GONE FROM ITS PLACE.
There are persons, they are not many, on whom Luck smiles and showers
gold. Not a steady daily downpour of money but, whenever a little
cloud darkens their sky, that same little cloud, which to others would
be mere gloom, opens and discharges on them a sprinkling of gold
pieces.
It is not always the case that those who have rich relatives come in
for good things from them. In many cases there are such on whom Luck
turns her back, but to those of whom we speak the rain of gold, and
the snow of scrip and bonds come unexpectedly, but inevitably. Just as
Pilatus catches every cloud that drifts over Switzerland, so do they
by some fatality catch something out of every trouble, that tends
materially to solace their feelings, lacerated by that trouble. But
not so only. These little showers fall to them from relatives they
have taken no trouble to keep on good terms with, from acquaintances
whom they have cut, admirers whose good opinion they have not
concerned themselves to cultivate, friends with whom they have
quarrelled. Gideon's fleece, on one occasion, gathered to itself all
the dew that fell, and left the grass of the field around quite dry.
So do these fortunate persons concentrate on themselves, fortuitively
it seems, the dew of richness that descends and might have, ought to
have, dropped elsewhere; at all events, ought to have been more evenly
and impartially distributed. Gideon's fleece, on another occasion was
dry, when all the glebe was dripping. So is it with certain
unfortunates, Luck never favors them. What they have expected and
counted on they do not get, it is diverted, it drops round about them
on every side, only on them it never falls.
Now, Miss Trevisa cannot be said to have belonged to either of these
classes. To the latter she had pertained till suddenly, from a
quarter quite unregarded, there came down on her a very satisfactory
little splash. Of relatives that were rich she had none, because she
had no relatives at all. Of bosom friends she had none, for her bosom
was of that unyielding nature, that no one would like to be taken to
it. But, before the marriage of her brother, and before he became
rector of S. Enodoc, when he was but a poor curate, she had been
companion to a spinster lady, Miss Ceely, near S. Austell. Now the
companion is supposed to be a person without an opinion of her own,
always standing in a cringing position to receive the opinion of her
mistress, then to turn it over and give it forth as her own. She is,
if she be a proper companion, a mere echo of the sentiments of her
employer. Moreover, she is expected to be amiable, never to resent a
rude word, never to take umbrage at neglect, always to be ready to
dance attendance on her mistress, and with enthusiasm of devotion,
real or simulated, to carry out her most absurd wishes, unreasoningly.
But Miss Trevisa had been, as a companion, all that a companion ought
not to be. She had argued with Miss Ceely, invariably, had crossed her
opinions, had grumbled at her when she asked that anything might be
done, raised difficulties, piled up objections, blocked the way to
whatever Miss Ceely particularly set the heart on having executed. The
two ladies were always quarrelling, always calling each other names,
and it was a marvel to the relatives of Miss Ceely that she and her
companion hung together for longer than a month. Nevertheless they
did. Miss Trevisa left the old lady when Mr. Peter Trevisa became
rector of S. Enodoc, and then Miss Ceely obtained in her place quite
an ideal companion, a very mirror--she had but to look on her face,
smile, and a smile was repeated, weep, and tears came in the mirror.
The new companion grovelled at her feet, licked the dust off her
shoes, fawned on her hand, ran herself off her legs to serve her, grew
gray under the misery of enduring Miss Ceely's jibes and sneers and
insults, finally sacrificed her health in nursing her. When Miss
Ceely's will was opened it was found that she had left nothing--not a
farthing to this obsequious attendant, but had bequeathed fifteen
hundred pounds, free of legacy duty, and all her furniture and her
house to Miss Trevisa, with whom she had not kept up correspondence
for twenty-three years. It really seemed as if leathery, rusty Aunt
Dionysia, from being a dry Gideon's fleece, were about to be turned
into a wet and wringable fleece. No one was more astounded than
herself.
It was now necessary that Miss Trevisa should go to S. Austell and see
after what had come to her thus unsolicited and unexpectedly. All need
for her to remain at Pentyre was at an end.
Before she departed--not finally, but to see about the furniture that
was now hers, and to make up her mind whether to keep or to sell
it--she called Judith to her.
That day, the events of which were given in last chapter, had produced
a profound impression on Jamie. He had become gloomy, timid, and
silent. His old idle chatter ceased. He clung to his sister, and
accompanied her wherever she went; he could not endure to be with
Coppinger. When he heard his voice, caught a glimpse of him, he ran
away and hid. Jamie had been humored as a child, never beaten,
scolded, put in a corner, sent to bed, cut off his pudding, but the
rod had now been applied to his back and his first experience of
corporal punishment was the cruel and vindictive hiding administered,
not for any fault he had committed but because he had done his
sister's bidding. He was filled with hatred of Coppinger, mingled with
fear, and when alone with Judith would break out into exclamations of
entreaty that she would run away with him, and of detestation of the
man who held them there, as it were prisoners.
"Ju," said he, "I wish he were dead. I hate him. Why doesn't God kill
him and set us free!"
At another time he said, "Ju, dear! You do not love him. I wish I were
a big strong man like Oliver, and I would do what Captain Cruel did."
"What do you mean?"
"Captain Cruel shot at Oliver."
This was the first tidings Judith had heard of the attempt on Oliver's
life.
"He is a mean coward," said Jamie. "He hid behind a hedge and shot at
him. But he did not hurt him."
"God preserved him," said Judith.
"Why does not God preserve us! Why did God let that beast----"
"Hush, Jamie!"
"I will not--that wretch--beat me? Why did He not send lightning and
strike him dead?"
"I cannot tell you, darling. We must wait and trust."
"I am tired of waiting and trusting. If I had a gun I would not shoot
birds, I would go behind a hedge and shoot Captain Coppinger. There
would be nothing wrong in that, Ju?"
"Yes there would. It would be a sin."
"Not after he did that to Oliver."
"I would never--never love you, if you did that."
"You would always love me whatever I did," said Jamie. He spoke the
truth, Judith knew it. Her eyes filled, she drew the boy to her
passionately and kissed his golden head.
Then came Aunt Dionysia and summoned her into her own room. Jamie
followed.
"Judith," began Aunt Dunes, in her usual hard tones, and with the same
frozen face, "I wish you particularly to understand. Look here! You
have caused me annoyance enough while I have been here. Now I shall
have a house of my own at S. Austell, and if I choose to live in it I
can. If I do not, I can let it, and live at Othello Cottage. I have
not made up my mind what to do. Fifteen hundred pounds is a dirty
little sum, and not half as much as ought to have been left me for all
I had to bear from that old woman. I am glad for one thing that she
has left me something, though not much. I should have despaired of her
salvation had she not. However her heart was touched at the last,
though not touched enough. Now what I want you to understand is
this--it entirely depends on your conduct whether after my death this
sum of fifteen hundred pounds and a beggarly sum of about five hundred
I have of my own, comes to you or not. As long as this nonsense goes
on between you and Captain Coppinger--you pretending you are not
married, when you are, there is no security for me that you and Jamie
may not come tumbling in upon me and become a burden to me. Captain
Coppinger will not endure this fooling much longer. _He_ can take
advantage of your mistake. _He_ can say--I am not married. Where is
the evidence? Produce proof of the marriage having been
solemnized--and then he may send you out of his house upon the downs
in the cold. What would you be then, eh? All the world holds you to
be Mrs. Coppinger. A nice state of affairs, if it wakes up one morning
to hear that Mrs. Coppinger has been kicked out of the Glaze, that she
never was the wife. What will the world say, eh? What sort of name
will the world give you, when you have lived here as his wife."
"That I have not."
"Lived here, gone to balls as his wife when you were not. What will
the world call you, eh?"
Judith was silent, holding both her hands, open against her bosom.
Jamie beside her, looking up in her face, not understanding what his
aunt was saying.
"Very well--or rather very ill!" continued Miss Trevisa. "And then you
and this boy here will come to me to take you in, come and saddle
yourselves on me, and eat up my little fund. That is what will be the
end of it, if you remain in your folly. Go at once to the rector, and
put your name where it should have been two months ago, and your
position is secure, he cannot drive you away, disgusted at your
stubbornness, and you will relieve me of a constant source of
uneasiness. It is not that only, but I must care for the good name of
Trevisa, which you happen to bear, that that name may not be trailed
in the dust. The common sense of the matter is precisely what you
cannot see. If you are not Coppinger's wife you should not be here. If
you are Coppinger's wife, then your name should be in the register.
Now here you have come. You have appeared in public with him. You have
but one course open to you, and that is to secure your position and
your name and honor. You cannot undo what is done, but you can
complete what is done insufficiently. The choice between alternatives
is no longer before you. If you had purposed to withdraw from
marriage, break off the engagement, then you should not have come on
to Pentyre, and remained here. As, however, you did this, there is
absolutely nothing else to be done, but to sign the register. Do you
hear me?"
"Yes."
"And you will obey?"
"No."
"Pig-headed fool," said Miss Trevisa. "Not one penny will I leave you.
That I swear, if you remain obstinate."
"Do not let us say anything more about that, aunt. Now you are going
away, is there anything connected with the house you wish me to attend
to? That I will do readily."
"Yes, there are several things," growled Miss Trevisa, "and, first of
all, are you disposed to do anything, any common little kindness for
the man whose bread you eat, whose roof covers you?"
"Yes, aunt."
"Very well, then. Captain Coppinger has his bowl of porridge every
morning. I suppose he was accustomed to it before he came into these
parts, and he cannot breakfast without it. He says that our Cornish
maids cannot make porridge properly, and I have been accustomed to see
to it. Either it is lumpy, or it is watery, or it is saltless. Will
you see to that?"
"Yes, aunt, willingly."
"You ought to know how to make porridge, as you are more than half
Scottish."
"I certainly can make it. Dear papa always liked it."
"Then you will attend to that. If you are too high and too great a
lady to put your hand to it yourself, you can see that the cook
manages it aright. There is a new girl in now, who is a fool."
"I will make it myself. I will do all I can do."
"Then take the keys. Now that I go, you must be mistress of the house.
But for your folly, I might have been from here, and in my own house,
or rather in that given me for my use, Othello Cottage. I was to have
gone there directly after your marriage, I had furnished it, and made
it comfortable, and then you took to your fantastic notions, and hung
back, and refused to allow that you were married, and so I had to
stick on here two months. Here, take the keys." Miss Trevisa almost
flung them at her niece. "Now I have two thousand pounds of my own,
and a house at S. Austell, it does not become me to be doing menial
service. Take the keys. I will never have them back."
When Miss Trevisa was gone, and Judith was by herself at night, Jamie
being asleep, she was able to think over calmly what her aunt had
said. She concerned herself not the least, relative to the promise her
aunt had made of leaving her two thousand pounds, were she
submissive, and her threat of disinheriting her, should she continue
recalcitrant, but she did feel that there was truth in her aunt's
words when she said that she, Judith, had placed herself in a wrong
position--but it was a wrong position into which she had been forced,
she had not voluntarily entered it. She had, indeed, consented to
become Coppinger's wife, but when she found that Coppinger had
employed Jamie to give signals that might mislead a vessel to its ruin
she could not go further to meet him. Although he had endeavored to
clear himself in her eyes, she did not believe him. She was convinced
that he was guilty, though at moments she hoped, and tried to persuade
herself that he was not. Then came the matter of the diamonds. There,
again, the gravest suspicion rested on him. Again he had endeavored to
exculpate himself, yet she could not believe that he was innocent.
Till full confidence that he was blameless in these matters was
restored, an insuperable wall divided them. Never would she belong to
a man who was a wrecker, who belonged to that class of criminals her
father had regarded with the utmost horror.
Before she retired to bed, she picked up from under the fender the
scrap of paper on which Oliver's message had been written. It had lain
there unobserved where Coppinger had flung it, now, as she tidied her
room, and arranged the fire-rug, she observed it. She smoothed it out,
folded it, and went to her workbox to replace it where it had been
before.
She raised the lid, and was about to put the note among some other
papers she had there, a letter of her mother's, a piece of her
father's writing, some little accounts she had kept, when she was
startled to see that the packet of arsenic Mr. Menaida had given her
was missing.
She turned out the contents of her workbox. It was nowhere to be
found, either there, or in her drawers. Her aunt must have been prying
into the box, have found and removed it, so Judith thought, and with
this thought appeased her alarm. Perhaps, considering the danger of
having arsenic about, Aunt Dionysia had done right in removing it. She
had done wrong in doing so without speaking to Judith.