"Judith, not for the world would I have had you here," said he, in an agitated voice. "I'll kill your aunt for letting you come down."

"Mr. Coppinger, she knew nothing of my coming. Come I must--I heard Jamie's voice."

"Go," said the Captain, shaking the boy. He was ashamed of himself and angry. "Beware how you disobey your sister again."

Coppinger's face was red as fire. He turned to Judith--

"Your feet are bare. Let me carry you up-stairs--carry you once more."

She shook her head. "As I came down so I can return."

"Will you forgive me?" he said, in a low tone.

"Heaven forgive you," she answered, and burst into tears. "You will break my heart, I foresee it."

CHAPTER XIX.

A GOLDFISH.

Next day--just in the same way as the day before--when Judith was risen and dressed, the door was thrown open, and again Coppinger was revealed, standing outside, looking at her with a strange expression, and saying no word.

But Judith started up from her chair and went to him in the pa.s.sage, put forth her delicate white hand, laid it on his cuff, and said: "Mr.

Coppinger, may I speak to you?"

"Where?"

"Where you like--down-stairs will be best, in the hall if no one be there."

"It is empty."

He stood aside and allowed her to precede him.

The staircase was narrow, and it would have been dark but for a small dormer-window through which light came from a squally sky covered with driving white vapors. But such light as entered from a white and wan sun fell on her head as she descended--that head of hair was like the splendor of a beech-tree touched by frost before the leaves fall.

Coppinger descended after her.

When they were both in the hall, he indicated his arm-chair by the hearth for her to sit in, and she obeyed. She was weak, and now also nervous. She must speak to the smuggler firmly, and that required all her courage.

The room was tidy; all traces of the debauch of the preceding night had disappeared.

Coppinger stood a few paces from her. He seemed to know that what she was going to say would displease him, and he did not meet her clear eyes, but looked with a sombre frown upon the floor.

Judith put the fingers of her right hand to her heart to bid it cease beating so fast, and then rushed into what she had to say, fearing lest delay should heighten the difficulty of saying it.

"I am so--so thankful to you, sir, for what you have done for me. My aunt tells me that you found and carried me here. I had lost my way on the rocks, and but for you I would have died."

"Yes," he said, raising his eyes suddenly and looking piercingly into hers, "but for me you would have died."

"I must tell you how deeply grateful I am for this and for other kindnesses. I shall never forget that this foolish, silly, little life of mine I owe to you."

Again her heart was leaping so furiously as to need the pressure of her fingers on it to check it.

"We are quits," said Coppinger, slowly. "You came--you ran a great risk to save me. But for you I might be dead. So this rude and worthless--this evil life of mine," he held out his hands, both palms before her, and spoke with quivering voice--"I owe to you."

"Then," said Judith, "as you say, we are quits. Yet no. If one account is cancelled, another remains unclosed. I threw you down and broke your bones. So there still remains a score against me."

"That I have forgiven long ago," said he. "Throw me down, break me, kill me, do with me what you will--and--I will kiss your hand."

"I do not wish to have my hand kissed," said Judith, hastily, "I let you understand that before."

He put his elbow against the mantel-shelf, and leaned his brow against his open hand, looking down at her, so she could not see his face without raising her eyes, but he could rest his on her and study her, note her distress, the timidity with which she spoke, the wince when he said a word that implied his attachment to her.

"I have not only to thank you, Captain Coppinger, but I have to say good-by."

"What--go?"

"Yes--I shall go back to Mr. Menaida to-day."

He stamped, and his face became blood-red. "You shall not. I will it--here you stay."

"It cannot be," said Judith, after a moment's pause to let his pa.s.sion subside. "You are not my guardian, though very generously you have undertaken to be valuer for me in dilapidations. I must go, I and Jamie."

He shook his head. He feared to speak, his anger choked him.

"I cannot remain here myself, and certainly I will not let Jamie be here."

"Is it because of last night's foolery you say that?"

"I am responsible for my brother. He is not very clever; he is easily led astray. There is no one to think for him, to care for him, but myself. I could never let him run the risk of such a thing happening again."

"Confound the boy!" burst forth Coppinger. "Are you going to bring him up as a milk-sop? You are wrong altogether in the way you manage him."

"I can but follow my conscience."

"And is it because of him that you go?"

"Not because of him only."

"But I have spoken to your aunt; she consents."

"But I do not," said Judith.

He stamped again, pa.s.sionately.

"I am not the man who will bear to be disobeyed and my will crossed. I say--Here you shall stay."