A VISIT.
No sleep visited Judith's eyes that night till the first streaks of
dawn appeared, though she was weary, and her frail body and
over-exerted brain needed the refreshment of sleep. But sleep she
could not, for cares were gathering upon her.
She had often heard her father, when speaking of Mr. Menaida, lament
that he was not a little more self-controlled in his drinking. It was
not that the old fellow ever became inebriated, but that he hankered
after the bottle, and was wont to take a nip continually to strengthen
his nerves, steady his hand, or clear his brain. There was ever ready
some excuse satisfactory to his own conscience; and it was due to
these incessant applications to the bottle that his hand shook, his
eyes became watery, and his nose red. It was a danger Judith must
guard against, lest this trick should be picked up by the childish
Jamie, always apt to imitate what he should not, and acquire habits
easily gained, hardly broken, that were harmful to himself. Uncle
Zachie, in his good-nature, would lead the boy after him into the same
habits that marred his own life.
This was one thought that worked like a mole all night in Judith's
brain; but she had other troubles as well to keep her awake. She was
alarmed at the consequences of her conduct in the lane. She wondered
whether Coppinger were more seriously hurt than had at first appeared.
She asked herself whether she had not acted wrongly when she acted
inconsiderately, whether in her precipitation to protect herself she
had not misjudged Coppinger, whether, if he had attempted to strike
her, it would not have been a lesser evil to receive the blow, than to
ward it off in such a manner as to break his bones. Knowing by report
the character of the man, she feared that she had incurred his deadly
animosity. He could not, that she could see, hurt herself in the
execution of his resentment, but he might turn her aunt out of his
house. That she had affronted her aunt she was aware; Mrs. Trevisa's
manner in parting with her had shown that with sufficient plainness.
A strange jumble of sounds on the piano startled Judith. Her first
thought and fear were that her brother had gone to the instrument, and
was amusing himself on the keys. But on listening attentively she was
aware that there was sufficient sequence in the notes to make it
certain that the performer was a musician, though lacking in facility
of execution. She descended the stairs and entered the little
sitting-room. Uncle Zachie was seated on the music-stool, and was
endeavoring to play a sonata of Beethoven that was vastly beyond the
capacity of his stiff-jointed fingers. Whenever he made a false note
he uttered a little grunt and screwed up his eyes, endeavored to play
the bar again, and perhaps accomplish it only to break down in the
next.
Judith did not venture to interrupt him. She took up some knitting,
and seated herself near the piano, where he might see her without her
disturbing him. He raised his brows, grunted, floundered into false
harmony, and exclaimed, "Bless me! how badly they do print music
nowadays. Who, without the miraculous powers of a prophet, could tell
that B should be natural?" Then, turning his head over his shoulder,
addressed Judith, "Good-morning, missie. Are you fond of music?"
"Yes, sir, very."
"So you think. Everyone says he or she is fond of music, because that
person can hammer out a psalm tune or play the 'Rogue's March.' I hate
to hear those who call themselves musical strum on a piano. They can't
feel, they only execute."
"But they can play their notes correctly," said Judith, and then
flushed with vexation at having made this pointed and cutting remark.
But it did not cause Mr. Menaida to wince.
"What of that? I give not a thank-you for mere literal music-reading.
Call Jump, set 'Shakespeare' before her, and she will hammer out a
scene--correctly as to words; but where is the sense? Where the life?
You must play with the spirit and play with the understanding also,
as you must read with the spirit and read with the understanding also.
It is the same thing with bird-stuffing. Any fool can ram tow into a
skin and thrust wires into the neck, but what is the result? You must
stuff birds with the spirit and stuff with the understanding also--or
it is naught."
"I suppose it is the same with everything one does--one must do it
heartily and intelligently."
"Exactly! Now you should see my boy, Oliver. Have you ever met him?"
"I think I have; but, to be truthful, I do not recollect him, sir."
"I will bring you his likeness--in miniature. It is in the next room."
Up jumped Mr. Menaida, and ran through the opening in the wall, and
returned in another moment with the portrait, and gave it into
Judith's hands.
"A fine fellow is Oliver! Look at his nose how straight it is. Not
like mine--that is a pump-handle. He got his good looks from his
mother, not from me. Ah!" He reseated himself at the piano, and
ran--incorrectly--over a scale. "It is all the pleasure I have in
life, to think of my boy, and to look at his picture, and read his
letters, and drink the port he sends me--first-rate stuff. He writes
admirable letters, and never a month passes but I receive one. It
would come expensive if he wrote direct, so his letter is enclosed in
the business papers sent to the house at Bristol, and they forward it
to me. You shall read his last--out loud. It will give me a pleasure
to hear it read by you."
"If I read properly, Mr. Menaida--with the spirit and with the
understanding."
"Exactly! But you could not fail to do that looking at the cheerful
face in the miniature, and reading his words--pleasant and bright as
himself. Pity you have not seen him; well, that makes something to
live for. He has dark hair and blue eyes--not often met together, and
when associated, very refreshing. Wait! I'll go after the letter:
only, bless my soul! where is it? What coat did I have on when I read
it? I'll call Jump. She may remember. Wait! do you recall this?"
He stumbled over something on the keys which might have been anything.
"It is Haydn. I will tell you what I think: Mozart I delight in as a
companion; Beethoven I revere as a master; but Haydn I love as a
friend. You were about to say something?"
Judith had set an elbow on the piano and put her hand to her head, her
fingers through the hair, and was looking into Uncle Zachie's face
with an earnestness he could not mistake. She did desire to say
something to him; but if she waited till he gave her an opportunity
she might wait a long time. He jumped from one subject to another with
alacrity, and with rapid forgetfulness of what he was last speaking
about.
"Oh, sir, I am so very, very grateful to you for having received us
into your snug little house----"
"You like it? Well, I only pay seven pounds for it. Cheap, is it not?
Two cottages--laborers' cottages--thrown together. Well, I might go
farther and fare worse."
"And, Mr. Menaida, I venture to ask you another favor, which, if you
will grant me, you will lay me under an eternal obligation."
"You may command me, my dear."
"It is only this: not to let Jamie have anything stronger than a glass
of cider. I do not mind his having that; but a boy like him does not
need what is, no doubt, wanted by you who are getting old. I am so
afraid of the habit growing on him of looking for and liking what is
too strong for him. He is such a child, so easily led, and so unable
to control himself. It may be a fancy, a prejudice of mine"--she
passed her nervous hand over her face--"I do hope I am not offending
you, dear Mr. Menaida; but I know Jamie so well, and I know how
carefully he must be watched and checked. If it be a silly fancy of
mine--and perhaps it is only a silly fancy--yet," she put on a
pleading tone, "you will humor me in this, will you not, Mr. Menaida?"
"Bless my soul! you have only to express a wish and I will fulfil it.
For myself, you must know, I am a little weak; I feel a chill when the
wind turns north or east, and am always relaxed when it is in the
south or west; that forces me to take something just to save me from
serious inconvenience, you understand."
"Oh quite, sir."
"And then--confound it!--I am goaded on to work when disinclined. Why,
there's a letter come to me now from Plymouth--a naturalist there,
asking for more birds; and what can I do? I slave, I am at it all day,
half the night; I have no time to eat or sleep. I was not born to
stuff birds. I take it as an amusement, a pastime, and it is converted
into a toil. I must brace up my exhausted frame; it is necessary to my
health, you understand!"
"Oh, yes, Mr. Menaida. And you really will humor my childish whim?"
"Certainly, you may rely on me."
"That is one thing I wanted to say. You see, sir, we have but just
come into your house, and already, last night, Jamie was tempted to
disobey me, and take what I thought unadvisable, so--I have been
turning it over and over in my head--I thought I would like to come to
a clear understanding with you, Mr. Menaida. It seems ungracious in
me, but you must pity me. I have now all responsibility for Jamie on
my head, and I have to do what my conscience tells me I should do;
only, I pray you, do not take offence at what I have said."
"Fudge! my dear; you are right, I dare say."
"And now that I have your promise--I have that, have I not?"
"Yes, certainly."
"Now I want your opinion, if you will kindly give it me. I have no
father, no mother, to go to for advice; and so I venture to appeal to
you--it is about Captain Coppinger."
"Captain Coppinger!" repeated Uncle Zachie, screwing up his brows and
mouth. "Umph! He is a bold man who can give help against Captain
Coppinger, and a strong man as well as bold. How has he wronged you?"
"Oh! he has not wronged me. It is I who have hurt him."
"You--you!" Uncle Zachie laughed. "A little creature such as you could
not hurt Captain Cruel!"
"But, indeed, I have; I have thrown him down and broken his arms and
some of his bones."
"You--you?" Uncle Zachie's face of astonishment and dismay was so
comical that Judith, in spite of her anxiety and exhaustion, smiled;
but the smile was without brightness.
"And pray, how in the name of wonder did you do that? Upon my word,
you will deserve the thanks of the Preventive men. They have no love
for him; they have old scores they would gladly wipe off with a broken
arm, or, better still, a cracked skull. And pray how did you do this?
With the flour-roller?"
"No, sir, I will tell you the whole story."
Then, in its true sequence, with great clearness, she related the
entire narrative of events. She told how her father, even with his
last breath, had spoken of Coppinger as the man who had troubled his
life by marring his work; how that the Captain had entered the
parsonage without ceremony when her dear father was lying dead
up-stairs, and how he had called there boisterously for Aunt Dionysia
because he wanted something of her. She told the old man how that her
own feelings had been wrought, by this affront, into anger against
Coppinger. Then she related the incident in the lane, and how that,
when he raised his arm against her, she had dashed the buttons into
his face, frightened his horse, and so produced an accident that might
have cost the Captain his life.
"Bless my soul!" exclaimed Mr. Menaida, "and what do you want? Is it
an assault? I will run to my law-books and find out; I don't know that
it can quite be made out a case of misadventure."
"It is not that, sir."
"Then what do you want?"
"I have been racking my head to think what I ought to do under the
circumstances. There can be no doubt that I aggravated him. I was very
angry, both because he had been a trouble to my darling papa, and then
because he had been so insolent as to enter our house and shout for
Aunt Dunes; but there was something more--he had tried to beat Jamie,
and it was my father's day of burial. All that roused a bad spirit in
me, and I did say very bad words to him--words a man of metal would
not bear from even a child, and I suppose I really did lash him to
madness, and he would have struck me--but perhaps not, he might have
thought better of it. I provoked him, and then I brought about what
happened. I have been considering what I ought to do. If I remain here
and take no notice, then he will think me very unfeeling, and that I
do not care that I have hurt him in mind and body. It came into my
head last night that I would ask aunt to apologize to him for what I
had done, or, better still, should aunt not come here to-day, which is
very likely, that I might walk with Jamie to Pentyre and inquire how
Captain Coppinger is, and send in word by my aunt that I am
sorry--very sorry."
"Upon my soul, I don't know what to say. I could not have done this to
Coppinger myself for a good deal of money. I think if I had, I would
get out of the place as quickly as possible, while he was crippled by
his broken bones. But then, you are a girl, and he may take it better
from you than from me. Well--yes; I think it would be advisable to
allay his anger if you can. Upon my word, you have put yourself into a
difficult position. I'll go and look at my law-books, just for my own
satisfaction."
A heavy blow on the door, and without waiting for a response and
invitation to enter, it was thrown open, and there entered Cruel
Coppinger, his arm bandaged, tied in splints, and bound to his body,
with his heavy walking-stick brandished by the uninjured hand. He
stood for a moment glowering in, searching the room with his keen eyes
till they rested on Judith. Then he made an attempt to raise his hand
to his head, but ineffectually.
"Curse it!" said he, "I cannot do it; don't tear it off my head with
your eyes, girl. Here, you Menaida, come here and take my hat off.
Come instantly, or she--she will do--the devil knows what she will not
do to me."
He turned, and with his stick beat the door back, that it slammed
behind him.