BOUGHT AND SOLD.
Cruel Coppinger remained brooding in the place where he had been
standing, and as he stood there his face darkened. He was a man of
imperious will and violent passions; a man unwont to curb himself;
accustomed to sweep out of his path whoever or whatever stood between
him and the accomplishment of his purpose; a man who never asked
himself whether that purpose were good or bad. He had succumbed, in a
manner strange and surprising to himself, to the influence of
Judith--a sort of witchery over him that subdued his violence and awed
him into gentleness and modesty. But when her presence was withdrawn
the revolt of the man's lawless nature began. Who was this who had
dared to oppose her will to his? a mere child of eighteen. Women were
ever said to be a perverse generation, and loved to domineer over men;
and man was weak to suffer it. So thinking, chafing, he had worked
himself into a simmering rage when Miss Trevisa entered the hall,
believing it to be empty. Seeing him, she was about to withdraw, when
he shouted to her to stay.
"I beg your pardon for intruding, sir; I am in quest of my niece.
Those children keep me in a whirl like a teetotum."
"Your niece is gone."
"Gone! where to?"
"Back--I suppose to that old fool, Menaida. He is meet to be a
companion for her and that idiot, her brother; not I--I am to be
spurned from her presence."
Miss Trevisa was surprised, but she said nothing. She knew his moods.
"Stand there, Mother Dunes!" said Coppinger, in his anger and
humiliation, glad to have some one on whom he could pour out the lava
that boiled up in his burning breast. "Listen to me. She has told me
that we belong to different worlds--she and I--and to different races,
kinds of being, and that there can be no fellowship betwixt us. Where
I am she will not be. Between me and you there is a great gulf
fixed--see you? and I am as Dives tormented in my flame, and she
stands yonder, serene, in cold and complacent blessedness, and will
not cross to me with her finger dipped in cold water to cool my
tongue; and as for my coming near to her"--he laughed fiercely--"that
can never be."
"Did she say all that?" asked Miss Trevisa.
"She looked it; she implied it, if she did not say it in these naked
words. And, what is more," shouted he, coming before Aunt Dionysia,
threateningly, so that she recoiled, "it is true. When she sat there
in yonder chair, and I stood here by this hearthstone, and she spoke,
I knew it was true; I saw it all--the great gulf unspanned by any
bridge. I knew that none could ever bridge it, and there we were,
apart for ever, I in my fire burning, she in Blessedness--indifferent."
"I am very sorry," said Miss Trevisa, "that Judith should so have
misconducted herself. My brother brought her up in a manner to my
mind, most improper for a young girl. He made her read Rollin's
'Ancient History,' and Blair's 'Chronological Tables,' and really upon
my word, I cannot say what else."
"I do not care how it was," said Coppinger. "But here stands the
gulf."
"Rollin is in sixteen octavo volumes," said Aunt Dionysia; "and they
are thick also."
Coppinger strode about the room, with his hands in his deep coat
pockets, his head down.
"My dear brother," continued Miss Trevisa, apologetically, "made of
Judith his daily companion, told her all he thought, asked her
opinion, as though she were a full-grown woman, and one whose opinion
was worth having, whereas he never consulted me, never cared to talk
to me about anything, and the consequence is the child has grown up
without that respect for her elders and betters, and that deference
for the male sex which the male sex expects. I am sure when I was a
girl, and of her age, I was very different, very different indeed."
"Of that I have not the smallest doubt," sneered Coppinger. "But never
mind about yourself. It is of her I am speaking. She is gone, has
left me, and I cannot endure it. I cannot endure it," he repeated.
"I beg your pardon," said Aunt Dionysia, "you must excuse me saying
it, Captain Coppinger, but you place me in a difficult position. I am
the guardian of my niece, though, goodness knows, I never desired it,
and I don't know what to think. It is very flattering and kind, and I
esteem it great goodness in you to speak of Judith with such warmth,
but----"
"Goodness! kindness!" exclaimed Coppinger. "I am good and kind to her!
She forced me to it. I can be nothing else, and she throws me at her
feet and tramples on me."
"I am sure your sentiments, sir, are--are estimable; but, feeling as
you seem to imply toward Judith, I hardly know what to say. Bless me!
what a scourge to my shoulders these children are: nettles stinging
and blistering my skin, and not allowing me a moment's peace!"
"I imply nothing," said Coppinger. "I speak out direct and plain what
I mean. I love her. She has taken me, she turns me about, she gets my
heart between her little hands and tortures it."
"Then surely, Captain, you cannot ask me to let her be here. You are
most kind to express yourself in this manner about the pert hussy,
but, as she is my niece, and I am responsible for her, I must do my
duty by her, and not expose her to be--talked about. Bless me!" gasped
Aunt Dunes, "when I was her age I never would have put myself into
such a position as to worry my aunt out of her seven senses, and bring
her nigh to distraction."
"I will marry her, and make her mistress of my house and all I have,"
said Coppinger.
Miss Trevisa slightly courtesied, then said, "I am sure you are
over-indulgent, but what is to become of me? I have no doubt it will
be very comfortable and acceptable to Judith to hear this, but--what
is to become of me? It would not be very delightful for me to be
housekeeper here under my own niece, a pert, insolent, capricious
hussy. You can see at once, Captain Coppinger, that I cannot consent
to that."
The woman had the shrewdness to know that she could be useful to
Coppinger, and the selfishness that induced her to make terms with
him to secure her own future, and to show him that she could stand in
his way till he yielded to them.
"I never asked to have these children thrust down my throat, like the
fish-bone that strangled Lady Godiva--no, who was it? Earl Godiva; but
I thank my stars I never waded through Rollin, and most certainly kept
my hands off Blair. Of course, Captain Coppinger, it is right and
proper of you to address yourself to me, as the guardian of my niece,
before speaking to her."
"I have spoken to her and she spurns me."
"Naturally, because you spoke to her before addressing me on the
subject. My dear brother--I will do him this justice--was very
emphatic on this point. But you see, sir, my consent can never be
given."
"I do not ask your consent."
"Judith will never take you without it."
"Consent or no consent," said Coppinger, "that is a secondary matter.
The first is, she does not like me, whereas I--I love her. I never
loved a woman before. I knew not what love was. I laughed at the
fools, as I took them to be, who sold themselves into the hands of
women; but now, I cannot live without her. I can think of nothing but
her all day. I am in a fever, and cannot sleep at night--all because
she is tormenting me."
All at once, exhausted by his passion, desperate at seeing no chance
of success, angry at being flouted by a child, he threw himself into
the chair, and settled his chin on his breast, and folded his arms.
"Go on," said he. "Tell me what is my way out of this."
"You cannot expect my help or my advice, Captain, so as to forward
what would be most unsatisfactory to me."
"What! do you grudge her to me?"
"Not that; but, if she were here, what would become of me? Should I be
turned out into the cold at my age by this red-headed hussy, to find a
home for myself with strangers? Here I never would abide with her as
mistress, never."
"I care naught about you."
"No, of that I am aware, to my regret, sir; but that makes it all the
more necessary for me to take care for myself."
"I see," said Coppinger, "I must buy you. Is your aid worth it? Will
she listen to you?"
"I can make her listen to me," said Aunt Dunes, "if it be worth my
while. At my age, having roughed it, having no friends, I must think
of myself and provide for the future, when I shall be too old to
work."
"Name your price."
Miss Trevisa did not answer for a while; she was considering the terms
she would make. To her coarse and soured mind there was nothing to
scruple at in aiding Coppinger in his suit. The Trevisas were of a
fine old Cornish stock, but then Judith took after her mother, the
poor Scottish governess, and Aunt Dunes did not feel toward her as
though she were of her own kin. The girl looked like her mother. She
had no right, in Miss Trevisa's eyes, to bear the name of her father,
for her father ought to have known better than stoop to marry a
beggarly, outlandish governess. Not very logical reasoning, but what
woman, where her feelings are engaged, does reason logically? Aunt
Dunes had never loved her niece; she felt an inner repulsion, such as
sprang from encountering a nature superior, purer, more refined than
her own, and the mortification of being forced to admit to herself
that it was so. Judith, moreover, was costing her money, and Miss
Trevisa parted with her hard-earned savings as reluctantly as with her
heart's blood. She begrudged the girl and her brother every penny she
was forced, or believed she would be forced, to expend upon them. And
was she doing the girl an injury in helping her to a marriage that
would assure her a home and a comfortable income?
Aunt Dionysia knew well enough that things went on in Pentyre Glaze
that were not to be justified, that Coppinger's mode of life was not
one calculated to make a girl of Judith's temperament happy,
but--"Hoity-toity!" said Miss Trevisa to herself, "if girls marry,
they must take men as they find them. Beggars must not be choosers.
You must not look a gift horse in the mouth. No trout can be eaten
apart from its bones, nor a rose plucked that is free from thorns."
She herself had accommodated herself to the ways of the house, to the
moods and manners of Coppinger; and if she could do that, so could a
mongrel Trevisa. What was good enough for herself was over-good for
Judith.
She had been saddled with these children, much against her wishes,
and if she shifted the saddle to the shoulders of one willing to bear
it, why not? She had duties to perform to her own self as well as to
those thrust on her by the dead hand of that weak, that inconsiderate
brother of hers, Peter Trevisa.
Would her brother have approved of her forwarding this union? That was
a question that did not trouble her much. Peter did what he thought
best for his daughter when he was alive, stuffing her head with Rollin
and Blair, and now that he was gone, she must do the best she could
for her, and here was a chance offered that she would be a fool not to
snap at.
Nor did she concern herself greatly whether Judith's happiness were at
stake. Hoity-toity! girls' happiness! They are bound to make
themselves happy when they find themselves. The world was not made to
fit them, but they to accommodate themselves to the places in which
they found themselves in the world.
Miss Trevisa had for some days seen the direction matters were taking,
she had seen clearly enough the infatuation--yes, infatuation she said
it was--that had possessed Coppinger. What he could see in the girl
passed her wits to discover. To her, Judith was an odious little
minx--very like her mother. Miss Trevisa, therefore, had had time to
weigh the advantages and the disadvantages that might spring to her,
should Coppinger persist in his suit and succeed; and she had
considered whether it would be worth her while to help or to hinder
his suit.
"You put things," said Aunt Dionysia, "in a blunt and a discourteous
manner, such as might offend a lady of delicacy, like myself, who am
in delicacy a perfect guava jelly; but, Captain, I know your ways, as
I ought to, having been an inmate of this house for many years. It is
no case of buying and selling, as you insinuate, but the case is
plainly this: I know the advantage it will be to my niece to be
comfortably provided for. She and Jamie have between them but about a
thousand pounds, a sum to starve, and not to live, upon. They have no
home and no relative in the world but myself, who am incapable of
giving them a home and of doing anything for them except at an
excruciating sacrifice. If Judith be found, through your offer, a
home, then Jamie also is provided for."
He said nothing to this, but moved his feet impatiently. She went on:
"The boy _must_ be provided for. And if Judith become your wife, not
only will it be proper for you to see that he is so, but Judith will
give neither you nor me our natural rest until the boy is comfortable
and happy."
"Confound the boy!"
"It is all very well to say that, but he who would have anything to
say to Judith must reckon to have to consider Jamie also. They are
inseparable. Now, I assume that by Judith's marriage Jamie is cared
for. But how about myself? Is every one to lie in clover and I in
stubble? Am I to rack my brains to find a home for my nephew and
niece, only that I may be thrust out myself? To find for them places
at your table, that I may be deprived of a crust and a bone under it?
If no one else will consider me, I must consider myself. I am the last
representative of an ancient and honorable family--" She saw Coppinger
move his hand, and thought he expressed dissent. She added hastily,
"As to Judith and Jamie, they take after their Scotch mother. I do not
reckon them as Trevisas."
"Come--tell me what you want," said Coppinger, impatiently.
"I want to be secure for my old age, that I do not spend it in the
poor-house."
"What do you ask?"
"Give me an annuity of fifty pounds for my life, and Othello Cottage
that is on your land."
"You ask enough."
"You will never get Judith without granting me that."
"Well--get Judith to be mine, and you shall have it."
"Will you swear to it?"
"Yes."
"And give me--I desire that--the promise in writing."
"You shall have it."
"Then I will help you."
"How?"
"Leave that to me. I am her guardian."
"But not of her heart?"
"Leave her to me. You shall win her."
"How!"
"Through Jamie."