“She has been over-exerted, over-excited,” said Miss Trevisa. “Leave her to recover; in a few days she will be herself again. Remember, her father died of heart complaint, and though Judith resembles her mother rather than a Trevisa, she may have inherited from my brother just that one thing she had better have let him carry to his grave with him.”

So Judith was given the little room that adjoined her aunt’s, and Miss Trevisa postponed for a week her migration to Othello Cottage.

Aunt Dionysia was uneasy about her niece; perhaps her conscience did suffer from some qualms when she saw how Judith shrank from the union she had driven her into for her own selfish convenience. She treated her in the wisest manner, now she had brought her to the Glaze, for she placed her in her old room next her own, and left her there to herself. Judith could hear her aunt walking about and muttering in the adjoining chamber, and was content to be left alone to recover her composure and strength.

Uncle Zachie and Jump were, however, in sore distress; they had made the trim cottage ready, had prepared a wedding breakfast, engaged a helping hand or two, and no one had come to partake. Nor was Mr. Desiderius Mules in a cheerful mood. He had been invited to the breakfast, and was hungry and cold. He had to wait while Mr. Menaida ran up to Pentyre to know whether any one was going to honor his board. While he was away the rector stamped about the parlor, growling that he believed he was about to be “choused out of his breakfast. There was really no knowing what these people in this out-of-the-world corner might do.” Then he pulled off his boots and shook the sand out, rang for Jump, and asked at what hour precisely the breakfast was to be eaten, and whether it was put on table to be looked at only.

From Pentyre Glaze Mr. Menaida was not greatly successful in obtaining guests. He found some wild-looking men there in converse with Coppinger, men whom he knew by rumor to belong to a class that had no ostensible profession and means of living.

Mr. Menaida had ordered in clotted cream, which would not keep sweet many days. It ought to be eaten at once. He wanted to know whether Coppinger, the bride, Miss Trevisa, anyone was coming to his house to consume the clotted cream. As Jamie was drifting about purposeless, and he alone seemed disposed to accompany Uncle Zachie, the old gentleman carried him off.

“I s’pose I can’t on the spur of the moment go in and ask over St. Minver parson?” asked Menaida, dubiously, of the St. Enodoc parson. “You see I daresay he’s hurt not to have had the coupling of ’em himself.”

“Most certainly not,” said Mr. Mules; “an appetite is likely to go into faintness unless attended to at once. I know that the coats of my stomach are honeycombed with gastric juice. Shall I say grace? Another half-hour of delay will finish me.”

Consequently but three persons sat down to a plentiful meal; but some goose, cold, had hardly been served, when in came Mr. Scantlebray, the agent, with a cheery salutation of “Hulloa, Menaida, old man! What, eating and drinking? I’ll handle a knife and fork with you, unasked. Beg pardon, Mr. Mules. I’m a rough man, and an old acquaintance of our good friend here. Hope I see you in the enjoyment of robust health, sir. Oh, Menaida, old man! I didn’t expect such a thing as this. Now I begin to see daylight, and understand why I was turned out of the valuership, and why my brother lost this promising young pupil. Ah, ha! my man, you have been deprived of fun, such fun, roaring fun, by not being with my brother Scanty. Well, sir,” to Mr. Mules, “what was the figure of the valuation? You had a queer man on your side. I pity you. A man I wouldn’t trust myself. I name no names. Now tell me, what did you get?”

“A hundred and twenty-seven pounds four and ninepence farthing. Monstrous—a chouse.”

“As you say, monstrous. Why that chancel, show me the builder who will contract to do that alone at a hundred and twenty-seven pounds? And the repairs of the vestry—are they to be reckoned at four and ninepence farthing? It is a swindle. I’d appeal. I’d refuse. You made a mistake, sir, let me tell you, in falling into certain hands. Yes—I’ll have some goose, thank you.”

Mr. Scantlebray ate heartily, so did the Reverend Desiderius, who had the honeycomb cells of his stomach coats to fill.

Both, moreover, did justice to Mr. Menaida’s wine, they did not spare it; why should they? Those for whom the board was spread had not troubled to come to it, and they must make amends for their neglect.

“Horrible weather,” said the rector. “I suppose this detestable sort of stuff of which the atmosphere is composed is the prevailing abomination one has to inhale throughout three-quarters of the year. One cannot see three yards before one.”

“It’s bad for some and good for others,” answered Scantlebray. “There’ll be wrecks, certainly, after this, especially if we get, as we are pretty sure to get, a wind ashore.”

“Wrecks!” exclaimed the Rector, “and pray who pays the fees for drowned men I may be expected to bury?”

“The parish,” answered Uncle Zachie.

“Oh, half-a-crown a head,” said Mr. Mules, contemptuously.

“There are other things to be had besides burial fees out of a wreck,” said Scantlebray; “but you must be down early before the coast-guard are there. Have you donkeys?”

“Donkeys! What for?”

“I have one, a gray beauty,” exclaimed Jamie; “Captain Coppinger gave her to me.”

“Well, young man, then you pick up what you can, when you have the chance, and lade her with your findings. You’ll pick up something better than corpses, and make something more than burial half-crowns.”

“But why do you suppose there will be wrecks?” inquired the rector of St. Enodoc. “There is no storm.”

“No storm, certainly, but there is fog, and in the fog vessels coming up the Channel to Bristol get lost as to their bearings, get near our cliffs without knowing it, and then—if a wind from the west spring up and blows rough—they are done for, they can’t escape to the open. That’s it, old man. I beg your Reverence’s pardon, I mean, sir. When I said that such weather was bad for some and good for others you can understand me now—bad for the wrecked, good for the wreckers.”

“But surely you have no wreckers here?”

Mr. Scantlebray laughed. “Go and tell the bridegroom that you think so. I’ll let you into the knowledge of one thing”—he winked over his glass—“there’s a fine merchantman on her way to Bristol.”

“How do you know?”

“Know! Because she was sighted off St. Ives, and the tidings has run up the coast like fire among heather. I don’t doubt it that it has reached Hartland by this; and with a thick fog like to-day there are a thousand hearts beating with expectation. Who can say? She may be laden with gold-dust from Africa, or with tin from Barca, or with port from Oporto.”

“My boy Oliver is coming home,” said Mr. Menaida.

“Then let’s hope he is not in this vessel, for, old man, she stands a bad chance in such weather as this. There is Porth-quin, and there is Hayle Bay ready to receive her, or Doom Bar on which she may run, all handy for our people. Are you anything of a sportsman, sir?”

“A little—but I don’t fancy there is much in this precious country—no cover.”

“What is fox-hunting when you come to consider—or going after a snipe or a partridge? A fox! it’s naught, the brush stinks, and a snipe is but a mouthful. My dear sir, if you come to live among us, you must seek your sport not on the land but at sea. You’ll find the sport worth something when you get a haul of a barrel of first-rate sherry, or a load of silver ingots. Why, that’s how Penwarden bought his farm. He got the money after a storm—found it on the shore out of the pocket of a dead man. Do you know why the bells of St. Enodoc are so sweet? Because, so folks say, melted into them are ingots of Peruvian silver from a ship wrecked on Doom Bar.”

“I should like to get some silver or gold,” said Jamie.

“I daresay you would, and so perhaps you may if you look out for it. Go to your good friend, Captain Coppinger, and tell him what you want. He has made his pickings before now on shore and off wrecks, and has not given up the practice.”

“But,” said Mr. Mules, “do you mean to tell me that you people in this benighted corner of the world live like sharks, upon whatever is cast overboard?”

“No, I do not,” answered Scantlebray. “We have too much energy and intelligence for that. We don’t always wait till it is cast overboard, we go aboard and take what we want.”

“What, steal!”

“I don’t call that stealing when Providence and a southwest wind throws a ship into our laps, when we put in our fingers and pick out the articles we want. What are Porth-quin and Hayle Bay but our laps, in which lie the wrecks heaven sends us? And Doom Bar, what is that but a counter on which the good things are spread, and those first there get the first share?”

“And pray,” said Mr. Desiderius Mules, “have the owners of the vessels, the passengers, the captains, no objections to make?”

“They are not there. Don’t wait for our people. If they do—so much the worse for them.” Then Scantlebray laughed. “There’s a good story told of the Zenobia, lost four years ago. There was a lady on board. When she knew the vessel was on Doom Bar she put on all her jewelry, to escape with it. But some of our people got to the wreck before she got off it, and one lobe of her ears got torn off.”

“Torn off?”

“Yes—in pulling the earrings off her.”

“But who pulled the earrings off her?”

“Our people.”

“Gracious heavens! Were they not brought to justice?”

“Who did it? no one knew. What became of the jewelry? no one knew. All that was known was that Lady Knighton—that was her name—lost her diamonds and the lobe of her right ear as well.”

“And it was never recovered?”

“What! the lobe of her ear?”

“No, the jewelry.”

“Never.”

“Upon my word I have got among a parcel of scoundrels. It is high time that I should come and reform them. I’ll set to work at once. I’ll have St. Enodoc dug out and restored, and I’ll soon put an end to this sort of thing.”

“You think so?”

“You don’t know me. I’ll have a bazaar. I’ll have a ball in the Assembly Rooms at Wadebridge. The church shall be excavated. I’m not going in there again with the bats, to have my boots filled with sand, I can tell you—everything shall be renovated and put to rights. I’ll see to it at once. I’ll have a pigeon shooting for the sake of my chancel—I daresay I shall raise twenty pounds by that alone—and a raffle for the font, and an Aunt Sally for the pulpit. But the ball will be the main thing, I’ll send and get the county people to patronize. I’ll do it, and you barbarians in this benighted corner of the world shall see there is a man of energy among you.”

“You’d best try your hand on a wreck. You’ll get more off that.”

“And I’ll have a bran pie for an altar-table.”

“You won’t get the parishioners to do anything for the restoration of the church. They don’t want to have it restored.”

“The Decalogue is rotten. I ran my umbrella through the Ten Commandments this morning. I’ll have a gypsy camp and fortune-telling to furnish me with new Commandments.”

“I’ve heard tell,” said Scantlebray, “that at Ponghill, near Stratton, is a four-post bed of pure gold came off a wreck in Bude Bay.”[C]

“When I was in the North,” said the rector of St. Enodoc, “we had a savage who bit off the heads of rats, snap, skinned them and ate them raw, and charged sixpence entrance; but that was for the missionaries. I should hardly advocate that for the restoration of a church; besides, where is the savage to be got? We made twenty-seven pounds by that man, but expenses were heavy and swallowed up twenty-five; we sent two pounds to the missionaries.”

Mr. Menaida stood up and went to the window.

“I believe the wind has shifted to the north, and we shall have a lightening of the fog after sunset.” “Shall we not have a wreck! I hope there’ll be one,” said Jamie.

“What is the law about wreckage, Menaida, old man?” asked Scantlebray, also coming to the window.

“The law is plain enough. No one has a right to goods come to land; he who finds may claim salvage—naught else; and any persons taking goods cast ashore, which are not legal wreck, may be punished.”

“And,” said Scantlebray, “what if certain persons give occasion to a ship being wrecked, and then plundering the wreck?”

“There the law is also plain. The invading and robbing of a vessel, either in distress or wrecked, and the putting forth of false lights in order to bring a vessel into danger, are capital felonies.”

Scantlebray went to the table, took up a napkin, twisted it and then flung it round his neck, and hung his head on one side.

“What—this, Menaida, old man?”

Uncle Zachie nodded.

“Come here, Jim, my boy, a word with you outside.” Scantlebray led Jamie into the road. “There’s been a shilling owing you for some time. We had roaring fun about it once. Here it is. Now listen to me. Go to Pentyre, you want to find gold-dust on the shore, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Or bars of silver?”

“Yes.”

“Well, beg Captain Coppinger, if he is going to have a Jack o’ Lantern to-night, to let you be the Jack. Do you understand? and mind—not a word about me. Then gold-dust and bars of silver and purses of shillings. Mind you ask to be Jack o’ Lantern. It is fun. Such fun. Roaring fun.”