not rowed far before one of them sang out:
“Gearge!”
“Aye, aye, mate!” responded Wyvill.
“I say, Gearge. Be us a going round Pentyre?”
“I reckon we be.”
“And wet to the marrowbone we shall be.”
“I reckon we shall.”
Then a pause in the conversation. Presently from another, “Gearge!”
“Aye, aye, Will!”
“I say Gearge! where be the spirits to? There’s a keg o’ water, but sure alive the spirits be forgotten.”
“Bless my body!” exclaimed Wyvill, “I reckon you’re right. Here’s a go.”
“It will never do for us to be twenty-four hours wi’ salt water outside of us and fresh wi’in,” said Will. “What’s a hat wi’out a head in it, or boots wi’out feet in ’em, or a man wi’out spirits in his in’ard parts?”
“Dear, alive! ’Tis a nuisance,” said Wyvill. “Who’s been the idiot to forget the spirits?”
“Gearge!”
“Aye, aye, Samson!”
“I say, Gearge! hadn’t us better run over to the Rock and get a little anker there?”
“I reckon it wouldn’t be amiss, mate,” responded Wyvill. To Oliver’s astonishment and annoyance, the boat was turned to run across to a little tavern, at what was called “The Rock.”
He remonstrated. This was injudicious and unnecessary.
“Onnecessary,” said Wyvill. “Why, you don’t suppose fire-arms will go off wi’out a charge? It’s the same wi’ men. What’s the good of a human being unless he be loaded—and what’s his proper load but a drop o’ spirits.”
Then one of the rowers sang out:
Oliver was not surprised that so few captures were effected on the coast, when those set to watch it loved so dearly the very goods they were to watch against being imported untaxed.
On reaching the shore, the man Samson and another were left in charge of the boat, while Wyvill, Will, and the rest went up to the Rock Inn to have a glass for the good of the house, and to lade themselves with an anker of brandy which, during their wait in the cave, was to be distributed among them. Oliver thought it well to go to the tavern as well. He was impatient and thought they would dawdle there, and, perhaps, take more than the nip to which they professed themselves content to limit themselves. Pentyre Point had to be rounded in rough water, and they must be primed to enable them to round Pentyre.
“You see,” said Wyvill, who seemed to suppose that some sort of an explanation of his conduct was due. “When ropes be dry they be terrible slack. Wet ’em and they are taut. It is the same wi’ men’s muscles. We’ve Pentyre Point to get round. Very strainin’ to the arms, and I reckon it couldn’t be done unless we wetted the muscles. That’s reason. That’s convincin’.”
At the Rock Tavern the Preventive men found the clerk of S. Enodoc, with his hands in his pockets, on the settle, his legs stretched out before him, considering one of his knees that was threadbare, and trying to make up his mind whether the trouser would hold out another day without a thread being run through the thin portion, and whether if a day, then perhaps two days, and if perchance for two days, then for three. But if for three, then why not for four! And if for four, then possibly for five—anyhow, as far as he could judge, there was no immediate call for him to have the right knee of his trouser repaired that day.
The sexton-clerk looked up when the party entered, and greeted them each man by name, and a conversation ensued relative to the weather. Each described his own impressions as to what the weather had been, and his anticipations as to what it would be.
“And how’s your missus?”
“Middlin’—and yours?”
“Same, thanky’. A little troubled wi’ the rheumatics.”
“Tell her to take a lump o’ sugar wi’ five drops o’ turpentine.”
“I will, thanky”—and so on for half an hour, at the end of which time the party thought it time to rise, wipe their mouths, shoulder the anker, and return to the boat.
No sooner were they in it, and had thrust off from shore, and prepared to make a second start, than Oliver touched Wyvill and said, pointing to the land, “Look yonder.”
“What!”
“There is that clerk. Running, actually running.”
“I reckon he be.”
“And in the direction of Pentyre.”
“So he be, I reckon.”
“And what do you think of that?”
“Nothing,” answered Wyvill, confusedly. “Why should I? He can’t say nothing about where we be going. Not a word of that was said while us was there. I don’t put no store on his running.”
“I do,” said Oliver, unable to smother his annoyance. “This folly will spoil our game.”
Wyvill muttered, “I reckon I’m head of the consarn and not you.”
Oliver deemed it advisable, as the words were said low, to pretend that he did not hear them.
The wind had somewhat abated, but the sea was running furiously round Pentyre. Happily the tide was going out, so that tide and wind were conflicting, and this enabled the rowers to get round Pentyre between the Point and the Newland Isle, that broke the force of the seas. But when past the shelter of Newland, doubling a spur of Pentyre that ran to the north, the rowers had to use their utmost endeavors, and had not their muscles been moistened they might possibly have declared it impossible to proceed. It was advisable to run into the cove just after dark, and before the turn of the tide, as, in the event of the Black Prince attempting to land her cargo there, it would be made with the flow of the tide, and in the darkness.
The cove was reached and found to be deserted. Oliver showed the way, and the boat was driven up on the shingle and conveyed into the smugglers’ cave behind the rock curtain. No one was there. Evidently, from the preparations made, the smugglers were ready for the run of the cargo that night.
“Now,” said Will, one of the Preventive men, “us hev’ a’ labored uncommon. What say you, mates? Does us desarve a drop of refreshment or does us not? Every man as does his dooty by his country and his king should be paid for ’t, is my doctrine. What do y’ say, Gearge? Sarve out the grog?”
“I reckon yes. Sarve out the grog. There’s nothing like grog—I think it was Solomon said that, and he was the wisest of men.”
“For sure; he made a song about it,” said one of the coast-guard. “It begins: