In the Roar of the Sea

CHAPTER XXIV.

A NIGHT EXCURSION.

Some people are ever satisfied with what is certain to give themselves least trouble, especially if that something concerns other persons.

Mr. Menaida was won over by the volubility of Mrs. Scantlebray and the placidity of Mr. Scantlebray to the conviction that Jamie was in the very best place he could possibly be in. A lady who called Judith “my dear” and her husband “duckie” must have a kindly heart, and a gentleman like Mr. Obadiah, so full of resources, could not fail to divert and gratify the minds of those under his charge, and banish care and sorrow. And as Mr. Menaida perceived that it would be a difficult matter to liberate Jamie from the establishment where he was, and as it was an easy matter to conclude that the establishment was admirably adapted to Jamie, he was content that Aunt Dionysia had chosen the wisest course in putting him there, and that it would be to the general advantage to cherish this opinion. For, in the first place, it would pacify Judith, and then, by pacifying her, would give himself none of that inconvenience, that running to and fro between Polzeath and Wadebridge, that consultation of law-books, that correspondence, that getting of toes and fingers into hot water, likely to result from the impatience, the unflagging eagerness of Judith to liberate her brother.

Accordingly Uncle Zachie used his best endeavors to assure Judith that Jamie certainly was happy, had never been so happy in his life before, and that, under the treatment of so kind and experienced a man as Mr. Obadiah Scantlebray, there was reason to believe that in a short time Jamie would issue from under his tuition a light so brilliant as to outshine the beacon on Trevose Head.

Judith was unconvinced. Love is jealous and timorous. She feared lest all should not be as was represented. There was an indefinable something in Mrs. Scantlebray that roused her suspicion. She could not endure that others should step into the place of responsibility toward Jamie she had occupied so long, and which she had so solemnly assured her father she would never abandon. Supposing that Scantlebray and his wife were amiable and considerate persons, might they not so influence the fickle Jamie as to displace her from his affections and insinuate themselves in her room?

But it was not this mainly that troubled her. She was tormented with the thought of the lonely, nervous child in the strange house, among strange people, in desolation of heart and deadly fear.

Whenever he had become excited during the day he was sleepless at night, and had to be soothed and coaxed into slumber. On such occasions she had been wont, with the infinite, inexhaustible patience of true love, to sit by his bed, pacifying his alarms, allaying his agitation, singing to him, stroking his hair, holding his hand, till his eyes closed. And how often, just as he seemed about to drop asleep, had he become again suddenly awake, through some terror, or some imagined discomfort? then all the soothing process had to be gone through again, and it had always been gone through without a murmur or an impatient word.

Now Jamie was alone—or perhaps worse than alone—in a dormitory of idiots, whose strange ways filled him with terror, and his dull mind would be working to discover how he came to be there, how it was that his Ju was not with him. Who would lull his fears, who sing to him old familiar strains? Would any other hand rest on the hot brow and hold it down on the pillow?

Judith looked up to heaven, to the stars already glimmering there. She was not hearkening to the talk of Uncle Zachie: she was thinking her own thoughts. She was indeed walking back to Polzeath; but her mind was nailed to that dull drab house in the suburbs of Wadebridge with the brass plate on the door, inscribed, “Mr. Scantlebray, Surgeon.” As her eyes were raised to the stars, she thought of her father. He was above, looking down on her, and it seemed to her that in the flicker of the stars she saw the trouble in her father’s face at the knowledge that his children were parted, and his poor little half-bright boy was fallen among those who had no love for him, might have no patience with his waywardness, would not make allowance for his infirmities.

She sobbed, and would not be comforted by Mr. Menaida’s assurances. Tired, foot-weary, but more tired and weary in heart and mind, she reached the cottage. She could not sleep; she was restless. She sought Jamie’s room, and seated herself on the chair by his little bed, and sobbed far on into the night. Her head ached, as did her burning and blistered feet; and as she sat she dozed off, then awoke with a start, so distinctly did she seem to hear Jamie’s voice—his familiar tone when in distress—crying, “Ju! Come to me, Ju!” So vividly did the voice sound to her that she could not for a moment or two shake off the conviction that she had in reality heard him. She thought that he must have called her. He must be unhappy. What were those people doing to him? Were they tormenting the poor little frightened creature? Were they putting him into a dark room by himself, and was he nearly mad with terror? Were they beating him, because he cried out in the night and disturbed the house?

She imagined him sitting up on a hard bed, shivering with fear, looking round him in the dark, and screaming for her—and she could not help him.

“Oh, Jamie!” she cried, and threw herself on her knees and put her hands over her eyes to shut out the horrible sight, over her ears to close them to the piercing cry. “They will drive him mad! Oh, papa! my papa! what will you say to me? Oh, my Jamie! what can I do for you?”

She was half mad herself, mad with fancies, conjured up by the fever of distress into which she had worked herself. What could she do? She could not breathe in that room. She could not breathe in the house. She could not remain so far from Jamie—and he crying for her. His voice rang still in her ears. It sounded in her heart, it drew her irresistibly away. If she could but be outside that drab establishment in the still night, to listen, and hear if all were quiet within, or whether Jamie were calling, shrieking for her. He would cry himself into fits. He would become really deranged, unless he were pacified. Oh! those people!—she imagined they were up, not knowing what to do with the boy, unable to soothe him, and were now wishing that she were there, wishing they had not sent her away.

Judith was in that condition which is one of half craze through brooding on her fears, through intense sympathy with the unhappy boy so ruthlessly spirited away, through fever of the blood, caused by long-protracted nervous strain, through over-weariness of mind and body. Jamie’s distress, his need for her became an idea that laid hold of her, that could not be dispelled, that tortured her into recklessness. She could not lie on her bed, she could not rest her head for one moment. She ran to the window, panting, and smoked the glass with her burning breath, so that she could not see through it.

The night was still, the sky clear, and there were stars in it. Who would be abroad at that time? What danger would ensue to her if she went out and ran back to Wadebridge? If any foot were to be heard on the road, she could hide. She had gone out at night in storm to save Cruel Coppinger—should she not go out in still starlight to aid her own twin-brother, if he needed her? Providence had shielded her before—it would shield her now.

The house was quiet. Mr. Menaida had long ago gone to bed, and was asleep. His snores were usually audible at night through the cottage. Jump was asleep, sound in sleep as any hard-worked sewing-wench. Judith had not undressed, had not taken off her shoes; she had wandered, consumed by restlessness, between her own room and that of her brother.

It was impossible for her to remain there. She felt that she would die of imaginings of evil unless she were near Jamie, unless there were naught but a wall between him and her.

Judith descended the stairs and once again went forth alone into the night, not now to set her face seaward, but landward; before she had gone with a defined aim in view, to warn Coppinger of his danger, now she was moved by a vague suspicion of evil.

The night was calm, but there was summer lightning on the horizon, attended by no thunder, a constant flicker, sometimes a flare, as though some bonfire were kindled beyond the margin of the world, that was being stirred and added to. The air was close.

Judith had no one to look to in the world to help her and Jamie—not her aunt, her sole relative, it was she who had sent her brother to this place of restraint; not Mr. Menaida, he had not the moral courage and energy of purpose to succor her in her effort to release Jamie; not Captain Coppinger—him she dare not ask, lest he should expect too much in return. The hand of misfortune was heavy on the girl; if anything was to be done to relieve the pressure, she must do it herself.

As she was going hastily along the lane she suddenly halted. She heard some one a little way before her. There was no gate near by which she could escape. The lane was narrow, and the hedges low, so as not to afford sufficient shadow to conceal her. By the red summer flashes she saw a man reeling toward her round the corner. His hat was on one side of his head, and he lurched first to one side of the lane, then to the other.

Then he stood still.

“Huph! huph!” he shouted. “Some one else go on, I’m done for—‘Ri-tiddle-de.’”

He saw Judith by the starlight and by the flicker of the lightning, and put his head on one side and capered toward her with arms extended, chirping—“‘Ri-tiddle-riddle-rol, huph! said he.’”

Judith started on one side, and the drunken man pursued her, but in so doing, stumbled, and fell sprawling on the ground. He scrambled to his feet again, and began to swear at her and sent after her a volley of foul and profane words. Had he contented himself with this it would have been bad enough, but he also picked up a stone and threw it. Judith felt a blow on her head, and the lightning flashes seemed to be on all sides of her, and then great black clouds to be rising like smoke out of the earth about her. She staggered into the hedge, and sank on her knees.

But fear lest the tipsy ruffian should pursue her nerved her to make an effort to escape. She quickly rose and ran along the lane, turned the corner, and ran on till her feet would no longer bear her, and her breath failed. Then, looking back, and seeing that she was not followed, she seated herself, breathless, and feeling sick, in the hedge, where a glow-worm was shining, with a calm, steady light, very different from the flicker of the stars above.

As she there sat, she was conscious of something warm on her neck, and putting her hand up, felt that it was moist. She held her fingers to the faint glow of the worm in the grass; there was a dark stain on her hand, and she was sure that it was blood.

She felt her head swim, and knew that in another moment she would lose consciousness, unless she made an effort to resist. Hastily she bound a white handkerchief about her head where wounded by the stone, to stay the flow, and walked resolutely forward.

There was now a shadow stealing up the sky to the south, and obscuring the stars, a shadow behind which danced and wavered the electrical light, but Judith heard no thunder, she had not the leisure to listen for it; all her anxiety was to reach Wadebridge. But the air, the oppressively sultry air, was charged with sound, the mutter and growl of the Atlantic. The ocean, never at rest, ever gives forth a voice, but the volume of its tone varies. Now it was loud and threatening, loud and threatening as it had been on that afternoon when Judith sat with her father in the rectory garden, tossing guelder-roses. Then, the air had been still, but burdened with the menace of the sea. So it was now at midnight; the ocean felt the influence of the distant storm that was playing far away to the south.

Judith could not run now. Her feet were too sore, her strength had given way. Resolute though her will might be, it could not inspire with masculine strength the fragile little body, recently recovered from sickness. But it carried her into the suburbs of Wadebridge, and in the starlight she reached the house of Mr. Obadiah Scantlebray, and stood before it, looking up at it despairingly. It was not drab in color now, it was lampblack against a sky that flashed in the russet-light. The kerchief she had tied about her head had become loose. Still looking at the ugly, gloomy house, she put up her arms and rebound it, knotting the ends more tightly, using care not to cover her ears, as she was intent to hear the least sound, that issued from the asylum. But for some time she could hear nothing save the rush of her blood in her ears, foaming, hissing, like the tide entering a bay over reefs. With this was mingled the mutter of the Atlantic, beyond the hills—and now—yes, certainly now—the rumble of remote thunder.

Judith had stood on the opposite side of the street looking up at Scantlebray’s establishment; she saw no light anywhere. Now she drew near and crept along the walls. There was a long wing, with its back to the street, without a window in the wall, and she thought it probable that the inmates of the asylum were accommodated therein, a dormitory up-stairs, play or school-rooms below. There Jamie must be. The only windows to this wing opened into the garden; and consequently Judith stole along the garden wall, turned the angle, down a little lane, and stood listening. The wall was high, and the summit encrusted with broken glass. She could see the glass prongs by the flicker of the lightning. She could not possibly see over the wall; the lane was too narrow for her to go back far, and the wall on the further side too high to climb. Not a sound from within reached her ears.

In the still night she stood holding her breath.

Then a scream startled her.

It was the cry of a gull flying inland.

If a gull’s cry could be heard, then surely that of her brother, were he awake and unhappy, and wanting her.

She went further down the wall, and came on a small garden gate in it, fastened, locked from within. It had a stone step. On that she sank, and laid her head in her hands.

CHAPTER XXV.

FOUND.

Strange mystery of human sympathy! inexplicable, yet very real. Irrational, yet very potent. The young mother has accepted an invitation to a garden-party. She knows that she never looked better than at present, with a shade of delicacy about her. She has got a new bonnet that is particularly becoming, and which she desires to wear in public. She has been secluded from society for several months, and she longs to meet her friends again. She knows that she is interesting, and believes herself to be more interesting than she really is. So she goes. She is talking, laughing, a little flushed with pleasure, when suddenly she becomes grave, the hand that holds the plate of raspberries and cream trembles. All her pleasure is gone. She knows that baby is crying. Her eye wanders in quest of her husband, she runs to him, touches his arm, says—

“Do order the carriage; baby is crying.”

It is all fiddle-de-dee. Baby has the best of nurses, the snuggest, daintiest little cot; has a fresh-opened tin of condensed Swiss milk. Reason tells her that; but no! and nurse cannot do anything to pacify the child, baby is crying, nurse is in despair.

In like manner now did Judith argue with herself, without being able to convince her heart. Her reason spoke and said to her—

No sound of cries comes from the asylum. There is no light in any window. Every inmate is asleep, Jamie among them. He does not need you. He is travelling in dreamland. The Scantlebrays have been kind to him. The lady is a good, motherly body; the gentleman’s whole soul is devoted to finding amusement and entertainment for the afflicted creatures under his care. He has played tricks before Jamie, made shadow-pictures on the wall, told funny stories, made jacks-in-the-box with his hands, and Jamie has laughed till he was tired, and his heavy eyes closed with a laugh not fully laughed out on his lips. The Scantlebrays are paid £70 for taking care of Jamie, and £70 in Judith’s estimation was a very princely sum. The £70 per annum Mr. Scantlebray would corruscate into his richest fun, and Mrs. Scantlebray’s heart overflowed with warmest maternal affection.

But it was in vain that Judith thus reasoned, her heart would not be convinced. An indescribable unrest was in her, and would not be laid. She knew by instinct that Jamie wanted her, was crying for her, was stretching out his hands in the dark for her.

As she sat on the step not only did reason speak, but judgment also. She could do nothing there. She had acted a foolish part in coming all that way in the dark, and without a chance of effecting any deliverance to Jamie now she had reached her destination. She had committed an egregious error in going such a distance from home, from anyone who might serve as protector to her in the event of danger, and there were other dangers she might encounter than having stones thrown at her by drunken men. If the watch were to find her there, what explanation of her presence could she give? Would they take her away and lock her up for the rest of the night? They could not leave her there. Large, warm drops, like tears from angels’ eyes, fell out of heaven upon her folded hands, and on her bowed neck.

She began to feel chilled after having been heated by her walk, so she rose, and found that she had become stiff. She must move about, however sore and weary her feet might be.

She had explored the lane as far as was needful. She could not see from it into the house, the garden, and playground. Was it possible that there was a lane on the further side of the house which would give her the desired opportunity?

Judith resolved to return by the way she had come, down the lane into the main street, then to walk along the front of the house, and explore the other side. As she was descending the lane she noticed, about twenty paces from the door, on the further side, a dense mass of Portugal laurel that hung over the opposite wall, casting a shadow of inky blackness into the lane. This she considered might serve her as shelter when the threatening storm broke and the rain poured down. She walked through this shadow, and would have entered the street, but that she perceived certain dark objects passing noiselessly along it. By the flashes of lightning she could distinguish men with laden asses, and one she saw turn to enter the lane where she was. She drew back hastily into the blot cast by the bush that swung its luxuriance over the wall, and drew as closely back to the wall as was possible. Thus she could not be seen, for the reflection of the lightning would not fall on her; every glare made the shadow seem the deeper. Though concealed herself, and wholly invisible, she was able to distinguish a man with an ass passing by, and then halting at the door in the wall that surrounded Mr. Obadiah’s tenement. There the man knocked, and uttered a peculiar whistle. As there ensued no immediate answer he knocked and whistled again, whereupon the door was opened; and a word or two was passed.

“How many do you want, sir?”

“Four.”

“Any to help to carry the half-ankers!”

“No.”

“Well, no odds. I’ll carry one and you the t’other. We’ll make two journeys, that’s all. I can’t leave Neddy for long, but I’ll go with you to your house-door.”

Probably the person addressed nodded a reply in the darkness; he made no audible answer.

“Which is it, Mr. Obadiah, rum or brandy?”

“Brandy.”

“Right you are, then. These are brandy. You won’t take three brandies and one rum?”

“Yes.”

“All right, sir; lead the way. It’s deuced dark.”

Judith knew what this signified. Some of the householders of Wadebridge were taking in their supplies of spirits from the smugglers. Owing to the inconvenience of it being unlawful to deal with these men for such goods, they had to receive their purchases at night, and with much secrecy. There were watchmen at Wadebridge, but on such nights they judiciously patrolled another quarter of the town than that which received its supplies. The watchmen were municipal officials, and were not connected with the excise, had no particular regard for the inland revenue, anyhow, owed no duties to the officers of the coast-guard. Their superior was the mayor, and the mayor was fond of buying his spirits at the cheapest market.

Both men disappeared. The door was left open behind them. The opportunity Judith had desired had come. Dare she seize it? For a moment she questioned her heart, then she resolutely stepped out of the shadow of the Portugal laurel, brushed past the patient ass, entered the grounds of Mr. Scantlebray’s establishment through the open garden-door, and drew behind a syringa bush to consider what further step she should take. In another moment both men were back.

“You are sure you don’t mind one rum?”

“No.”

“Right you are, then; I’ll have it for you direct. The other kegs are at t’other end of the lane. You come with me, and we’ll have ’em down in a jiffy.”

Judith heard both men pass out of the door. She looked toward the house. There was a light low down in a door opening into the garden or yard where she was.

Not a moment was to be lost. As soon as the last kegs were brought in the house-door would be locked, and though she had entered the garden she would be unable to penetrate to the interior of the asylum. Without hesitation, strong in her earnest purpose to help Jamie to the utmost of her power, and grasping at every chance that offered, she hastened, cautiously indeed, but swiftly, to the door whence the light proceeded. The light was but a feeble one, and cast but a fluttering ray upon the gravel. Judith was careful to walk where it could not fall on her dress.

The whole garden front of the house was now before her. She was in a sort of gravelled yard, with some bushes against the walls. The main block of the house lay to her right, and the view of it was intercepted by a wall. Clearly the garden space was divided, one portion for the house, and another, that into which she had entered, for the wing. That long wing rose before her with its windows all dark above, and the lower or ground floor also dark. Only from the door issued the light, and she saw that a guttering tallow candle was set there on the floor.

Hastily she drew back. She heard feet on the gravel. The men were returning, Mr. Obadiah Scantlebray and the smuggler, each laden with a small cask of spirits.

“Right you are,” said the man, as he set his keg down in the passage, “that’s yours, and I could drink your health, sir.”

“You wouldn’t—prefer?—” Mr. Scantlebray made contortions with his hands between the candle and the wall, and threw a shadow on the surface of plaster.

“No, thanks sir, I’d prefer a shilling.”

Mr. Scantlebray fumbled in his pockets, grunted “Humph! purse up-stairs.” Felt again, “No,” groped inside the breast of his waistcoat, “another time—not forget.”

The man muttered something not complimentary, and turned to go through the yard.

“Must lock door,” said Mr. Obadiah, and went after him. Now was Judith’s last chance. She took it at once; the moment the backs of the two men were turned she darted into the passage and stood back against the door out of the flare of the candle.

The passage was a sort of hall with slated floor, the walls plastered and whitewashed at one time, but the wash and plaster had been picked off to about five feet from the floor wherever not strongly adhesive, giving a diseased and sore look to the wall. The slates of the floor were dirty and broken.

Judith looked along the hall for a place to which she could retreat on the return of the proprietor of the establishment. She had entered that portion of the building tenanted by the unhappy patients. The meanness of the passage, the picked walls, the situation on one side of the comfortable residence showed her this. A door there was on the right, ajar, that led into the private dwelling-house, but into that Judith did not care to enter. One further down on the left probably gave access to some apartment devoted to the “pupils,” as Mrs. Scantlebray called the patients.

There was, however, another door that was open, and from it descended a flight of brick steps to what Judith conjectured to be the cellars. At the bottom a second candle, in a tin candlestick, was guttering and flickering in the draught that blew in at the yard door, and descended to this underground story. It was obvious to the girl that Mr. Scantlebray was about to carry or roll his kegs just acquired down the brick steps to his cellar. For that purpose he had set a candle there. It would not therefore do for her, to attempt to avoid him, to descend to this lower region. She must pass the door that gave access to the cellars, a door usually locked, as she judged, for a large iron key stood in the lock, and enter the room, the door of which opened further down the passage.

She was drawing her skirts together, so as to slip past the candle on the passage floor for this purpose, when her heart stood still as though she had received a blow on it. She heard—proceeding from somewhere beneath down those steps—a moan, then a feeble cry of “Ju! Where are you? Ju! Ju! Ju!”

She all but did cry out herself. A gasp of pain and horror did escape her, and then, without a thought of how she could conceal herself, how avoid Scantlebray, she ran down the steps to the cellar.

On reaching the bottom she found that there were four doors, two of which had square holes cut in them, but with iron bars before these openings. The door of one of the others, one on the left, was open, and she could see casks and bottles. It was a wine and spirit cellar, and the smell of wine issued from it.

She stood panting, frightened, fearing what she might discover, doubting whether she had heard her brother’s voice or whether she was a prey to fancy. Then again she heard a cry and a moan. It issued from the nearest cell on her right hand.

“Jamie! my Jamie!” she cried.

“Ju! Ju!”

The door was hasped, with a crook let into a staple so that it might, if necessary, be padlocked. But now it was simply shut and a wooden peg was thrust through the eye of the crook.

She caught up the candle, and with trembling hand endeavored to unfasten the door, but so agitated was she, so blinded with horror, that she could not do so till she had put down the candle again. Then she forced the peg from its place and raised the crook. She stooped and took up the candle once more, and then, with a short breath and a contraction of the breast, threw open the door, stepped in, and held up the light.

The candle flame irradiated what was but a cellar compartment vaulted with brick, once whitewashed, now dirty with cobwebs and accumulated dust and damp stains. It had a stone shelf on one side, on which lay a broken plate and some scraps of food.

Against the further wall was a low truckle bed, with a mattress on it and some rags of blanket. Huddled on this lay Jamie, his eyes dilated with terror, and yet red with weeping. His clothes had been removed, except his shirt. His long red-gold hair had lost all its gloss and beauty, it was wet with sweat and knotted. The boy’s face was ghastly in the flickering light.

Judith dropped the candle on the floor, and rushed with outstretched arms, and a cry—piercing, but beaten back on her by the walls and vault of the cell—and caught the frightened boy to her heart.

“Jamie! O my Jamie! my Jamie!”

She swayed herself, crying, in the bed, holding him to her, with no thought, her whole being absorbed in a spasm of intensest, most harrowing pain. The tallow candle was on the slate floor, fallen, melting, spluttering, flaming.

And in the door, holding the brandy keg upon his shoulders, stood, with open eyes and mouth, Mr. Obadiah Scantlebray.

CHAPTER XXVI.

AN UNWILLING PRISONER.

Mr. Obadiah stood open-mouthed staring at the twins clasped in each other’s arms, unable at first to understand what he saw. Then a suspicion entered his dull brain, he uttered a growl, put down the keg, his heavy brows contracted, he shut his mouth, drawing in his lips so that they disappeared, and he clenched his hands.

“Wait—I’ll beat you!” he said.

The upset candle was on the floor, now half molten, with a pond of tallow burning with a lambent blue flicker trembling on extinction, then shooting up in a yellow flame.

In that uncertain, changeful, upward light the face of the man looked threatening, remorseless, so that Judith, in a paroxysm of fear for her brother and herself dropped, on her knee, and caught at the tin candlestick as the only weapon of defence accessible. It was hot and burnt her fingers, but she did not let go; and as she stood up the dissolved candle fell from it among some straw that littered the pavement. This at once kindled and blazed up into golden flame.

For a moment the cell was full of light. Mr. Obadiah at once saw the danger. His casks of brandy were hard by—the fume of alcohol was in the air—if the fire spread and caught his stores a volume of flame would sweep up the cellar stair and set his house on fire. He hastily sprang in, and danced about the cell stamping furiously at the ignited wisps. Judith, who saw him rush forward, thought he was about to strike her and Jamie, and raised the tin candlestick in self-defence; but when she saw him engaged in trampling out the fire, tearing at the bed to drag away the blankets with which to smother the embers, she drew Jamie aside from his reach, sidled, with him clinging to her, along the wall, and by a sudden spring reached the passage, slammed the door, fastened the hasp, and had the gaoler secured in his own gaol.

For a moment Mr. Scantlebray was unaware that he was a prisoner, so busily engaged was he in trampling out the fire, but the moment he did realize the fact he slung himself with all his force against the door.

Judith looked round her. There was now no light in the cellar but the feeble glimmer that descended the stair from the candle above. The flame of that was now burning steadily, for the door opening into the yard was shut, and the draught excluded.

In dragging Jamie along with her, Judith had drawn forth a scanty blanket that was about his shoulders. She wrapped it round the boy.

“Let me out!” roared Scantlebray. “Don’t understand. Fun—rollicking fun.”

Judith paid no attention to his bellow. She was concerned only to escape with Jamie. She was well aware that her only chance was by retaining Mr. Obadiah where he was.

“Let me out!” again shouted the prisoner; and he threw himself furiously against the door. But though it jarred on its hinges and made the hasp leap, he could not break it down. Nevertheless, so big and strong was the man that it was by no means improbable that his repeated efforts might start a staple or snap a hinge band, and he and the door might come together crashing down into the passage between the cells.

Judith drew Jamie up the steps, and on reaching the top shut the cellar door. Below, Mr. Scantlebray roared, swore, shouted, and beat against the door; but now his voice, and the sound of his blows were muffled, and would almost certainly be inaudible in the dwelling-house. No wonder that Judith had not heard the cries of her brother. It had never occurred to her that the hapless victim of the keeper of the asylum might be chastised, imprisoned, variously maltreated in regions underground, whence no sounds of distress might reach the street, and apprise the passers-by that all was not laughter within. Standing in the passage or hall above, Judith said:

“Oh, Jamie! where are your clothes?”

The boy looked into her face with a vacant and distressed expression. He could not answer, he did not even understand her question, so stupefied was he by his terrors, and the treatment he had undergone.

Judith took the candle from the floor and searched the hall. Nothing was there save Mr. Scantlebray’s coat, which he had removed and cast across one of the kegs when he prepared to convey them down to his cellar. Should she take that? She shook her head at the thought. She would not have it said that she had taken anything out of the house, except only—as that was an extreme necessity, the blanket wrapped about Jamie. She looked into the room that opened beyond the cellar door. It was a great bare apartment, containing only a table and some forms.

“Jamie!” she said, “we must get away from this place as we are. There is no help for it. Do you not know where your clothes were put?”

He shook his head. He clung to her with both arms, as though afraid, if he held by but one that she would slip away and vanish, as one drowning, clinging to the only support that sustained him from sinking.

“Come, Jamie! It cannot be otherwise!” She set down the candle, opened the door into the yard, and issued forth into the night along with the boy. The clouds had broken, and poured down their deluge of warm thunder rain. In the dark Judith was unable to find her direction at once, she reached the boundary wall where was no door.

Jamie uttered a cry of pain.

“What is it, dear?”

“The stones cut my feet.”

She felt along the wall with one hand till she touched the jamb, then pressed against the door itself. It was shut. She groped for the lock. No key was in it. She could as little escape from that enclosure as she could enter into it from without. The door was very solid, and the lock big and secure. What was to be done? Judith considered for a moment, standing in the pouring rain through which the lightning flashed obscurely, illumining nothing. It seemed to her that there was but one course open to her, to return and obtain the key from Mr. Obadiah Scantlebray. But it would be no easy matter to induce him to surrender it.

“Jamie! will you remain at the door? Here under the wall is some shelter. I must go back.”

But the boy was frightened at the prospect of being deserted.

“Then—Jamie, will you come back with me to the house?”

No, he would not do that.

“I must go for the key, dearest,” she said, coaxingly. “I cannot open the door, so that we can escape, unless I have the key. Will you do something for Ju? Sit here, on the steps, where you are somewhat screened from the rain, and sing to me something, one of our old songs—A jolly hawk and his wings were gray? sing that, that I may hear your voice and find my way back to you. Oh—and here, Jamie, your feet are just the size of mine, and so you shall pull on my shoes. Then you will be able to run alongside of me and not hurt your soles.”

With a little persuasion she induced him to do as she asked. She took off her own shoes and gave them to him, then went across the yard to where was the house, she discovered the door by a little streak of light below it and the well trampled and worn threshold stone. She opened the door, took up the candle and again descended the steps to the cellar floor. On reaching the bottom, she held up the light and saw that the door was still sound; at the square barred opening was the red face of Mr. Scantlebray.

“Let me out,” he roared.

“Give me the key of the garden door.”

“Will you let me out if I do?”

“No; but this I promise, as soon as I have escaped from your premises I will knock and ring at your front door till I have roused the house, and then you will be found and released. By that time we shall have got well away.”

“I will not give you the key.”

“Then here you remain,” said Judith, and began to reascend the steps. It had occurred to her, suddenly, that very possibly the key she desired was in the pocket of the coat Mr. Scantlebray had cast off before descending to the cellar. She would hold no further communication with him till she had ascertained this. He yelled after her “Let me out, and you shall have the key.” But she paid no attention to his promise. On reaching the top of the stairs, she again shut the door, and took up his coat. She searched the pockets. No key was within.

She must go to him once more.

He began to shout as he saw the flicker of the candle approach. “Here is the key, take it, and do as you said.” His hand, a great coarse hand, was thrust through the opening in the door, and in it was the key she required.

“Very well,” said she, “I will do as I undertook.”

She put her hand, the right hand, up to receive the key. In her left was the candlestick. Suddenly he let go the key that clinked down on the floor outside, and made a clutch at her hand and caught her by the wrist. She grasped the bar in the little window, or he would have drawn her hand in, dragged her by the arm up against the door, and broken it. He now held her wrist and with his strong hand strove to wrench her fingers from their clutch.

“Unhasp the door!” he howled at her.

She did not answer other than with a cry of pain, as he worked with his hand at her wrist, and verily it seemed as though the fragile bones must snap under his drag.

“Unhasp the door!” he roared again.

With his great fingers and thick nails he began to thrust at and ploughed her knuckles; he had her by the wrist with one hand, and he was striving to loosen her hold of the bar with the other.

“Unhasp the door!” he yelled a third time, “or I’ll break every bone in your fingers!” and he brought his fist down on the side of the door to show how he would pound them by a blow. If he did not do this at once it was because he dreaded by too heavy a blow to strike the bar and wound himself while crushing her hand.

She could not hold the iron stanchion for more than another instant—and then he would drag her arm in, as a lion in its cage when it had laid hold of the incautious visitor, tears him to itself through the bars.

Then she brought the candle-flame up against his hand that grasped her wrist, and it played round it. He uttered a scream of pain, and let go for a moment. But that moment sufficed. She was free. The key was on the floor. She stooped to pick it up; but her fingers were as though paralyzed, she was forced to take it with the left hand and leave the candle on the floor. Then, holding the key she ran up the steps, ran out into the yard, and heard her brother wailing, “Ju! I want you! Where are you, Ju?”

Guided by his cries she reached the door. The key she put into the lock, and with a little effort turned it. The door opened, she and Jamie were free.

The door shut behind them. They were in the dark lane, under a pouring rain. But Judith thought nothing of the darkness, nothing of the rain. She threw her arms round her brother, put her wet cheek against his, and burst into tears.

“My Jamie! O my Jamie!”

But the deliverance of her brother was not complete; she must bring him back to Polzeath. She could allow herself but a moment for the relief of her heart, and then she caught him to her side, and pushed on with him along the lane till they entered the street. Here she stood for a moment in uncertainty. Was she bound to fulfil her engagement to Mr. Obadiah? She had obtained the key, but he had behaved to her with treachery. He had not intended the key to be other than a bait to draw her within his clutch, that he might torture her into opening the door of his cell. Nevertheless, she had the key, and Judith was too honorable to take advantage of him.

With Jamie still clinging to her she went up the pair of steps to the front door, rang the night-bell, and knocked long and loud. Then, all at once her strength that had lasted gave way, and she sank on the doorsteps, without indeed losing consciousness, but losing in an instant all power of doing or thinking, of striving any more for Jamie or for herself.

CHAPTER XXVII.

A RESCUE.

A window overhead was thrown open, and a voice that Judith recognized as that of Mrs. Obadiah Scantlebray, called: “Who is there?—what is wanted?”

The girl could not answer. The power to speak was gone from her. It was as though all her faculties, exerted to the full, had at once given way. She could not rise from the steps on which she had sunk: the will to make the effort was gone. Her head was fallen against the jamb of the door and the knot of the kerchief was between her head and the wood, and hurt her, but even the will to lift her hands and shift the bandage one inch was not present.

The mill-wheel revolves briskly, throwing the foaming water out of its buckets, with a lively rattle, then its movement slackens, it strains, the buckets fill and even spill, but the wheel seems to be reduced to statuariness. That stress point is but for a moment, then the weight of the water overbalances the strain, and whirr! round plunges the wheel, and the bright foaming water is whisked about, and the buckets disgorge their contents.

It is the same with the wheel of human life. It has its periods of rapid and glad revolutions, and also its moments of supreme tension, when it is all but overstrung—when its movement is hardly perceptible. The strain put on Judith’s faculties had been excessive, and now those faculties failed her, failed her absolutely. The prostration might not last long—it might last forever. It is so sometimes when there has been overexertion; thought stops, will ceases to act, sensation dies into numbness, the heart beats slow, slower, then perhaps stops finally.

It was not quite come to that with Judith. She knew that she had rushed into danger again, the very danger from which she had just escaped, she knew it, but she was incapable of acting on the knowledge.

“Who is below?” was again called from an upper window.

Judith, with open eyes, heard that the rain was still falling heavily, heard the shoot of water from the roof plash down into the runnel of the street, felt the heavy drops come down on her from the architrave over the door, and she saw something in the roadway: shadows stealing along the same as she had seen before, but passing in a reversed direction. These were again men and beasts, but their feet and hoofs were no longer inaudible, they trod in the puddles and splashed and squelched the water and mud about, at each step. The smugglers had delivered the supplies agreed on, at the houses of those who dealt with them, and were now returning, the asses no longer laden.

And Judith heard the door behind her unbarred and unchained and unlocked. Then it was opened, and a ray of light was cast into the street, turning falling rain-drops into drops of liquid gold, and revealing, ghostly, a passing ass and its driver.

“Who is there? Is anyone there?”

Then the blaze of light was turned on Judith, and her eyes shut with a spasm of pain.

In the doorway stood Mrs. Scantlebray half-garmented, that is to say with a gown on, the folds of which fell in very straight lines from the waist to her feet, and with a night-cap on her head, and her curls in papers. She held a lamp in her hand, and this was now directed upon the girl, lying, or half-sitting in the doorway, her bandaged head leaning against the jamb, one hand in her lap, the fingers open, the other falling at her side, hanging down the steps, the fingers in the running current of the gutter, in which also was one shoeless foot.

“Why—goodness! mercy on us!” exclaimed Mrs. Scantlebray, inconsiderately thrusting the lamp close into the girl’s face. “It can never be—yet—surely it is——”

“Judith!” exclaimed a deep voice, the sound of which sent a sudden flutter through the girl’s nerves and pulses. “Judith!” and from out the darkness and falling rain plunged a man in full mantle wrapped about him and overhanging broad-brimmed hat. Without a word of excuse he snatched the light from Mrs. Scantlebray and raised it above Judith’s head.

“Merciful powers!” he cried, “what is the meaning of this! What has happened? There is blood here—blood! Judith—speak. For heaven’s sake, speak!”

The light fell on his face, his glittering eyes—and she slightly turned her head and looked at him. She opened her mouth to speak, but could form no words, but the appeal in those dim eyes went to his heart, he thrust the lamp roughly back into Mrs. Scantlebray’s hand, knelt on the steps, passed an arm under the girl, the other about her waist, lifted and carried her without a word inside the house. There was a leather-covered ottoman in the hall, and he laid her on that, hastily throwing off his cloak, folding it, and placing it as a pillow beneath her head.

Then, on one knee at her side, he drew a flask from his breast pocket, and poured some drops of spirit down her throat. The strength of the brandy made her catch her breath, and brought a flash of red to her cheek. It had served its purpose, helped the wheel of life to turn beyond the stress point at which it threatened to stay wholly. She moved her head, and looked eagerly about her for Jamie. He was not there. She drew a long breath, a sigh of relief.

“Are you better?” he asked, stooping over her, and she could read the intensity of his anxiety in his face.

She tried to smile a reply, but the muscles of her lips were too stiff for more than a flutter.

“Run!” ordered Captain Coppinger, standing up, “you woman, are you a fool? Where is your husband? He is a doctor, fetch him. The girl might die.”

“He—Captain—he is engaged, I believe, taking in his stores.”

“Fetch him! Leave the lamp here.”

Mrs. Scantlebray groped about for a candle, and having found one, proceeded to light it.

“I’m really shocked to appear before you, Captain, in this state of undress.”

“Fetch your husband!” said Coppinger, impatiently.

Then she withdrew.

The draught of spirits had acted on Judith and revived her. Her breath came more evenly, her heart beat regularly, and the blood began to circulate again. As her bodily powers returned, her mind began to work once more, and again anxiously she looked about her.

“What is it you want?” asked Captain Cruel.

“Where is Jamie?”

He muttered a low oath. Always Jamie. She could think of no one but that silly boy.

Then suddenly she recalled her position—in Scantlebray’s house, and the wife was on the way to the cellars, would find him, release him—and though she knew that Coppinger would not suffer Obadiah to injure her, she feared, in her present weakness, a violent scene. She sat up, dropped her feet on the floor, and stretched both her hands to the smuggler.

“Oh, take me! take me from here.”

“No, Judith,” he answered. “You must have the doctor to see you—after that——”

“No! no! take me before he comes. He will kill me.”

Coppinger laughed. He would like to see the man who would dare to lay a finger on Judith while he stood by.

Now they heard a noise from the wings of the house at the side that communicated with the dwelling by a door that Mrs. Scantlebray had left ajar. There were exclamations, oaths, a loud, angry voice, and the shrill tones of the woman mingled with the bass notes of her husband. The color that had risen to the girl’s cheeks left them; she put her hands on Coppinger’s breast and looking him entreatingly in the eyes, said:

“I pray you! I pray you!”

He snatched her up in his arms, drew her close to him, went to the door, cast it open with his foot, and bore her out into the rain. There stood his mare, Black Bess, with a lad holding her.

“Judith, can you ride?”

He lifted her into the saddle.

“Boy,” said he, “lead on gently; I will stay her lest she fall.”

Then they moved away, and saw through the sheet of falling rain the lighted door, and Scantlebray in it, in his shirt sleeves shaking his fists, and his wife behind him, endeavoring to draw him back by the buckle and strap of his waistcoat.

“Oh, where is Jamie? I wonder where Jamie is?” said Judith, looking round her in the dark, but could see no sign of her brother.

There were straggling houses for half a mile—a little gap of garden or paddock, then a cottage, then a cluster of trees, and an alehouse, then hedges and no more houses. A cooler wind was blowing, dispelling the close, warm atmosphere, and the rain fell less heavily. There was a faint light among the clouds like a watering of satin. It showed that the storm was passing away. The lightning flashes were, moreover, at longer intervals, fainter, and the thunder rumbled distantly. With the fresher air, some strength and life came back to Judith. The wheel though on the turn was not yet revolving rapidly.

Coppinger walked by the horse, he had his arm up, holding Judith, for he feared lest in her weakness she might fall, and indeed, by her weight upon his hand, he was aware that her power to sustain herself unassisted was not come. He looked up at her; he could hardly fail to do so, standing, striding so close to her, her wet garments brushing his face; but he could not see her, or saw her indistinctly. He had thrust her little foot into the leather of his stirrup, as the strap was too long for her to use, and he did not tarry to shorten it.

Coppinger was much puzzled to learn how Judith had come at such an hour to the door of Mrs. Obadiah Scantlebray, shoeless, and with wounded head, but he asked no questions. He was aware that she was not in a condition to answer them.

He held her up with his right hand in the saddle, and with his left he held her foot in the leather. Were she to fall she might drag by the foot, and he must be on his guard against that. Pacing in the darkness, holding her, his heart beat, and his thoughts tossed and boiled within him. This girl so feeble, so childish, he was coming across incessantly, thrown in her way to help her, and he was bound to her by ties invisible, impalpable, and yet of such strength that he could not break through them and free himself.

He was a man of indomitable will, of iron strength, staying up this girl, who had flickered out of unconsciousness and might slide back into it again at any moment, and yet he felt, he knew that he was powerless before her—that if she said to him, “Lie down that I may trample on you,” he would throw himself in the foul road without a word to be trodden under by these shoeless feet. There was but one command she could lay on him that he would not perform, and that was “Let me go by myself! Never come near me!” That he could not obey. The rugged moon revolves about the earth. Could the moon fly away into space were the terrestrial orb to bid it cease to be a satellite? And if it did, whither would it go? Into far off space, into outer darkness and deathly cold, to split and shiver into fragments in the inconceivable frost in the abyss of blackness. And Judith threw a sort of light and heat over this fierce, undisciplined man, that trembled in his veins and bathed his heart, and was to him a spring of beauty, a summer of light. Could he leave her? To leave her would be to be lost to everything that had now begun to transform his existence. The thought came over him now, as he walked along in silence—that she might bid him let go, and he felt that he could not obey. He must hold her, he must hold her not from him on the saddle, not as merely staying her up, but to himself, to his heart, as his own, his own forever.

Suddenly an exclamation from Judith: “Jamie! Jamie!”

Something was visible in the darkness, something whitish in the hedge. In another moment it came bounding up.

“Ju! oh, Ju! I ran away!”

“You did well,” she said. “Now I am happy. You are saved.”

Coppinger looked impatiently round and saw by the feeble light that the boy had come close to him, and that he was wrapped up in a blanket.

“He has nothing on him,” said Judith. “Oh, poor Jamie!”

She had revived; she was almost herself again. She held herself more firmly in the saddle and did not lean so heavily on Coppinger’s hand.

Coppinger was vexed at the appearance of the boy, Jamie; he would fain have paced along in silence by the side of Judith. If she could not speak it mattered not so long as he held her. But that this fool should spring out of the darkness and join company with him and her, and at once awake her interest and loosen her tongue, irritated him. But as she was able to speak he would address her, and not allow her to talk over his head with Jamie.

“How have you been hurt?” he asked. “Why have you tied that bandage about your head?”

“I have been cut by a stone.”

“How came that?”

“A drunken man threw it at me.”

“What was his name?”

“I do not know.”

“That is well for him.” Then, after a short pause, he asked further, “And your unshod feet?”

“Oh! I gave my shoes to Jamie.”

Coppinger turned sharply round on the boy. “Take off those shoes instantly and give them back to your sister.”

“No—indeed, no,” said Judith. “He is running and will cut his poor feet—and I, through your kindness, am riding.”

Coppinger did not insist. He asked: “But how comes the boy to be without clothes?”

“Because I rescued him, as he was, from the Asylum.”

“You—! Is that why you are out at night?”

“Yes. I knew he had been taken by the two Mr. Scantlebrays at Wadebridge, and I could not rest. I felt sure he was miserable, and was dying for me.”

“So—in the night you went to him?”

“Yes.”

“But how did you get him his freedom?”

“I found him locked in the black-hole, in the cellar.”

“And did Scantlebray look on passively while you released him?”

“Oh, no, I let Jamie out, and locked him in, in his place.”

“You—Scantlebray in the black-hole!”

“Yes.”

Then Coppinger laughed, laughed long and boisterously. His hand that held Judith’s foot and the stirrup leather shook with his laughter.

“By Heaven!—You are wonderful, very wonderful. Any one who opposes you is ill-treated, knocked down and broken, or locked into a black hole in the dead of night.”

Judith, in spite of her exhaustion, was obliged to smile.

“You see, I must do what I can for Jamie.”

“Always Jamie.”

“Yes, Captain Coppinger, always Jamie. He is helpless and must be thought for. I am mother, nurse, sister to him.”

“His providence,” sneered Coppinger.

“The means under Providence of preserving him,” said Judith.

“And me—would you do aught for me?”

“Did I not come down the cliffs for you?” asked the girl.

“Heaven forgive me that I forgot that for one moment,” he answered, with vehemence. “Happy—happy—happiest of any in this vile world is the man for whom you will think, and scheme and care and dare—as you do for Jamie.”

“There is none such,” said Judith.

“No—I know that,” he answered, gloomily, and strode forward with his head down.

Ten minutes had elapsed in silence, and Polzeath was approached. Then suddenly Coppinger let go his hold of Judith, caught the rein of Black Bess, and arrested her. Standing beside Judith, he said, in a peevish, low tone:

“I touched your hand, and said I was subject to a queen.” He bent, took her foot and kissed it. “You repulsed me as subject; you are my mistress!—accept me as your slave.”

CHAPTER XXVIII.

AN EXAMINATION.

Some days had elapsed. Judith had not suffered from her second night expedition as she had from the first, but the intellectual abilities of Jamie had deteriorated. The fright he had undergone had shaken his nerves, and had made him more restless, timid, and helpless than heretofore, exacting more of Judith’s attention and more trying her endurance. But she trusted these ill effects would pass away in time. From his rambling talk she had been able to gather some particulars, which to a degree modified her opinion relative to the behavior of Mr. Obadiah Scantlebray. It appeared from the boy’s own account that he had been very troublesome. After he had been taken into the wing of the establishment that was occupied by the imbeciles, his alarm and bewilderment had grown. He had begun to cry and to clamor for his release, or for the presence of his sister. As night came on, paroxysms of impotent rage had alternated with fits of whining. The appearance of his companions in confinement, some of them complete idiots, with half-human gestures and faces, had enhanced his terrors. He would eat no supper, and when put to bed in the common dormitory had thrown off his clothes, torn his sheets, and refused to lie down; had sat up and screamed at the top of his voice. Nothing that could be done, no representations would pacify him. He prevented his fellow inmates of the asylum from sleeping, and he made it not at all improbable that his cries would be overheard by passers-by in the street, or those occupying neighboring houses, and thus give rise to unpleasant surmises, and perhaps inquiry. Finally, Scantlebray had removed the boy to the place of punishment, the Black Hole, a compartment of the cellars, there to keep him till his lungs were exhausted, or his reason gained the upper hand, and Judith supposed, with some justice, that Scantlebray had done this only, or chiefly, because he himself would be up, and about the cellars, engaged in housing his supplies of brandy, and that he had no intention of locking the unhappy boy up for the entire night, in solitude, in his cellars. He had not left him in complete darkness, for a candle had been placed on the ground outside the Black Hole door.

As Judith saw the matter now, it seemed to her that though Scantlebray had acted with harshness and lack of judgment there was some palliation for his conduct. That Jamie could be most exasperating, she knew full well by experience. When he went into one of his fits of temper and crying, it took many hours and much patience to pacify him. She had spent long time and exhausted her efforts to bring him to a subdued frame of mind on the most irrational and trifling occasions, when he had been angered. Nothing answered with him then save infinite forbearance and exuberant love. On this occasion there was good excuse for Jamie’s fit, he had been frightened, and frightened out of his few wits. As Judith said to herself—had she been treated in the same manner, spirited off, without preparation, to a strange house, confined among afflicted beings, deprived of every familiar companion—she would have been filled with terror, and reasonably so. She would not have exhibited it, however, in the same manner as Jamie.

Scantlebray had not acted with gentleness, but he had not, on the other hand, exhibited wanton cruelty. That he was a man of coarse nature, likely on provocation to break through the superficial veneer of amiability, she concluded from her own experience, and she did not doubt that those of the unfortunate inmates of the asylum who overstrained his forbearance met with very rough handling. But that he took a malignant pleasure in harassing and torturing them, that she did not believe.

On the day following the escape from the asylum, Judith sent Mr. Menaida to Wadebridge with the blanket that had been carried off round the shoulders of her brother, and with a request to have Jamie’s clothes surrendered. Uncle Zachie returned with the garments, they were not refused him, and Judith and her brother settled down into the routine of employment and amusement as before. The lad assisted Mr. Menaida with his bird skins, talking a little more childishly than before, and sticking less assiduously to his task; and Judith did her needlework and occasionally played on the piano the pieces of music at which Uncle Zachie had hammered ineffectually for many years, and she played them to the old man’s satisfaction.

At last the girl ventured to induce Jamie to recommence his lessons. He resisted at first, and when she did, on a rainy day, persuade him to set to his school tasks, she was careful not to hold him to them for more than a few minutes, and to select those lessons which made him least impatient.

There was a “Goldsmith’s Geography,” illustrated with copper-plates of Indians attacking Captain Cook, the geysers, Esquimaux fishing, etc., that always amused the boy. Accordingly, more geography was done during these first days of resumption of work than history, arithmetic, or reading. Latin had not yet been attempted, as that was Jamie’s particular aversion. However, the Eton Latin grammar was produced, and placed on the table, to familiarize his mind with the idea that it had to be tackled some day.

Judith had spread the table with lesson-books, ink, slate, and writing-copies, one morning, when she was surprised at the entry of four gentlemen, two of whom she recognized immediately as the Brothers Scantlebray. The other two she did not know. One was thin faced, with red hair, a high forehead extending to the crown, with the hair drawn over it, and well pomatumed, to keep it in place, and conceal the baldness; the other a short man, in knee-breeches and tan-boots, with a red face, and with breath that perfumed the whole room with spirits.

Mr. Scantlebray, senior, came up with both hands extended. “This is splendid! How are you? Never more charmed in my life, and ready to impart knowledge, as the sun diffuses light. Obadiah, old man, look at your pupil—better already for having passed through your hands. I can see it at a glance; there’s a brightness, a Je ne sais quoi about him that was not there before. Old man, I congratulate you. You have a gift—shake hands.”

The gentlemen seated themselves without invitation. Surprise and alarm made Judith forget her usual courtesy. She feared lest the sight of his gaolers might excite Jamie. But it was not so. Whether, in his confused mind, he did not associate Mr. Obadiah with his troubles on that night of distress, or whether his attention was distracted by the sight of so many, was doubtful, but Jamie did not seem to be disconcerted; rather, on the contrary, he was glad of some excuse for escape from lessons.

“We are come,” said the red-headed man, “at Miss Trevisa’s desire—but really, Mr. Scantlebray, for shame of you. Where are your manners? Introduce me.”

“Mr. Vokins,” said Scantlebray, “and the accomplished and charming Miss Judith Trevisa, orphing.”

“And now, dear young lady,” said the red-headed man, “now, positively, it is my turn—my friend, Mr. Jukes. Jukes, man! Miss Judith Trevisa.”

Then Mr. Vokins coughed into his thin white hand, and said, “We are come, naturally—and I am sure you wish what Miss Trevisa wishes—to just look at your brother, and give our opinion on his health.”

“Oh, he is quite well,” said Judith.

“Ah! you think so, naturally, but we would decide for ourselves, dearest young lady, though—not for the world would we willingly differ from you. But, you know, there are questions on which varieties of opinions are allowable, and yet do not disturb the most heartfelt friendship. It is so, is it not, Jukes?”

The rubicund man in knee-breeches nodded.

“Shall I begin, Jukes? Why, my fine little man! What an array of books! What scholarship! And at your age, too—astounding! What age did you say you were?” This to Jamie in an insinuating tone. Jamie stared, looked appealingly at Judith, and said nothing.

“We are the same age, we are twins,” said Judith.

“Oh! it is not the right thing to appear anxious to know a lady’s age. We will put it another way, eh, Jukes?”

The red-faced man leaned his hands on his stick, his chin on his hands, and winked, as in that position he could not nod.

“Now, my fine little man! When is your birthday? When you have your cake—raisin-cake, eh?”

Jamie looked questioningly at his sister.

“Ah! Come, not the day of the month—but the month, eh?”

Jamie could not answer.

“Come now,” said the red-headed levy man, stretching his legs before him, legs vested in white trousers, strapped down tight. “Come now, my splendid specimen of humanity! In which quarter of the year? Between sickle and scythe, eh?” He waited, and receiving no answer, pulled out a pocket-book and made a note, after having first wetted the end of his pencil. “Don’t know when he was born. What do you say to that, Jukes? Will you take your turn?”