Gaffin, not aware of the thoughts which were passing through his mind, watched him for some minutes without speaking.
“Well, my lad, what do you say to my offer?” he at length asked. “That I am not going to leave my old father and mother whatever you or any other man may say to me, Mr Gaffin,” answered Jacob, putting his arm through the handle of his basket and rising. “Good evening to you.” He walked on.
Gaffin after sitting for a moment, somewhat taken aback, followed him. “Come, think of my offer, lad, I wish you well. I have no reason to do otherwise,” he said in his most insinuating tone.
“It’s no use your wasting words on me, Mr Gaffin; if you are going to the south’ard you had better go—I am homeward-bound.”
“That was not a civil remark, my lad; but I will overlook it, and perhaps you will think better of the matter.”
“I can’t think better of a bad matter, Mr Gaffin,” answered Jacob, firmly, hurrying on.
The smuggler folded his arms and stood watching the young man as he trudged sturdily over the sands. “I will win him over yet, though his father may be too obstinate to move,” he muttered to himself as he made his way up the cliff to the mill.
Jacob carried his basket of shells to Downside and deposited them with Susan, for the ladies were at tea, and they did not hear of his coming. She spoke of the visit Mr Harry Castleton had just paid.
“Such a nice gentleman,” she observed. “The ladies kept him here all the afternoon helping Miss May to work at the grotto. And I have a notion that he was very well pleased to be so employed. I should not be surprised but what he will be back here again before long,” she added.
Jacob did not stop to hear more, but, emptying his basket of shells, hurried home. What he had heard did not contribute to raise his spirits. He at once told his father of his meeting with Miles Gaffin.