The smugglers, warned by Coppinger, had crept up the path in silence, and singly, at considerable intervals between each, and on reaching the summit of the cliffs had dispersed to their own homes, using the precaution to strike inland first, over the “new-take” wall.
As the last of the party reached the top he encountered one of the coast-guards, who, by the orders of his superior, was patrolling the down to watch that the smugglers did not leave the cove by any other path than the one known—that up and down which donkeys were driven. This donkey-driving to the beach was not pursued solely for the sake of contraband; the beasts brought up loads of sand, which the farmers professed they found valuable as manure on their stiff soil, and also the masses of seaweed cast on the strand after a gale, and which was considered to be possessed of rare fertilizing qualities.
No sooner did the coast-guard see a man ascend the cliff, or rather come up over the edge before him, than he fired his pistol to give the signal to his fellows, whereupon the smuggler turned, seized him by the throat, and precipitated him over the edge.
Of this Coppinger knew nothing. He had led the procession, and had made his way to Pentyre Glaze by a roundabout route, so as to evade a guard set to watch for him approaching from the cliffs, should one have been so planted.
On reaching his door, his first query was whether the signals had been made.
“What signals?” asked Miss Trevisa.
“I sent a messenger here with instructions.”
“No messenger has been here.”
“What, no one—not—” he hesitated, and said, “not a woman?”
“Not a soul has been here—man, woman, or child—since you left.”
“No one at all, Captain.”
Coppinger did not remove his hat; he stood in the doorway biting his thumb. Was it possible that Judith had shrunk from coming to his house to bear the message? Yet she had promised to do so. Had she been intercepted by the Preventive men? Had—had she reached the top of the cliff? Had she, after reaching the top, lost her way in the dark, taken a false direction, and—Coppinger did not allow the thought to find full expression in his brain. He turned, without another word, and hastened to the cottage of Mr. Menaida. He must ascertain whether she had reached home.
Uncle Zachie had not retired to bed; Scantlebray had been gone an hour; Zachie had drunk with Scantlebray, and he had drunk after the departure of that individual to indemnify himself for the loss of his company. Consequently Mr. Menaida was confused in mind and thick in talk.
“Where is Judith?” asked Coppinger, bursting in on him.
“In bed, I suppose,” answered Uncle Zachie, after a while, when he comprehended the question, and had had time to get over his surprise at seeing the Captain.
“Are you sure? When did she come in?”
“Come in?” said the old man, scratching his forehead with his pipe. “Come in—bless you, I don’t know; some time in the afternoon. Yes, to be sure it was, some time in the afternoon.”
“But she has been out to-night?”
“No—no—no,” said Uncle Zachie, “it was Scantlebray.”
“I say she has—she has been to—” he paused, then said—“to see her aunt.”
“Aunt Dunes! bless my heart, when?”
“To-night.”
“Impossible!”
“But I say she has. Come, Mr. Menaida. Go up to her room, knock at the door, and ascertain if she be back. Her aunt is alarmed—there are rough folks about.”
“Why, bless me!” exclaimed Mr. Menaida, “so there are. And—well, wonders’ll never cease. How came you here! I thought the guard were after you. Scantlebray said so.”
“Will you go at once and see if Judith Trevisa is home?”
Coppinger spoke with such vehemence, and looked so threateningly at the old man, that he staggered out of his chair, and, still holding his pipe, went to the stairs.
“Bless me!” said he, “whatever am I about? I’ve forgot a candle. Would you oblige me with lighting one? My hand shakes, and I might light my fingers by mistake.”
After what seemed to Coppinger to be an intolerable length of time, Uncle Zachie stumbled down the stairs again.
“I say,” said Mr. Menaida, standing on the steps, “Captain—did you ever hear about Tincombe Lane?—
—It’s the same with these blessed stairs. Would you mind lending me a hand? By the powers, the banister is not firm! Do you know how it goes on?—
—Thank you, sir, thank you. Now take the candle. Bah! I’ve broke my pipe—and then comes the moral—
In vain had Coppinger endeavored to interrupt the flow of words, and to extract from thick Zachie the information he needed, till the old gentleman was back in his chair.
Then Uncle Zachie observed—“Blessy’—I said so—I said so a thousand times. No—she’s not there. Tell Aunt Dunes so. Will you sit down and have a drop? The night is rough, and it will do you good—take the chill out of your stomach and the damp out of your chest.”
But Coppinger did not wait to decline the offer. He turned at once, left the house, and dashed the door back as he stepped out into the night. He had not gone a hundred paces along the road before he heard voices, and recognized that of Mr. Scantlebray—
“I tell you the vessel is the Black Prince, and I know he was to have unloaded her to-night.”
“Anyhow he is not doing so. Not a sign of him.”
“The night is too dirty.”
“Wyvill—” Coppinger knew that the Captain at the head of the coast-guard was speaking. “Wyvill, I heard a pistol-shot. Where is Jenkyns? If you had not been by me I should have said you had acted wide of your orders. Has any one seen Jenkyns?”
“No, sir.”
“Who is that?”
Suddenly a light flashed forth, and glared upon Coppinger. The Captain in command of the coast-guard uttered an oath.
“You out to-night, Mr. Coppinger! Where do you come from?”
“As you see—from Polzeath.”
“Humph! From no other direction?”
“I’ll trouble you to let me pass.”
Coppinger thrust the Preventive man aside, and went on his way.
When he was beyond earshot, Scantlebray said—“I trust he did not notice me along with you. You see, the night is too dirty. Let him bless his stars, it has saved him.”
“I should like to see Jenkyns,” said the officer. “I am almost certain I heard a pistol-shot; but when I sent in the direction whence it came, there was no one to be seen. It’s a confounded dark night.”
“I hope they’ve not give us the slip, Captain?” said Wyvill.
“Impossible,” answered the officer. “Impossible. I took every precaution. They did not go out to-night. As Mr. Scantlebray says, the night was too dirty.”
Then they went on.
In the meantime Coppinger was making the best of his way to the downs. He knew his direction even in the dark—he had the “new-take” wall as a guide. What the coast-guard did not suspect was that this “new-take” had been made for the very purpose of serving as a guide by which the smugglers could find their course in the blackest of winter’s nights; moreover, in the fiercest storm the wall served as a shelter, under lea of which they might approach their cave. Coppinger was without a lantern. He doubted if one would avail him, in his quest; moreover, the night was lightening, as the moon rode higher.
The smuggler captain stood for a moment on the edge of the cliffs to consider what course he should adopt to find Judith. If she had reached the summit, it was possible enough that she had lost her way and had rambled inland among lanes and across fields, pixy-led. In that case it was a hopeless task to search for her; moreover, there would be no particular necessity for him to do so, as, sooner or later, she must reach a cottage or a farm, where she could learn her direction. But if she had gone too near the edge, or if, in her ascent, her foot had slipped, then he must search the shore. The tide was ebbing now, and left a margin on which he could walk. This was the course he must adopt. He did not descend by the track to the chimney, as the creeping down of the latter could be effected in absolute darkness only with extreme risk; but he bent his way over the down skirting the crescent indentation of the cove to the donkey-path, which was now, as he knew, unwatched. By that he swiftly and easily descended to the beach. Along the shore he crept carefully toward that portion which was overhung by the precipice along which the way ran from the mouth of the shaft. The night was mending, or at all events seemed better. The moon, as it mounted, cast a glimmer through the least opaque portions of the driving clouds. Coppinger looked up, and could see the ragged fringe of down torn with gullies, and thrust up into prongs, black as ink against the gray of the half-translucent vapors. And near at hand was the long dorsal ridge that concealed the entrance to the cave, sloping rapidly upward and stretching away before him into shadow.
Coppinger mused. If one were to fall from above, would he drop between the cliff and this curtain, or would he strike and be projected over it on to the shelving sand up which stole the waves? He knew that the water eddying against friable sandstone strata that came to the surface had eaten them out with the wash, and that the hard flakes of slate and ribs of quartz stood forth, overhanging the cave. Most certainly, therefore, had Judith fallen, her body must be sought on the sea-face of the masking ridge. The smuggler stood at the very point where in the preceding afternoon Jamie and the dog had scrambled up that fin-like blade of rock and disappeared from the astonished gaze of Judith. The moon, smothered behind clouds, and yet, in a measure self-assertive, cast sufficient light down into the cove to glitter on, and transmute into steel, the sea-washed and smoothed, and still wet, ridge, sloping inland as a seawall. As Coppinger stood looking upward he saw in the uncertain light something caught on the fangs of this saw-ridge, moving uneasily this way, then that, something dark, obscuring the glossed surface of the rock, as it might be a mass of gigantic sea-tangles.
“Judith!” he cried. “Is that you?” and he plunged through the pool that intervened, and scrambled up the rock.
He caught something. It was cloth. “Judith! Judith!” he almost shrieked in anxiety. That which he had laid hold of yielded, and he gathered to him a garment of some sort, and with it he slid back into the pool, and waded on to the pebbles. Then he examined his capture by the uncertain light, and by feel, and convinced himself that it was a cloak—a cloak with clasp and hood—just such as he had seen Judith wearing when he flashed his lantern over her on the platform at the mouth of the shaft.
He stood for a moment, numbed as though he had been struck on the head with a mallet, and irresolute. He had feared that Judith had fallen over the edge, but he had hoped that it was not so. This discovery seemed to confirm his worst fears.
If the cloak were there—she also would probably be there also, a broken heap. She who had thrown him down and broken him, had been thrown down herself, and broken also—thrown down and broken because she had come to rescue him from danger. Coppinger put his hand to his head. His veins were beating as though they would burst the vessels in his temples, and suffuse his face with blood. As he stood thus clasping his brow with his right hand, the clouds were swept for an instant aside, and for an instant the moon sent down a weird glare that ran like a wave along the sand, leaped impediments, scrambled up rocks, and flashed in the pools. For one moment only—but that sufficed to reveal to him a few paces ahead a black heap: there was no mistaking it. The rounded outlines were not those of a rock. It was a human body lying on the shingle half immersed in the pool at the foot of the reef!
A cry of intensest, keenest anguish burst from the heart of Coppinger. Prepared though he was for what he must see by the finding of the cloak, the sight of that motionless and wrecked body was more than he could endure with composure. In the darkness that ensued after the moon-gleam he stepped forward, slowly, even timidly, to where that human wreck lay, and knelt on both knees beside it on the wet sand.
He waited. Would the moon shine out again and show him what he dreaded seeing? He would not put down a hand to touch it. One still clasped his brow, the other he could not raise so high, and he held it against his breast where it had lately been strapped. He tried to hold his breath, to hear if any sound issued from what lay before him. He strained his eyes to see if there were any, the slightest movement in it. Yet he knew there could be none. A fall from these cliffs above must dash every spark of life out of a body that reeled down them. He turned his eyes upward to see if the cloud would pass; but no—it seemed to be one that was all-enveloping, unwilling to grant him that glimpse which must be had, but which would cause him acutest anguish.
He could not remain kneeling there in suspense any longer. In uncertainty he was not. The horror was before him—and must be faced.
He thrust his hand into his pocket and drew forth tinder-box and flint. With a hand that had never trembled before, but now shaking as with an ague, he struck a light. The sparks flew about, and were long in igniting the touchwood. But finally it was kindled, and glowed red. The wind fanned it into fitful flashes, as Coppinger, stooping, held the lurid spark over the prostrate form, and passed it up and down on the face. Then suddenly it fell from his hand, and he drew a gasp. The dead face was that of a bearded man.
A laugh—a wild, boisterous laugh—rang out into the night, and was re-echoed by the cliff, as Coppinger leaped to his feet. There was hope still. Judith had not fallen.
Coppinger did not hesitate a moment now to leave the corpse on the beach where he had found it, and to hasten to the cave.
There was a third alternative to which hitherto he had given no attention. Judith, in ascending the cliff, might have strayed from the track, and be in such a position that she could neither advance nor draw back. He would, therefore, explore the path from the chimney mouth, and see if any token could be found of her having so done.
He again held his smouldering tinder and by this feeble glimmer made his way up the inclined beach within the cave, passed under the arch of the rock where low, and found himself in that portion where was the boat.
Here he knew of a receptacle for sundries, such as might be useful in an emergency, and to that he made his way, and drew from it a piece of candle and a lantern. He speedily lighted the candle, set it in the lantern, and then ascended the chimney.
On reaching the platform at the orifice in the face of the rock, it occurred to him that he had forgotten to bring rope with him. He would not return for that, unless he found a need for it. Rope there was below, of many yards length. Till he knew that it was required, it seemed hardly worth his while to encumber himself with a coil that might be too long or too short for use. He did not even know that he would find Judith. It was a chance, that was all. It was more probable that she had strayed on the down, and was now back at Polzeath, and safe and warm in bed.
From the ledge in front of the shaft Coppinger proceeded with caution and leisure, exploring every portion of the ascent with lowered lantern. There were plenty of impressions of feet wherever the soft and crumbly beds had been traversed, and where the dissolved stone had been converted into clay or mud, but these were the impressions of the smugglers escaping from their den. Step by step he mounted, till he had got about half-way up, when he noticed, what he had not previously observed, that there was a point at which the track left the ledge of stratified vertical rock that had inclined its broken edge upward, and by a series of slips mounted to another fractured stratum, a leaf of the story-book turned up with the record of infinite ages sealed up in it. It was possible that one unacquainted with the course might grope onward, following the ledge instead of deserting it for a direct upward climb. As Coppinger now perceived, one ignorant of the way and unprovided with a light would naturally follow the shelf. He accordingly deserted the track, and advanced along the ledge. There was a little turf in one place, in the next a tuft of armeria, then mud or clay, and there—assuredly a foot had trodden. There was a mark of a sole that was too small to have belonged to a man.
The shelf at first was tolerably broad, and could be followed without risk by one whose head was steady; but for how long would it so continue? These rough edges, these laminæ of upheaved slate were treacherous—they were sometimes completely broken down, forming gaps, in places stridable, in others discontinuous for many yards.
The footprints satisfied Coppinger that Judith had crept along this terrace, and so had missed the right course. It was impossible that she could reach the summit by this way—she must have fallen or be clinging at some point farther ahead, a point from which she could not advance, and feared to retreat.
He held the lantern above his head, and peered before him, but could see nothing. The glare of the artificial light made the darkness beyond its radius the deeper and more impervious to the eye. He called, but received no answer. He called again, with as little success. He listened, but heard no other sound than the mutter of the sea, and the wail of the wind. There was nothing for him to do but to go forward; and he did that slowly, searchingly, with the light near the ground, seeking for some further trace of Judith. He was obliged to use caution, as the ledge of rock narrowed. Here it was hard, and the foot passing over it made no impression. Then ensued a rift and a slide of shale, and here he thought he observed indications of recent dislodgement.
Now the foot-hold was reduced, he could no longer stoop to examine the soil; he must stand upright and hold to the rock with his right hand, and move with precaution lest he should be precipitated below.
Was it conceivable that she had passed there?—there in the dark? And yet—if she had not, she must have been hurled below.
Coppinger, clinging with his fingers, and thrusting one foot before the other, then drawing forward that foot, with every faculty on the alert, passed to where, for a short space, the ledge of rock expanded, and there he stooped once more with the light to explore. Beyond was a sheer fall, and the dull glare from his lantern showed him no continuance of the shelf. As he arose from his bent position, suddenly the light fell on a hand—a delicate, childish hand—hanging down. He raised the lantern, and saw her whom he sought. At this point she had climbed upward to a higher ledge, and on that she lay, one arm raised, fastened by a chain to a tuft of heather—her head fallen against the rock, and feet and one arm over the edge of the cliff. She was unconscious, sustained by a dog-chain and a little bunch of ling.
Coppinger passed the candle over her face. It was white, and the eyes did not close before the light.
His position was vastly difficult. She hung there chained to the cliff, and he doubted whether he could sustain her weight if he attempted to carry her back while she was unconscious, along the way he and she had come. It was perilous for one alone to move along that strip of surface; it seemed impossible for one to effect it bearing in his arms a human burden.
Moreover, Coppinger was well aware that his left arm had not recovered its strength. He could not trust her weight on that. He dare not trust it on his right arm, for to return by the way he came the right hand would be that which was toward the void. The principal weight must be thrown inward.
What was to be done? This, primarily: to release the insensible girl from her present position, in which the agony of the strain on her shoulder perhaps prolonged her unconsciousness.
Coppinger mounted to the shelf on which she lay, and bowing himself over her, while holding her, so that she should not slip over the edge, he disentangled the chain from her wrist and the stems of the heather. Then he seated himself beside her, drew her toward him, with his right arm about her, and laid her head on his shoulder.
And the chain?
That he took and deliberately passed it round her waist and his own body, fastened it, and muttered, “For life or for death!”
There, for a while, he sat. He had set the lantern beside him. His hand was on Judith’s heart, and he held his breath, and waited to feel if there was pulsation there; but his own arteries were in such agitation, the throb in his finger ends prevented his being able to satisfy himself as to what he desired to know.
He could not remain longer in his present position. Judith might never revive. She had swooned through over-exhaustion, and nothing could restore her to life but the warmth and care she would receive in a house; he cursed his folly, his thoughtlessness, in having brought with him no flask of brandy. He dared remain no longer where he was, the ebbing powers in the feeble life might sink beyond recall.
He thrust his right arm under her, and adjusted the chain about him so as to throw some of her weight off the arm, and then cautiously slid to the step below, and, holding her, set his back to the rocky wall.
So, facing the Atlantic Ocean, facing the wild night sky, torn here and there into flakes of light, otherwise cloaked in storm-gloom, with the abyss below, an abyss of jagged rock and shingle shore, he began to make his way along the track by which he had gained that point.
He was at that part where the shelf narrowed to a foot, and his safety and hers depended largely on the power that remained to him in his left arm. With the hand of that arm he felt along and clutched every projecting point of rock, and held to it with every sinew strained and starting. He drew a long breath. Was Judith stirring on his arm?
The critical minute had come. The slightest movement, the least displacement of the balance, and both would be precipitated below.
“Judith!” said he, hoarsely, turning his head toward her ear. “Judith!”
There was no reply.
“Judith! For Heaven’s sake—if you hear me—do not lift a finger. Do not move a muscle.”
The same heavy weight on him without motion.
“Judith! For life—or death!”
Then suddenly from off the ocean flashed a tiny spark—far, far away.
It was a signal from the Black Prince.
He saw it, fixed his eyes steadily on it, and began to move sideways, facing the sea, his back to the rock, reaching forward with his left arm, holding Judith in the right.
“For life!”
He took one step sideways, holding with the disengaged hand to the rock. The bone of that arm was but just knit. Not only so, but that of the collar was also recently sealed up after fracture. Yet the salvation of two lives hung on these two infirm joints. The arm was stiff; the muscles had not recovered flexibility, nor the sinews their strength.
“For death!”
A second sidelong step, and the projected foot slid in greasy marl. He dug his heel into the wet and yielding soil, he stamped in it; then, throwing all his weight on the left heel, aided by the left arm, he drew himself along and planted the right beside the left.
He sucked the air in between his teeth with a hiss. The soft soil was sinking—it would break away. The light from the Black Prince seemed to rise. With a wrench he planted his left foot on rock—and drew up the right to it.
“Judith! For life!”
That star on the black sea—what did it mean? He knew. His mind was clear, and though in intense concentration of all his powers on the effort to pass this strip of perilous path, he could reason of other things, and knew why the Black Prince had exposed her light. The lantern that he had borne, and left on the shelf, had been seen by her, and she supposed it to be a signal from the terrace over the cave.
The next step was full of peril. With his left foot advanced, Coppinger felt he had reached the shale. He kicked into it, and kicked away an avalanche of loose flakes that slid over the edge. But he drove his foot deep into the slope, and rammed a dent into which he could fix the right foot when drawn after it.
“For death!”
Then he crept along upon the shale.
He could not see the star now. His sweat, rolling off his brow, had run over his eyelids and charged the lashes with tears. In partial blindness he essayed the next step.
“For life!”
Then he breathed more freely. His foot was on the grass.
The passage of extreme danger was over. From the point now reached the ledge widened, and Coppinger was able to creep onward with less stress laid on the fractured bones. The anguish of expectation of death was lightened; and as it lightened nature began to assert herself. His teeth chattered as in an ague fit, and his breath came in sobs.
In ten minutes he had attained the summit—he was on the down above the cliffs.
“Judith,” said he, and he kissed her cheeks and brow and hair. “For life—for death—mine, only mine.”
When Judith opened her eyes, she found herself in a strange room, but as she looked about her she saw Aunt Dionysia with her hands behind her back looking out of the window.
“Oh, aunt! Where am I!”
Miss Trevisa turned.
“So you have come round at last, or pleased to pretend to come round. It is hard to tell whether or not dissimulation was here.”
“Dissimulation, aunt?”
“There’s no saying. Young folks are not what they were in my day. They have neither the straightforwardness nor the consideration for their elders and betters.”
“But—where am I?”
“At the Glaze; not where I put you, but where you have put yourself.”
“I did not come here, auntie, dear.”
“Don’t auntie dear me, and deprive me of my natural sleep.”
“Have I?”
“Have you not? Three nights have I had to sit up. And natural sleep is as necessary to me at my age as is stays. I fall abroad without one or the other. Give me my choice—whether I’d have nephews and nieces crawling about me or erysipelas, and I’d choose the latter.”
“But, aunt—I’m sorry if I am a trouble to you.”
“Of course you are a trouble. How can you be other? Don’t burs stick? But that is neither here nor there.”
“Aunt, how came I to Pentyre Glaze!”
“I didn’t invite you, and I didn’t bring you—you may be sure of that. Captain Coppinger found you somewhere on the down at night, when you ought to have been at home. You were insensible, or pretended to be so—it’s not for me to say which.”
“Oh, aunt, I don’t want to be here.”
“Nor do I want you here—and in my room, too. Hoity-toity! nephews and nieces are just like pigs—you want them to go one way and they run the other.”
“But I should like to know where Captain Coppinger found me, and all about it. I don’t remember anything.”
“Then you must ask him yourself.”
“I should like to get up; may I?”
“I can’t say till the doctor comes. There’s no telling—I might be blamed. I shall be pleased enough when you are shifted to your own room,” and she pointed to a door.
“My room, auntie?”
“I suppose so; I don’t know whose else it is.”
Then Miss Trevisa whisked out of the room.
Judith lay quietly in bed trying to collect her thoughts and recall something of what had happened. She could recollect fastening her wrist to the shrub by her brother’s dog-chain; then, with all the vividness of a recurrence of the scene—the fall of the man, the stroke on her cheek, his roll over and plunge down the precipice. The recollection made a film come over her eyes and her heart stand still. After that she remembered nothing. She tried hard to bring to mind one single twinkle of remembrance, but in vain. It was like looking at a wall and straining the eyes to see through it.
Then she raised herself in bed to look about her. She was in her aunt’s room, and in her aunt’s bed. She had been brought there by Captain Coppinger. He, therefore, had rescued her from the position of peril in which she had been. So far she could understand. She would have liked to know more, but more, probably, her aunt could not tell her, even if inclined to do so.
Where was Jamie? Was he at Uncle Zachie’s? Had he been anxious and unhappy about her? She hoped he had got into no trouble during the time he had been free from her supervision. Judith felt that she must go back to Mr. Menaida’s and to Jamie. She could not stay at the Glaze. She could not be happy with her ever-grumbling, ill-tempered aunt. Besides, her father would not have wished her to be there.
What did Aunt Dunes mean when she pointed to a door and spoke of her room?
Judith could not judge whether she were strong till she tried her strength. She slipped her feet to the floor, stood up and stole over the floor to that door which her aunt had indicated. She timidly raised the latch, after listening at it, opened and peeped into a small apartment. To her surprise she saw the little bed she had occupied at her dear home, the rectory, her old wash-stand, her mirror, the old chairs, the framed pictures that had adorned her walls, the common and trifling ornaments that had been arranged on her chimney-piece. Every object with which she had been familiar at the parsonage for many years, and to which she had said good-by, never expecting to have a right to them any more—all these were there, furnishing the room that adjoined her aunt’s apartment.
She stood looking around in surprise, till she heard a step on the stair outside, and, supposing it was that of Aunt Dionysia, she ran back to bed, and dived under the clothes and pulled the sheets over her golden head.
Aunt Dunes entered the room, bringing with her a bowl of soup. Her eye at once caught the opened door into the little adjoining chamber.
“You have been out of bed!”
Judith thrust her head out of its hiding-place, and said, frankly, “Yes, auntie! I could not help myself. I want to see. How have you managed to get all my things together?”
“I? I have had nothing to do with it.”
“But—who did it, auntie?”
“Captain Coppinger; he was at the sale.”
“Is the sale over, aunt?”
“Yes, whilst you have been ill.”
“Oh, I am so glad it is over, and I knew nothing about it.”
“Oh, exactly! Not a thought of the worry you have been to me; deprived of my sleep—of my bed—of my bed,” repeated Aunt Dunes, grimly. “How can you expect a bulb to flower if you take it out of the earth and stick it on a bedroom chair stirring broth? I have no patience with you young people. You are consumed with selfishness.”
“But, auntie! Don’t be cross. Why did Captain Coppinger buy all my dear crinkum-crankums?”
Aunt Dionysia snorted and tossed her head.
Judith suddenly flushed; she did not repeat the question, but said hastily, “Auntie, I want to go back to Mr. Menaida.”
“You cannot desire it more than I do,” said Miss Trevisa, sharply. “But whether he will let you go is another matter.”
“Aunt Dunes, if I want to go, I will go!”
“Indeed!”
“I will go back as soon as ever I can.”
“Well, that can’t be to-day, for one thing.”
The evening of that same day Judith was removed into the adjoining room, “her room,” as Miss Trevisa designated it. “And mind you sleep soundly, and don’t trouble me in the night. Natural sleep is as suitable to me as green peas to duck.”
When, next morning, the girl awoke, her eyes ranged round and lighted everywhere on familiar objects. The two mezzotints of Happy and Deserted Auburn, the old and battered pieces of Dresden ware, vases with flowers encrusted round them, but with most of the petals broken off—vases too injured to be of value to a purchaser, valuable to her because full of reminiscences—the tapestry firescreen, the painted fans with butterflies on them, the mirror blotched with damp, the inlaid wafer-box and ruler, the old snuffer-tray. Her eyes filled with tears. A gathering together into one room of old trifles did not make that strange room to be home. It was the father, the dear father, who, now that he was taken away, made home an impossibility, and the whole world, however crowded with old familiar odds and ends, to be desert and strange. The sight of all her old “crinkum-crankums,” as she had called them, made Judith’s heart smart. It was kindly meant by Coppinger to purchase all these things and collect them there; but it was a mistake of judgment. Grateful she was, not gratified.
In the little room there was an ottoman with a woolwork cover representing a cluster of dark red, pink, and white roses; and at each corner of the ottoman was a tassel, which had been a constant source of trouble to Judith, as the tassels would come off, sometimes because the cat played with them, sometimes because Jamie pulled them off in mischief, sometimes because they caught in her dress. Her father had embroidered those dreadful roses on a buff ground one winter when confined to the house by a heavy cold and cough. She valued that ottoman for his sake, and would not have suffered it to go into the sale had she possessed any place she could regard as her own where to put it. She needed no such article to remind her of the dear father—the thought of him would be forever present to her without the assistance of ottomans to refresh her memory.
On this ottoman, when dressed, Judith seated herself, and let her hands rest in her lap. She was better; she would soon be well; and when well would take the first opportunity to depart.
The door was suddenly thrown open by her aunt, and in the doorway stood Coppinger looking at her. He raised his hand to his hat in salutation, but said nothing. She was startled and unable to speak. In another moment the door was shut again.
That day she resolved that nothing should detain her longer than she was forced. Jamie—her own dear Jamie—came to see her, and the twins were locked in each other’s arms.
“Oh, Ju! darling Ju! You are quite well, are you not! And Captain Coppinger has given me a gray donkey instead of Tib; and I’m to ride it about whenever I choose!”
“But, dear, Mr. Menaida has no stable, and no paddock.”
“Oh, Ju! that’s nothing. I’m coming up here, and we shall be together—the donkey and you and me and Aunt Dunes!”
“No, Jamie. Nothing of the sort. Listen to me. You remain at Mr. Menaida’s. I am coming back.”
“But I’ve already brought up my clothes.”
“You take them back. Attend to me. You do not come here. I go back to Mr. Menaida’s immediately.”
“But, Ju! you’ve got all your pretty things from the parsonage here!”
“They are not mine. Mr. Coppinger bought them for himself.”
“But—the donkey?”
“Leave the donkey here. Pay attention to my words. I lay a strict command on you. As you love me, Jamie, do not leave Mr. Menaida’s; remain there till my return.”
That night there was a good deal of noise in the house. Judith’s room lay in a wing, nevertheless she heard the riot, for the house was not large, and the sounds from the hall penetrated every portion of it. She was frightened, and went into Miss Trevisa’s room.
“Aunt! what is this dreadful racket about?”
“Go to sleep—you cannot have every one shut his mouth because of you.”
“But what is it, auntie!”
“It is nothing but the master has folk with him, if you wish particularly to know. The whole cargo of the Black Prince has been run, and not a finger has been laid by the coast-guard on a single barrel or bale. So they are celebrating their success. Go to bed and sleep. It is naught to you.”
“I cannot sleep, aunt. They are singing now.”
“Why should they not; have you aught against it? You are not mistress here, that I am aware of.”
“But, auntie, are there many down-stairs?”
“I do not know. It is no concern of mine—and certainly none of yours.”
Judith was silenced for a while by her aunt’s ill-humor; but she did not return to her room. Presently she asked—
“Are you sure, aunt, that Jamie is gone back to Polzeath?”
Miss Trevisa kicked the stool from under her feet, in her impatience.
“Really! you drive me desperate. I did not bargain for this. Am I to tear over the country on post-horses to seek a nephew here and a niece there? I can’t tell where Jamie is, and what is more, I do not care. I’ll do my duty by you both. I’ll do no more; and that has been forced on me, it was not sought by me. Heaven be my witness.”
Judith returned to her room. The hard and sour woman would afford her no information.
In her room she threw herself on her bed and began to think. She was in the very home and head-quarters of contrabandism. But was smuggling a sin? Surely not that, or her father would have condemned it decidedly. She remembered his hesitation relative to it, in the last conversation they had together. Perhaps it was not actually a sin—she could recall no text in Scripture that denounced it—but it was a thing forbidden, and though she did not understand why it was forbidden, she considered that it could not be an altogether honorable and righteous traffic. Judith was unable to rest. It was not the noise that disturbed her so much as her uneasiness about Jamie. Had he obeyed her and gone back to Uncle Zachie? Or had he neglected her injunction, and was he in the house, was he below along with the revellers?
She opened the door gently, and stole along the passage to the head of the stairs, and listened. She could smell the fumes of tobacco; but to these she was familiar. The atmosphere of Mr. Menaida’s cottage was redolent of the Virginian weed. The noise was, however, something to which she was utterly unaccustomed: the boisterous merriment, the shouts, and occasional oaths. Then a fiddle was played. There was disputation, a pause, then the fiddle recommenced; it played a jig; there was a clatter of feet, then a roar of laughter—and then—she was almost sure she heard the voice of her brother.
Regardless of herself, thinking only of him, without a moment’s consideration, she ran down the stairs and threw open the door into the great kitchen or hall.
It was full of men—wild, rough fellows—drinking and smoking; there were lights and a fire. The atmosphere was rank with spirits and tobacco; on a chair sat a sailor fiddling, and in the midst of the room, on a table, was Jamie dancing a jig, to the laughter and applause of the revellers.
The moment Judith appeared silence ensued—the men were surprised to see a pale and delicate girl stand before them, with a crown of gold like a halo round her ivory-white face. But Judith took no notice of anyone there—her eyes were on her brother, and her hand raised to attract his attention. Judith had been in bed, but, disturbed by the uproar, had risen and drawn on her gown; her feet, however, were bare, and her magnificent hair poured over her shoulders unbound. Her whole mind, her whole care, was for Jamie; on herself not a thought rested; she had forgotten that she was but half clothed.
“Jamie! Jamie!” she cried. “My brother! my brother!”
The fiddler ceased, lowered his violin, and stared at her.
“Ju, let me alone! It is such fun,” said the boy.
“Jamie! this instant you shall come with me. Get down off the table!”
As he hesitated, and looked round to the men who had been applauding him for support against his sister, she went to the table, and caught him by the feet.
“Jamie! in pity to me! Jamie! think—papa is but just dead.”
Then tears of sorrow, shame, and entreaty filled her eyes.
“No, Ju! I’m not tied to your apron-strings,” said the lad, disengaging himself.
But in an instant he was caught from the table by the strong arm of Coppinger, and thrust toward the door.
“Judith, you should not have come here.”
“Oh, Mr. Coppinger—and Jamie! why did you let him—”
Coppinger drew the girl from the room into the passage.
“Judith, not for the world would I have had you here,” said he, in an agitated voice. “I’ll kill your aunt for letting you come down.”
“Mr. Coppinger, she knew nothing of my coming. Come I must—I heard Jamie’s voice.”
“Go,” said the Captain, shaking the boy. He was ashamed of himself and angry. “Beware how you disobey your sister again.”
Coppinger’s face was red as fire. He turned to Judith—
“Your feet are bare. Let me carry you up-stairs—carry you once more.”
She shook her head. “As I came down so I can return.”
“Will you forgive me?” he said, in a low tone.
“Heaven forgive you,” she answered, and burst into tears. “You will break my heart, I foresee it.”
Next day—just in the same way as the day before—when Judith was risen and dressed, the door was thrown open, and again Coppinger was revealed, standing outside, looking at her with a strange expression, and saying no word.
But Judith started up from her chair and went to him in the passage, put forth her delicate white hand, laid it on his cuff, and said: “Mr. Coppinger, may I speak to you?”
“Where?”
“Where you like—down-stairs will be best, in the hall if no one be there.”
“It is empty.”
He stood aside and allowed her to precede him.
The staircase was narrow, and it would have been dark but for a small dormer-window through which light came from a squally sky covered with driving white vapors. But such light as entered from a white and wan sun fell on her head as she descended—that head of hair was like the splendor of a beech-tree touched by frost before the leaves fall.
Coppinger descended after her.
When they were both in the hall, he indicated his arm-chair by the hearth for her to sit in, and she obeyed. She was weak, and now also nervous. She must speak to the smuggler firmly, and that required all her courage.
The room was tidy; all traces of the debauch of the preceding night had disappeared.
Coppinger stood a few paces from her. He seemed to know that what she was going to say would displease him, and he did not meet her clear eyes, but looked with a sombre frown upon the floor.
Judith put the fingers of her right hand to her heart to bid it cease beating so fast, and then rushed into what she had to say, fearing lest delay should heighten the difficulty of saying it.
“I am so—so thankful to you, sir, for what you have done for me. My aunt tells me that you found and carried me here. I had lost my way on the rocks, and but for you I would have died.”
“Yes,” he said, raising his eyes suddenly and looking piercingly into hers, “but for me you would have died.”
“I must tell you how deeply grateful I am for this and for other kindnesses. I shall never forget that this foolish, silly, little life of mine I owe to you.”
Again her heart was leaping so furiously as to need the pressure of her fingers on it to check it.
“We are quits,” said Coppinger, slowly. “You came—you ran a great risk to save me. But for you I might be dead. So this rude and worthless—this evil life of mine,” he held out his hands, both palms before her, and spoke with quivering voice—“I owe to you.”
“Then,” said Judith, “as you say, we are quits. Yet no. If one account is cancelled, another remains unclosed. I threw you down and broke your bones. So there still remains a score against me.”
“That I have forgiven long ago,” said he. “Throw me down, break me, kill me, do with me what you will—and—I will kiss your hand.”
“I do not wish to have my hand kissed,” said Judith, hastily, “I let you understand that before.”
He put his elbow against the mantel-shelf, and leaned his brow against his open hand, looking down at her, so she could not see his face without raising her eyes, but he could rest his on her and study her, note her distress, the timidity with which she spoke, the wince when he said a word that implied his attachment to her.
“I have not only to thank you, Captain Coppinger, but I have to say good-by.”
“What—go?”
“Yes—I shall go back to Mr. Menaida to-day.”
He stamped, and his face became blood-red. “You shall not. I will it—here you stay.”
“It cannot be,” said Judith, after a moment’s pause to let his passion subside. “You are not my guardian, though very generously you have undertaken to be valuer for me in dilapidations. I must go, I and Jamie.”
He shook his head. He feared to speak, his anger choked him.
“I cannot remain here myself, and certainly I will not let Jamie be here.”
“Is it because of last night’s foolery you say that?”
“I am responsible for my brother. He is not very clever; he is easily led astray. There is no one to think for him, to care for him, but myself. I could never let him run the risk of such a thing happening again.”
“Confound the boy!” burst forth Coppinger. “Are you going to bring him up as a milk-sop? You are wrong altogether in the way you manage him.”
“I can but follow my conscience.”
“And is it because of him that you go?”
“Not because of him only.”
“But I have spoken to your aunt; she consents.”
“But I do not,” said Judith.
He stamped again, passionately.
“I am not the man who will bear to be disobeyed and my will crossed. I say—Here you shall stay.”
Judith waited a moment, looking at him steadily out of her clear, glittering iridescent eyes, and said slowly, “I am not the girl to be obliged to stay where my common-sense and my heart say Stay not.”
He folded his arms, lowered his chin on his breast, and strode up and down the room. Then, suddenly, he stood still opposite her and asked, in a threatening tone:
“Do you not like your room? Does that not please your humor?”
“It has been most kind of you to collect all my little bits of rubbish there. I feel how good you have been, how full of thought for me; but, for all that, I cannot stay.”
“Why not?”
“I have said, on one account, because of Jamie.”
He bit his lips—“I hate that boy.”
“Then most certainly he cannot be here. He must be with those who love him.”
“Then stay.”
“I cannot—I will not. I have a will as well as you. My dear papa always said that my will was strong.”
“You are the only person who has ever dared to resist me.”
“That may be; I am daring—because you have been kind.”
“Kind to you. Yes—to you only.”
“It may be so, and because kind to me, and me only, I, and I only, presume to say No when you say Yes.”
He came again to the fireplace and again leaned against the mantel-shelf. He was trembling with passion.
“And what if I say that, if you go, I will turn old Dunes—I mean your aunt—out of the house?”
“You will not say it, Mr. Coppinger; you are too noble, too generous, to take a mean revenge.”
“Oh! you allow there is some good in me?”
“I thankfully and cheerfully protest there is a great deal of good in you—and I would there were more.”
“Come—stay here and teach me to be good—be my crutch; I will lean on you, and you shall help me along the right way.”
“You are too great a weight, Mr. Coppinger,” said she, smiling—but it was a frightened and a forced smile. “You would bend and break the little crutch.”
He heaved a long breath. He was looking at her from under his hand and his bent brows.
“You are cruel—to deny me a chance. And what if I were to say that I am hungry, sick at heart, and faint. Would you turn your back and leave me?”
“No, assuredly not.”
“I am hungry.”
She looked up at him, and was frightened by the glitter in his eyes.
“I am hungry for the sight of you, for the sound of your voice.”
She did not say anything to this, but sat, with her hands on her lap, musing, uncertain how to deal with this man, so strange, impulsive, and yet so submissive to her, and even appealing to her pity.
“Mr. Coppinger, I have to think of and care for Jamie, and he takes up all my thoughts and engrosses all my time.”
“Jamie, again!”
“So that I cannot feed and teach another orphan.”
“Put off your departure—a week. Grant me that. Then you will have time to get quite strong, and also you will be able to see whether it is not possible for you to live here. Here is your aunt—it is natural and right that you should be with her. She has been made your guardian by your father. Do you not bow to his directions.”
“Mr. Coppinger, I cannot stay here.”
“I am at a disadvantage,” he exclaimed. “Man always is when carrying on a contest with a woman. Stay—stay here and listen to me.” He put out his hand and pressed her back into the chair, for she was about to rise. “Listen to what I say. You do not know—you cannot know—how near death you and I—yes, you and I were, chained together.” His deep voice shook. “You and I were on the face of the cliff. There was but one little strip, the width of my hand”—he held out his palm before her—“and that was not secure. It was sliding away under my feet. Below was death, certain death—a wretched death. I held you. That little chain tied us two—us two together. All your life and mine hung on was my broken arm and broken collar-bone. I held you to me with my right arm and the chain. I did not think we should live. I thought that together—chained together, I holding you—so we would die—so we would be found—and my only care, my only prayer was, if so, that so we might be washed to sea and sink together, I holding you and chained to you, and you to me. I prayed that we might never be found; for I thought if rude hands were laid on us that the chain would be unloosed, my arm unlocked from about you, and that we should be carried to separate graves. I could not endure that thought. Let us go down together—bound, clasped together—into the depths of the deep sea, and there rest. But it was not to be so. I carried you over that stage of infinite danger. An angel or a devil—I cannot say which—held me up. And then I swore that never in life should you be loosed from me, as I trusted that in death we should have remained bound together. See!” He put his hand to her head and drew a lock of her golden hair and wound it about his hand and arm. “You have me fast now—fast in a chain of gold—of gold infinitely precious to me—infinitely strong—and you will cast me off, who never thought to cast you off when tied to you with a chain of iron. What say you? Will you stand in safety on your cliff of pride and integrity and unloose the golden band and say, ‘Go down—down. I know nothing in you to love. You are naught to me but a robber, a wrecker, a drunkard, a murderer—go down into Hell?’”
In his quivering excitement he acted the whole scene, unconscious that he was so doing, and the drops of agony stood on his brow and rolled—drip—drip—drip from it. Man does not weep; his tears exude more bitter than those that flow from the eyes, and they distil from his pores.
Judith was awed by the intensity of passion in the man, but not changed in her purpose. His vehemence reacted on her, calming her, giving her determination to finish the scene decisively and finally.
“Mr. Coppinger,” she said, looking up to him, who still held her by the hair wound about his hand and arm, “it is you who hold me in chains, not I you. And so I—your prisoner—must address a gaoler. Am I to speak in chains, or will you release me?”
He shook his head, and clenched his hand on the gold hair.
“Very well,” said she, “so it must be; I, bound, plead my cause with you—at a disadvantage. This is what I must say at the risk of hurting you; and, Heaven be my witness, I would not wound one who has been so good to me—one to whom I owe my life, my power now to speak and entreat.” She paused a minute to gain breath and strengthen herself for what she had to say.
“Mr. Coppinger—do you not yourself see that it is quite impossible that I should remain in this house—that I should have anything more to do with you? Consider how I have been brought up—what my thoughts have been. I have had, from earliest childhood, my dear papa’s example and teachings, sinking into my heart till they have colored my very life-blood. My little world and your great one are quite different. What I love and care for is folly to you, and your pursuits and pleasures are repugnant to me. You are an eagle—a bird of prey.”
“A bird of prey,” repeated Coppinger.
“And you soar and fight, and dive, and rend in your own element; whereas I am a little silver trout——”
“No”—he drew up his arm wound round with her hair—“No—a goldfish.”
“Well, so be it; a goldfish swimming in my own crystal element, and happy in it. You would not take me out of it to gasp and die. Trust me, Captain Coppinger, I could not—even if I would—live in your world.”
She put up her hands to his arm and drew some of the hair through his fingers, and unwound it from his sleeve. He made no resistance. He watched her, in a dream. He had heard every word she had said, and he knew that she spoke the truth. They belonged to different realms of thought and sensation. He could not breathe—he would stifle—in hers, and it was possible—it was certain—that she could not endure the strong, rough quality of his.
Her delicate fingers touched his hand, and sent a spasm to his heart. She was drawing away another strand of hair, and untwisting it from about his arm, passing the wavy, fire-gold from one hand to the other. And as every strand was taken off, so went light and hope from him, and despair settled down on his dark spirit.
He was thinking whether it would not have been better to have thrown himself down when he had her in his arms, and bound to him by the chain.
Then he laughed.
She looked up, and caught his wild eye. There was a timid inquiry in her look, and he answered it.
“You may unwind your hair from my arm, but it is woven round and round my heart, and you cannot loose it thence.”
She drew another strand away, and released that also from his arm. There remained now but one red-gold band of hair fastening her to him. He looked entreatingly at her, and then at the hair.
“It must indeed be so,” she said, and released herself wholly.
Then she stood up, a little timidly, for she could not trust him in his passion and his despair. But he did not stir; he looked at her with fixed, dreamy eyes. She left her place, and moved toward the door. She had gone forth from Mr. Menaida’s without hat or other cover for her head than the cloak with its hood, and that she had lost. She must return bare-headed. She had reached the door; and there she waved him a farewell.
“Goldfish!” he cried.
She halted.
“Goldfish, come here; one—one word only.”
She hesitated whether to yield. The man was dangerous. But she considered that with a few strides he might overtake her if she tried to escape. Therefore she returned toward him, but came not near enough for him to touch her.
“Hearken to me,” said he. “It may be as you say. It is as you say. You have your world; I have mine. You could not live in mine, nor I in yours.” But his voice thrilled. “Swear to me—swear to me now—that while I live no other shall hold you, as I would have held you, to his side; that no other shall take your hair and wind it round him, as I have—I could not endure that. Will you swear to me that?—and you shall go.”
“Indeed I will; indeed, indeed I will.”
“Beware how you break this oath. Let him beware who dares to seek you.” He was silent, looking on the ground, his arms folded. So he stood for some minutes, lost in thought. Then suddenly he cried out, “Goldfish!”
He had found a single hair, long—a yard long—of the most intense red-gold, lustrous as a cloud in the west over the sunken sun. It had been left about his arm and hand.
“Goldfish!”
But she was gone.