A SECOND LIE.
Next day, Miss Trevisa being gone, Judith had to attend to the work of
the house. It was her manifest duty to do so. Hitherto she had shrunk
from the responsibility, because she shrank from assuming a position
in the house to which she refused to consider that she had a right.
Judith was perfectly competent to manage an establishment, she had a
clear head, a love of order, and a power of exacting obedience of
servants without incessant reproof. Moreover, she had that faculty
possessed by few of directing others in their work so that each moved
along his or her own line and fulfilled the allotted work with ease.
She had managed her father's house, and managed it admirably. She knew
that, as the king's government must be carried on, so the routine of a
household must be kept going. Judith had sufficient acquaintance also
with servants to be aware that the wheel would stop or move
spasmodically, unless an authoritative hand were applied to it to keep
it in even revolution. She knew also that whatever happened in a
house--a birth, a death, a wedding, an uproar--the round of common
duties must be discharged, the meals prepared, the bread baked, the
milk skimmed, the beds made, the carpets swept, the furniture dusted,
the windows opened, the blinds drawn down, the table laid, the silver
and glass burnished. Nothing save a fire which gutted a house must
interfere with all this routine. Miss Trevisa was one of those ladies
who, in their own opinion, are condemned by Providence never to have
good servants. A benign Providence sheds good domestics into every
other house, save that which she rules. She is born under a star which
inexorably sends the scum and dregs of servantdom under her sceptre.
Miss Trevisa regarded a servant as a cat regards a mouse, a dog
regards a fox, and a dolphin a flying-fish, as something to be run
after, snapped at, clawed, leaped upon, worried perpetually. She was
incapable of believing that there could be any good in a servant, that
there was any other side to a domestic save a seamy side. She could
make no allowance for ignorance, for weakness, for lightheartedness. A
servant in her eyes must be a drudge ever working, never speaking,
smiling, taking a hand off the duster, without a mind above flue and
tea-leaves, and unable to soar above a cobweb; with a temper perfect
in endurance of daily, hourly fault-finding, nagging, grumbling, a
mind unambitious also of commendation. Miss Trevisa held that every
servant that a malign Providence had sent her was clumsy, insolent,
slatternly, unmethodical, idle, wasteful, a gossip, a gadabout, a
liar, a thief, was dainty, greedy, one of a cursed generation; and
when in the Psalms, David launched out in denunciation of the enemies
of the Lord, Miss Trevisa, when she heard or read these Psalms,
thought of servantdom. Servants were referred to when David said,
"Hide me from the insurrection of the wicked doers, who have whet
their tongues like a sword, that they may privily shoot at him that is
perfect," _i.e._, me, was Miss Trevisa's comment. "They encourage
themselves in mischief; and commune among themselves how they may lay
snares, and say, that no man shall see them." "And how," said Miss
Trevisa, "can men be so blind as not to believe that the Bible is
inspired when David hits the character of servants off to the life!"
And not the Psalms only, but the Prophets were full of servants'
delinquencies. What were Tyre and Egypt but figures of servantdom
shadowed before. What else did Isaiah lift up his testimony about, and
Jeremiah lament over, but the iniquities of the kitchen and the
servants' hall. Miss Trevisa read her Bible, and great comfort did it
afford her, because it did denounce the servant maids so unsparingly
and prepared brimstone and outer darkness for them.
Now Judith had seen and heard much of the way in which Miss Trevisa
managed Captain Coppinger's house. Her room adjoined that of her aunt,
and she knew that if her aunt were engaged on--it mattered not what
absorbing work, embroidery, darning a stocking, reading a novel,
saying her prayers, studying the cookery book--if a servant sneezed
within a hundred yards, or upset a drop of water, or clanked a
dust-pan, or clicked a door-handle, Miss Trevisa would be distracted
from her work and rush out of her room, just as a spider darts from
its recess, and sweep down on the luckless servant to worry and abuse
her.
Judith, knowing this, knew also that the day of Miss Trevisa's
departure would be marked with white chalk, and lead to a general
relaxation of discipline, to an inhaling of long breaths, and a
general stretching and taking of ease. It was necessary, therefore,
that she should go round and see that the wheel was kept turning.
To her surprise, on entering the hall, she found Captain Coppinger
there.
"I beg your pardon," she said, "I thought you were out."
She looked at him and was struck with his appearance, the clay-like
color of his face, the dark lines in it, the faded look in his eyes.
"Are you unwell?" she asked; "you really look ill."
"I am ill."
"Ill--what is the matter?"
"A burning in my throat. Cramp and pains--but what is that to you?"
"When did it come on?"
"But recently."
"Will you not have a doctor to see you?"
"A doctor!--no."
"Was the porridge as you liked it this morning? I made it."
"It was good enough."
"Would you like more now?"
"No."
"And to-morrow morning, will you have the same?"
"Yes--the same."
"I will make it again. Aunt said the new cook did not understand how
to mix and boil it to your liking."
Coppinger nodded.
Judith remained standing and observing him. Some faces when touched by
pain and sickness are softened and sweetened. The hand of suffering
passes over the countenance and brushes away all that is frivolous,
sordid, vulgar; it gives dignity, purity, refinement, and shows what
the inner soul might be were it not entangled and degraded by base
association and pursuit. It is different with other faces, the hand of
suffering films away the assumed expression of good nature, honesty,
straightforwardness, and unmasks the evil inner man. The touch of pain
had not improved the expression of Cruel Coppinger. It cannot,
however, with justice be said that the gentler aspect of the man,
which Judith had at one time seen, was an assumption. He was a man in
whom there was a certain element of good, but it was mixed up with
headlong wilfulness, utter selfishness, and resolution to have his own
way at any cost.
Judith could see, now that his face was pain-struck, how much of evil
there was in the soul that had been disguised by a certain dash of
masculine overbearing and brusqueness.
"What are you looking at?" asked Coppinger, glancing up.
"I was thinking," answered Judith.
"Of what?"
"Of you--of Wyvill, of the wreck on Doom Bar, of the jewels of Lady
Knighton, and last of all of Jamie's maltreatment."
"And what of all that?" he said in irritable scorn.
"That I need not say. I have drawn my own conclusions."
"You torment me, you--when I am ill? They call me Cruel, but it is you
who are cruel."
Judith did not wish to be drawn into discussion that must be
fruitless. She said, quietly, in altered tone, "Can I get you anything
to comfort you?"
"No--go your way. This will pass. Besides, it is naught to you. Go; I
would be left alone."
Judith obeyed, but she was uneasy. She had never seen Coppinger look
as he looked now. It was other, altogether, after he had broken his
arm. Other, also, when for a day he was crippled with bruises, after
the wreck. She looked into the hall several times during the day. In
the afternoon he was easier, and went out; his mouth had been parched
and burning, and he had been drinking milk. The empty glass was on the
table. He would eat nothing at mid-day. He turned from food, and left
the room for his own chamber.
Judith was anxious. She more than once endeavored to draw Coppinger
into conversation relative to himself, but he would not speak of what
affected him. He was annoyed and ashamed at being out of his usual
rude health.
"It is naught," he said, "but a bilious attack, and will pass. Leave
me alone."
She had been so busy all day, that she had seen little of Jamie. He
had taken advantage of Captain Coppinger not being about, to give
himself more license to roam than he had of late, and to go with his
donkey on the cliffs. Anyhow Judith on this day did not have him
hanging to her skirts. She was glad of it, for, though she loved him,
he would have been an encumbrance when she was so busy.
The last thing at night she did was to go to Coppinger to inquire what
he would take. He desired nothing but spirits and milk. He thought
that a milk-punch would give him ease and make him sleep. That he was
weak and had suffered pain she saw, and she was full of pity for him.
But this she did not like to exhibit, partly because he might
misunderstand her feelings, and partly because he seemed irritated at
being unwell, and at loss of power; irritated, at all events, at it
being observed that he was not in his usual plenitude of strength and
health.
That night the Atlantic was troubled, and the wind carried the billows
against the cliffs in a succession of rhythmic roars that filled the
air with sound and made the earth quiver. Judith could not sleep, she
listened to the thud of the water-heaps flung against the rocks; there
was a clock on the stairs and in her wakefulness she listened to the
tick of the clock, and the boom of the waves, now coming together,
then one behind the other, now the wave-beat catching up the
clock-tick, then falling in arrear, the ocean getting angry and making
up its pace by a double beat. Moreover flakes of foam were carried on
the wind and came, like snow, against her window that looked seaward
striking the glass and adhering to it.
As Judith lay watchful in the night her mind again recurred to the
packet of arsenic that had been abstracted from her workbox. It was
inconsiderate of her to have left it there; she ought to have locked
her box. But who could have supposed that anyone would have gone to
the box, raised the tray and searched the contents of the compartment
beneath? Judith had been unaccustomed to lock up anything, because she
had never had any secrets to hide from any eye. She again considered
the probability of her aunt having removed it, and then it occurred to
her that perhaps Miss Trevisa might have supposed that she--Judith--in
a fit of revolt against the wretchedness of her life might be induced
to take the poison herself and finish her miseries. "It was absurd if
Aunt Dunes thought that," said Judith to herself; "she can little have
known how my dear Papa's teaching has sunk into my heart, to suppose
me capable of such a thing--and then--to run away like a coward and
leave Jamie unprotected. It was too absurd."
Next morning Judith was in her room getting a large needle with which
to hem a bit of carpet edge that had been fraying for the last five
years, and which no one had thought of putting a thread to, and so
arresting the disintegration. Jamie was in the room. Judith said to
him:
"My dear, you have not been skinning and stuffing any birds lately,
have you?"
"No, Ju."
"Because I have missed--but, Jamie, I hope you have not been at my
workbox?"
"What about your workbox, Ju?"
She knew the boy so well, that her suspicions were at once aroused by
this answer. When he had nothing to hide he replied with a direct
negative or affirmative, but when he had done what his conscience
would not quite allow was right, he fell into equivocation, and
shuffled awkwardly.
"Jamie," said Judith, looking him straight in the face, "have you been
to my box?"
"Only just looked in."
Then he ran to the window. "Oh, do see, Ju, how patched the glass is
with foam!--and is it not dirty?"
"Jamie, come back. I want an answer."
He had opened the casement and put his hand out and was wiping off the
patches of froth.
"What a lot of it there is, Ju."
"Come here, instantly, Jamie, and shut the window."
The boy obeyed, creeping toward her sideways, with his head down.
"Jamie, did you lift the tray?"
"Only on one side, just a little bit."
"Did you take anything from under the tray?"
He did not answer immediately. She looked at him searchingly and in
suspense. He never could endure this questioning look of hers, and he
ran to her, put his arms round her waist, and clasped to her side, hid
his face in her gown.
"Only a little."
"A little what?"
"I don't know."
"Jamie, no lies. There was a blue paper there containing poison, that
you were not to have unless there were occasion for it--some bird skin
to be preserved and dressed with it. Now, did you take that?"
"Yes."
"Go and bring it back to me immediately."
"I can't."
"Why not? Where is it?"
The boy fidgeted, looked up in his sister's face to see what
expression it bore, buried his head again, and said:
"Ju! he is rightly called Cruel. I hate him, and so do you, don't you,
Ju? I have put the arsenic into his oatmeal, and we will get rid of
him and be free and go away. It will be jolly."
"Jamie!" with a cry of horror.
"He won't whip me and scold you any more."
"Jamie! Oh, my Lord, have pity on him! have pity on us!"
She clasped her hands to her head, rushed from the room, and flew down
the stairs.
But ten minutes before that Judith had given Coppinger his bowl of
porridge. He had risen late that morning. He was better, he said, and
he looked more himself than the preceding day. He was now seated at
the table in the hall, and had poured the fresh milk into the bowl,
had dipped the spoon, put some of the porridge to his mouth, tasted,
and was looking curiously into the spoon, when the door was flung
open, Judith entered, and without a word of explanation, caught the
bowl from him and dashed it on the floor.
Coppinger looked at her with his boring, dark eyes intently, and said:
"What is the meaning of this?"
"It is poisoned."
Judith was breathless. She drew back relieved at having cast away the
fatal mess.
Coppinger rose to his feet, and glared at her across the table,
leaning with his knuckles on the board. He did not speak for a moment,
his face became livid, and his hands resting on the table shook as
though he were shivering in an ague.
"There is arsenic in the porridge," gasped Judith.
She had not time to weigh what she should say, how explain her
conduct; but one thought had held her--to save Coppinger's life while
there was yet time.
The Captain's dog that had been lying at his master's feet rose, went
to the spilt porridge, and began to lap the milk and devour the paste.
Neither Judith nor Coppinger regarded him.
"It was an accident," faltered Judith.
"You lie," said Coppinger, in thrilling tones, "you lie, you
murderess! You sought to kill me."
Judith did not answer for a moment. She also was trembling. She had to
resolve what course to pursue. She could not, she would not, betray
her brother, and subject him to the worst brutality of treatment from
the infuriated man whose life he had sought.
It were better for her to take the blame on herself.
"I made the porridge--I and no one else."
"You told me so, yesterday." He maintained his composure marvellously,
but he was stunned by the sudden discovery of treachery in the woman
he had loved and worshipped.
"You maddened me by your treatment, but I did not desire that you
should die. I repented and have saved your life."
As Judith spoke she felt as though the flesh of her face stiffened,
and the skin became as parchment. She could hardly open her mouth to
speak and stir her tongue.
"Go!" said Coppinger, pointing to the door. "Go, you and your brother.
Othello cottage is empty. Go, murderess, poisoner of your husband,
there and wait till you hear from me. Under one roof, to eat off one
board, is henceforth impossible. Go!" he remained pointing, and a
sulphurous fire flickered in his eyes.
Then the hound began to howl, threw itself down, its limbs were
contracted, it foamed at the mouth, and howled again.
To the howlings of the poisoned and dying dog Judith and Jamie left
Pentyre.