Judith hastened toward the Glaze. Darkness had set in, but in the north were auroral lights, first a great, white halo, then rays that shot up to the zenith, and then a mackerel sky of rosy light. The growl and mutter of the sea filled the air with threat like an angry multitude surging on with blood and destruction in their hearts.
The flicker overhead gave Judith light for her cause; the snow had melted except in ditches and under hedges, and there it glared red or white in response to the changing, luminous tinges of the heavens. When she reached the house she at once entered the hall; there Coppinger was awaiting her. He knew she would come to him when her mind was made up on the alternatives he had offered her, and he believed he knew pretty surely which she would choose. It was because he expected her that he had not suffered the men collected for the work of the night to invade the hall.
“You are here,” he said. He was seated by the fire; he looked up, but did not rise. “Almost too late.”
“Almost, maybe, but not altogether,” answered Judith. “And yet it seems unnecessary, as you have already acted without awaiting my decision.”
“I have been shown your letter.”
“Oh! Obadiah Scantlebray is premature.”
“He is not at Othello Cottage yet. His brother came beforehand to prepare me.”
“How considerate of your feelings,” sneered Captain Cruel. “I would not have expected that of Scantlebray.”
“You have not awaited my decision,” said Judith.