IN THE DUSK.
"Kicking along, Mr. Menaida, old man?" asked Mr. Scantlebray, in his
loud, harsh voice, as he shook himself inside the door of Uncle
Zachie's workshop. "And the little 'uns? Late in life to become nurse
and keep the bottle and pap-bowl going, eh, old man? How's the
orphings? Eating their own weight of victuals at twopence-ha'penny a
head, eh? My experience of orphings isn't such as would make a man
hilarious, and feel that he was filling his pockets."
"Sit you down, sir; you'll find a chair. Not that one, there's a dab
of arsenical paste got on to that. Sit you down, sir, over against me.
Glad to see you and have some one to talk to. Here am I slaving all
day, worn to fiddlestrings. There's Squire Rashleigh, of Menabilly,
must have a glaucous gull stuffed at once that he has shot; and
there's Sir John St. Aubyn, of Clowance, must have a case of
kittiwakes by a certain day; and an institution in London wants a
genuine specimen of a Cornish chough. Do they think I'm a tradesman to
be ordered about? That I've not an income of my own, and that I am
dependent on my customers? I'll do no more. I'll smoke and play the
piano. I've no time to exchange a word with any one. Come, sit down.
What's the news?"
"It's a bad world," said Mr. Scantlebray, setting himself into a
chair. "That's to say, the world is well enough if it warn't for there
being too many rascals in it. I consider it's a duty on all
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!--his very good health, and may he lie in clover to-morrow
night. He's had one arm bound, I've seen; perhaps he may have two
before the night grows much older."
Mr. Menaida raised his brows.
"I do not understand you."
"I daresay not," said Scantlebray. "It's the duty of all right-minded
men to clear the world of rascals. I will do my duty, please the pigs.
Would you mind--just another drop?"
After his glass had been refilled, Mr. Scantlebray leaned back in his
chair and said:
"It's a wicked world, and, between you and me and the sugar dissolving
at the bottom of my glass, you won't find more rascality anywhere than
in my profession, and one of the biggest rascals in it is Mr.
Cargreen. He's on the side against the orphings. If you've the faculty
of pity in you, pity them--first, because they've him agin' 'em, and,
secondly, because they've lost me as their protector. You know whom
they got in place of me? I wish them joy of him. But they won't have
his wing over them long, I can tell you."
"You think not?"
"Sure of it."
"You think he'll throw it up?"
"I rather suspect he won't be at liberty to attend to it. He'll want
his full attention to his own consarns."
Mr. Scantlebray tipped off his glass.
"It's going to be a dirty night," said he. "You won't mind my spending
an hour or two with you, will you?"
"I shall be delighted. Have you any business in the place?"
"Business--no. A little pleasure, maybe." After a pause, he said,
"But, old man, I don't mind telling you what it is. You are mum, I
know. It is this--the trap will shut to-night. Snap it goes, and the
rats are fast. You haven't been out on the cliffs to-day, have you?"
"No--bless me!--no, I have not."
"The Black Prince is in the offing."
"The Black Prince?"
"Ay, and she will run her cargo ashore to-night. Now, I'm one who
knows a little more than most. I'm one o' your straightfor'ard 'uns,
always ready to give a neighbor a lift in my buggy, and a helping hand
to the man that is down, and a frank, outspoken fellow am I to every
one I meet--so that, knocking about as I do, I come to know and to
hear more than do most, and I happen to have learnt into what cove the
Black Prince will run her goods. I've a bone to pick with Captain
Cruel, so I've let the Preventive men have the contents of my
information-pottle, and they will be ready to-night for Coppinger and
the whole party of them. The cutter will slip in between them and the
sea, and a party will be prepared to give them the kindliest welcome
by land. That is the long and short of it--and, old man, I shall
dearly love to be there and see the sport. That is why I wish to be
with you for an hour or two. Will you come as well?"
"Bless me!" exclaimed Mr. Menaida, "not I! You don't suppose Coppinger
and his men will allow themselves to be taken easily? There'll be a
fight."
"And pistols go off," said Scantlebray. "I shall not be surprised or
sorry if Captain Cruel be washed up one of these next tides with a
bullet through his head. Ebenezer Wyvill is one of the guards, and he
has his brother's death to avenge."
"Do you really believe that Coppinger killed him?"
Mr. Scantlebray shrugged his shoulders. "It don't matter much what _I_
think, to-night, but what the impression is that Ebenezer Wyvill
carries about with him. I imagine that if Ebenezer comes across the
Captain he won't speak to him by word of mouth, nor trouble himself to
feel for a pair of handcuffs. So--fill my glass again, old man, and
we'll drink to a cold bed and an indigestible lump--somewhere--in his
head or in his gizzard--to Cruel Coppinger, and the wiping off of old
scores--always a satisfaction to honest men." Scantlebray rubbed his
hands. "It is a satisfaction to the conscience--to ferret out the rats
sometimes."