A PASSAGE OF ARMS.
The stillness preceding the storm had yielded. A gale had broken over
the coast, raged against the cliffs of Pentyre, and battered the walls
of the parsonage, without disturbing the old rector, whom no storm
would trouble again, soon to be laid under the sands of his buried
church-yard, his very mound to be heaped over in a few years, and
obliterated by waves of additional encroaching sand. Judith had not
slept all night. She--she, a mere child, had to consider and arrange
everything consequent on the death of the master of the house. The
servants--cook and house-maid--had been of little, if any, assistance
to her. When Jane, the house-maid, had rushed into the kitchen with
the tidings that the old parson was dead, cook, in her agitation,
upset the kettle and scalded her foot. The gardener's wife had come in
on hearing the news, and had volunteered help. Judith had given her
the closet-key to fetch from the stores something needed; and Jamie,
finding access to the closet, had taken possession of a pot of
raspberry jam, carried it to bed with him, and spilled it over the
sheets, besides making himself ill. The house-maid, Jane, had
forgotten in her distraction to shut the best bedroom casement, and
the gale during the night had wrenched it from its hinges, flung it
into the garden on the roof of the small conservatory, and smashed
both. Moreover, the casement being open, the rain had driven into the
room unchecked, had swamped the floor, run through and stained the
drawing-room ceiling underneath, the drips had fallen on the mahogany
table and blistered the veneer. A messenger was sent to Pentyre Glaze
for Miss Dionysia Trevisa, and she would probably arrive in an hour or
two.
Mr. Trevisa, as he had told Judith, was solitary, singularly so. He
was of a good Cornish family, but it was one that had dwindled till
it had ceased to have other representative than himself. Once well
estated, at Crockadon, in S. Mellion, all the lands of the family had
been lost; once with merchants in the family, all the fortunes of
these merchants industriously gathered had been dissipated, and
nothing had remained to the Reverend Peter Trevisa but his family name
and family coat, a garb or, on a field gules. It really seemed as
though the tinctures of the shield had been fixed in the crown of
splendor that covered the head of Judith. But she did not derive this
wealth of red-gold hair from her Cornish ancestors, but from a
Scottish mother, a poor governess whom Mr. Peter Trevisa had married,
thereby exciting the wrath of his only sister and relative, Miss
Dionysia, who had hitherto kept house for him, and vexed his soul with
her high-handed proceedings. It was owing to some insolent words used
by her to Mrs. Trevisa that Peter had quarrelled with his sister at
first. Then when his wife died, she had forced herself on him as
housekeeper, but again her presence in the house had become irksome to
him, and when she treated his children--his delicate and dearly loved
Judith--with roughness, and his timid, silly Jamie with harshness,
amounting in his view to cruelty--harsh words had passed between them;
sharp is, however, hardly the expression to use for the carefully
worded remonstrances of the mild rector, though appropriate enough to
her rejoinders. Then she had taken herself off and had become
housekeeper to Curll Coppinger, Cruel Coppinger, as he was usually
called, who occupied Pentyre Glaze, and was a fairly well-to-do single
man.
Mr. Trevisa had not been a person of energy, but one of culture and
refinement; a dispirited, timid man. Finding no neighbors of the same
mental texture, nor sympathetic, he had been driven to make of Judith,
though a child, his companion, and he had poured into her ear all his
troubles, which largely concerned the future of his children. In his
feebleness he took comfort from her sanguine confidence, though he was
well aware that it was bred of ignorance, and he derived a weak
satisfaction from the thought that he had prepared her morally, at all
events, if in no other fashion, for the crisis that must come when he
was withdrawn.
Mr. Peter Trevisa--Peter was a family Christian name--was for
twenty-five years rector of S. Enodoc, on the north coast of Cornwall
at the mouth of the Camel. The sand dunes had encroached on the church
of S. Enodoc, and had enveloped the sacred structure. A hole was
broken through a window, through which the interior could be reached,
where divine service was performed occasionally in the presence of the
church-wardens, so as to establish the right of the rectors, and
through this same hole bridal parties entered to be coupled, with
their feet ankle-deep in sand that filled the interior to above the
pew-tops.
But Mr. Trevisa was not the man to endure such a condition of affairs
without a protest and an effort to remedy it. He had endeavored to
stimulate the farmers and land-owners of the parish to excavate the
buried church, but his endeavors had proved futile. There were several
reasons for this. In the first place, and certainly foremost, stood
this reason: as long as the church was choked with sand and could not
be employed for regular divine service, the tithe-payers could make a
grievance of it, and excuse themselves from paying their tithes in
full, because, as they argued, "Parson don't give us sarvice, so us
ain't obliged to pay'n." They knew their man, that he was
tender-conscienced, and would not bring the law to bear upon them; he
would see that there was a certain measure of justness in the
argument, and would therefore not demand of them a tithe for which he
did not give them the _quid pro quo_. But they had sufficient
shrewdness to pay a portion of their tithes, so as not to drive him to
extremities and exhaust his patience. It will be seen, therefore, that
in the interests of their pockets the tithe-payers did not want to
have their parish church excavated. Excavation meant weekly service
regularly performed, and weekly service regularly performed would be
followed by exaction of the full amount of rent-charge. Then, again,
in the second place, should divine service be resumed in the church of
S. Enodoc, the parishioners would feel a certain uneasiness in their
consciences if they disregarded the summons of the bell; it might not
be a very lively uneasiness, but just such an irritation as might be
caused by a fly crawling over the face. So long as there was no
service they could soothe their consciences with the thought that
there was no call to make an effort to pull on Sunday breeches and
assume a Sunday hat, and trudge to the church. Therefore, secondly,
for the ease of their own consciences, it was undesirable that S.
Enodoc should be dug out of the sand.
Then lastly, and thirdly, the engulfment of the church gave them a
cherished opportunity for being nasty to the rector, and retailing
upon him for his incaution in condemning smuggling and launching out
into anathema against wrecking. As he had made matters disagreeable to
them--tried, as they put it, to take bread out of their mouths, they
saw no reason why they should spend money to please him.
Mr. Trevisa had made very little provision for his children,
principally, if not wholly, because he could not. He had received from
the farmers and land-owners a portion of tithe, and had been contented
with that rather than raise angry feelings by demanding the whole. Out
of that portion he was able to put aside but little.
Aunt Dionysia arrived, a tall, bony woman, with hair turning gray,
light eyes and an aquiline nose, a hard, self-seeking woman, who
congratulated herself that she did not give way to feelings.
"I feel," said she, "as do others, but I don't show my feelings as
beggars expose their bad legs."
She went into the kitchen. "Hoity-toity!" she said to the cook, "fine
story this--scalding yourself. Mind this, you cook meals or no wage
for you." To Jane, "The mischief you have done shall be valued and
deducted from any little trifle my brother may have left you in his
will. Where is Jamie? Give me that joint of fishing-rod; I'll beat him
for stealing raspberry jam."
Jamie, however, on catching a glimpse of his aunt had escaped into the
garden and concealed himself. The cook, offended, began to clatter the
saucepans.
"Now, then," said Mrs. Trevisa--she bore the brevet-rank--"in a house
of mourning what do you mean by making this noise, it is impertinent
to me."
The house-maid swung out of the kitchen, muttering.
Mrs. Trevisa now betook herself up-stairs in quest of her niece, and
found her with red eyes.
"I call it rank _felo-de-se_," said Aunt Dionysia. "Every one
knew--_he_ knew, that he had a feeble heart, and ought not to be
digging and delving in the old church. Who sent the sand upon it? Why,
Providence, I presume. Not man. Then it was a flying in the face of
Providence to try to dig it out. Who wanted the church? He might have
waited till the parishioners asked for it. But there--where is Jamie?
I shall teach him a lesson for stealing raspberry jam."
"Oh, aunt, not now--not now!"
Mrs. Trevisa considered a moment, then laid aside the fishing-rod.
"Perhaps you are right. I am not up to it after my walk from Pentyre
Glaze. Now, then, what about mourning? I do not suppose Jamie can be
measured by guesswork. You must bring him here. Tell him the whipping
is put off till another day. Of course you have seen to black things
for yourself. Not? Why, gracious heavens! is everything to be thrown
on my shoulders? Am I to be made a beast of burden of? Now, no mewling
and pewking. There is no time for that. Whatever _your_ time may be,
_mine_ is valuable. I can't be here forever. Of course every
responsibility has been put on me. Just like Peter--no consideration.
And what can I do with a set of babies? I have to work hard enough to
keep myself. Peter did not want my services at one time; now I am put
upon. Have you sent for the undertaker? What about clothing again? I
suppose you know that you must have mourning? Bless my heart! what a
lot of trouble you give me."
Mrs. Trevisa was in a very bad temper, which even the knowledge that
it was seemly that she should veil it could not make her restrain. She
was, no doubt, to a certain extent fond of her brother--not much,
because he had not been of any advantage to her; and no doubt she was
shocked at his death, but chiefly because it entailed on herself
responsibilities and trouble that she grudged. She would be obliged to
do something for her nephew and niece; she would have to provide a
home for them somewhere. She could not take them with her to
Coppinger's house, as she was there as a salaried servant, and not
entitled to invite thither her young relatives. Moreover, she did not
want to have them near her. She disliked young people; they gave
trouble, they had to be looked after, they entailed expenses. What was
she to do with them? Where was she to put them? What would they have
to live upon? Would they call on her to part-maintain them? Miss
Dionysia had a small sum put away, and she had no intention of
breaking into it for them. It was a nest-egg, and was laid by against
an evil day that might come on herself. She had put the money away for
herself, in her old age, not for the children of her feeble brother
and his lack-penny wife to consume as moth and rust. As these thoughts
and questions passed through her mind, Aunt Dionysia pulled open
drawers, examined cupboards, pried open closets, and searched chests
and wardrobes.
"I wonder now what he has put by for them," she said aloud.
"Do you mean my dear papa?" asked Judith, whose troubled heart and
shaken spirits were becoming angry and restless under the behavior of
the hard, unfeeling woman.
"Yes, I do," answered Mrs. Trevisa, facing round, and glaring
malevolently at her niece. "It is early days to talk of this, but it
must be done sooner or later, and if so, the sooner the better. There
is money in the house, I suppose?"
"I do not know."
"I must know. You will want it--bills must be paid. You will eat and
drink, I suppose? You must be clothed. I'll tell you what: I'll put
the whole case into the hands of Lawyer Jenkyns, and he shall demand
arrears of tithes. I know what quixotish conduct Peter----"
"Aunt, I will not allow this." A light flush came into the girl's
cheek.
"It is all very well talking," said Aunt Dionysia; "but black is not
white, and no power on earth can make me say that it is so. Money must
be found. Money must be paid for expenses, and it is hard that I
should have to find it; so I think. What money is there in the house
for present necessities? I must know."
Suddenly a loud voice was heard shouting through the house--
"Mother Dunes! old Dunes! I want you."
Judith turned cold and white. Who was this that dared to bellow in the
house of death, when her dear, dear father lay up-stairs with the
blinds down, asleep? It was an insult, an outrage. Her nerves had
already been thrilled, and her heart roused into angry revolt by the
cold, unfeeling conduct of the woman who was her sole relative in the
world. And now, as she was thus quivering, there came this boisterous
shout.
"It is the master!" said Mrs. Trevisa, in an awestruck voice, lowered
as much as was possible to her.
To Coppinger alone she was submissive, cringing, obsequious.
"What does he mean by this--this conduct?" asked Judith, trembling
with wrath.
"He wants me."
Again a shout. "Dunes! old fool! the keys!"
Then Judith started forward, and went through the door to the head of
the staircase. At the foot stood a middle-sized, strongly built,
firmly knit man, in a dress half belonging to the land and half to the
sea, with high boots on his legs, and slouched hat on his head. His
complexion was olive, his hair abundant and black, covering cheeks and
chin and upper lip. His eyes were hard and dark. He had one brown hand
on the banister, and a foot on the first step, as though about to
ascend, when arrested by seeing the girl at the head of the stairs
before him. The house was low, and the steps led without a break
directly from the hall to the landing which gave communication to the
bedrooms. There was a skylight in the roof over the staircase, through
which a brilliant flood of pure white light fell over Judith, whereas
every window had been darkened by drawn blinds. The girl had found no
sombre dress suitable to wear, and had been forced to assume the same
white gown as the day before, but she had discarded the green sash and
had bound a black ribbon about her waist, and another about her
abundant hair. A black lace kerchief was drawn over her shoulders
across her breast and tied at her back. She wore long, black mittens.
Judith stood motionless, her bosom rising and falling quickly, her
lips set, the breath racing through her nostrils, and one hand resting
on the banister at the stair-head.
In a moment her eyes met those of Coppinger, and it was at once as
though a thrill of electric force had passed between them.
He desisted from his attempt to ascend, and said, without moving his
eyes from hers, in a subdued tone, "She has taken the keys," but he
said no more. He drew his foot from the step hesitatingly, and
loosened his hand from the banister, down which went a thrill from
Judith's quivering nerves, and he stepped back.
At the same moment she descended a step, still looking steadily into
the dark, threatening pupils, without blinking or lowering her orbs.
Emboldened by her boiling indignation, she stood on the step she had
reached with both feet firmly planted there, and finding that the
banister rattled under her hand she withdrew it, and folded her arms.
Coppinger raised his hand to his head and took off his hat. He had a
profusion of dark, curly, flowing hair, that fell and encircled his
saturnine face.
Then Judith descended another step, and as she did so he retreated a
step backwards. Behind him was the hall door, open; the light lay wan
and white there on the gravel, for no sunshine had succeeded the gale.
At every step that Judith took down the stair Coppinger retreated.
Neither spoke; the hall was still, save for the sound of their breath,
and his came as fast as hers. When Judith had reached the bottom she
turned--Coppinger stood in the doorway now--and signed to her aunt to
come down with the keys.
"Take them to him--Do not give them here--outside."
Mrs. Trevisa, surprised, confounded, descended the stair, went by her,
and out through the door. Then Judith stepped after her, shut the door
to exclude both Aunt Dionysia and that man Coppinger, who had dared,
uninvited, on such a day to invade the house.
She turned now to remount the stairs, but her strength failed her, her
knees yielded, and she sank upon a step, and burst into a flood of
tears and convulsive sobs.