In the Roar of the Sea. S. (Sabine) Baring-Gould

satisfied Judith.

      Judith must go herself to the Glaze, and she had reasons of her own for wishing to see her aunt, independent of the sense of obligation on her, more or less acknowledged, that she must obey the summons of C. C. There were matters connected with the rectory, with the furniture there, the cow, and the china, that Mrs. Trevisa must give her judgment upon. There were bills that had come in, which Mrs. Trevisa must pay, as Judith had been left without any money in her pocket.

      As the girl walked through the lanes she turned over in her mind the stories she had heard of the smuggler Captain, the wild tales of his wrecking ships, of his contests with the Preventive men, and the ghastly tragedy of Wyvill, who had been washed up headless on Doombar. In former days she had accepted all these stories as true, had not thought of questioning them; but now that she had looked Coppinger in the face, had spoken with him, experienced his consideration, she could not believe that they were to be accepted without question. That story of Wyvill—that Captain Cruel had hacked off his head on the gunwale with his axe—seemed to her now utterly incredible. But if true! She shuddered to think that her hand had been held in that stained with so hideous a crime.

      Thus musing, Judith arrived at Pentyre Glaze, and entering the porch, turned from the sea, knocked at the door.

      A loud voice bade her enter. She knew that the voice proceeded from Coppinger, and her heart fluttered with fear and uncertainty. She halted, with her hand on the door, inclined to retreat without entering; but again the voice summoned her to come in, and gathering up her courage she opened the door, and, still holding the latch, took a few steps forward into the hall or kitchen, into which it opened.

      A fire was smouldering in the great open fireplace, and beside it, in a carved oak arm-chair, sat Cruel Coppinger, with a small table at his side, on which were a bottle and glass, a canister of tobacco and a pipe. His arm was strapped across his breast as she had seen it a few days before. Entering from the brilliant light of day, Judith could not at first observe his face, but, as her eyes became accustomed to the twilight of the smoke-blackened and gloomy hall, she saw that he looked more worn and pale than he had seemed the day after the accident. Nor could she understand the expression on his countenance when he was aware who was his visitor.

      “I beg your pardon,” said Judith; “I am sorry to have intruded; but I wished to speak to my aunt.”

      “Your aunt? Old mother Dunes? Come in. Let go your hold of the door and shut it. Your aunt started a quarter of an hour ago for the rectory.”

      “And I came along the 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