“O, yes—vastly busy. Walking on the cliffs, eh! Alone, eh? Well, mum is the word. Come, make me your friend and tell me all about it. How came you here? There are all kind of stories afloat about the quarrel between you and your husband, and he is an Eolus, a Blustering Boreas, all the winds in one box. Not surprised. He blew up a gale against me once. Domestic felicity is a fable of the poets. Home is a region of cyclones, tornadoes, hurricanes—what you like; anything but a Pacific Ocean. Now, you won’t mind my throwing an eye round this house, will you—a scientific eye? Architecture is my passion.”
“Mr. Scantlebray, that is my bedroom; I forbid you touching the handle. Excuse me—but I must request you to leave me in peace.”
“My dear creature,” said Scantlebray, “scientific thirst before all. It is unslakable save by the acquisition of what it desires. The structure of this house, as well as its object, has always been a puzzle to me. So your aunt was to have lived here—the divine, the fascinating Dionysia, as I remember her years ago. It wasn’t built for the lovely Dionysia, was it? No. Then for what object was it built? And why so long untenanted? These are nuts for you to crack.”
“I do not trouble myself about these questions. I must pray you to depart.”
“In half the twinkle of an eye,” said Scantlebray. Then he seated himself. “Come, you haven’t a superabundance of friends. Make me one and unburden your soul to me. What is it all about? Why are you here? What has caused this squabble? I have a brother a solicitor at Bodmin. Let me jot down the items, and we’ll get a case out of it. Trust me as a friend, and I’ll have you righted. I hear Miss Trevisa has come in for a fortune. Be a good girl, set your back against her and show fight.”
“I will thank you to leave the house,” said Judith, haughtily. “A moment ago you made reference to your honor as a gentleman. I must appeal to that same honor which you pride yourself on possessing, and, by virtue of that, request you to depart.”
“I’ll go, I’ll go. But, my dear child, why are you in such a hurry to get rid of me? Are you expecting some one? It is an odd thing, but as I came along I was overtaken by Mr. Oliver Menaida, making his way to the downs—to look at the sea, which is rough, and inhale the breeze of the ocean, of course. At one time, I am informed, you made daily visits to Polzeath, daily visits while Captain Coppinger was on the sea. Since his return, I am informed, these visits have been discontinued. Is it possible that instead of your visiting Mr. Oliver, Mr. Oliver is now visiting you—here, in this cottage?”
A sudden slash across the back and shoulders made Mr. Scantlebray jump and bound aside. Coppinger had entered, and was armed with a stout walking-stick.
“What brings you here?” he asked.
“I came to pay my respects to the grass-widow,” sneered Scantlebray, as he sidled to the door and bolted, but not till, with a face full of malignity, he had shaken his fist at Coppinger, behind his back.