BRUISED NOT BROKEN.
"Come with me, uncle!" said Judith.
"My dear, I will follow you like a dog, everywhere."
"I want to go to the rectory."
"To the rectory! At this time of night!"
"At once."
When the down was left there was no longer necessity for hiding the
lantern, as they were within lanes, and the light would not be seen at
sea.
The distance to the parsonage was not great, and the little party were
soon there, but were somewhat puzzled how to find the door, owing to
the radical transformations of the approaches effected by the new
rector.
Mr. Desiderius Mules was not in bed. He was in his study, without his
collar and necktie, smoking, and composing a sermon. It is not only
_lucus_ which is derived from _non lucendo_. A study in many a house
is equally misnamed. In that of Mr. Mules's house it had some claim,
perhaps, to its title, for in it, once a week, Mr. Desiderius
cudgelled his brains how to impart form to an inchoate mass of notes;
but it hardly deserved its name as a place where the brain was
exercised in absorption of information. The present study was the old
pantry. The old study had been occupied by a man of reading and of
thought. Perhaps it was not unsuitable that the pantry should become
Mr. Mules's study, and where the maid had emptied her slop-water after
cleaning forks and plates should be the place for the making of the
theological slop-water that was to be poured forth on the Sunday.
But--what a word has been here used--theological--another _lucus a non
lucendo_, for there was nothing of theology proper in the stuff
compounded by Mr. Mules.
We shall best be able to judge by observing him engaged on his sermon
for Sunday.
In his mouth was a pipe, on the table a jar of bird's-eye; _item_, a
tumbler of weak brandy and water to moisten his lips with
occasionally. It was weak. Mr. Mules never took a drop more than was
good for him.
Before him were arranged in a circle his materials for composition. On
his extreme left was what he termed his treacle-pot. That was a volume
of unctuous piety. Then came his dish of flummery. That was a volume
of ornate discourses by a crack ladies' preacher. Next his spice-box.
That was a little store of anecdotes, illustrations, and pungent
sayings. Pearson on the Creed, Bishop Andrews, or any work of solid
divinity was not to be found either on his table or on his shelves. A
Commentary was outspread, and a Concordance.
The Reverend Desiderius Mules sipped his brandy and water, took a long
whiff of his pipe, and then wrote his text. Then he turned to his
Commentary and extracted from it junks of moralization upon his text
and on other texts which his Concordance told him had more or less to
do with his head text. Then he peppered his paper well over with
quotations, those in six lines preferred to those in three.
"Now," said the manufacturer of the sermon, "I must have a little
treacle. I suppose those bumpkins will like it, but not much, I hate
it myself. It is ridiculous. And I can dish up a trifle of flummery in
here and there conveniently, and--let me see. I'll work up to a story
near the tail somehow. But what heading shall I give my discourse?
'Pon my word I don't know what its subject is--we'll call it General
Piety. That will do admirably. Yes, General Piety. Come in! Who's
there?"
A servant entered and said that there were Mr. Menaida and the lady
that was married that morning, at the door, wanting to speak with him.
Should she show them into the study?
Mr. Mules looked at his brandy and water, then at his array of
material for composition, and then at his neckerchief on the floor,
and said: "No, into the drawing-room." The maid was to light the
candles. He would put on his collar and be with them shortly.
So the sermon had to be laid aside.
Presently Mr. Desiderius Mules entered his drawing-room, where Judith,
Uncle Zachie, and Jamie were awaiting him.
"A late visit, but always welcome," said the rector. "Sorry I kept
you waiting, but I was _en deshabille_. What can I do for you now,
eh?"
Judith was composed, she had formed her resolution.
She said, "You married me this morning when I was unconscious. I
answered but one of your questions. Will you get your prayer-book and
I will make my responses to all those questions you put to me when I
was in a dead faint."
"Oh, not necessary. Sign the register and it is all right. Silence
gives consent, you know."
"I wish it otherwise, particularly, and then you can judge for
yourself whether silence gives consent."
Mr. Desiderius Mules ran back into his study, pulled a whiff at his
pipe to prevent the fire from going out, moistened his untempered clay
with brandy and water, and came back again with a Book of Common
Prayer.
"Here we are," said he. "'Wilt thou have this man,' and so on--you
answered to that, I believe. Then comes 'I, Judith, take thee, Curll,
to my wedded husband'--you were indistinct over that, I believe."
"I remember nothing about it. Now I will say distinctly my meaning. I
will _not_ take Curll Coppinger to my wedded husband, and thereto I
will never give my troth--so help me, God."
"Goodness gracious!" exclaimed the rector. "You put me in a queer
position. I married you, and you can't undo what is done. You have the
ring on your finger."
"No, here it is. I return it."
"I refuse to take it. I have nothing whatever to do with the ring.
Captain Coppinger put it on your hand."
"When I was unconscious."
"But am I to be choused out of my fee--as out of other things!"
"You shall have your fee. Do not concern yourself about that. I refuse
to consider myself married. I refuse to sign the register, no man
shall force me to it, and if it comes to law, here are witnesses, you
yourself are a witness, that I was unconscious when you married me."
"I shall get into trouble! This is a very unpleasant state of
affairs."
"It is more unpleasant for me than for you," said Judith.
"It is a most awkward complication. Never heard of such a case
before. Don't you think that after a good night's rest and a good
supper--and let me advise a stiff glass of something warm, taken
medicinally, you understand--that you will come round to a better
mind."
"To another mind I shall not come round. I suppose I am half
married--never by my will shall that half be made into a whole."
"And what do you want me to do?" asked Mr. Mules, thoroughly put out
of his self-possession by this extraordinary scene.
"Nothing," answered Judith, "save to bear testimony that I utterly and
entirely refuse to complete the marriage which was half done--by
answering to those questions with a consent, which I failed to answer
in church because I fainted, and to wear the ring which was forced on
me when I was insensible, and to sign the register now I am in full
possession of my wits. We will detain you no longer."
Judith left along with Jamie and Mr. Menaida, and Mr. Mules returned
to his sermon. He pulled at his pipe till the almost expired fire was
rekindled into glow, and he mixed himself a little more brandy and
water. Then with his pipe in the corner of his mouth he looked at his
discourse. It did not quite please him, it was undigested.
"Dear me!" said Mr. Desiderius. "My mind is all of a whirl, and I can
do nothing to this now. It must go as it is--yet stay, I'll change the
title. General Piety is rather pointless. I'll call it Practical
Piety."
Judith returned to Pentyre Glaze. She was satisfied with what she had
done; anger and indignation were in her heart. The man to whom she had
given her hand had enlisted her poor brother in the wicked work of
luring unfortunate sailors to their destruction. She could hardly
conceive of anything more diabolical than this form of wrecking: her
Jamie was involved in the crime of drawing men to their death. A ship
had been wrecked, she knew that by the minute guns, and if lives were
lost from it, the guilt in a measure rested on the head of Jamie. But
for her intervention he would have been taken in the act of showing
light to mislead mariners, and would certainly have been brought
before magistrates and most probably have been imprisoned. The
thought that her brother, the son of such a father, should have
escaped this disgrace through an accident only, and that he had been
subjected to the risk by Coppinger, filled her veins with liquid fire.
Thenceforth there could be nothing between her and Captain Cruel, save
antipathy, resentment, and contempt on her part. His passion for her
must cool or chase itself away. She would never yield to him a hair's
breadth.
Judith threw herself on her bed, in her clothes. She could not sleep.
Wrath against Coppinger seethed in her young heart. Concerned she was
for the wrecked, but concern for them was over-lapped by fiery
indignation against the wrecker. There was also in her breast
self-reproach. She had not accepted as final her father's judgment on
the man. She had allowed Coppinger's admiration of herself to move her
from a position of uncompromising hostility, and to awake in her
suspicions that her dear, dear father might have been mistaken, and
that the man he condemned might not be guilty as he supposed.
As she lay tossing on her bed, turning from side to side, her face now
flaming, then white, she heard a noise in the house. She sat up on her
bed and listened. There was now no light in the room, and she would
not go into that of her aunt to borrow one. Miss Trevisa might be
asleep, and would be vexed to be disturbed. Moreover resentment
against her aunt for having forced her into the marriage was strong in
the girl's heart, and she had no wish to enter into any communications
with her.
So she sat on her bed, listening.
There was certainly disturbance below. What was the meaning of it?
Presently she heard her aunt's voice down-stairs. She was therefore
not asleep in her room.
Thereupon Judith descended the stairs to the hall. There she found
Captain Coppinger being carried to his bedroom by two men, while Miss
Trevisa held a light. He was streaming with water that made pools on
the floor.
"What is the matter? Is he hurt? Is he hurt seriously?" she asked, her
woman's sympathy at once aroused by the sight of suffering.
"He has had a bad fall," replied her aunt. "He went to a wreck that
has been cast on Doom Bar, to help to save the unfortunate, and save
what they value equally with their lives--their goods, and he was
washed overboard. Fell into the sea, and was dashed against that boat.
Yes--he is injured. No bones broken _this_ time. This time he had to
do with the sea and with men. But he is badly bruised. Go on," she
said to those who were conveying Coppinger. "He is in pain, do you not
see this as you stand here? Lay him on his bed, and remove his
clothes. He is drenched to the skin. I will brew him a posset."
"May I help you, aunt?"
"I can do it myself."
Judith remained with Miss Trevisa. She said nothing to her till the
posset was ready. Then she offered to carry it to her husband.
"As you will--here it is," said Aunt Dionysia.
Thereupon Judith took the draught, and went with it to Captain
Coppinger's room. He was in his bed. No one was with him, but a candle
burned on the table.
"You have come to me, Judith?" he said with glad surprise.
"Yes--I have brought you the posset. Drink it out to the last drop."
She handed it to him; and he took the hot caudle.
"I need not finish the bowl?" he asked.
"Yes--to the last drop."
He complied, and then suddenly withdrew the vessel from his lips.
"What is this--at the bottom?--a ring?" He extracted a plain gold ring
from the bowl.
"What is the meaning of this? It is a wedding-ring."
"Yes--mine."
"It is early to lose it."
"I threw it in."
"You--Judith--why?"
"I return it to you."
He raised himself on one elbow and looked at her fixedly with
threatening eyes.
"What is the meaning of this?"
"That ring was put on my finger when I was unconscious. Wait till I
accept it freely."
"But--Judith--the wedding is over."
"Only a half wedding."
"Well--well--it shall soon be a whole one. We will have the register
signed to-morrow."
Judith shook her head.
"You are acting strangely to-night," said he.
"Answer me," said Judith. "Did you not send out Jamie with a light to
mislead the sailors, and draw them on to Doom Bar?"
"Jamie, again!" exclaimed Coppinger, impatiently.
"Yes, I have to consider for Jamie. Answer me, did you not send
him----"
He burst in angrily, "If you will--yes--he took the light to the
shore. I knew there was a wreck. When a ship is in distress she must
have a light."
"You are not speaking the truth. Answer me, did you go on board the
wrecked vessel to save those who were cast away?"
"They would not have been saved without me. They had lost their
heads--every one."
"Captain Coppinger," said Judith, "I have lost all trust in you. I
return you the ring which I will never wear. I have been to see the
rector and told him that I refuse you, and I will never sign the
register."
"I will force the ring on to your finger," said Coppinger.
"You are a man, stronger than I--but I can defend myself, as you know
to your cost. Half married we are--and so must remain, and never,
never shall we be more than that."
Then she left the room, and Coppinger dashed his posset cup to the
ground, but held the ring and turned it in his fingers, and the light
flickered on it, a red gold ring like that red gold hair that was
about his throat.