“Come with me, uncle!” said Judith.

“My dear, I will follow you like a dog, everywhere.”

“I want to go to the rectory.”

“To the rectory! At this time of night!”

“At once.”

When the down was left there was no longer necessity for hiding the lantern, as they were within lanes, and the light would not be seen at sea.

The distance to the parsonage was not great, and the little party were soon there, but were somewhat puzzled how to find the door, owing to the radical transformations of the approaches effected by the new rector.

Mr. Desiderius Mules was not in bed. He was in his study, without his collar and necktie, smoking, and composing a sermon. It is not only lucus which is derived from non lucendo. A study in many a house is equally misnamed. In that of Mr. Mules’s house it had some claim, perhaps, to its title, for in it, once a week, Mr. Desiderius cudgelled his brains how to impart form to an inchoate mass of notes; but it hardly deserved its name as a place where the brain was exercised in absorption of information. The present study was the old pantry. The old study had been occupied by a man of reading and of thought. Perhaps it was not unsuitable that the pantry should become Mr. Mules’s study, and where the maid had emptied her slop-water after cleaning forks and plates should be the place for the making of the theological slop-water that was to be poured forth on the Sunday. But—what a word has been here used—theological—another lucus a non lucendo, for there was nothing of theology proper in the stuff compounded by Mr. Mules.

We shall best be able to judge by observing him engaged on his sermon for Sunday. In his mouth was a pipe, on the table a jar of bird’s-eye; item, a tumbler of weak brandy and water to moisten his lips with occasionally. It was weak. Mr. Mules never took a drop more than was good for him.

Before him were arranged in a circle his materials for composition. On his extreme left was what he termed his treacle-pot. That was a volume of unctuous piety. Then came his dish of flummery. That was a volume of ornate discourses by a crack ladies’ preacher. Next his spice-box. That was a little store of anecdotes, illustrations, and pungent sayings. Pearson on the Creed, Bishop Andrews, or any work of solid divinity was not to be found either on his table or on his shelves. A Commentary was outspread, and a Concordance.

The Reverend Desiderius Mules sipped his brandy and water, took a long whiff of his pipe, and then wrote his text. Then he turned to his Commentary and extracted from it junks of moralization upon his text and on other texts which his Concordance told him had more or less to do with his head text. Then he peppered his paper well over with quotations, those in six lines preferred to those in three.

“Now,” said the manufacturer of the sermon, “I must have a little treacle. I suppose those bumpkins will like it, but not much, I hate it myself. It is ridiculous. And I can dish up a trifle of flummery in here and there conveniently, and—let me see. I’ll work up to a story near the tail somehow. But what heading shall I give my discourse? ’Pon my word I don’t know what its subject is—we’ll call it General Piety. That will do admirably. Yes, General Piety. Come in! Who’s there?”

A servant entered and said that there were Mr. Menaida and the lady that was married that morning, at the door, wanting to speak with him. Should she show them into the study?

Mr. Mules looked at his brandy and water, then at his array of material for composition, and then at his neckerchief on the floor, and said: “No, into the drawing-room.” The maid was to light the candles. He would put on his collar and be with them shortly.

So the sermon had to be laid aside.

Presently Mr. Desiderius Mules entered his drawing-room, where Judith, Uncle Zachie, and Jamie were awaiting him. “A late visit, but always welcome,” said the rector. “Sorry I kept you waiting, but I was en deshabille. What can I do for you now, eh?”

Judith was composed, she had formed her resolution.

She said, “You married me this morning when I was unconscious. I answered but one of your questions. Will you get your prayer-book and I will make my responses to all those questions you put to me when I was in a dead faint.”

“Oh, not necessary. Sign the register and it is all right. Silence gives consent, you know.”

“I wish it otherwise, particularly, and then you can judge for yourself whether silence gives consent.”

Mr. Desiderius Mules ran back into his study, pulled a whiff at his pipe to prevent the fire from going out, moistened his untempered clay with brandy and water, and came back again with a Book of Common Prayer.

“Here we are,” said he. “‘Wilt thou have this man,’ and so on—you answered to that, I believe. Then comes ‘I, Judith, take thee, Curll, to my wedded husband’—you were indistinct over that, I believe.”

“I remember nothing about it. Now I will say distinctly my meaning. I will not take Curll Coppinger to my wedded husband, and thereto I will never give my troth—so help me, God.”

“Goodness gracious!” exclaimed the rector. “You put me in a queer position. I married you, and you can’t undo what is done. You have the ring on your finger.”

“No, here it is. I return it.”

“I refuse to take it. I have nothing whatever to do with the ring. Captain Coppinger put it on your hand.”

“When I was unconscious.”

“But am I to be choused out of my fee—as out of other things!”

“You shall have your fee. Do not concern yourself about that. I refuse to consider myself married. I refuse to sign the register, no man shall force me to it, and if it comes to law, here are witnesses, you yourself are a witness, that I was unconscious when you married me.”

“I shall get into trouble! This is a very unpleasant state of affairs.”

“It is more unpleasant for me than for you,” said Judith. “It is a most awkward complication. Never heard of such a case before. Don’t you think that after a good night’s rest and a good supper—and let me advise a stiff glass of something warm, taken medicinally, you understand—that you will come round to a better mind.”

“To another mind I shall not come round. I suppose I am half married—never by my will shall that half be made into a whole.”

“And what do you want me to do?” asked Mr. Mules, thoroughly put out of his self-possession by this extraordinary scene.

“Nothing,” answered Judith, “save to bear testimony that I utterly and entirely refuse to complete the marriage which was half done—by answering to those questions with a consent, which I failed to answer in church because I fainted, and to wear the ring which was forced on me when I was insensible, and to sign the register now I am in full possession of my wits. We will detain you no longer.”

Judith left along with Jamie and Mr. Menaida, and Mr. Mules returned to his sermon. He pulled at his pipe till the almost expired fire was rekindled into glow, and he mixed himself a little more brandy and water. Then with his pipe in the corner of his mouth he looked at his discourse. It did not quite please him, it was undigested.

“Dear me!” said Mr. Desiderius. “My mind is all of a whirl, and I can do nothing to this now. It must go as it is—yet stay, I’ll change the title. General Piety is rather pointless. I’ll call it Practical Piety.”

Judith returned to Pentyre Glaze. She was satisfied with what she had done; anger and indignation were in her heart. The man to whom she had given her hand had enlisted her poor brother in the wicked work of luring unfortunate sailors to their destruction. She could hardly conceive of anything more diabolical than this form of wrecking: her Jamie was involved in the crime of drawing men to their death. A ship had been wrecked, she knew that by the minute guns, and if lives were lost from it, the guilt in a measure rested on the head of Jamie. But for her intervention he would have been taken in the act of showing light to mislead mariners, and would certainly have been brought before magistrates and most probably have been imprisoned. The thought that her brother, the son of such a father, should have escaped this disgrace through an accident only, and that he had been subjected to the risk by Coppinger, filled her veins with liquid fire. Thenceforth there could be nothing between her and Captain Cruel, save antipathy, resentment, and contempt on her part. His passion for her must cool or chase itself away. She would never yield to him a hair’s breadth.

Judith threw herself on her bed, in her clothes. She could not sleep. Wrath against Coppinger seethed in her young heart. Concerned she was for the wrecked, but concern for them was over-lapped by fiery indignation against the wrecker. There was also in her breast self-reproach. She had not accepted as final her father’s judgment on the man. She had allowed Coppinger’s admiration of herself to move her from a position of uncompromising hostility, and to awake in her suspicions that her dear, dear father might have been mistaken, and that the man he condemned might not be guilty as he supposed.

As she lay tossing on her bed, turning from side to side, her face now flaming, then white, she heard a noise in the house. She sat up on her bed and listened. There was now no light in the room, and she would not go into that of her aunt to borrow one. Miss Trevisa might be asleep, and would be vexed to be disturbed. Moreover resentment against her aunt for having forced her into the marriage was strong in the girl’s heart, and she had no wish to enter into any communications with her.

So she sat on her bed, listening.

There was certainly disturbance below. What was the meaning of it?

Presently she heard her aunt’s voice down-stairs. She was therefore not asleep in her room.

Thereupon Judith descended the stairs to the hall. There she found Captain Coppinger being carried to his bedroom by two men, while Miss Trevisa held a light. He was streaming with water that made pools on the floor.

“What is the matter? Is he hurt? Is he hurt seriously?” she asked, her woman’s sympathy at once aroused by the sight of suffering.

“He has had a bad fall,” replied her aunt. “He went to a wreck that has been cast on Doom Bar, to help to save the unfortunate, and save what they value equally with their lives—their goods, and he was washed overboard. Fell into the sea, and was dashed against that boat. Yes—he is injured. No bones broken this time. This time he had to do with the sea and with men. But he is badly bruised. Go on,” she said to those who were conveying Coppinger. “He is in pain, do you not see this as you stand here? Lay him on his bed, and remove his clothes. He is drenched to the skin. I will brew him a posset.”

“May I help you, aunt?”

“I can do it myself.”

Judith remained with Miss Trevisa. She said nothing to her till the posset was ready. Then she offered to carry it to her husband.

“As you will—here it is,” said Aunt Dionysia.

Thereupon Judith took the draught, and went with it to Captain Coppinger’s room. He was in his bed. No one was with him, but a candle burned on the table.

“You have come to me, Judith?” he said with glad surprise.

“Yes—I have brought you the posset. Drink it out to the last drop.”

She handed it to him; and he took the hot caudle.

“I need not finish the bowl?” he asked.

“Yes—to the last drop.”

He complied, and then suddenly withdrew the vessel from his lips. “What is this—at the bottom?—a ring?” He extracted a plain gold ring from the bowl.

“What is the meaning of this? It is a wedding-ring.”

“Yes—mine.”

“It is early to lose it.”

“I threw it in.”

“You—Judith—why?”

“I return it to you.”

He raised himself on one elbow and looked at her fixedly with threatening eyes.

“What is the meaning of this?”

“That ring was put on my finger when I was unconscious. Wait till I accept it freely.”

“But—Judith—the wedding is over.”

“Only a half wedding.” “Well—well—it shall soon be a whole one. We will have the register signed to-morrow.”

Judith shook her head.

“You are acting strangely to-night,” said he.

“Answer me,” said Judith. “Did you not send out Jamie with a light to mislead the sailors, and draw them on to Doom Bar?”

“Jamie, again!” exclaimed Coppinger, impatiently.

“Yes, I have to consider for Jamie. Answer me, did you not send him——”

He burst in angrily, “If you will—yes—he took the light to the shore. I knew there was a wreck. When a ship is in distress she must have a light.”

“You are not speaking the truth. Answer me, did you go on board the wrecked vessel to save those who were cast away?”

“They would not have been saved without me. They had lost their heads—every one.”

“Captain Coppinger,” said Judith, “I have lost all trust in you. I return you the ring which I will never wear. I have been to see the rector and told him that I refuse you, and I will never sign the register.”

“I will force the ring on to your finger,” said Coppinger.

“You are a man, stronger than I—but I can defend myself, as you know to your cost. Half married we are—and so must remain, and never, never shall we be more than that.”

Then she left the room, and Coppinger dashed his posset cup to the ground, but held the ring and turned it in his fingers, and the light flickered on it, a red gold ring like that red gold hair that was about his throat.