right-thinking men to clear them off.”
“Well, the world would be better if we had the making of it,” acquiesced Mr. Menaida. “Bless you! I’ve no time for anything. I like to do a bit of bird-stuffing just as a sort of relaxation after smoking, but to be forced to work more than one cares – I won’t do it! Besides, it is not wholesome. I shall be poisoned with arsenic. I must have some antidote. So will you, sir – eh? A drop of real first-rate cognac?”
“Thank you, sir – old man – I don’t mind dipping a feather and drawing it across my lips.”
Jamie had been so frightened by the encounter with Cruel Coppinger that he was thoroughly upset. He was a timid, nervous child, and Judith had persuaded him to go to bed. She sat by him, holding his hand, comforting him as best she might, when he sobbed over the loss of his pup, and cheering him when he clung to her in terror at the reminiscence of the threats of the Captain to deal with him as he had with Tib. Judith was under no apprehension of his revisiting the cave; he had been too thoroughly frightened ever to venture there again. She said nothing to impress this on him; all her efforts were directed toward allaying his alarms.
Just as she hoped that he was dropping off into unconsciousness, he suddenly opened his eyes, and said, “Ju.”
“Yes, dear.”
“I’ve lost the chain.”
“What chain, my pretty?”
“Tib’s chain.”
The pup had been a trouble when Jamie went with the creature through the village or through a farm-yard. He would run after and nip the throats of chickens. Tib and his master had got into trouble on this account; accordingly Judith had turned out a light steel chain, somewhat rusty, and a dog collar from among the sundries that encumbered the drawers and closets of the rectory. This she had given to her brother, and whenever the little dog was near civilization he was obliged to submit to the chain.
Judith, to console Jamie for his loss, had told him that in all probability another little dog might be procured to be his companion. Alas! the collar was on poor Tib, but she represented to him that if another dog were obtained it would be possible to buy or beg a collar for him, supposing a collar to be needful. This had satisfied Jamie, and he was about to doze off, when suddenly he woke to say that the chain was lost.
“Where did you lose the chain, Jamie?”
“I threw it down.”
“Why did you do that?”
“I thought I shouldn’t want it when Tib was gone.”
“And where did you throw it? Perhaps it may be found again.”
“I won’t go and look for it – indeed I won’t.” He shivered and clung to his sister.
“Where was it? Perhaps I can find it.”
“I dropped it at the top – on the down when I came up the steps from – from that man, when he had killed Tib.”
“You did not throw it over the cliff?”
“No – I threw it down. I did not think I wanted it any more.”
“I dare say it may be found. I will go and see.”
“No – no! Don’t, Ju. You might meet that man.”
Judith smiled. She felt that she was not afraid of that man – he would not hurt her.
As soon as the boy was asleep, Judith descended the stairs, leaving the door ajar, that she might hear should he wake in a fright, and entering the little sitting-room, took up her needles and wool, and seated herself quietly by the window, where the last glimmer of twilight shone, to continue her work at a jersey she was knitting for Jamie’s use in the winter.
The atmosphere was charged with tobacco-smoke, almost as much as that of the adjoining workshop. There was no door between the rooms; none had been needed formerly, and Mr. Menaida did not think of supplying one now. It was questionable whether one would have been an advantage, as Jamie ran to and fro, and would be certain either to leave the door open or to slam it, should one be erected. Moreover, a door meant payment to a carpenter for timber and labor. There was no carpenter in the village, and Mr. Menaida spent no more money than he was absolutely obliged to spend, and how could he on an annuity of fifty pounds.
Judith dropped her woolwork in her lap and fell into meditation. She reviewed what had just taken place: she saw before her again Coppinger, strongly built, with his dark face, and eyes that glared into the soul to its lowest depths, illumining all, not as the sun, but as the lightning, and suffering not a thought, not a feeling to remain obscure.
A second time had Jamie done what angered him, but on this occasion he had curbed his passion and had contented himself with a threat – nay, not even that – with a caution. He had expressly told Jamie, that he himself would not hurt him, but that he ran into danger from others.
She was again looking at Coppinger as he spoke; she saw the changes in his face, the alterations of expression in his eyes, in his intonation. She recalled the stern, menacing tone in which he had spoken to Jamie, and then the inflexion of voice as he referred to her. A dim surmise – a surmise she was ashamed to allow could be true – rose in her mind and thrilled her with alarm. Was it possible that he liked her – liked – she could, she would give even in thought no other term to describe that feeling which she feared might possibly have sprung up in his breast. That he liked her – after all she had done? Was that why he had come to the cottage the day after his accident? Was that what had prompted the strange note sent to her along with the keg of spirits to Uncle Zachie? Was that the meaning of the offer of the choice of all his treasures? – of the vehemence with which he had seized her hand and had kissed it? Was that the interpretation of those words of excuse in which he had declared her his queen? If this were so, then much that had been enigmatical in his conduct was explained – his interference with the valuers for dilapidations, the strange manner in which he came across her path almost whenever she went to the rectory. And this was the signification of the glow in his eyes, the quaver in his voice, when he addressed her.
Was it so? – could it be so? – that he liked her? – he – Cruel Coppinger —Cruel Coppinger – the terror of the country round – liked her, the weakest creature that could be found?
The thought of such a possibility frightened her. That the wild smuggler-captain should hate her she could have borne with better than that he should like her. That she was conscious of a sense of pleased surprise, intermixed with fear, was inevitable, for Judith was a woman, and there was something calculated to gratify feminine pride in the presumption that the most lawless and headstrong man on the Cornish coast should have meant what he said when he declared himself her subject.
These thoughts, flushing and paling her cheek, quickening and staying her pulse, so engrossed Judith that, though she heard the voices in the adjoining apartment, she paid no heed to what was said.
The wind, which had been fresh all day, was blowing stronger. It battered at the window where Judith sat, as though a hand struck and brushed over the panes.
“Hot or cold?” asked Uncle Zachie.
“Thanky’, neither. Water can be got everywhere, but such brandy as this, old man – only here.”
“You are good to say so. It is Coppinger’s present to me.”
“Coppinger! –
