“When I was in the North,” said the rector of St. Enodoc, “we had a savage who bit off the heads of rats, snap, skinned them and ate them raw, and charged sixpence entrance; but that was for the missionaries. I should hardly advocate that for the restoration of a church; besides, where is the savage to be got? We made twenty-seven pounds by that man, but expenses were heavy and swallowed up twenty-five; we sent two pounds to the missionaries.”

Mr. Menaida stood up and went to the window.

“I believe the wind has shifted to the north, and we shall have a lightening of the fog after sunset.”

“Shall we not have a wreck! I hope there’ll be one,” said Jamie.

“What is the law about wreckage, Menaida, old man?” asked Scantlebray, also coming to the window.

“The law is plain enough. No one has a right to goods come to land; he who finds may claim salvage—naught else; and any persons taking goods cast ashore, which are not legal wreck, may be punished.”

“And,” said Scantlebray, “what if certain persons give occasion to a ship being wrecked, and then plundering the wreck?”

“There the law is also plain. The invading and robbing of a vessel, either in distress or wrecked, and the putting forth of false lights in order to bring a vessel into danger, are capital felonies.”

Scantlebray went to the table, took up a napkin, twisted it and then flung it round his neck, and hung his head on one side.

“What—this, Menaida, old man?”

Uncle Zachie nodded.

“Come here, Jim, my boy, a word with you outside.” Scantlebray led Jamie into the road. “There’s been a shilling owing you for some time. We had roaring fun about it once. Here it is. Now listen to me. Go to Pentyre, you want to find gold-dust on the shore, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Or bars of silver?”

“Yes.”

“Well, beg Captain Coppinger, if he is going to have a Jack o’ Lantern to-night, to let you be the Jack. Do you understand? and mind—not a word about me. Then gold-dust and bars of silver and purses of shillings. Mind you ask to be Jack o’ Lantern. It is fun. Such fun. Roaring fun.”

CHAPTER XXXV.

JACK O’ LANTERN.

Evening closed in; Judith had been left entirely to herself. She sat in the window, looking out into the mist and watching the failing of the light. Sometimes she opened the casement and allowed the vapor to blow in like cold steam, then became chilled, shivered, and closed it again. The wind was rising and piped about the house, piped at her window. Judith, sitting there, tried with her hand to find the crevice through which the blast drove, and then amused herself with playing with her finger-tops on the openings and regulating the whistle so as to form a tune. She heard frequently Coppinger’s voice in conversation, sometimes in the hall, sometimes in the court-yard, but could not catch what was spoken. She listened, with childish curiosity, to the voice that was now that of her lord and husband, and endeavored to riddle out of it some answer to her questions as to what sort of a master he would prove. She could not comprehend him. She had heard stories told of him that made her deem him the worst of men, remorseless and regardless of others, yet toward her he had proved gentle and considerate. What, for instance, could be more delicate and thoughtful than his behavior to her at this very time! Feeling that she had married him with reluctance, he had kept away from her and suffered her to recover her composure without affording her additional struggle. A reaction after the strain on her nerves set in; the step she had dreaded had been taken, and she was the wife of the man she feared and did not love. The suspense of expectation was exchanged for the calmer grief of retrospect.

The fog all day had been white as wool, and she had noticed how parcels of vapor had been caught and entangled in the thorn bushes as the fog swept by, very much as sheep left flocks of their fleece in the bushes when they broke out of a field. Now that the day set, the vapor lost its whiteness and became ash gray, but it was not as dense as it had been, or rather it was compacted in places into thick masses with clear tracts between. The sea was not visible, nor the cliffs, but she could distinguish out-buildings, tufts of furze and hedges. The wind blew much stronger, and she could hear the boom of the waves against the rocks, like the throbbing of the unseen heart of the world. It was louder than it had been. The sound did not come upon the wind, for the fog that muffled all objects from sight, muffled also all sounds to the ear, but the boom came from the vibration of the land. The sea flung against the coast-line shook the rocks, and they quivered for a long distance inland, making every wall and tree quiver also, and the sound of the sea was heard not through the ears but through the soles of the feet.

Miss Trevisa came in.

“Shall I light you a pair of candles, Judith?”

“I thank you, hardly yet.”

“And will you not eat?”

“Yes, presently, when supper is served.”

“You will come down-stairs?”

“Yes.”

“I am glad to hear that.”

“Aunt, I thought you were going to Othello Cottage the day I came here.”

“Captain Coppinger will not suffer me to leave at once till you have settled down to your duties as mistress of the house.”

“Oh, auntie! I shall never be able to manage this large establishment.”

“Why not! You managed that at the rectory.”

“Yes, but it was so different.”

“How so?”

“My dear papa’s requirements were so simple, and so few, and there were no men about except old Balhachet, and he was a dear, good old humbug. Here, I don’t know how many men there are, and who belong to the house, and who do not. They are in one day and out the next—and then Captain Coppinger is not like my own darling papa.”

“No, indeed, he is not. Shall I light the candles? I have something to show you.”

“As you will, aunt.”

Miss Trevisa went into her room and fetched a light, and kindled the two candles that stood on Judith’s dressing-table.

“Oh, aunt! not three candles.”

“Why not? We shall need light.”

“But three candles together bring ill-luck; and we have had enough already.”

“Pshaw! Don’t be a fool. I want light, for I have something to show you.”

She opened a small box and drew forth a brooch and earrings that flashed in the rays of the candle.

“Look, child! they are yours. Captain Coppinger has given them to you. They are diamonds. See—a butterfly for the breast, and two little butterflies for the ears.”

“Oh, auntie! not for me. I do not want them.”

“This is ungracious. I daresay they cost many hundreds of pounds. They are diamonds.”

Judith took the brooch and earrings in her hand; they sparkled. The diamonds were far from being brilliants, they were of good size and purest water.

“I really do not want to have them. Persuade Captain Coppinger to return them to the jeweller, it is far too costly a gift for me, far—far—I should be happier without them.” Then, suddenly—“I do not know that they have been bought? Oh, Aunt Dunes, tell me truly. Have they been bought? I think jewellers always send out their goods in leather cases, and there is none such for these. And see—this earring—the gold is bent, as if pulled out of shape. I am sure they have not been bought. Take them back again, I pray you.”

“You little fool!” said Miss Trevisa, angrily. “I will do nothing of the kind. If you refuse them—then take them back yourself. Captain Coppinger performs a generous and kind act that costs him much money, and you throw his gift in his face, you insult him. Insult him yourself with your suspicions and refusals—you have already behaved to him outrageously. I will do nothing for you that you ask. Your father put on me a task that is hateful, and I wish I were clear of it.”

Then she bounced out of the room, leaving her candle burning along with the other two.

A moment later she came back hastily and closed Judith’s shutters.

“Oh, leave them open,” pleaded Judith. “I shall like to see how the night goes—if the fog clears away.”

“No—I will not,” answered Miss Trevisa, roughly. “And mind you. These shutters remain shut, or your candles go out. Your window commands the sea, and the light of your window must not show.”

“Why not?”

“Because should the fog lift, it would be seen by vessels.”

“Why should they not see it?”

“You are a fool. Obey, and ask no questions.”

Miss Trevisa put up the bar and then retired with her candle, leaving Judith to her own thoughts, with the diamonds on the table before her.

And her thoughts were reproachful of herself. She was ungracious and perhaps unjust. Her husband had sent her a present of rare value, and she was disposed to reject it, and charge him with not having come by the diamonds honestly. They were not new from a jeweller, but what of that? Could he afford to buy her a set at the price of some hundreds of pounds? And because he had not obtained them from a jeweller, did it follow that he had taken them unlawfully? He might have picked them up on the shore, or have bought them from a man who had. He might have obtained them at a sale in the neighborhood. They might be family jewels, that had belonged to his mother, and he was showing her the highest honor a man could show a woman in asking her to wear the ornaments that had belonged to his mother.

He had exhibited to her a store-room full of beautiful things, but these might be legitimately his, brought from foreign countries by his ship the Black Prince. It was possible that they were not contraband articles.

Judith opened her door and went down-stairs. In the hall she found Coppinger with two or three men, but the moment he saw her he started up, came to meet her, and drew her aside into a parlor, then went back into the hall and fetched candles. A fire was burning in this room, ready for her, should she condescend to use it.

“I hope I have not interrupted you,” she said, timidly.

“An agreeable interruption. At any time you have only to show yourself and I will at once come to you, and never ask to be dismissed.”

She knew that this was no empty compliment, that he meant it from the depth of his heart, and was sorry that she could not respond to an affection so deep and so sincere.

“You have been very good to me—more good than I deserve,” she said, standing by the fire with lowered eyes, “I must thank you now for a splendid and beautiful present, and I really do not know how to find words in which fittingly to acknowledge it.”

“You cannot thank and gratify me better than by wearing what I have given you.”

“But when? Surely not on an ordinary evening?”

“No—certainly. The Rector has been up this afternoon and desired to see you, he is hot on a scheme for a public ball to be given at Wadebridge for the restoration of his church, and he has asked that you will be a patroness.”

“I—oh—I!—after my father’s death?”

“That was in the late spring, and now it is the early winter, besides, now you are a married lady—and was not the digging out and restoring of the church your father’s strong desire?”

“Yes—but he would never have had a ball for such a purpose.”

“The money must be raised somehow. So I promised for you. You could not well refuse—he was impatient to be off to Wadebridge and secure the assembly rooms.”

“But—Captain Coppinger—”

“Captain Coppinger?”

Judith colored. “I beg your pardon—I forgot. And now—I do not recollect what I was going to say. It matters nothing. If you wish me to go I will go. If you wish me to wear diamond butterflies I will wear them.”

“I thank you.” He held out his hands to her.

She drew back slightly and folded her palms as though praying. “I will do much to please you, but do not press me too greatly. I am strange in this house, strange in my new situation; give me time to breathe and look round and recover my confidence. Besides, we are only half-married so far.”

“How so?”

“I have not signed the register.”

“No, but that shall be done to-morrow.”

“Yes, to-morrow—but that gives me breathing time. You will be patient and forbearing with me.” She put forward her hands folded and he put his outside them and pressed them. The flicker of the fire lent a little color to her cheeks and surrounded her head with an aureole of spun gold.

“Judith, I will do anything you ask. I love you with all my soul, past speaking. I am your slave. But do not hold me too long in chains, do not tread me too ruthlessly under foot.”

“Give me time,” she pleaded.

“I will give you a little time,” he answered.

Then she withdrew her hands from between his and sped up stairs, leaving him looking into the fire with troubled face.

When she returned to her room the candles were still burning, and the diamonds lay on the dressing-table where she had left them. She took the brooch and earrings to return them to their box, and then noticed for the first time that they were wrapped in paper, not in cotton-wool. She tapped at her aunt’s door, and entering asked if she had any cotton-wool that she could spare her.

“No, I have not. What do you want it for?”

“For the jewelry. It cannot have come from a shop, as it was wrapped in paper only.”

“It will take no hurt. Wrap it in paper again.”

“I had rather not, auntie. Besides, I have some cotton-wool in my workbox.”

“Then use it.”

“But my workbox has not been brought here. It is at Mr. Menaida’s.”

“You can fetch it to-morrow.”

“But I am lost without my needles and thread. Besides, I do not like to leave my workbox about. I will go for it. The walk will do me good.”

“Nonsense, it is falling dark.”

“I will get Uncle Zachie to walk back with me. I must have my workbox. Besides, the fresh air will do me good, and the fog has lifted.”

“As you will, then.”

So Judith put on her cloak and drew a hood over her head and went back to Polzeath. She knew the way perfectly, there was no danger, night had not closed in. It would be a pleasure to her to see the old bird-stuffer’s face again, and she wanted to find Jamie. She had not seen him nor heard his voice, and she supposed he must be at Polzeath.

On her arrival at the double cottage, the old fellow was delighted to see her, and to see that she had recovered from the distress and faintness of the morning sufficiently to be able to walk back to his house from her new home. Her first question was after Jamie. Uncle Zachie told her that Jamie had breakfasted at his table, but he had gone away in the afternoon and he had seen no more of him. The fire was lighted, and Uncle Zachie insisted on Judith sitting by it with him and talking over the events of the day, and on telling him that she was content with her position, reconciled to the change of her state.

She sat longer with him than she had intended, listening to his disconnected chatter, and then nothing would suffice him but she must sit at the piano and play through his favorite pieces.

“Remember, Judith, it is the last time I shall have you here to give me this pleasure.”

She could not refuse him his request, especially as he was to walk back to Pentyre with her. Thus time passed, and it was with alarm and self-reproach that she started up on hearing the clock strike the half-past, and learned that it was half-past nine, and not half-past eight, as she supposed.

As she now insisted on departing, Mr. Menaida put on his hat.

“Shall we take a light?” he asked, and then said: “No, we had better not. On such a night as this a moving light is dangerous.”

“How can it be dangerous?” asked Judith.

“Not to us, my dear child, but to ships at sea. A stationary light might serve as a warning, but a moving light misleads. The captain of a vessel, if he has lost his bearings, as is like enough in the fog, as soon as the mist rises, would see a light gliding along and think it was that of a vessel at sea, and so make in the direction of the light in the belief that there was open water, and so run directly on his destruction.”

“Oh, no, no, Uncle, we will not take a light.”

Mr. Menaida and Judith went out together, she with her workbox under her arm, he with his stick, and her hand resting on his arm. The night was dark, very dark, but the way led for the most part over down, and there was just sufficient light in the sky for the road to be distinguishable. It would be in the lane, between the walls and where overhung by thorns, that the darkness would be most profound. The wind was blowing strongly and the sound of the breakers came on it now, for the cloud had lifted off land and sea, though still hanging low. Very dense overhead it could not be, or no light would have pierced the vaporous canopy.

Uncle Zachie and Judith walked on talking together, and she felt cheered by his presence, when all at once she stopped, pressed his arm, and said:

“Oh, do look, uncle! What is that light?”

In the direction of the cliffs a light was distinctly visible, now rising, now falling, observing an unevenly undulating motion.

“Oh, uncle? It is too dreadful. Some foolish person is on the downs going home with a lantern, and it may lead to a dreadful error, and a wreck.”

“I hope to heaven it is only what you say.”

“What do you mean?”

“That it is not done wilfully.”

“Wilfully!”

“Yes, with the purpose to mislead. Look. The movement of the light is exactly that of a ship on a rolling sea.”

“Uncle, let us go there at once and stop it.”

“I don’t know, my dear; if it be done by some unprincipled ruffian he would not be stopped by us.”

“It must be stopped. And, oh, think! you told me that your Oliver is coming home. Think of him.”

“We will go.”

Mr. Menaida was drawn along by Judith in her eagerness. They left the road to Pentyre, and struck out over the downs, keeping their eyes on the light. The distance was deceptive. It seemed to have been much nearer than they found it actually to be.

“Look! it is coming back!” exclaimed Judith.

“Yes, it is done wilfully. That is to give the appearance of a vessel tacking up Channel. Stay behind, Judith. I will go on.”

“No. I will go with you. You would not find me again in the darkness if we parted.”

“The light is coming this way. Stand still. It will come directly on us.”

They drew up. Judith clung to Uncle Zachie’s side, her heart beating with excitement, indignation, and anger.

“The lantern is fastened to an ass’s head,” said Uncle Zachie; “do you see how as the creature moves his head the light is swayed, and that with the rise and fall in the land it looks as though the rise and fall were on the sea. I have my stick. Stand behind me, Judith.”

But a voice was heard that made her gasp and clasp the arm of Uncle Zachie the tighter.

Neither spoke.

The light approached. They could distinguish the lantern, though they could not see what bore it; only—next moment something caught the light—the ear of a donkey thrust forward.

Again a voice, that of some one urging on the ass.

Judith let go Menaida’s arm, sprang forward with a cry: “Jamie! Jamie! what are you doing!”

In a moment she had wrenched the lantern from the head of the ass, and the creature, startled, dashed away and disappeared in the darkness. Judith put the light under her cloak.

“Oh, Jamie! Jamie! Why have you done this! Who ever set you to this wicked task?”

“I am Jack o’ Lantern,” answered the boy. “Ju! now my Neddy is gone.”

“Jamie, who sent you out to do this? Answer me.”

“Captain Coppinger!”

Judith walked on in silence. Neither she nor Uncle Zachie spoke, only Jamie whimpered and muttered.

Suddenly they were surrounded, and a harsh voice exclaimed:

“In the king’s name. We have you now—showing false lights.”

Judith hastily slung the lantern from beneath her cloak, and saw that there were several men about her, and that the speaker was Mr. Scantlebray.

The latter was surprised when he recognized her.

“What!” he said, “I did not expect this—pretty quickly into your apprenticeship. What brings you here! And you, too, Menaida, old man?”

“Nothing simpler,” answered Uncle Zachie. “I am accompanying Mrs. Coppinger back to the Glaze.”

“What, married in the morning and roving the downs at night?”

“I have been to Polzeath after my workbox—here it is,” said Judith.

“Oh, you are out of your road to Pentyre—I suppose you know that,” sneered Scantlebray.

“Naturally,” replied Mr. Menaida. “It is dark enough for any one to stray. Why! you don’t suspect me, do you, of showing false lights and endeavoring to wreck vessels! That would be too good a joke—and the offence, as I told you—capital.”

Scantlebray uttered an oath and turned to the men and said: “Captain Cruel is too deep for us this time. I thought he had sent the boy out with the ass—instead he has sent his wife—a wife of a few hours, and never told her the mischief she was to do with the lantern—hark!”

From the sea the boom of a gun.

All stood still as if rooted to the spot.

Then again the boom of a gun.

“There is a wreck!” exclaimed Scantlebray. “I thought so—and you, Mistress Orphing, you’re guilty.” He turned to the men. “We can make nothing of this affair with the lantern. Let us catch the sea-wolves falling on their prey.”

CHAPTER XXXVI.

THE SEA-WOLVES.

On the Doom Bar.

That very merchantman was wrecked, over which so many Cornish mouths had watered, ay, and Devonian mouths also, from the moment she had been sighted at St. Ives.

She had been entangled in the fog, not knowing where she was, all her bearings lost. The wind had risen, and when the day darkened into night the mist had lifted in cruel kindness to show a false glimmer, that was at once taken as the light of a ship beating up the Channel. The head of the merchantman was put about, a half-reefed topsail spread, and she ran on her destruction. With a crash she was on the bar. The great bowlers that roll without a break from Labrador rushed on behind, beat her, hammered her farther and farther into the sand, surged up at each stroke, swept the decks with mingled foam and water and spray.

The main-mast went down with a snap. Bent with the sail, at the jerk, as the vessel ran aground, it broke and came down—top-mast, rigging, and sail, in an enveloping, draggled mass. From that moment the captain’s voice was no more heard. Had he been struck by the falling mast and stunned or beaten overboard? or did he lie on deck enveloped and smothered in wet sail, or had he been caught and strangled by the cordage? None knew, none inquired. A wild panic seized crew and passengers alike. The chief mate had the presence of mind to order the discharge of signals of distress—but the order was imperfectly carried out. A flash, illuminating for a second the glittering froth and heaving sea, then a boom—almost stunned by the roar of the sea, and the screams of women and oaths of sailors, and then panic laid hold of the gunner also and he deserted his post.

The word had gone round, none knew from whom, that the vessel had been lured to her destruction by wreckers, and that in a few minutes she would be boarded by these wolves of the sea. The captain, who should have kept order, had disappeared, the mate was disregarded, there was a general sauve qui peut. A few women were on board. At the shock they had come on deck, some with children, and the latter were wailing and shrieking with terror. The women implored that they might be saved. Men passengers ran about asking what was to be done, and were beaten aside and cursed by the frantic sailors. A Portuguese nun was ill with sea-sickness, and sank on the deck like a log, crying to St. Joseph between her paroxysms. One man alone seemed to maintain his self-possession, a young man, and he did his utmost to soothe the excited women and abate their terrors. He raised the prostrate nun and insisted on her laying hold of a rope, lest in the swash of the water she should be carried overboard. He entreated the mate to exert his authority and bring the sailors to a sense of their duty, to save the women instead of escaping in the boat, regardful of themselves only.

Suddenly a steady star, red in color, glared out of the darkness, and between it and the wreck heaved and tossed a welter of waves and foam.

“There is land,” shouted the mate.

“And that shines just where that light was that led us here,” retorted a sailor.

The vessel heeled to one side, and shipped water fore and aft, over either rail, with a hiss and heave. She plunged, staggered, and sank deeper into the sand.

A boat had been lowered and three men were in it, and called to the women to be sharp and join them. But this was no easy matter, for the boat at one moment leaped up on the comb of a black wave, and then sank in its yawning trough, now was close to the side of the ship, and then separated from it by a rift of water. The frightened women were let down by ropes, but in their bewilderment missed their opportunity when the boat was under them, and some fell into the water, and had to be dragged out, others refused to leave the wreck and risk a leap into the little boat. Nothing would induce the sick nun to venture overboard. She could not understand English; the young passenger addressed her in Portuguese, and finally, losing all patience and finding that precious time was wasted in arguing with a poor creature incapable of reasoning in her present condition, he ordered a sailor to help him, caught her up in his arms, and proceeded to swing himself over, that he might carry her into the boat.

But at that moment dark figures occupied the deck, and a man arrested him with his hand, while in a loud and authoritative voice he called, “No one leaves the vessel without my orders. Number Five, down into the boat and secure that. Number Seven, go with him. Now, one by one, and before each leaves, give over your purses and valuables that you are trying to save. No harm shall be done you, only make no resistance.”

The ship was in the hands of the wreckers.

The men in the boat would have cast off at once, but the two men sent into it, Numbers Five and Seven, prevented them. The presence of the wreckers produced order where there had been confusion before. The man who had laid his hand on the Portuguese nun, and had given orders, was obeyed not only by his own men, but by the crew of the merchant vessel, and by the passengers, from whom all thoughts of resistance, if they ever rose, vanished at once. All alike, cowed and docile, obeyed without a murmur, and began to produce from their pockets whatever they had secured and hoped to carry ashore with them.

“Nudding! me nudding!” gasped the nun.

“Let her pass down,” ordered the man who acted as captain. “Now the next—you!” he turned on the young passenger who had assisted the nun.

“You scoundrel,” shouted the young man, “you shall not have a penny of mine.”

“We shall see,” answered the wrecker, and levelled a pistol at his head. “What answer do you make to this?”

The young man struck up the pistol, and it was discharged into the air. Then he sprang on the captain, struck him in the chest, and grappled with him. In a moment a furious contest was engaged in between the two on the wet, sloping deck, sloping, for the cargo had shifted.

“Hah!” shouted the wrecker, “a Cornishman.”

“Yes, a Cornishman,” answered the youth.

The wrecker knew whence he came by his method of wrestling.

If there had been light, crew, invaders, and passengers would have gathered in a circle and watched the contest; but in the dark, lashed by foam, in the roar of the waves and the pipe of the wind, only one or two that were near were aware of the conflict. Some of the crew were below. They had got at the spirits and were drinking. One drunken sailor rushed forth swearing and blaspheming and striking about him. He was knocked down by a wrecker, and a wave that heaved over the deck lifted him and swept him over the bulwarks.

The wrestle between the two men in the dark taxed the full nerves and the skill of each. The young passenger was strong and nimble, but he had found his match in the wrecker. The latter was skilful and of great muscular power. First one went down on the knee, then the other, but each was up again in a moment. A blinding whiff of foam and water slashed between them, stinging their eyes, swashing into their mouths, forcing them momentarily to relax their hold of each other, but next moment they had leaped at each other again. Now they held each other, breast to breast, and sought, with their arms bowed like the legs of grasshoppers, to strangle or break each other’s necks. Then, like a clap of thunder, beat a huge billow against the stern, and rolled in a liquid heap over the deck, enveloping the wrestlers, and lifted them from their feet and cast them, writhing, pounding each other, on the deck.

There were screams and gasps from the women as they escaped from the water; the nun shrieked to St. Joseph—she had lost her hold and fell overboard, but was caught and placed in the boat.

“Now another,” was the shout.

“Hand me your money,” demanded one of the wreckers. “Madam, have no fear. We do not hurt women. I will help you into the boat.”

“I have nothing—nothing but this! what shall I do if you take my money?”

“I am sorry—you must either remain and drown when the ship breaks up or give me the purse.”

She gave up the purse and was safely lodged below.

“Who are you?” gasped the captain of the wreckers in a moment of relaxation from the desperate struggle.

“An honest man—and you a villain,” retorted the young passenger, and the contest was recommenced.

“Let go,” said the wrecker, “and you shall be allowed to depart—and carry your money with you.”

“I ask no man’s leave to carry what is my own,” answered the youth. He put his hand to his waist and unbuckled a belt, to this belt was attached a pouch well weighted with metal. “There is all I have in the world—and with it I will beat your brains out.” He whirled the belt and money bag round his head and brought it down with a crash upon his adversary, who staggered back. The young man struck at him again, but in the dark missed him, and with the violence of the blow and weight of the purse was carried forward, and on the slippery inclined planks fell.

“Now I have you,” shouted the other; he flung himself on the prostrate man and planted his knee on his back. But, assisted by the inclination of the deck, the young man slipped from beneath his antagonist, and half-rising caught him and dashed him against the rail.

The wrecker was staggered for a moment, and had the passenger seized the occasion he might have finished the conflict; but his purse had slipped from his hand, and he groped for the belt till he found one end at his feet, and now he twisted the belt round and about his right arm and weighted his fist with the pouch.

The captain recovered from the blow, and flung himself on his adversary, grasped his arms between the shoulder and elbow, and bore him back against the bulwark, drove him against it, and cast himself upon him.

“I’ve spared your life so far. Now I’ll spare you no more,” said he, and the young man felt one of his arms released. He could not tell at the time, he never could decide after how he knew it, but he was certain that his enemy was groping at his side for his knife. Then the hand of the wrecker closed on his throat, and the young man’s head was driven back over the rail, almost dislocating the neck.

It was then as though the young man saw into the mind of him who had cast himself against him, and who was strangling him. He knew that he could not find his knife, but he saw nothing, only a fire and blood before his eyes that looked up into the black heavens, and he felt naught save agony at the nape of his neck, where his spine was turned back on the bulwarks.

“Number Seven! any of you! an axe!” roared the wrecker. “By heaven you shall be as Wyvill! and float headless on the waves.”

“Coppinger!” cried the young man, by a desperate effort liberating his hand. He threw his arms round the wrecker. A dash and a boil of froth, and both went overboard, fighting as they fell into the surf.

“In the King’s name!” shouted a harsh voice.

“Surround—secure them all. Now we have them and they shall not escape.”

The wreck was boarded by, and in the hands of, the coast-guard.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

BRUISED NOT BROKEN.

“Come with me, uncle!” said Judith.

“My dear, I will follow you like a dog, everywhere.”

“I want to go to the rectory.”

“To the rectory! At this time of night!”

“At once.”

When the down was left there was no longer necessity for hiding the lantern, as they were within lanes, and the light would not be seen at sea.

The distance to the parsonage was not great, and the little party were soon there, but were somewhat puzzled how to find the door, owing to the radical transformations of the approaches effected by the new rector.

Mr. Desiderius Mules was not in bed. He was in his study, without his collar and necktie, smoking, and composing a sermon. It is not only lucus which is derived from non lucendo. A study in many a house is equally misnamed. In that of Mr. Mules’s house it had some claim, perhaps, to its title, for in it, once a week, Mr. Desiderius cudgelled his brains how to impart form to an inchoate mass of notes; but it hardly deserved its name as a place where the brain was exercised in absorption of information. The present study was the old pantry. The old study had been occupied by a man of reading and of thought. Perhaps it was not unsuitable that the pantry should become Mr. Mules’s study, and where the maid had emptied her slop-water after cleaning forks and plates should be the place for the making of the theological slop-water that was to be poured forth on the Sunday. But—what a word has been here used—theological—another lucus a non lucendo, for there was nothing of theology proper in the stuff compounded by Mr. Mules.

We shall best be able to judge by observing him engaged on his sermon for Sunday.

In his mouth was a pipe, on the table a jar of bird’s-eye; item, a tumbler of weak brandy and water to moisten his lips with occasionally. It was weak. Mr. Mules never took a drop more than was good for him.

Before him were arranged in a circle his materials for composition. On his extreme left was what he termed his treacle-pot. That was a volume of unctuous piety. Then came his dish of flummery. That was a volume of ornate discourses by a crack ladies’ preacher. Next his spice-box. That was a little store of anecdotes, illustrations, and pungent sayings. Pearson on the Creed, Bishop Andrews, or any work of solid divinity was not to be found either on his table or on his shelves. A Commentary was outspread, and a Concordance.

The Reverend Desiderius Mules sipped his brandy and water, took a long whiff of his pipe, and then wrote his text. Then he turned to his Commentary and extracted from it junks of moralization upon his text and on other texts which his Concordance told him had more or less to do with his head text. Then he peppered his paper well over with quotations, those in six lines preferred to those in three.

“Now,” said the manufacturer of the sermon, “I must have a little treacle. I suppose those bumpkins will like it, but not much, I hate it myself. It is ridiculous. And I can dish up a trifle of flummery in here and there conveniently, and—let me see. I’ll work up to a story near the tail somehow. But what heading shall I give my discourse? ’Pon my word I don’t know what its subject is—we’ll call it General Piety. That will do admirably. Yes, General Piety. Come in! Who’s there?”

A servant entered and said that there were Mr. Menaida and the lady that was married that morning, at the door, wanting to speak with him. Should she show them into the study?

Mr. Mules looked at his brandy and water, then at his array of material for composition, and then at his neckerchief on the floor, and said: “No, into the drawing-room.” The maid was to light the candles. He would put on his collar and be with them shortly.

So the sermon had to be laid aside.

Presently Mr. Desiderius Mules entered his drawing-room, where Judith, Uncle Zachie, and Jamie were awaiting him.

“A late visit, but always welcome,” said the rector. “Sorry I kept you waiting, but I was en deshabille. What can I do for you now, eh?”

Judith was composed, she had formed her resolution.

She said, “You married me this morning when I was unconscious. I answered but one of your questions. Will you get your prayer-book and I will make my responses to all those questions you put to me when I was in a dead faint.”

“Oh, not necessary. Sign the register and it is all right. Silence gives consent, you know.”

“I wish it otherwise, particularly, and then you can judge for yourself whether silence gives consent.”

Mr. Desiderius Mules ran back into his study, pulled a whiff at his pipe to prevent the fire from going out, moistened his untempered clay with brandy and water, and came back again with a Book of Common Prayer.

“Here we are,” said he. “‘Wilt thou have this man,’ and so on—you answered to that, I believe. Then comes ‘I, Judith, take thee, Curll, to my wedded husband’—you were indistinct over that, I believe.”

“I remember nothing about it. Now I will say distinctly my meaning. I will not take Curll Coppinger to my wedded husband, and thereto I will never give my troth—so help me, God.”

“Goodness gracious!” exclaimed the rector. “You put me in a queer position. I married you, and you can’t undo what is done. You have the ring on your finger.”

“No, here it is. I return it.”

“I refuse to take it. I have nothing whatever to do with the ring. Captain Coppinger put it on your hand.”

“When I was unconscious.”

“But am I to be choused out of my fee—as out of other things!”

“You shall have your fee. Do not concern yourself about that. I refuse to consider myself married. I refuse to sign the register, no man shall force me to it, and if it comes to law, here are witnesses, you yourself are a witness, that I was unconscious when you married me.”

“I shall get into trouble! This is a very unpleasant state of affairs.”

“It is more unpleasant for me than for you,” said Judith.

“It is a most awkward complication. Never heard of such a case before. Don’t you think that after a good night’s rest and a good supper—and let me advise a stiff glass of something warm, taken medicinally, you understand—that you will come round to a better mind.”

“To another mind I shall not come round. I suppose I am half married—never by my will shall that half be made into a whole.”

“And what do you want me to do?” asked Mr. Mules, thoroughly put out of his self-possession by this extraordinary scene.

“Nothing,” answered Judith, “save to bear testimony that I utterly and entirely refuse to complete the marriage which was half done—by answering to those questions with a consent, which I failed to answer in church because I fainted, and to wear the ring which was forced on me when I was insensible, and to sign the register now I am in full possession of my wits. We will detain you no longer.”

Judith left along with Jamie and Mr. Menaida, and Mr. Mules returned to his sermon. He pulled at his pipe till the almost expired fire was rekindled into glow, and he mixed himself a little more brandy and water. Then with his pipe in the corner of his mouth he looked at his discourse. It did not quite please him, it was undigested.

“Dear me!” said Mr. Desiderius. “My mind is all of a whirl, and I can do nothing to this now. It must go as it is—yet stay, I’ll change the title. General Piety is rather pointless. I’ll call it Practical Piety.”

Judith returned to Pentyre Glaze. She was satisfied with what she had done; anger and indignation were in her heart. The man to whom she had given her hand had enlisted her poor brother in the wicked work of luring unfortunate sailors to their destruction. She could hardly conceive of anything more diabolical than this form of wrecking: her Jamie was involved in the crime of drawing men to their death. A ship had been wrecked, she knew that by the minute guns, and if lives were lost from it, the guilt in a measure rested on the head of Jamie. But for her intervention he would have been taken in the act of showing light to mislead mariners, and would certainly have been brought before magistrates and most probably have been imprisoned. The thought that her brother, the son of such a father, should have escaped this disgrace through an accident only, and that he had been subjected to the risk by Coppinger, filled her veins with liquid fire. Thenceforth there could be nothing between her and Captain Cruel, save antipathy, resentment, and contempt on her part. His passion for her must cool or chase itself away. She would never yield to him a hair’s breadth.

Judith threw herself on her bed, in her clothes. She could not sleep. Wrath against Coppinger seethed in her young heart. Concerned she was for the wrecked, but concern for them was over-lapped by fiery indignation against the wrecker. There was also in her breast self-reproach. She had not accepted as final her father’s judgment on the man. She had allowed Coppinger’s admiration of herself to move her from a position of uncompromising hostility, and to awake in her suspicions that her dear, dear father might have been mistaken, and that the man he condemned might not be guilty as he supposed.

As she lay tossing on her bed, turning from side to side, her face now flaming, then white, she heard a noise in the house. She sat up on her bed and listened. There was now no light in the room, and she would not go into that of her aunt to borrow one. Miss Trevisa might be asleep, and would be vexed to be disturbed. Moreover resentment against her aunt for having forced her into the marriage was strong in the girl’s heart, and she had no wish to enter into any communications with her.

So she sat on her bed, listening.

There was certainly disturbance below. What was the meaning of it?

Presently she heard her aunt’s voice down-stairs. She was therefore not asleep in her room.

Thereupon Judith descended the stairs to the hall. There she found Captain Coppinger being carried to his bedroom by two men, while Miss Trevisa held a light. He was streaming with water that made pools on the floor.

“What is the matter? Is he hurt? Is he hurt seriously?” she asked, her woman’s sympathy at once aroused by the sight of suffering.

“He has had a bad fall,” replied her aunt. “He went to a wreck that has been cast on Doom Bar, to help to save the unfortunate, and save what they value equally with their lives—their goods, and he was washed overboard. Fell into the sea, and was dashed against that boat. Yes—he is injured. No bones broken this time. This time he had to do with the sea and with men. But he is badly bruised. Go on,” she said to those who were conveying Coppinger. “He is in pain, do you not see this as you stand here? Lay him on his bed, and remove his clothes. He is drenched to the skin. I will brew him a posset.”

“May I help you, aunt?”

“I can do it myself.”

Judith remained with Miss Trevisa. She said nothing to her till the posset was ready. Then she offered to carry it to her husband.

“As you will—here it is,” said Aunt Dionysia.

Thereupon Judith took the draught, and went with it to Captain Coppinger’s room. He was in his bed. No one was with him, but a candle burned on the table.

“You have come to me, Judith?” he said with glad surprise.

“Yes—I have brought you the posset. Drink it out to the last drop.”

She handed it to him; and he took the hot caudle.

“I need not finish the bowl?” he asked.

“Yes—to the last drop.”

He complied, and then suddenly withdrew the vessel from his lips. “What is this—at the bottom?—a ring?” He extracted a plain gold ring from the bowl.

“What is the meaning of this? It is a wedding-ring.”

“Yes—mine.”

“It is early to lose it.”

“I threw it in.”

“You—Judith—why?”

“I return it to you.”

He raised himself on one elbow and looked at her fixedly with threatening eyes.

“What is the meaning of this?”

“That ring was put on my finger when I was unconscious. Wait till I accept it freely.”

“But—Judith—the wedding is over.”

“Only a half wedding.”

“Well—well—it shall soon be a whole one. We will have the register signed to-morrow.”

Judith shook her head.

“You are acting strangely to-night,” said he.

“Answer me,” said Judith. “Did you not send out Jamie with a light to mislead the sailors, and draw them on to Doom Bar?”

“Jamie, again!” exclaimed Coppinger, impatiently.

“Yes, I have to consider for Jamie. Answer me, did you not send him——”

He burst in angrily, “If you will—yes—he took the light to the shore. I knew there was a wreck. When a ship is in distress she must have a light.”

“You are not speaking the truth. Answer me, did you go on board the wrecked vessel to save those who were cast away?”

“They would not have been saved without me. They had lost their heads—every one.”

“Captain Coppinger,” said Judith, “I have lost all trust in you. I return you the ring which I will never wear. I have been to see the rector and told him that I refuse you, and I will never sign the register.”

“I will force the ring on to your finger,” said Coppinger.

“You are a man, stronger than I—but I can defend myself, as you know to your cost. Half married we are—and so must remain, and never, never shall we be more than that.”

Then she left the room, and Coppinger dashed his posset cup to the ground, but held the ring and turned it in his fingers, and the light flickered on it, a red gold ring like that red gold hair that was about his throat.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

A CHANGE OF WIND.

After many years of separation, father and son were together once more. Early in the morning after the wreck in Dover Bar, Oliver Menaida appeared at his father’s cottage, bruised and wet through, but in health and with his purse in his hand.

When he had gone overboard with the wrecker, the tide was falling and he had been left on the sands of the Bar, where he had spent a cold and miserable night, with only the satisfaction to warm him that his life and his money were his. He was not floating, like Wyvill, a headless trunk, nor was he without his pouch that contained his gold and valuable papers.

Mr. Menaida was roused from sleep very early to admit Oliver. The young man had recognized where he was, as soon as sufficient light was in the sky, and he had been carried across the estuary of the Camel by one of the boats that was engaged in clearing the wreck, under the direction of the captain of the coast-guard. But three men had been arrested on the wrecked vessel, three of those who had boarded her for plunder, all the rest had effected their escape, and it was questionable whether these three could be brought to justice, as they protested they had come from shore as salvers. They had heard the signals of distress and had put off to do what they could for those who were in jeopardy. No law forbad men coming to the assistance of the wrecked. It could not be proved that they had laid their hands on and kept for their own use any of the goods of the passengers or any of the cargo of the vessel. It was true that from some of the women their purses had been exacted, but the men taken professed their innocence of having done this, and the man who had made the demand—there was but one—had disappeared. Unhappily he had not been secured.

It was a question also whether proceedings could be taken relative to the exhibition of lights that had misguided the merchantman. The coast-guard had come on Mr. Menaida and Judith on the downs with a light, but he was conducting her to her new house, and there could be entertained against them no suspicion of having acted with evil intent.

“Do you know, father,” said Oliver, after he was rested, had slept and fed, “I am pretty sure that the scoundrel who attacked me was Captain Coppinger. I cannot swear. It is many years now since I heard his voice, and when I did hear it, it was but very occasionally. What made me suspect at the time that I was struggling with Captain Cruel was that he had my head back over the gunwale and called for an axe, swearing that he would treat me like Wyvill. That story was new when I left home, and folk said that Coppinger had killed the man.”

Mr. Menaida fidgeted.

“That was the man who was at the head of the entire gang. He it was who issued the orders which the rest obeyed; and he, moreover, was the man who required the passengers to deliver up their purses and valuables before he allowed them to enter the boat.”

“Between ourselves,” said Uncle Zachie, rubbing his chin and screwing up his mouth, “between you and me and the poker, I have no doubt about it, and I could bring his neck into the halter if I chose.”

“Then why do you not, father? The ruffian would not have scrupled to hack off my head had an axe been handy, or had I waited till he had got hold of one.”

Mr. Menaida shook his head.

“There are a deal of things that belong to all things,” he said. “I was on the down with my little pet and idol, Judith, and we had the lantern, and it was that lantern that proved fatal to your vessel.”

“What, father! We owe our wreck to you?”

“No, and yet it must be suffered to be so supposed, I must allow many hard words to be rapped out against me, my want of consideration, my scatterbrainedness. I admit that I am not a Solomon, but I should not be such an ass, such a criminal, as on a night like the last to walk over the downs above the cliffs with a lantern. Nevertheless I cannot clear myself.”

“Why not?”

“Because of Judith.”

“I do not understand.”

“I was escorting her home, to her husband’s——”

“Is she married?”

“’Pon my word, I can’t say; half and half——”

“I do not understand you.”

“I will explain, later,” said Mr. Menaida. “It’s a perplexing question, and though I was brought up at the law, upon my word I can’t say how the law would stand in the matter.”

“But how about the false lights?”

“I am coming to that. When the Preventive men came on us, led by Scantlebray—and why he was with them, and what concern it was of his, I don’t know—when the guard found us, it is true Judith had the lantern, but it was under her cloak.”

“We, however, saw the light for some time.”

“Yes, but neither she nor I showed it. We had not brought a light with us. We knew that it would be wrong to do so, but we came on someone driving an ass with a lantern affixed to the head of the brute.”

“Then say so.”

“I cannot—that person was Judith’s brother.”

“But he is an idiot.”

“He was sent out with the light.”

“Well, then, that person who sent him will be punished and the silly boy will come off scot free.”

“I cannot—he who sent the boy was Judith’s husband.”

“Judith’s husband! Who is that?”

“Captain Coppinger.”

“Well, what of that? The man is a double-dyed villain. He ought to be brought to justice. Consider the crimes of which he has been guilty. Consider what he has done this past night. I cannot see, father, that merely because you esteem a young person, who may be very estimable, we should let a consummate scoundrel go free, solely because he is her husband. He has brought a fine ship to wreck, he has produced much wretchedness and alarm. Indeed, he has been the occasion of some lives being lost, for one or two of the sailors, thinking we were going to Davy Jones’s locker, got drunk and were carried overboard. Then, consider, he robbed some of the unhappy, frightened women as they were escaping. Bless me!” Oliver sprang up and paced the room. “It makes my blood seethe. The fellow deserves no consideration. Give him up to justice; let him be hung or transported.”

Mr. Menaida passed his hand through his hair, and lit his pipe.

“’Pon my word,” said he, “there’s a good deal to be said on your side—and yet——”

“There is everything to be said on my side,” urged Oliver, with vehemence. “The man is engaged on his nefarious traffic. Winter is setting in. He will wreck other vessels as well, and if you spare him now, then the guilt of causing the destruction of other vessels and the loss of more lives will rest in a measure on you.”

“And yet,” pleaded Menaida, senior, “I don’t know—I don’t like—you see——”

“You are moved by a little sentiment for Miss Judith Trevisa, or—I beg her pardon—Mrs. Cruel Coppinger. But it is a mistake, father. If you had had this sentimental regard for her, and value for her, you should not have suffered her to marry such a scoundrel, past redemption.”

“I could not help it. I told her that the man was bad—that is to say—I believed he was a smuggler, and that he was generally credited with being a wrecker as well. But there were other influences—other forces at work—I could not help it.”

“The sooner we can rid her of this villain the better,” persisted Oliver. “I cannot share your scruples, father.”

Then the door opened and Judith entered.

Oliver stood up. He had reseated himself on the opposite side of the fire to his father, after the ebullition of wrath that had made him pace the room.

He saw before him a delicate, girlish figure—a child in size and in innocence of face, but with a woman’s force of character in the brow, clear eyes, and set mouth. She was ivory white; her golden hair was spread out about her face—blown by the wind, it was a veritable halo, such as is worn by an angel of La Fiesole in Cimabue. Her long, slender, white throat was bare; she had short sleeves, to the elbows, and bare arms. Her stockings were white, under the dark-blue gown. Oliver Menaida had spent a good many years in Portugal, and had seen flat faces, sallow complexions, and dark hair—women without delicacy of bone and grace of figure—and, on his return to England, the first woman he saw was Judith—this little, pale, red-gold-headed creature, with eyes iridescent and full of a soul that made them sparkle and change color with every change of emotion in the heart and of thought in the busy brain.

Oliver was a fine man, tall, with a bright and honest face, fair hair, and blue eyes. He started back from his seat and looked at this child-bride who entered his father’s cottage. He knew at once who she was, from the descriptions he had received of her from his father in letters from home.

He did not understand how she had become the wife of Cruel Coppinger. He had not heard the story from his father, still less could he comprehend the enigmatical words of his father relative to her half-and-half marriage. As now he looked on this little figure, that breathed an atmosphere of perfect purity, of untouched innocence, and yet not mixed with that weakness which so often characterizes innocence—on the contrary blended with a strength and force beyond her years—Oliver’s heart rose with a bound and smote against his ribs. He was overcome with a qualm of infinite pity for this poor, little, fragile being, whose life was linked with that of one so ruthless as Coppinger. Looking at that anxious face, at those lustrous eyes, set in lids that were reddened with weeping, he knew that the iron had entered into her soul, that she had suffered and was suffering then; nay, more, that the life opening before her would be one of almost unrelieved contrariety and sorrow.

At once he understood his father’s hesitation when he urged him to increase the load of shame and trouble that lay on her. He could not withdraw his eyes from Judith. She was to him a vision so wonderful, so strange, so thrilling, so full of appeal to his admiration and to his chivalry.

“Here, Ju! here is my Oliver, of whom I have told you so much!” said Menaida, running up to Judith. “Oliver, boy! she has read your letters, and I believe they gave her almost as great pleasure as they did me. She was always interested in you. I mean ever since she came into my house, and we have talked together about you, and upon my word it really seemed as if you were to her as a brother.”

A faint smile came on Judith’s face; she held out her hand and said:

“Yes, I have come to love your dear father, who has been to me so kind, and to Jamie also; he has been full of thought—I mean kindness. What has interested him has interested me. I call him uncle, so I will call you cousin. May it be so?”

He touched her hand; he did not dare to grasp the frail, slender white hand. But as he touched it, there boiled up in his heart a rage against Coppinger, that he—this man steeped in iniquity—should have obtained possession of a pearl set in ruddy gold—a pearl that he was, so thought Oliver, incapable of appreciating.

“How came you here?” asked Judith. “Your father has been expecting you some time, but not so soon.”

“I am come off the wreck.”

She started back and looked fixedly on him.

“What—you were wrecked?—in that ship last night?”

“Yes. After the fog lifted we were quite lost as to where we were, and ran aground.”

“What led you astray?”

“Our own bewilderment and ignorance as to where we were.”

“And you got ashore?”

“Yes. I was put across by the Preventive men. I spent half the night on Doom Bar.”

“Were any lives lost?”

“Only those lost their lives who threw them away. Some tipsy sailors, who got at the spirits, and drank themselves drunk.”

“And—did any others—I mean did any wreckers come to your ship?”

“Salvors? Yes; salvors came to save what could be saved. That is always so.”

Judith drew a long breath of relief; but she could not forget Jamie and the ass.

“You were not led astray by false lights?”

“Any lights we might have seen were sure to lead us astray, as we did not in the least know where we were.”

“Thank you,” said Judith. Then she turned to Uncle Zachie.

“I have a favor to ask of you.”

“Anything you ask I will do.”

“It is to let Jamie live here, he is more likely to be well employed, less likely to get in wrong courses, than at the Glaze. Alas! I cannot be with him always and everywhere, and I cannot trust him there. Here he has his occupation; he can help you with the birds. There he has nothing, and the men he meets are not such as I desire that he should associate with. Besides, you know, uncle, what occurred last night, and why I am anxious to get him away.”

“Yes,” answered the old man; “I’ll do my best. He shall be welcome here.”

“Moreover, Captain Coppinger dislikes him. He might in a fit of anger maltreat him; I cannot say that he would, but he makes no concealment of his dislike.”

“Send Jamie here.”

“And then I can come every day and see him, how he is getting on, and can encourage him with his work, and give him his lessons as usual.”

“It will always be a delight to me to have you here.”

“And to me—to come.” She might have said, “to be away from Pentyre,” but she refrained from saying that. With a faint smile—a smile that was but the twinkle of a tear—she held out her hand to say farewell.

Uncle Zachie clasped it, and then, suddenly, she bent and kissed his hand.

“You must not do that,” said he, hastily.

She looked piteously into his eyes, and said, in a whisper that he alone could hear—“I am so lonely.”

When she was gone the old man returned to the ingle nook and resumed his pipe. He did not speak, but every now and then he put one finger furtively to his cheek, wiped off something, and drew very vigorous whiffs of tobacco.