lane from Polzeath.”
“Then no wonder you did not meet her. She went by the church path, of course, and over the down.”
“I am sorry to have missed her. Thank you, Captain Coppinger, for telling me.”
“Stay!” he roared, as he observed her draw back into the porch. “You are not going yet!”
“I cannot stay for more than a moment in which to ask how you do, and whether you are somewhat better? I was sorry to hear you had been worse.”
“I have been worse, yes. Come in. You shall not go. I am mewed in as a prisoner, and have none to speak to, and no one to look at but old Dunes. Come in, and take that stool by the fire, and let me hear you speak, and let me rest my eyes a while on your golden hair – gold more golden than that of the Indies.”
“I hope you are better, sir,” said Judith, ignoring the compliment.
“I am better now I have seen you. I shall be worse if you do not come in.”
She refused to do this by a light shake of the head.
“I suppose you are afraid. We are wild and lawless men here, ogres that eat children! Come, child, I have something to show you.”
“Thank you for your kindness; but I must run to the parsonage; I really must see my aunt.”
“Then I will send her to Polzeath to you when she returns. She will keep; she’s stale enough.”
“I would spare her the trouble.”
“Pshaw! She shall do what I will. Now see – I am wearied to death with solitude and sickness. Come, amuse yourself, if you will, with insulting me – calling me what you like; I do not mind, so long as you remain.”
“I have no desire whatever, Captain Coppinger, to insult you and call you names.”
“You insult me by standing there holding the latch – standing on one foot, as if afraid to sully the soles by treading my tainted floor. Is it not an insult that you refuse to come in? Is it not so much as saying to me, ‘You are false, cruel, not to be trusted; you are not worthy that I should be under the same roof with you, and breathe the same air?’”
“Oh, Captain Coppinger, I do not mean that!”
“Then let go the latch and come in. Stand, if you will not sit, opposite me. How can I see you there, in the doorway?”
“There is not much to see when I am visible,” said Judith, laughing.
“Oh, no! not much! Only a little creature who has more daring than any man in Cornwall – who will stand up to, and cast at her feet, Cruel Coppinger, at whose name men tremble.”
Judith let go her hold on the door, and moved timidly into the hall; but she let the door remain half open that the light and air flowed in.
“And now,” said Captain Coppinger, “here is a key on this table by me. Do you see a small door by the clock-case? Unlock that door with the key.”
“You want something from thence!”
“I want you to unlock the door. There are beautiful and costly things within that you shall see.”
“Thank you; but I would rather look at them some other day, when my aunt is here, and I have more time.”
“Will you refuse me even the pleasure of letting you see what is there?”
“If you particularly desire it, Captain Coppinger, I will peep in – but only peep.”
She took the key from his table, and crossed the hall to the door. The lock was large and clumsy, but she turned the key by putting both hands to it. Then, swinging open the door, she looked inside. The door opened into an apartment crowded with a collection of sundry articles of value: bales of silk from Italy, Genoa laces, Spanish silver-inlaid weapons, Chinese porcelain, bronzes from Japan, gold and silver ornaments, bracelets, brooches, watches, inlaid mother-of-pearl cabinets – an amazing congeries of valuables heaped together.
“Well, now!” shouted Cruel Coppinger. “What say you to the gay things there? Choose – take what you will. I care not for them one rush. What do you most admire, most covet? Put out both hands and take – take all you would have; fill your lap, carry off all you can. It is yours.”
Judith drew hastily back and relocked the door.
“What have you taken?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? Take what you will; I give it freely.”
“I cannot take anything, though I thank you, Captain Coppinger, for your kind and generous offer.”
“You will accept nothing?”
She shook her head.
“That is like you. You do it to anger me. As you throw hard words at me – coward, wrecker, robber – and as you dash broken glass, buttons, buckles, in my face, so do you throw back my offers.”
“It is not through ingratitude – ”
“I care not through what it is! You seek to anger, and not to please me. Why will you take nothing? There are beautiful things there to charm a woman.”
“I am not a woman; I am a little girl.”
“Why do you refuse me!”
“For one thing, because I want none of the things there, beautiful and costly though they be.”
“And for the other thing – ?”
“For the other thing – excuse my plain speaking – I do not think they have been honestly got.”
“By heavens!” shouted Coppinger. “There you attack and stab at me again. I like your plainness of speech. You do not spare me. I would not have you false and double like old Dunes.”
“Oh, Captain Coppinger! I give you thanks from the depths of my heart. It is kindly intended, and it is so good and noble of you, I feel that; for I have hurt you and reduced you to the state in which you now are, and yet you offer me the best things in your house – things of priceless value. I acknowledge your goodness; but just because I know I do not deserve this goodness I must decline what you offer.”
“Then come here and give me the key.”
She stepped lightly over the floor to him and handed him the great iron key to his store chamber. As she did so he caught her hand, bowed his dark head, and kissed her fingers.
“Captain Coppinger!” She started back, trembling, and snatched her hand from him.
“What! have I offended you again? Why not? A subject kisses the hand of his queen; and I am a subject, and you – you my queen.”
CHAPTER XI
JESSAMINE
“How are you, old man?”
“Middlin’, thanky’; and how be you, gov’nor?”
“Middlin’
