In the Roar of the Sea
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Looking into the glowing ashes, listening to her thoughts as they spoke, and seeming to attend to the prattle of the boy, Judith was surprised by the entry of Mr. Scantlebray.
“There – disengaged, that is capital,” said the agent. “The very thing I hoped. And now we can have a talk. You have never understood that I was your sincere friend. You have turned from me and looked elsewhere, and now you suffer for it. But I am like all the best metal – strong and bright to the last; and see – I have come to you now to forewarn you, because I thought that if it came on you all at once there would be trouble and bother.”
“Thank you, Mr. Scantlebray. It is true that we are not busy just now, but it does not follow that we are disposed for a talk. It is growing dark, and we shall lock up the cottage and go to bed.”
“Oh, I will not detain you long. Besides I’ll take the wish out of your heart for bed in one jiffy. Look here – read this. Do you know the handwriting?”
He held out a letter. Judith reluctantly took it. She had risen; she had not asked Scantlebray to take a seat.
“Yes,” she said, “that is the writing of Captain Coppinger.”
“A good bold hand,” said the agent, “and see here is his seal with his motto, Thorough. You know that?”
“Yes – it is his seal.”
“Now read it.”
Judith knelt at the hearth.
“Blow, blow the fire up, my beauty,” called Scantlebray to Jamie. “Don’t you see that your sister wants light, and is running the risk of blinding her sweet pretty eyes.” Jamie puffed vigorously and sent out sparks snapping and blinking, and brought the wood to a white glow, by which Judith was able to decipher the letter.
It was a formal order from Cruel Coppinger to Mr. Obadiah Scantlebray to remove James Trevisa that evening, after dark, from Othello Cottage to his idiot asylum, to remain there in custody till further notice. Judith remained kneeling, with her eyes on the letter, after she had read it. She was considering. It was clear to her that directly after leaving her Captain Coppinger had formed his own resolve, either impatient of waiting the six hours he had allowed her, or because he thought the alternative of the Asylum the only one that could be accepted by her, and it was one that would content himself, as the only one that avoided exposure of a scandal. But there were other asylums than that of Scantlebray, and others were presumably better managed, and those in charge less severe in their dealings. She had considered this, as she looked into the fire. But a new idea had also at the same time lightened in her mind, and she had a third alternative to propose.
She had been waiting for the moment when to go to the Glaze and see Coppinger, and just at the moment when she was about to send Jamie to bed and leave the house Scantlebray came in.
“Now then,” said the agent, “what do you think of me – that I am a real friend?”
“I thank you for having told me this,” answered Judith, “and now I will go to Pentyre. I beg that you will not allow my brother to be conveyed away during my absence. Wait till I return. Perhaps Captain Coppinger may not insist on the removal at once. If you are a real friend, as you profess, you will do this for me.”
“I will do it willingly. That I am a real friend I have shown you by my conduct. I have come beforehand to break news to you which might have been too great and too overwhelming had it come on you suddenly. My brother and a man or two will be here in an hour. Go by all means to Captain Cruel, but,” Scantlebray winked an eye, “I don’t myself think you will prevail with him.”
“I will thank you to remain here for half an hour with Jamie,” said Judith, coldly. “And to stay all proceedings till my return. If I succeed – well. If not, then only a few minutes have been lost. I have that to say to Captain Coppinger which may, and I trust will, lead him to withdraw that order.”
“Rely on me. I am a rock on which you may build,” said Scantlebray. “I will do my best to entertain your brother, though, alas! I have not the abilities of Obadiah, who is a genius, and can keep folks hour by hour going from one roar of laughter into another.”
No sooner was Judith gone than Scantlebray put his tongue into one side of his cheek, clicked, pointed over his shoulder with his thumb, and seated himself opposite Jamie on the stool beside the fire which had been vacated by Judith. Jamie had understood nothing of the conversation that had taken place, his name had not been mentioned, and consequently his attention had not been drawn to it away from some chestnuts he had found, or which had been given to him, that he was baking in the ashes on the hearth.
“Fond of hunting, eh?” asked Scantlebray, stretching his legs and rubbing his hands. “You are like me – like to be in at the death. What do you suppose I have in my pocket? Why, a fox with a fiery tail. Shall we run him to earth? Shall we make an end of him? Tally-ho! Tally-ho! here he is. Oh, sly Reynard, I have you by the ears.” And forth from the tail-pocket of his coat Scantlebray produced a bottle of brandy. “What say you, corporal, shall we drink his blood? Bring me a couple of glasses and I’ll pour out his gore.”
“I haven’t any,” said Jamie. “Ju and I have two mugs, that is all.”
“And they will do famously. Here goes – off with the mask!” and with a blow he knocked away the head and cork of the bottle. “No more running away for you, my beauty, except down our throats. Mugs! That is famous. Come, shall we play at army and navy, and the forfeit be a drink of Reynard’s blood?”
Jamie pricked up his ears; he was always ready for a game of play.
“Look here,” said Scantlebray. “You are in the military, I am in the nautical line. Each must address the other by some title in accordance with the profession each professes, and the forfeit of failure is a pull at the bottle. What do you say! I will begin. Set the bottle there between us. Now then, Sergeant, they tell me your aunt has come in for a fortune. How much? What is the figure, eh?”
“I don’t know,” responded Jamie, and was at once caught up with “Forfeit! forfeit!”
“Oh, by Jimminy, there am I, too, in the same box. Take your swig, Commander, and pass to me.”
“But what am I to call you?” asked the puzzle-headed boy.
“Mate, or captain, or boatswain, or admiral.”
“I can’t remember all that.”
“Mate will do. Always say mate, whatever you ask or answer. Do you understand, General!”
“Yes.”
“Forfeit! forfeit! You should have said ‘Yes, mate.’” Mr. Scantlebray put his hands to his sides and laughed. “Oh, Jimminy! there am I again. The instructor as bad as the pupil. I’m a bad fellow as instructor, that I am, Field-Marshal. So – your Aunt Dionysia has come in for some thousands of pounds – how many do you think! Have you heard?”
“I think I’ve heard – ”
“Mate! Mate!”
“I think I’ve heard, Mate.”
“Now, how many do you remember to have heard named? Was it five thousand? That is what I heard named – eh, Captain?”
“Oh, more than that,” said Jamie, in his small mind catching at a chance of talking-big, “a great lot more than that.”
“What, ten thousand?”
“I dare say; yes, I think so.”
“Forfeit! forfeit! pull again, Centurion.”
“Yes, Mate, I’m sure.”
“Ten thousand – why, at five per cent. that’s a nice little sum for you and Ju to look forward to when the old hull springs a leak and goes to the bottom.”
“Yes,” answered Jamie, vaguely. He could not look beyond the day, moreover he did not understand the figurative speech of his comrade.
“Forfeit again, General! But I’ll forgive you this time, or you’ll get so drunk you’ll not be able to answer me a question. Bless my legs and arms! on that pretty little sum one could afford one’s self a new tie every Sunday. You will prove a beau and buck indeed some day, Captain of Thousands! And then you won’t live in this little hole. By the way, I hear old Dunes Trevisa, I beg pardon, Field-Marshal Sir James, I mean your much respected aunt, Miss Trevisa, has got a charming box down by S. Austell. You’ll ask me down for the shooting, won’t you, Commander-in-Chief?”
“Yes, I will,” answered Jamie.
“And you’ll give me the best bedroom, and will have choice dinners, and the best old tawny port, eh?”
“Yes, to be sure,” said the boy, flattered.
“Mate! mate! forfeit! and I suppose you’ll keep a hunter?”
“I shall have two – three,” said Jamie.
“And if I were you, I’d keep a pack of fox-hounds.”
“I will.”
“That’s for the winter, and other hounds for the summer.”
“I am sure I will, and wear a red coat.”
“Famous! but – there I spare you this time – you forfeited again.”
“No, I won’t be spared,” protested the boy.
“As for a wretched little hole like this Othello Cottage – ” said Scantlebray. “But, by the bye, you have never shown me over the house. How many rooms are there in it, Generalissimo of His Majesty’s Forces!”
“There’s my bedroom there,” said Jamie.
“Yes; and that door leads to your sister’s?”
“Yes. And there’s the kitchen.”
“And up-stairs!”
“There’s no up-stairs.”
“Now, you are very clever – clever. By Ginger, you must be to be Commander-in-chief; but ’pon my word, I can’t believe that. No up-stairs. There must be up-stairs.”
“No, there’s not.”
“But by Jimminy! with such a roof as this house has got, and a little round window in the gable. There must be an up-stairs.”
“No there’s not.”
“How do you make that out?”
“Because there are no stairs at all.” Then Jamie jumped up, but rolled on one side, the brandy he had drunk had made him unsteady. “I’ll show you mate – mate – yes, mate. There three times now will do for times I haven’t said it. There – in my room. The floor is rolling; it won’t stay steady. There are cramps in the wall, no stairs, and so you get up to where it all is.”
“All what is?”
“Forfeit, forfeit!” shouted Jamie. “Say general or something military. I don’t know. Ju won’t let me go up there; but there’s tobacco, for one thing.”
“Where’s a candle, Corporal?”
“There is none. We have no light but the fire.” Then Jamie dropped back on his stool, unable to keep his legs.
“I am more provident than you. I have a lantern outside, unlighted, as I thought I might need it on my return. The nights close in very fast and very dark now, eh, Commander?”
Mr. Scantlebray went outside the cottage, looked about him, specially directing his eyes toward the Glaze. Then he chuckled and said:
“Sent Miss Judith on a wild goose chase, have I? Ah ha! Captain Coppinger, I’ll have a little entertainment for you to-night. The preventives will snatch your goods at Porth-leze or Constantine, and here – behind your back – I’ll attend to your store of tobacco and whatever else I may find.”
Then he returned and going to the fire extracted the candle from the lantern and lighted it at a burning log.
“Halloa, Captain of thousands! Going to sleep? There’s the bottle. You must make up forfeits. You’ve been dishonest I fear and not paid half. That door did you say?”
But Jamie was past understanding a question, and Mr. Scantlebray could find out for himself now what he wanted to know. That this house had been used by Coppinger as a store for some of the smuggled cargoes he had long suspected, but he had never been able to obtain any evidence which would justify the coast-guard in applying to the justices for a search-warrant. Now he would be able to look about it at his leisure, while Judith was absent. He did not suppose Coppinger was at the Glaze. He assumed that an attempt would be made, as the clerk of St. Enodoc had informed him, to land the cargo of the Black Prince to the west of the estuary of the Camel, and he supposed that Coppinger would be there to superintend. He had used the letter sent to his brother to induce the girl to go to Pentyre, and so leave the cottage clear for him to search it.
Now, holding the candle, he entered the bedroom of Jamie, and soon perceived the cramps the boy had spoken of that served in place of stairs. Above was a door into the attic, whitewashed over, like the walls. Mr. Scantlebray climbed, thrust open the door and crept into the garret.
“Ah, ha!” said the valuer. “So, so, Captain! I have come on one of your lairs at last. And I reckon I will make it warm for you. But, by Ginger, it is a pity I can’t remove some of what is here.”
He prowled about in the roomy loft, searching every corner. There were a few small kegs of spirit, but the stores were mostly of tobacco.
In about ten minutes Mr. Scantlebray reappeared in the room where was Jamie. He was without his candle. The poor boy, overcome by what he had drunk, had fallen on the floor and was in a tipsy sleep.
Scantlebray went to him.
“Come along with me,” he said. “Come, there is no time to be lost. Come, you fool!”
He shook him, but Jamie would not be roused, he kicked and struck out with his fists.
“You won’t come? I’ll make you.”
Then Scantlebray caught the boy by the shoulders to drag him to the door. The child began to struggle and resist.
“Oh! I’m not concerned for you, fool,” said Scantlebray. “If you like to stay and take your chance – my brother will be here to carry you off presently. Will you come?”
Scantlebray caught the boy by the feet and tried to drag him, but Jamie clung to the table-legs.
Scantlebray uttered an oath – “Stay, you fool, and be smothered! The world will get on very well without you.”
And he strode forth from the cottage.
CHAPTER LI
SURRENDER
Scantlebray was mistaken. Coppinger had not crossed the estuary of the Camel. He was at Pentyre Glaze awaiting the time when the tide suited for landing the cargo of the Black Prince. In the kitchen were a number of men having their supper and drinking, waiting also for the proper moment when to issue forth.
At the turn of the tide the Black Prince would approach in the gathering darkness and would come as near in as she dare venture. The wind had fallen, but the sea was running, and with the tide setting in she would approach the cove.
Judith hastened toward the Glaze. Darkness had set in, but in the north were auroral lights, first a great, white halo, then rays that shot up to the zenith, and then a mackerel sky of rosy light. The growl and mutter of the sea filled the air with threat like an angry multitude surging on with blood and destruction in their hearts.
The flicker overhead gave Judith light for her cause; the snow had melted except in ditches and under hedges, and there it glared red or white in response to the changing, luminous tinges of the heavens. When she reached the house she at once entered the hall; there Coppinger was awaiting her. He knew she would come to him when her mind was made up on the alternatives he had offered her, and he believed he knew pretty surely which she would choose. It was because he expected her that he had not suffered the men collected for the work of the night to invade the hall.
“You are here,” he said. He was seated by the fire; he looked up, but did not rise. “Almost too late.”
“Almost, maybe, but not altogether,” answered Judith. “And yet it seems unnecessary, as you have already acted without awaiting my decision.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I have been shown your letter.”
“Oh! Obadiah Scantlebray is premature.”
“He is not at Othello Cottage yet. His brother came beforehand to prepare me.”
“How considerate of your feelings,” sneered Captain Cruel. “I would not have expected that of Scantlebray.”
“You have not awaited my decision,” said Judith.
“That is true,” answered Coppinger, carelessly. “I knew you would shrink from the exposure, the disgrace of publication of what has occurred here. I knew you so well that I could reckon beforehand on what you would elect.”
“But, why to Scantlebray? Are there not other asylums?”
“Yes: so long as that boy is placed where he can do no mischief, I care not.”
“Then, if that be so, I have another proposal to make.”
“What is that?” Coppinger stood up.
“If you have any regard for my feelings, any care for my happiness, you will grant my request.”
“Let me hear it.”
“Mr. Menaida is going to Portugal.”
“What!” – in a tone of concentrated rage – “Oliver?”
“Oliver and his father. But the proposal concerns the father.”
“Go on.” Coppinger strode once across the room, then back again. “Go on,” he said, savagely.
“Old Mr. Menaida offers to take Jamie with him. He intends to settle at Oporto, near his son, who has been appointed to a good situation there. He will gladly undertake the charge of Jamie. Let Jamie go with them. There he can do no harm.”
“What, go – without you! Did they not want you to go, also?”
Judith hesitated and flushed. There was a single tallow candle on the table. Coppinger took it up, snuffed it, and held the flame to her face to study its expression. “I thought so,” he said, and put down the light again.
“Jamie is useful to Mr. Menaida,” pleaded Judith, in some confusion, and with a voice of tremulous apology.
“He stuffs birds so beautifully, and Uncle Zachie – I mean Mr. Menaida – has set his heart on making a collection of the Spanish and Portuguese birds.”
“Oh, yes; he understands the properties of arsenic,” said Coppinger, with a scoff.
Judith’s eyes fell. Captain Cruel’s tone was not reassuring.
“You say that you care not where Jamie be, so long as he is where he cannot hurt you,” said Judith.
“I did not say that,” answered Coppinger. “I said that he must be placed where he can injure no one.”
“He can injure no one if he is with Mr. Menaida, who will well watch him, and keep him employed.”
Coppinger laughed bitterly. “And you? Will you be satisfied to have the idolized brother with the deep seas rolling between you?”
“I must endure it. It is the least of evils.”
“But you would be pining to have wings and fly over the sea to him.”
“If I have not wings I cannot go.”
“Now hearken,” said Coppinger. He clinched his fist and laid it on the table. “I know very well what this means. Oliver Menaida is at the bottom of this. It is not the fool Jamie who is wanted in Portugal, but the clever Judith. They have offered to take the boy, that through him they may attract you, unless,” his voice thrilled, “they have already dared to propose that you should go with them.”
Judith was silent.
Coppinger clinched his second hand and laid that also on the table. “I swear to heaven,” said he, “that if I and that Oliver Menaida meet again, it is for the last time for one or other of us. We have met twice already. It is an understood thing between us, when we meet again, one wets his boots in the other’s blood. Do you hear? The world will not hold us two any longer. Portugal may be far off, but it is too near Cornwall for me.”
Judith made no answer. She looked fixedly into the gloomy eyes of Coppinger, and said —
“You have strange thoughts. Suppose – if you will – that the invitation included me, I could not have accepted it.”
“Why not! You refuse to regard yourself as married, and if unmarried, you are free – and if free, ready to elope with – ” he would not utter the name in his quivering fury.
“I pray you,” said Judith, offended, “do not insult me.”
“I – insult you? It is a daily insult to me to be treated as I have been. It is driving me mad.”
“But, do you not see,” urged Judith, “you have offered me two alternatives and I ask for a third, yours are jail or an asylum, mine is exile. Both yours are to me intolerable. Conceive of my state were Jamie either in jail or with Mr. Scantlebray. In jail – and I should be thinking of him all day and all night in his prison garb, tramping the tread-mill, beaten, driven on, associated with the vilest of men, an indelible stain put, not on him only, but on the name of our dear, dear father. Do you think I could bear that? or take the other alternative? I know the Scantlebrays. I should have the thoughts of Jamie distressed, frightened, solitary, ill-treated, ever before me. I had it for a few hours once and it drove me frantic. It would make me mad in a week. I know that I could not endure it. Either alternative would madden or kill me. And I offer another – if he were in exile, I could at least think of him as happy among the orange groves, in the vineyards, among kind friends, happy, innocent – at worst, forgetting me. That I could bear. But the other – no, not for a week – they would be torture insufferable.” She spoke full of feverish vehemence, with her hands outspread before her.
“And this smiling vision of Jamie happy in Portugal would draw your heart from me.”
“You never had my heart,” said Judith.
Coppinger clinched his teeth. “I will hear no more of this,” said he.
Then Judith threw herself on her knees, and caught him and held him, lifting her entreating face toward his.
“I have undergone it – for some hours. I know it will madden or kill me. I cannot – I cannot – I cannot,” she could scarce breathe, she spoke in gasps.
“You cannot what?” he asked, sullenly.
“I cannot live on the terms you offer. You take from me even the very wish to live. Take away the arsenic from me – lest in madness I give it to myself. Take me far inland from these cliffs – lest in my madness I throw myself over – I could not bear it. Will nothing move you?”
“Nothing.” He stood before her, his feet apart, his arms folded, his chin on his breast, looking into her uplifted, imploring face. “Yes – one thing. One thing only.” He paused, raking her face with his eyes. “Yes – one thing. Be mine wholly – unconditionally. Then I will consent. Be mine; add your name where it is wanting. Resume your ring – and Jamie shall go with the Menaidas. Now, choose.”
He drew back. Judith remained kneeling, upright, on the floor with arms extended – she had heard and at first hardly comprehended him. Then she staggered to her feet.
“Well,” said Coppinger, “what answer do you make?” Still she could not speak. She went to the table with uncertain steps. There was a wooden form by it. She seated herself on this, placed her arms on the board, joining her hands, and laid her head, face downward, between them on the table.
Coppinger remained where he was, watching and waiting. He knew what her action implied – that she was to be left alone with her thoughts, to form her resolve undisturbed. He remained, accordingly, motionless, but with his eyes fixed on the golden hair that flickered in the dim light of the one candle. The wick had a great fungus in it – so large and glaring that in another moment it must fall, and fall on Judith’s hand. Coppinger saw this and he thrust forth his arm to snuff the candle with his fingers, but his hand shook, and the light was extinguished. It mattered not. There were glowing coals on the hearth, and through the window flared and throbbed the auroral lights.
A step sounded outside. Then a hand was on the door. Coppinger at once strode across the hall, and arrested the intruder from entering.
“Who is that?”
“Hender Pendarvis” – the clerk of St. Enodoc. “I have some’ut partickler I must say.”
Coppinger looked at Judith; she lay motionless, her head between her arms on the board. He partly opened the door and stepped forth into the porch.
When he had heard what the clerk of St. Enodoc had to say, he answered with an order, “Round to the kitchen – bid the men arm and go by the beach.”
He returned into the hall, went to the fireplace and took down a pair of pistols, tried them that they were charged, and thrust them into his belt.
Next he went up to Judith, and laid his hand on her shoulder.
“Time presses,” he said; “I have to be off. Your answer.” She looked up. The board was studded with drops of water. She had not wept, these stains were not her tears, they were the sweat of anguish off her brow that had run over the board.
“Well, Judith, our answer.”
“I accept.”
“Unreservedly?”
“Unreservedly.”
“Stay,” said he. He spoke low, indistinctly articulated sentences. “Let there be no holding back between us. You shall know all. You have wondered concerning the death of Wyvill – I know you have asked questions about it. I killed him.”
He paused.
“You heard of the wreckers on that vessel cast on Doom Bar. I was their leader.”
Again he paused.
“You thought I had sent Jamie out with a light to mislead the vessel. You thought right. I did have her drawn to her destruction, and by your brother.”