UNA.
When Judith opened her eyes, she found herself in a strange room, but
as she looked about her she saw Aunt Dionysia with her hands behind
her back looking out of the window.
"Oh, aunt! Where am I!"
Miss Trevisa turned.
"So you have come round at last, or pleased to pretend to come round.
It is hard to tell whether or not dissimulation was here."
"Dissimulation, aunt?"
"There's no saying. Young folks are not what they were in my day. They
have neither the straightforwardness nor the consideration for their
elders and betters."
"But--where am I?"
"At the Glaze; not where I put you, but where you have put yourself."
"I did not come here, auntie, dear."
"Don't auntie dear me, and deprive me of my natural sleep."
"Have I?"
"Have you not? Three nights have I had to sit up. And natural sleep is
as necessary to me at my age as is stays. I fall abroad without one or
the other. Give me my choice--whether I'd have nephews and nieces
crawling about me or erysipelas, and I'd choose the latter."
"But, aunt--I'm sorry if I am a trouble to you."
"Of course you are a trouble. How can you be other? Don't burs stick?
But that is neither here nor there."
"Aunt, how came I to Pentyre Glaze!"
"I didn't invite you, and I didn't bring you--you may be sure of that.
Captain Coppinger found you somewhere on the down at night, when you
ought to have been at home. You were insensible, or pretended to be
so--it's not for me to say which."
"Oh, aunt, I don't want to be here."
"Nor do I want you here--and in my room, too. Hoity-toity! nephews and
nieces are just like pigs--you want them to go one way and they run
the other."
"But I should like to know where Captain Coppinger found me, and all
about it. I don't remember anything."
"Then you must ask him yourself."
"I should like to get up; may I?"
"I can't say till the doctor comes. There's no telling--I might be
blamed. I shall be pleased enough when you are shifted to your own
room," and she pointed to a door.
"My room, auntie?"
"I suppose so; I don't know whose else it is."
Then Miss Trevisa whisked out of the room.
Judith lay quietly in bed trying to collect her thoughts and recall
something of what had happened. She could recollect fastening her
wrist to the shrub by her brother's dog-chain; then, with all the
vividness of a recurrence of the scene--the fall of the man, the
stroke on her cheek, his roll over and plunge down the precipice. The
recollection made a film come over her eyes and her heart stand still.
After that she remembered nothing. She tried hard to bring to mind one
single twinkle of remembrance, but in vain. It was like looking at a
wall and straining the eyes to see through it.
Then she raised herself in bed to look about her. She was in her
aunt's room, and in her aunt's bed. She had been brought there by
Captain Coppinger. He, therefore, had rescued her from the position of
peril in which she had been. So far she could understand. She would
have liked to know more, but more, probably, her aunt could not tell
her, even if inclined to do so.
Where was Jamie? Was he at Uncle Zachie's? Had he been anxious and
unhappy about her? She hoped he had got into no trouble during the
time he had been free from her supervision. Judith felt that she must
go back to Mr. Menaida's and to Jamie. She could not stay at the
Glaze. She could not be happy with her ever-grumbling, ill-tempered
aunt. Besides, her father would not have wished her to be there.
What did Aunt Dunes mean when she pointed to a door and spoke of her
room?
Judith could not judge whether she were strong till she tried her
strength. She slipped her feet to the floor, stood up and stole over
the floor to that door which her aunt had indicated. She timidly
raised the latch, after listening at it, opened and peeped into a
small apartment. To her surprise she saw the little bed she had
occupied at her dear home, the rectory, her old wash-stand, her
mirror, the old chairs, the framed pictures that had adorned her
walls, the common and trifling ornaments that had been arranged on her
chimney-piece. Every object with which she had been familiar at the
parsonage for many years, and to which she had said good-by, never
expecting to have a right to them any more--all these were there,
furnishing the room that adjoined her aunt's apartment.
She stood looking around in surprise, till she heard a step on the
stair outside, and, supposing it was that of Aunt Dionysia, she ran
back to bed, and dived under the clothes and pulled the sheets over
her golden head.
Aunt Dunes entered the room, bringing with her a bowl of soup. Her eye
at once caught the opened door into the little adjoining chamber.
"You have been out of bed!"
Judith thrust her head out of its hiding-place, and said, frankly,
"Yes, auntie! I could not help myself. I want to see. How have you
managed to get all my things together?"
"I? I have had nothing to do with it."
"But--who did it, auntie?"
"Captain Coppinger; he was at the sale."
"Is the sale over, aunt?"
"Yes, whilst you have been ill."
"Oh, I am so glad it is over, and I knew nothing about it."
"Oh, exactly! Not a thought of the worry you have been to me; deprived
of my sleep--of my bed--of my bed," repeated Aunt Dunes, grimly. "How
can you expect a bulb to flower if you take it out of the earth and
stick it on a bedroom chair stirring broth? I have no patience with
you young people. You are consumed with selfishness."
"But, auntie! Don't be cross. Why did Captain Coppinger buy all my
dear crinkum-crankums?"
Aunt Dionysia snorted and tossed her head.
Judith suddenly flushed; she did not repeat the question, but said
hastily, "Auntie, I want to go back to Mr. Menaida."
"You cannot desire it more than I do," said Miss Trevisa, sharply.
"But whether _he_ will let you go is another matter."
"Aunt Dunes, if I want to go, I will go!"
"Indeed!"
"I will go back as soon as ever I can."
"Well, that can't be to-day, for one thing."
The evening of that same day Judith was removed into the adjoining
room, "her room," as Miss Trevisa designated it. "And mind you sleep
soundly, and don't trouble me in the night. Natural sleep is as
suitable to me as green peas to duck."
When, next morning, the girl awoke, her eyes ranged round and lighted
everywhere on familiar objects. The two mezzotints of Happy and
Deserted Auburn, the old and battered pieces of Dresden ware, vases
with flowers encrusted round them, but with most of the petals broken
off--vases too injured to be of value to a purchaser, valuable to her
because full of reminiscences--the tapestry firescreen, the painted
fans with butterflies on them, the mirror blotched with damp, the
inlaid wafer-box and ruler, the old snuffer-tray. Her eyes filled with
tears. A gathering together into one room of old trifles did not make
that strange room to be home. It was the father, the dear father, who,
now that he was taken away, made home an impossibility, and the whole
world, however crowded with old familiar odds and ends, to be desert
and strange. The sight of all her old "crinkum-crankums," as she had
called them, made Judith's heart smart. It was kindly meant by
Coppinger to purchase all these things and collect them there; but it
was a mistake of judgment. Grateful she was, not gratified.
In the little room there was an ottoman with a woolwork cover
representing a cluster of dark red, pink, and white roses; and at each
corner of the ottoman was a tassel, which had been a constant source
of trouble to Judith, as the tassels would come off, sometimes because
the cat played with them, sometimes because Jamie pulled them off in
mischief, sometimes because they caught in her dress. Her father had
embroidered those dreadful roses on a buff ground one winter when
confined to the house by a heavy cold and cough. She valued that
ottoman for his sake, and would not have suffered it to go into the
sale had she possessed any place she could regard as her own where to
put it. She needed no such article to remind her of the dear
father--the thought of him would be forever present to her without the
assistance of ottomans to refresh her memory.
On this ottoman, when dressed, Judith seated herself, and let her
hands rest in her lap. She was better; she would soon be well; and
when well would take the first opportunity to depart.
The door was suddenly thrown open by her aunt, and in the doorway
stood Coppinger looking at her. He raised his hand to his hat in
salutation, but said nothing. She was startled and unable to speak. In
another moment the door was shut again.
That day she resolved that nothing should detain her longer than she
was forced. Jamie--her own dear Jamie--came to see her, and the twins
were locked in each other's arms.
"Oh, Ju! darling Ju! You are quite well, are you not! And Captain
Coppinger has given me a gray donkey instead of Tib; and I'm to ride
it about whenever I choose!"
"But, dear, Mr. Menaida has no stable, and no paddock."
"Oh, Ju! that's nothing. I'm coming up here, and we shall be
together--the donkey and you and me and Aunt Dunes!"
"No, Jamie. Nothing of the sort. Listen to me. You remain at Mr.
Menaida's. I am coming back."
"But I've already brought up my clothes."
"You take them back. Attend to me. You do not come here. I go back to
Mr. Menaida's immediately."
"But, Ju! you've got all your pretty things from the parsonage here!"
"They are not mine. Mr. Coppinger bought them for himself."
"But--the donkey?"
"Leave the donkey here. Pay attention to my words. I lay a strict
command on you. As you love me, Jamie, do not leave Mr. Menaida's;
remain there till my return."
That night there was a good deal of noise in the house. Judith's room
lay in a wing, nevertheless she heard the riot, for the house was not
large, and the sounds from the hall penetrated every portion of it.
She was frightened, and went into Miss Trevisa's room.
"Aunt! what is this dreadful racket about?"
"Go to sleep--you cannot have every one shut his mouth because of
you."
"But what is it, auntie!"
"It is nothing but the master has folk with him, if you wish
particularly to know. The whole cargo of the Black Prince has been
run, and not a finger has been laid by the coast-guard on a single
barrel or bale. So they are celebrating their success. Go to bed and
sleep. It is naught to you."
"I cannot sleep, aunt. They are singing now."
"Why should they not; have you aught against it? You are not mistress
here, that I am aware of."
"But, auntie, are there many down-stairs?"
"I do not know. It is no concern of mine--and certainly none of
yours."
Judith was silenced for a while by her aunt's ill-humor; but she did
not return to her room. Presently she asked--
"Are you sure, aunt, that Jamie is gone back to Polzeath?"
Miss Trevisa kicked the stool from under her feet, in her impatience.
"Really! you drive me desperate. I did not bargain for this. Am I to
tear over the country on post-horses to seek a nephew here and a niece
there? I can't tell where Jamie is, and what is more, I do not care.
I'll do my duty by you both. I'll do no more; and that has been forced
on me, it was not sought by me. Heaven be my witness."
Judith returned to her room. The hard and sour woman would afford her
no information.
In her room she threw herself on her bed and began to think. She was
in the very home and head-quarters of contrabandism. But was smuggling
a sin? Surely not that, or her father would have condemned it
decidedly. She remembered his hesitation relative to it, in the last
conversation they had together. Perhaps it was not actually a sin--she
could recall no text in Scripture that denounced it--but it was a
thing forbidden, and though she did not understand why it was
forbidden, she considered that it could not be an altogether
honorable and righteous traffic. Judith was unable to rest. It was not
the noise that disturbed her so much as her uneasiness about Jamie.
Had he obeyed her and gone back to Uncle Zachie? Or had he neglected
her injunction, and was he in the house, was he below along with the
revellers?
She opened the door gently, and stole along the passage to the head of
the stairs, and listened. She could smell the fumes of tobacco; but to
these she was familiar. The atmosphere of Mr. Menaida's cottage was
redolent of the Virginian weed. The noise was, however, something to
which she was utterly unaccustomed: the boisterous merriment, the
shouts, and occasional oaths. Then a fiddle was played. There was
disputation, a pause, then the fiddle recommenced; it played a jig;
there was a clatter of feet, then a roar of laughter--and then--she
was almost sure she heard the voice of her brother.
Regardless of herself, thinking only of him, without a moment's
consideration, she ran down the stairs and threw open the door into
the great kitchen or hall.
It was full of men--wild, rough fellows--drinking and smoking; there
were lights and a fire. The atmosphere was rank with spirits and
tobacco; on a chair sat a sailor fiddling, and in the midst of the
room, on a table, was Jamie dancing a jig, to the laughter and
applause of the revellers.
The moment Judith appeared silence ensued--the men were surprised to
see a pale and delicate girl stand before them, with a crown of gold
like a halo round her ivory-white face. But Judith took no notice of
anyone there--her eyes were on her brother, and her hand raised to
attract his attention. Judith had been in bed, but, disturbed by the
uproar, had risen and drawn on her gown; her feet, however, were bare,
and her magnificent hair poured over her shoulders unbound. Her whole
mind, her whole care, was for Jamie; on herself not a thought rested;
she had forgotten that she was but half clothed.
"Jamie! Jamie!" she cried. "My brother! my brother!"
The fiddler ceased, lowered his violin, and stared at her.
"Ju, let me alone! It is such fun," said the boy.
"Jamie! this instant you shall come with me. Get down off the table!"
As he hesitated, and looked round to the men who had been applauding
him for support against his sister, she went to the table, and caught
him by the feet.
"Jamie! in pity to me! Jamie! think--papa is but just dead."
Then tears of sorrow, shame, and entreaty filled her eyes.
"No, Ju! I'm not tied to your apron-strings," said the lad,
disengaging himself.
But in an instant he was caught from the table by the strong arm of
Coppinger, and thrust toward the door.
"Judith, you should not have come here."
"Oh, Mr. Coppinger--and Jamie! why did you let him--"
Coppinger drew the girl from the room into the passage.
"Judith, not for the world would I have had you here," said he, in an
agitated voice. "I'll kill your aunt for letting you come down."
"Mr. Coppinger, she knew nothing of my coming. Come I must--I heard
Jamie's voice."
"Go," said the Captain, shaking the boy. He was ashamed of himself and
angry. "Beware how you disobey your sister again."
Coppinger's face was red as fire. He turned to Judith--
"Your feet are bare. Let me carry you up-stairs--carry you once more."
She shook her head. "As I came down so I can return."
"Will you forgive me?" he said, in a low tone.
"Heaven forgive you," she answered, and burst into tears. "You will
break my heart, I foresee it."