Cruel Coppinger remained brooding in the place where he had been standing, and as he stood there his face darkened. He was a man of imperious will and violent passions; a man unwont to curb himself; accustomed to sweep out of his path whoever or whatever stood between him and the accomplishment of his purpose; a man who never asked himself whether that purpose were good or bad. He had succumbed, in a manner strange and surprising to himself, to the influence of Judith—a sort of witchery over him that subdued his violence and awed him into gentleness and modesty. But when her presence was withdrawn the revolt of the man’s lawless nature began. Who was this who had dared to oppose her will to his? a mere child of eighteen. Women were ever said to be a perverse generation, and loved to domineer over men; and man was weak to suffer it. So thinking, chafing, he had worked himself into a simmering rage when Miss Trevisa entered the hall, believing it to be empty. Seeing him, she was about to withdraw, when he shouted to her to stay.
“I beg your pardon for intruding, sir; I am in quest of my niece. Those children keep me in a whirl like a teetotum.”
“Your niece is gone.”
“Gone! where to?”
“Back—I suppose to that old fool, Menaida. He is meet to be a companion for her and that idiot, her brother; not I—I am to be spurned from her presence.”
Miss Trevisa was surprised, but she said nothing. She knew his moods.
“Stand there, Mother Dunes!” said Coppinger, in his anger and humiliation, glad to have some one on whom he could pour out the lava that boiled up in his burning breast. “Listen to me. She has told me that we belong to different worlds—she and I—and to different races, kinds of being, and that there can be no fellowship betwixt us. Where I am she will not be. Between me and you there is a great gulf fixed—see you? and I am as Dives tormented in my flame, and she stands yonder, serene, in cold and complacent blessedness, and will not cross to me with her finger dipped in cold water to cool my tongue; and as for my coming near to her”—he laughed fiercely—“that can never be.”
“Did she say all that?” asked Miss Trevisa.
“She looked it; she implied it, if she did not say it in these naked words. And, what is more,” shouted he, coming before Aunt Dionysia, threateningly, so that she recoiled, “it is true. When she sat there in yonder chair, and I stood here by this hearthstone, and she spoke, I knew it was true; I saw it all—the great gulf unspanned by any bridge. I knew that none could ever bridge it, and there we were, apart for ever, I in my fire burning, she in Blessedness—indifferent.”
“I am very sorry,” said Miss Trevisa, “that Judith should so have misconducted herself. My brother brought her up in a manner to my mind, most improper for a young girl. He made her read Rollin’s ‘Ancient History,’ and Blair’s ‘Chronological Tables,’ and really upon my word, I cannot say what else.”
“I do not care how it was,” said Coppinger. “But here stands the gulf.”
“Rollin is in sixteen octavo volumes,” said Aunt Dionysia; “and they are thick also.”
Coppinger strode about the room, with his hands in his deep coat pockets, his head down.
“My dear brother,” continued Miss Trevisa, apologetically, “made of Judith his daily companion, told her all he thought, asked her opinion, as though she were a full-grown woman, and one whose opinion was worth having, whereas he never consulted me, never cared to talk to me about anything, and the consequence is the child has grown up without that respect for her elders and betters, and that deference for the male sex which the male sex expects. I am sure when I was a girl, and of her age, I was very different, very different indeed.”
“Of that I have not the smallest doubt,” sneered Coppinger. “But never mind about yourself. It is of her I am speaking. She is gone, has left me, and I cannot endure it. I cannot endure it,” he repeated.
“I beg your pardon,” said Aunt Dionysia, “you must excuse me saying it, Captain Coppinger, but you place me in a difficult position. I am the guardian of my niece, though, goodness knows, I never desired it, and I don’t know what to think. It is very flattering and kind, and I esteem it great goodness in you to speak of Judith with such warmth, but——”
“Goodness! kindness!” exclaimed Coppinger. “I am good and kind to her! She forced me to it. I can be nothing else, and she throws me at her feet and tramples on me.”
“I am sure your sentiments, sir, are—are estimable; but, feeling as you seem to imply toward Judith, I hardly know what to say. Bless me! what a scourge to my shoulders these children are: nettles stinging and blistering my skin, and not allowing me a moment’s peace!”
“I imply nothing,” said Coppinger. “I speak out direct and plain what I mean. I love her. She has taken me, she turns me about, she gets my heart between her little hands and tortures it.”
“Then surely, Captain, you cannot ask me to let her be here. You are most kind to express yourself in this manner about the pert hussy, but, as she is my niece, and I am responsible for her, I must do my duty by her, and not expose her to be—talked about. Bless me!” gasped Aunt Dunes, “when I was her age I never would have put myself into such a position as to worry my aunt out of her seven senses, and bring her nigh to distraction.”
“I will marry her, and make her mistress of my house and all I have,” said Coppinger.
Miss Trevisa slightly courtesied, then said, “I am sure you are over-indulgent, but what is to become of me? I have no doubt it will be very comfortable and acceptable to Judith to hear this, but—what is to become of me? It would not be very delightful for me to be housekeeper here under my own niece, a pert, insolent, capricious hussy. You can see at once, Captain Coppinger, that I cannot consent to that.”
The woman had the shrewdness to know that she could be useful to Coppinger, and the selfishness that induced her to make terms with him to secure her own future, and to show him that she could stand in his way till he yielded to them.
“I never asked to have these children thrust down my throat, like the fish-bone that strangled Lady Godiva—no, who was it? Earl Godiva; but I thank my stars I never waded through Rollin, and most certainly kept my hands off Blair. Of course, Captain Coppinger, it is right and proper of you to address yourself to me, as the guardian of my niece, before speaking to her.”
“I have spoken to her and she spurns me.”
“Naturally, because you spoke to her before addressing me on the subject. My dear brother—I will do him this justice—was very emphatic on this point. But you see, sir, my consent can never be given.”
“I do not ask your consent.”
“Judith will never take you without it.”
“Consent or no consent,” said Coppinger, “that is a secondary matter. The first is, she does not like me, whereas I—I love her. I never loved a woman before. I knew not what love was. I laughed at the fools, as I took them to be, who sold themselves into the hands of women; but now, I cannot live without her. I can think of nothing but her all day. I am in a fever, and cannot sleep at night—all because she is tormenting me.”
All at once, exhausted by his passion, desperate at seeing no chance of success, angry at being flouted by a child, he threw himself into the chair, and settled his chin on his breast, and folded his arms.
“Go on,” said he. “Tell me what is my way out of this.”
“You cannot expect my help or my advice, Captain, so as to forward what would be most unsatisfactory to me.”
“What! do you grudge her to me?”
“Not that; but, if she were here, what would become of me? Should I be turned out into the cold at my age by this red-headed hussy, to find a home for myself with strangers? Here I never would abide with her as mistress, never.”
“I care naught about you.”
“No, of that I am aware, to my regret, sir; but that makes it all the more necessary for me to take care for myself.”
“I see,” said Coppinger, “I must buy you. Is your aid worth it? Will she listen to you?”
“I can make her listen to me,” said Aunt Dunes, “if it be worth my while. At my age, having roughed it, having no friends, I must think of myself and provide for the future, when I shall be too old to work.”
“Name your price.”
Miss Trevisa did not answer for a while; she was considering the terms she would make. To her coarse and soured mind there was nothing to scruple at in aiding Coppinger in his suit. The Trevisas were of a fine old Cornish stock, but then Judith took after her mother, the poor Scottish governess, and Aunt Dunes did not feel toward her as though she were of her own kin. The girl looked like her mother. She had no right, in Miss Trevisa’s eyes, to bear the name of her father, for her father ought to have known better than stoop to marry a beggarly, outlandish governess. Not very logical reasoning, but what woman, where her feelings are engaged, does reason logically? Aunt Dunes had never loved her niece; she felt an inner repulsion, such as sprang from encountering a nature superior, purer, more refined than her own, and the mortification of being forced to admit to herself that it was so. Judith, moreover, was costing her money, and Miss Trevisa parted with her hard-earned savings as reluctantly as with her heart’s blood. She begrudged the girl and her brother every penny she was forced, or believed she would be forced, to expend upon them. And was she doing the girl an injury in helping her to a marriage that would assure her a home and a comfortable income?
Aunt Dionysia knew well enough that things went on in Pentyre Glaze that were not to be justified, that Coppinger’s mode of life was not one calculated to make a girl of Judith’s temperament happy, but—“Hoity-toity!” said Miss Trevisa to herself, “if girls marry, they must take men as they find them. Beggars must not be choosers. You must not look a gift horse in the mouth. No trout can be eaten apart from its bones, nor a rose plucked that is free from thorns.” She herself had accommodated herself to the ways of the house, to the moods and manners of Coppinger; and if she could do that, so could a mongrel Trevisa. What was good enough for herself was over-good for Judith.
She had been saddled with these children, much against her wishes, and if she shifted the saddle to the shoulders of one willing to bear it, why not? She had duties to perform to her own self as well as to those thrust on her by the dead hand of that weak, that inconsiderate brother of hers, Peter Trevisa.
Would her brother have approved of her forwarding this union? That was a question that did not trouble her much. Peter did what he thought best for his daughter when he was alive, stuffing her head with Rollin and Blair, and now that he was gone, she must do the best she could for her, and here was a chance offered that she would be a fool not to snap at.
Nor did she concern herself greatly whether Judith’s happiness were at stake. Hoity-toity! girls’ happiness! They are bound to make themselves happy when they find themselves. The world was not made to fit them, but they to accommodate themselves to the places in which they found themselves in the world.
Miss Trevisa had for some days seen the direction matters were taking, she had seen clearly enough the infatuation—yes, infatuation she said it was—that had possessed Coppinger. What he could see in the girl passed her wits to discover. To her, Judith was an odious little minx—very like her mother. Miss Trevisa, therefore, had had time to weigh the advantages and the disadvantages that might spring to her, should Coppinger persist in his suit and succeed; and she had considered whether it would be worth her while to help or to hinder his suit.
“You put things,” said Aunt Dionysia, “in a blunt and a discourteous manner, such as might offend a lady of delicacy, like myself, who am in delicacy a perfect guava jelly; but, Captain, I know your ways, as I ought to, having been an inmate of this house for many years. It is no case of buying and selling, as you insinuate, but the case is plainly this: I know the advantage it will be to my niece to be comfortably provided for. She and Jamie have between them but about a thousand pounds, a sum to starve, and not to live, upon. They have no home and no relative in the world but myself, who am incapable of giving them a home and of doing anything for them except at an excruciating sacrifice. If Judith be found, through your offer, a home, then Jamie also is provided for.”
He said nothing to this, but moved his feet impatiently. She went on: “The boy must be provided for. And if Judith become your wife, not only will it be proper for you to see that he is so, but Judith will give neither you nor me our natural rest until the boy is comfortable and happy.”
“Confound the boy!”
“It is all very well to say that, but he who would have anything to say to Judith must reckon to have to consider Jamie also. They are inseparable. Now, I assume that by Judith’s marriage Jamie is cared for. But how about myself? Is every one to lie in clover and I in stubble? Am I to rack my brains to find a home for my nephew and niece, only that I may be thrust out myself? To find for them places at your table, that I may be deprived of a crust and a bone under it? If no one else will consider me, I must consider myself. I am the last representative of an ancient and honorable family—” She saw Coppinger move his hand, and thought he expressed dissent. She added hastily, “As to Judith and Jamie, they take after their Scotch mother. I do not reckon them as Trevisas.”
“Come—tell me what you want,” said Coppinger, impatiently.
“I want to be secure for my old age, that I do not spend it in the poor-house.”
“What do you ask?”
“Give me an annuity of fifty pounds for my life, and Othello Cottage that is on your land.”
“You ask enough.”
“You will never get Judith without granting me that.”
“Well—get Judith to be mine, and you shall have it.”
“Will you swear to it?”
“Yes.”
“And give me—I desire that—the promise in writing.”
“You shall have it.”
“Then I will help you.”
“How?”
“Leave that to me. I am her guardian.”
“But not of her heart?”
“Leave her to me. You shall win her.”
“How!”
“Through Jamie.”
To revert to the old life as far as possible under changed circumstances, to pass a sponge over a terrible succession of pictures, to brush out the vision of horrors from her eyes, and shake the burden of the past off her head—if for a while only—was a joy to Judith. She had been oppressed with nightmare, and now the night was over, her brain clear, and should forget its dreams.
She and Jamie were together, and were children once more; her anxiety for her brother was allayed, and she had broken finally with Cruel Coppinger. Her heart bounded with relief. Jamie was simple and docile as of old; and she rambled with him through the lanes, along the shore, upon the downs, avoiding only one tract of common and one cove.
A child’s heart is elastic; eternal droopings it cannot bear. Beaten down, bruised and draggled by the storm, it springs up when the sun shines, and laughs into flower. It is no eucalyptus that ever hangs its leaves; it is a sensitive plant, wincing, closing, at a trifle, feeling acutely, but not for long.
And now Judith had got an idea into her head, that she communicated to Jamie, and her sanguine anticipations kindled his torpid mind. She had resolved to make little shell baskets and other chimney ornaments, not out of the marine shells cast up by the sea, for on that coast none came ashore whole, but out of the myriad snail-shells that strew the downs. They were of all sizes, from a pin’s head to a gooseberry, and of various colors—salmon-pink, sulphur-yellow, rich brown and pure white. By judicious arrangement of sizes and of colors, with a little gum on cardboard, what wonderful erections might be made, certain to charm the money out of the pocket, and bring in a little fortune to the twins.
“And then,” said Jamie, “I can build a linney, and rent a paddock, and keep my Neddy at Polzeath.”
“And,” said Judith, “we need be no longer a burden to Auntie.”
The climax of constructive genius would be exhibited in the formation of a shepherd and shepherdess, for which Judith was to paint faces and hands; but their hats, their garments, their shoes, were to be made of shells. The shepherdess was to have a basket on her arm, and in this basket were to be flowers, not made out of complete shells, but out of particles of sea-shells of rainbow colors.
What laughter, what exultation there was over the shepherd and shepherdess! How in imagination they surpassed the fascinations of Dresden china figures. And the price at which they were to be sold was settled. Nothing under a pound would be accepted, and that would be inadequate to represent the value of such a monument of skill and patience! The shepherd and shepherdess would have to be kept under glass bells, on a drawing-room mantel-shelf.
Judith’s life had hitherto been passed between her thoughtful, cultured father and her thoughtless, infantile brother. In some particulars she was old for her age, but in others she was younger than her years. As the companion of her father, she had gained powers of reasoning, a calmness in judging, and a shrewdness of sense which is unusual in a girl of eighteen. But as also the associate of Jamie in his play, she had a childish delight in the simplest amusements, and a readiness to shake off all serious thought and fretting care in an instant, and to accommodate herself to the simplicity of her brother.
Thus—a child with a child—Judith and Jamie were on the common one windy, showery day, collecting shells, laughing, chattering, rejoicing over choice snail-shells, as though neither had passed through a wave of trouble, as though life lay serene before them.
Judith had no experience of the world. With her natural wit and feminine instinct she had discovered that Cruel Coppinger loved her. She had also no hesitation in deciding that he must be repulsed. Should he seek her, she must avoid him. They could not possibly unite their lives. She had told him this, and there the matter ended. He must swallow his disappointment, and think no more about her. No one could have everything he wanted. Other people had to put up with rejection, why not Coppinger? It might be salutary to him to find that he could not have his way in all things. So she argued, and then she put aside from her all thought of the Captain, and gave herself up to consideration of snail-shell boxes, baskets, and shepherds and shepherdesses.
Jamie was developing a marvellous aptitude for bird-stuffing. Mr. Menaida had told Judith repeatedly that if the boy would stick to it, he might become as skilful as himself. He would be most happy, thankful to be able to pass over to him some of the work that accumulated, and which he could not execute. “I am not a professional; I am an amateur. I only stuff birds to amuse my leisure moments. Provokingly enough, gentlemen do not believe this. They write to me as if I were a tradesman, laying their commands upon me, and I resent it. I have a small income of my own, and am not forced to slave for my bread and ’baccy. Now, if Jamie will work with me and help me, I will cheerfully share profits with him. I must be director—that is understood.”
But it was very doubtful whether poor Jamie could be taught to apply himself regularly to the work, and that under a desultory master, who could not himself remain at a task many minutes without becoming exhausted and abandoning it. Jamie could be induced to work only by being humored. He loved praise. He must be coaxed and flattered to undertake any task that gave trouble. Fortunately, taxidermy did not require any mental effort, and it was the straining of his imperfect mental powers that irritated and exhausted the boy.
With a little cajolery he might be got to do as much as did Uncle Zachie, and if Mr. Menaida were as good as his word—and there could be little doubt that so kind, amiable, and honorable a man would be that—Jamie would really earn a good deal of money. Judith also hoped to earn more with her shell-work, and together she trusted they would be able to support themselves without further tax on Miss Trevisa.
And what a childish pleasure they found in scheming their future, what they would do with their money, where they would take a house, how furnish it! They laughed over their schemes, and their pulses fluttered at the delightful pictures they conjured up. And all their rosy paradise was to rise out of the proceeds of stuffed birds and snail-shell chimney ornaments.
“Ju! come here, Ju!” cried Jamie.
Then again impatiently, “Ju! come here, Ju!”
“What is it, dear?”
“Here is the very house for us. Do come and see.”
On the down, nestled against a wall that had once enclosed a garden, but was now ruinous, stood a cottage. It was built of wreck-timber, thatched with heather and bracken, and with stones laid on the thatching, which was bound with ropes, as protection against the wind. A quaint, small house, with little windows under the low eaves; one story high, the window-frames painted white; the glass frosted with salt blown from the sea, so that it was impossible to look through the small panes, and discover what was within. The door had a gable over it, and the centre of the gable was occupied by a figure-head of Othello. The Moor of Venice was black and well battered by storm, so that the paint was washed and bitten off him. There was a strong brick chimney in the midst of the roof, but no smoke issued from it, nor had the house the appearance of being inhabited. There were no blinds to the windows, there were no crocks, no drying linen about the house; it had a deserted look, and yet was in good repair.
“Oh, Ju!” said Jamie, “we will live here. Will it not be fun? And I shall have a gun and shoot birds.”
“Whose house can it be?” asked Judith.
“I don’t know. Ju, the door is open; shall we go in?”
“No, Jamie, we have no right there.”
A little gate was in the wall, and Judith looked through. There had at one time certainly been a garden there, but it had been neglected, and allowed to be overrun with weeds. Roses, escallonica, and lavender had grown in untrimmed luxuriance. Marigolds rioted over the space like a weed. Pinks flourished, loving the sandy soil, but here and there the rude blue thistle had intruded and asserted its right to the sea-border land as its indigenous home.
Down came the rain, so lashing that Judith was constrained to seek shelter, and, in spite of her protest that she had no right to enter Othello Cottage, she passed the threshold.
No one was within but Jamie, who had not attended to her objection; led by curiosity, and excusing himself by the rain, he had opened the door and gone inside.
The house was unoccupied, and yet was not in a condition of neglect and decay. If no one lived there, yet certainly some one visited it, for it had not that mouldy atmosphere that pervades a house long shut up, nor were dust and sand deep on floor and table. There was furniture, though scanty. The hearth showed traces of having had a fire in it at no very distant period. There were benches. There were even tinder-box and candle on the mantle-shelf.
Jamie was in high excitement and delight. This was the ogre’s cottage to which Jack had climbed up the bean-stalk. He was sure to find somewhere the hen that laid golden eggs, and the harp that played of itself.
Judith seated herself on one of the benches and sorted her shells, leaving Jamie to amuse himself. As the house was uninhabited, it did not seem to her that any gross impropriety existed in allowing him to run in and out and peep round the rooms, and into the corners.
“Judith,” he exclaimed, coming to her from an adjoining room, “there is a bed in here, and there are crooks in the wall!”
“What are the crooks for, dear?”
“For climbing, I think.”
Then he ran back, and she saw no more of him for a while, but heard him scrambling.
She rose and went to the door into the adjoining apartment to see that he was after no mischief. She found that this apartment was intended for sleeping in. There was a bedstead with a mattress on it, but no clothes. Jamie had found some crooks in the wall, and was scrambling up these, with hands and feet, toward the ceiling, where she perceived an opening, apparently into the attic.
“Oh, Jamie! what are you doing there?”
“Ju, I want to see whether there is anything between the roof and the ceiling. There may be the harp there, or the hen that lays golden eggs.”
“The shower is nearly over; I shall not wait for you.”
She seated herself on the bed and watched him. He thrust open a sliding board, and crawled through into the attic. He would soon tire of exploring among the rafters, and would return dirty, and have to be cleared of cobwebs and dust. But it amused the boy. He was ever restless, and she would find it difficult to keep him occupied sitting by her below till the rain ceased, so she allowed him to scramble and search as he pleased. Very few minutes had passed before Judith heard a short cough in the main room, and she at once rose and stepped back into it to apologize for her intrusion. To her great surprise she found her aunt there, at the little window, measuring it.
“A couple of yards will do—double width,” said Miss Trevisa.
“Auntie!” exclaimed Judith. “Who ever would have thought of seeing you here?”
Miss Trevisa turned sharply round, and her lips tightened.
“And who would have thought of seeing you here,” she answered, curtly.
“Auntie, the rain came on; I ran in here so as not to be wet through. To whom does this house belong?”
“To the master—to whom else? Captain Coppinger.”
“Are you measuring the window for blinds for him?”
“I am measuring for blinds, but not for him.”
“But—who lives here?”
“No one as yet.”
“Is any one coming to live here?”
“Yes—I am.”
“Oh, auntie! and are we to come here with you?”
Miss Trevisa snorted, and stiffened her back.
“Are you out of your senses, like Jamie, to ask such a question? What is the accommodation here? Two little bedrooms, one large kitchen, and a lean-to for scullery—that is all—a fine roomy mansion for three people indeed!”
“But, auntie, are you leaving the Glaze?”
“Yes, I am. Have you any objection to that?”
“No, aunt, only I am surprised. And Captain Cruel lets you have this dear little cottage?”
“As to its being dear, I don’t know, I am to have it; and that is how you have found it open to poke and pry into. I came up to look round and about me, and then found I had not brought my measuring tape with me, so I returned home for that, and you found the door open and thrust yourself in.”
“I am very sorry if I have given you annoyance.”
“Oh, it’s no annoyance to me. The place is not mine yet.”
“But when do you come here, Aunt Dunes?”
“When?” Miss Trevisa looked at her niece with a peculiar expression in her hard face that Judith noticed, but could not interpret. “That,” said Miss Trevisa, “I do not know yet.”
“I suppose you will do up that dear little garden,” said Judith.
Miss Trevisa did not vouchsafe an answer; she grunted, and resumed her measuring.
“Has this cottage been vacant for long, auntie?”
“Yes.”
“But, auntie, some one comes here. It is not quite deserted.”
Miss Trevisa said to herself, “Four times two and one breadth torn in half to allow for folds will do it. Four times two is eight, and one breadth more is ten.”
Just then Jamie appeared, shyly peeping through the door. He had heard his aunt’s voice, and was afraid to show himself. Her eye, however, observed him, and in a peremptory tone she ordered him to come forward.
But Jamie would not obey her willingly, and he deemed it best for him to make a dash through the kitchen to the open front door.
“That boy!” growled Miss Trevisa, “I’ll be bound he has been at mischief.”
“Auntie, I think the rain has ceased, I will say good-by.”
Then Judith left the cottage.
“Ju,” said Jamie, when he was with his sister beyond earshot of the aunt, “such fun—I have something to tell you.”
“What is it, Jamie?”
“I won’t tell you till we get home.”
“Oh, Jamie, not till we get back to Polzeath?”
“Well, not till we get half-way home—to the white gate. Then I will tell you.”
“Now, Jamie! the white gate.”
“The white gate!—what about that?” He had forgotten his promise.
“You have a secret to tell me.”
Then the boy began to laugh and to tap his pockets.
“What do you think, Ju! look what I have found. Do you know what is in the loft of the cottage we were in? There are piles of tobacco, all up hidden away in the dark under the rafters. I have got my pockets stuffed as full as they will hold. It is for Uncle Zachie. Won’t he be pleased?”
“Oh, Jamie! you should not have done that.”
“Why not? Don’t scold, Ju!”
“It is stealing.”
“No, it is not. No one lives there.”
“Nevertheless it belongs to some one, by whatever means it was got, and for whatever purpose stowed away there. You had no right to touch it.”
“Then why do you take snail-shells?”
“They belong to no one, no one values them. It is other with this tobacco. Give it up. Take it back again.”
“What—to Aunt Dunes? I daren’t, she’s so cross.”
“Well, give it to me, and I will take it to her. She is now at the cottage, and the tobacco can be replaced.”
“Oh, Ju, I should like to see her scramble up the wall!”
“I do not think she will do that; but she will contrive somehow to have the tobacco restored. It is not yours, and I believe it belongs to Captain Cruel. If it be not given back now he may hear of it and be very angry.”
“He would beat me,” said the boy, hastily emptying his pockets. “I’d rather have Aunt Dunes’ jaw than Captain Cruel’s stick.” He gave the tobacco to his sister, but he was not in a good humor. He did not see the necessity for restoring it. But Jamie never disobeyed his sister, when they were alone, and she was determined with him. Before others he tried to display his independence, by feeble defiances never long maintained, and ending in a reconciliation with tears and kisses, and promises of submission without demur for the future. With all, even the most docile children, there occur epochs when they try their wings, strut and ruffle their plumes, and crow very loud—epochs of petulance or boisterous outbreak of self-assertion in the face of their guides and teachers. If the latter be firm, the trouble passes away to be renewed at a future period till manhood or womanhood is reached, and then guide and teacher who is wise falls back, lays down control, and lets the pupils have their own way. But if at the first attempts at mastery, those in authority, through indifference or feebleness or folly, give way, then the fate of the children is sealed, they are spoiled for ever.
Jamie had his rebellious fits, and they were distressing to Judith, but she never allowed herself to be conquered. She evaded provoking them whenever possible; and as much as possible led him by his affection. He had a very tender heart, was devotedly attached to his sister, and appeals to his better nature were usually successful, not always immediately, but in the long run.
Her association with Jamie had been of benefit to Judith; it had strengthened her character. She had been forced from earliest childhood to be strong where he was weak, to rule because he was incapable of ruling himself. This had nurtured in her a decision of mind, a coolness of judgment, and an inflexibility of purpose unusual in a girl of her years.
Judith walked to Othello Cottage, carrying the tobacco in her skirt, held up by both hands; and Jamie sauntered back to Polzeath, carrying his sister’s basket of shells, stopping at intervals to add to the collection, then ensconcing himself in a nook of the hedge to watch a finch, a goldhammer, or a blackbird, then stopped to observe and follow a beetle of gorgeous metallic hues that was running across the path.
Presently he emerged into the highway, the parish road; there was no main road in those parts maintained by toll-gates, and then observed a gig approach in which sat two men, one long and narrow-faced, the other tall, but stout and round-faced. He recognized the former at once as Mr. Scantlebray, the appraiser. Mr. Scantlebray, who was driving, nudged his companion, and with the butt-end of the whip pointed to the boy.
“Heigh! hi-up! Gaffer!” called Mr. Scantlebray, flapping his arms against his sides, much as does a cock with his wings. “Come along; I have something of urgent importance to say to you—something so good that it will make you squeak; something so delicious that it will make your mouth water.”
This was addressed to Jamie, as the white mare leisurely trotted up to where the boy stood. Then Scantlebray drew up, with his elbows at right angles to his trunk.
“Here’s my brother thirsting, ravening to make your acquaintance—and, by George! you are in luck’s way, young hopeful, to make his. Obadiah! this here infant is an orphing. Orphing! this is Obadiah Scantlebray, whom I call Scanty because he is fat. Jump up, will y’, into the gig.”
Jamie looked vacantly about him. He had an idea that he ought to wait for Judith or go directly home. But she had not forbidden him to have a ride, and a ride was what he dearly loved.
“Are you coming?” asked Scantlebray; “or do you need a more ceremonious introduction to Mr. Obadiah, eh?”
“I’ve got a basket of shells,” said Jamie. “They belong to Ju.”
“Well, put Ju’s basket in—the shells won’t hurt—and then in with you. There’s a nice little portmantle in front, on which you can sit and look us in the face, and if you don’t tumble off with laughing, it will be because I strap you in. My brother is the very comicalest fellow in Cornwall. It’s a wonder I haven’t died of laughter. I should have, but our paths diverged; he took up the medical line, and I the valuation and all that, so my life was saved. Are you comfortable there?”
“Yes, sir,” said Jamie, seated himself where advised.
“Now for the strap round ye,” said Scantlebray. “Don’t be alarmed; it’s to hold you together, lest you split your sides with merriment, and to hold you in, lest you tumble overboard convulsed with laughter. That brother of mine is the killingest man in Great Britain. Look at his face. Bless me! in church I should explode when I saw him, but that I am engrossed in my devotions. On with you, Juno!”
That to the gray mare, and a whip applied to make the gray mare trot along, which she did, with her head down lost in thought, or as if smelling the road, to make sure that she was on the right track.
“’Tisn’t what he says,” remarked Mr. Scantlebray, seeing a questioning expression on Jamie’s innocent face, “it’s the looks of him. And when he speaks—well, it’s the way he says it more than what he says. I was at a Charity Trust dinner, and Obadiah said to the waiter, ‘Cutlets, please!’ The fellow dropped the dish, and I stuffed my napkin into my mouth, ran out, and went into a fit. Now, Scanty, show the young gentleman how to make a rabbit.”
Then Mr. Scantlebray tickled up the mare with the lash of his whip, cast some objurgations at a horse-fly that was hovering and then darting at Juno.
Mr. Obadiah drew forth a white but very crumpled kerchief from his pocket, and proceeded to fold it on his lap.
“Just look at him,” said the agent, “doing it in spite of the motion of the gig. It’s wonderful. But his face is the butchery. I can’t look at it for fear of letting go the reins.”
The roads were unfrequented; not a person was passing as the party jogged along. Mr. Scantlebray hissed to the mare between his front teeth, which were wide apart; then, turning his eye sideways, observed what his brother was about.
“That’s his carcase,” said he, in reference to the immature rabbit.
Then a man was sighted coming along the road, humming a tune. It was Mr. Menaida.
“How are you? Compliments to the young lady orphing, and say we’re jolly—all three,” shouted Scantlebray, urging his mare to a faster pace, and keeping her up to it till they had turned a corner, and Menaida was no more in sight.
“Just look at his face, as he’s a folding of that there pockyhandkercher,” said the appraiser. “It’s exploding work.”
Jamie looked into the stolid features of Mr. Obadiah, and laughed—laughed heartily, laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks. Not that he saw aught humorous there, but that he was told it was there, he ought to see it, and would be a fool if he were not convulsed by it.
Precisely the same thing happens with us. We look at and go into raptures over a picture, because it is by a Royal Academician who has been knighted on account of his brilliant successes. We are charmed at a cantata, stifling our yawns, because we are told by the art critics who are paid to puff it, that we are fools, and have no ears if we do not feel charmed by it. We rush to read a new novel, and find it vastly clever, because an eminent statesman has said on a postcard it has pleased him.
We laugh when told to laugh, condemn when told to condemn, and would stand on our heads if informed that it was bad for us to walk on our feet.
“There!” said Mr. Scantlebray, the valuer. “Them’s ears.”
“Crrrh!” went Mr. Obadiah, and the handkerchief, converted into a white bunny, shot from his hand up his sleeve.
“I can’t drive, ’pon my honor; I’m too ill. You have done me for to-day,” said Scantlebray the elder, the valuer. “Now, young hopeful, what say you? Will you make a rabbit, also? I’ll give you a shilling if you will.”
Thereupon Jamie took the kerchief and spread it out, and began to fold it. Whenever he went wrong Mr. Obadiah made signs, either by elevation of his brows and a little shake of his head, or by pointing, and his elder brother caught him at it and protested. Obadiah was the drollest fellow, he was incorrigible, as full of mischief as an egg is full of meat. There was no trusting him for a minute when the eye was off him.
“Come, Scanty! I’ll put you on your honor. Look the other way.” But a moment after—“Ah, for shame! there you are at it again. Young hopeful, you see what a vicious brother I have; perfectly untrustworthy, but such a comical dog. Full of tricks up to the ears. You should see him make shadows on the wall. He can represent a pig eating out of a trough. You see the ears flap, the jaws move, the eye twinkle in appreciation of the barley-meal. It is to the life, and all done by the two hands—by one, I may say, for the other serves as trough. What! Done the rabbit! First rate! Splendid! Here is the shilling. But, honor bright, you don’t deserve it; that naughty Scanty helped you.”
“Please,” said Jamie, timidly, “may I get out now and go home?”
“Go home! What for?”
“I want to show Ju my shilling.”
“By ginger! that is too rich. Not a bit of it. Do you know Mistress Polgrean’s sweetie shop?”
“But that’s at Wadebridge.”
“At Wadebridge; and why not? You will spend your shilling there. But look at my brother. It is distressing; his eyes are alight at the thoughts of the tartlets, and the sticks of peppermint sugar, and the almond rock. Are you partial to almond rock, orphin?”
Jamie’s mind was at once engaged.
“Which is it to be? Gingerbreads or tartlets, almond rock or barley-sugar?”
“I think I’ll have the peppermint,” said Jamie.
“Then peppermint it shall be. And you will give me a little bit, and Scanty a bit, and take a little bit home to Ju, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He’ll take a little bit home to Ju, Obadiah, old man.”
The funny brother nodded.
“And the basket of shells?” asked the elder.
“Yes, she is making little boxes with them to sell,” said Jamie.
“I suppose I may have the privilege of buying some,” said Mr. Scantlebray, senior. “Oh, look at that brother of mine! How he is screwing his nose about! I say, old man, are you ill? Upon my life, I believe he is laughing.”
Presently Jamie got restless.
“Please, Mr. Scantlebray, may I get out? Ju will be frightened at my being away so long.”
“Poor Ju!” said Scantlebray, the elder. “But no—don’t you worry your mind about that. We passed Uncle Zachie, and he will tell her where you are, in good hands, or rather, nipped between most reliable knees—my brother’s and mine. Sit still. I can’t stop Juno; we’re going down-hill now, and if I stopped Juno she would fall. You must wait—wait till we get to Mrs. Polgrean’s.” Then, after chuckling-to himself, Scantlebray, senior, said: “Obadiah, old man, I wonder what Missie Ju is thinking? I wonder what she will say, eh?” Again he chuckled. “No place in your establishment for that party, eh?”
The outskirts of Wadebridge were reached.
“Now may I get out?” said Jamie.
“Bless my heart! Not yet. Wait for Mrs. Polgrean’s.”
But presently Mrs. Polgrean’s shop-window was passed.
“Oh, stop! stop!” cried Jamie. “We have gone by the sweetie shop.”
“Of course we have,” answered Scantlebray, senior. “I daren’t trust that brother of mine in there; he has such a terrible sweet tooth. Besides, I want you to see the pig eating out of the trough. It will kill you. If it don’t I’ll give you another shilling.”
Presently he drew up at the door of a stiff, square-built house, with a rambling wing thrown out on one side. It was stuccoed and painted drab—drab walls, drab windows, and drab door.
“Now, then, young man,” said Scantlebray, cheerily, “I’ll unbuckle the strap and let you out. You come in with me. This is my brother’s mansion, roomy, pleasant, and comprehensive. You shall have a dish of tea.”
“And then I may go home?”
“And then—we shall see; shan’t we, Obadiah, old man?”
They entered the hall, and the door was shut and fastened behind them; then into a somewhat dreary room, with red flock paper on the walls, no pictures, leather-covered, old, mahogany chairs, and a book or two on the table—one of these a Bible.
Jamie looked wonderingly about him, a little disposed to cry. He was a long way from Polzeath, and Judith would be waiting for him and anxious, and the place into which he was ushered was not cheery, not inviting.
“Now, then,” said Mr. Scantlebray, “young hopeful, give me my shilling.”
“Please, I’m going to buy some peppermint and burnt almonds for Ju and me as I go back.”
“Oh, indeed! But suppose you do not have the chance?”
Jamie looked vacantly in his face, then into that of the stolid brother, who was not preparing to show him the pig feeding out of a trough, nor was he calling for tea.
“Come,” said Scantlebray, the elder; “suppose I take charge of that shilling till you have the chance of spending it, young man.”
“Please, I’ll spend it now.”
“Not a bit. You won’t have the chance. Do you know where you are!”
Jamie looked round in distress. He was becoming frightened at the altered tone of the valuer.
“My dear,” said Mr. Scantlebray, “you’re now an honorable inmate of my brother’s Establishment for Idiots, which you don’t leave till cured of imbecility. That shilling, if you please?”
Judith returned to the cottage of Mr. Menaida, troubled in mind, for Aunt Dunes had been greatly incensed at the taking of the tobacco by Jamie, and not correspondingly gratified by the return of it so promptly by Judith. Miss Trevisa was a woman who magnified and resented any wrong done, but minimized and passed over as unworthy of notice whatever was generous, and every attempt made to repay an evil. Such attempts not only met with no favor from her, but were perverted in her crabbed mind into fresh affronts or injuries. That the theft of Jamie would not have been discovered had not Judith spoken of it and brought back what had been taken, was made of no account by Aunt Dionysia; she attacked Judith with sharp reproach for allowing the boy to be mischievous, for indulging him and suffering him to run into danger through his inquisitiveness and thoughtlessness. “For,” said Aunt Dionysia, “had the master or any of his men found out what Jamie had done there is no telling how he might have been served.” Then she had muttered: “If you will not take precautions, other folk must, and the boy must be put where he can be properly looked after and kept from interfering with the affairs of others.”
On reaching Mr. Menaida’s cottage, Judith called her brother, but as she did not receive an answer, she went in quest of him, and was met by the servant, Jump. “If you please, miss,” said Jump, “there’s been two gen’lemen here, as said they was come from Mrs. Trevisa, and said they was to pack and take off Master Jamie’s clothes. And please miss, I didn’t know what to do—they was gen’lemen, and the master—he was out, and you was out, miss—and Master Jamie, he wasn’t to home n’other.”
“Taken Jamie’s clothes!” repeated Judith, in amazement.
“Yes, miss, they brought a portmantle a-purpose; and they’d a gig at the door; and they spoke uncommon pleasant, leastwise one o’ them did.”
“And where is Jamie? Has he not come home?”
“No, miss.”
At that moment Mr. Menaida came in.
“What is it, Judith? Jamie? Where Jamie is?—why, having a ride, seated between the two Scantlebrays, in their gig. That is where he is.”
“Oh, Mr. Menaida, but they have taken his clothes!”
“Whose clothes?”
“Jamie’s.”
“I do not understand.”
“The two gentlemen came to this house when you and I were out, and told Jump that they were empowered by my aunt to pack up and carry off all Jamie’s clothing, which they put into a portmanteau they had brought with them.”
“And then picked up Jamie. He was sitting on the portmanteau,” said Uncle Zachie; then his face became grave. “They said that they acted under authority from Mrs. Trevisa?”
“So Jump says.”
“It can surely not be that he has been moved to the asylum.”
“Asylum, Mr. Menaida?”
“The idiot asylum.”
Judith uttered a cry, and staggered back against the wall.
“Jamie! my brother Jamie!”
“Mr. Obadiah Scantlebray has such a place at Wadebridge.”
“But Jamie is not an idiot.”
“Your aunt authorized them—,” mused Uncle Zachie. “Humph! you should see her about it. That is the first step, and ascertain whether she has done it, or whether they are acting with a high hand for themselves. I’ll look at my law-books—if the latter it would be actionable.”
Judith did not hesitate for a moment. She hastened to Pentyre. That her aunt had left Othello Cottage she was pretty sure, as she was preparing to leave it when Judith returned with the tobacco. Accordingly she took the road to Pentyre at once. Tears of shame and pain welled up in her eyes at the thought of her darling brother being beguiled away to be locked up among the imbecile in a private establishment for the insane. Then her heart was contracted with anger and resentment at the scurvy trick played on her and him: She did not know that the Scantlebrays had been favored by pure accident. She conceived that men base enough to carry off her brother would watch and wait for the opportunity when to do it unobserved and unopposed. She hardly walked. She ran till her breath failed her, and the rapid throbbing of her heart would no longer allow her to run. Her dread of approaching the Glaze after the declaration made by Captain Cruel was overwhelmed in her immediate desire to know something about Jamie, in her anguish of fear for him. On Coppinger she did not cast a thought—her mind was so fully engrossed in her brother.
She saw nothing of the Captain. She entered the house, and proceeded at once to her aunt’s apartment. She found Miss Trevisa there, seated near the window, engaged on some chintz that she thought would do for the window at Othello Cottage, when she took possession of it. She had measured the piece, found that it was suitable, and was turning down a hem and tacking it. It was a pretty chintz, covered with sprigs of nondescript pink and blue flowers.
Judith burst in on her, breathless, her brow covered with dew, her bosom heaving, her face white with distress, and tears standing on her eyelashes. She threw herself on her knees before Miss Trevisa, half crying out and half sobbing:
“Oh, aunt! they have taken him!”
“Who have taken whom?” asked the elderly lady, coldly.
She raised her eyes and cast a look full of malevolence at Judith. She never had, did not, never would feel toward that girl as a niece. She hated her for her mother’s sake, and now she felt an unreasonable bitterness against her, because she had fascinated Coppinger—perhaps, also, because in a dim fashion she was aware that she herself was acting toward the child in an unworthy, unmerciful manner, and we all hate those whom we wrong.
“Auntie! tell me it is not so. Mr. Scantlebray and his brother have carried my darling Jamie away.”
“But—will they let me have him back?”
Miss Trevisa pulled at the chintz. “I will trouble you not to crumple this,” she said.
“Aunt! dear aunt! you did not tell Mr. Scantlebray to take Jamie away from me?”
The old lady did not answer, she proceeded to release the material at which she was engaged from under the knees of Judith. The girl, in her vehemence, put her hands to her aunt’s arms, between the elbows and shoulders, and held and pressed them back, and with imploring eyes looked into her hard face.
“Oh, auntie! you never sent Jamie to an asylum?”
“I must beg you to let go my arms,” said Miss Trevisa. “This conduct strikes me as most indecorous toward one of my age and relationship.”
She avoided Judith’s eye, her brow wrinkled, and her lips contracted. The gall in her heart rose and overflowed.
“I am not ashamed of what I have done.”
“Auntie!” with a cry of pain. Then Judith let go the old lady’s arms, and clasped her hands over her eyes.
“Really,” said Miss Trevisa, with asperity, “you are a most exasperating person. I shall do with the boy what I see fit. You know very well that he is a thief.”
“He never took anything before to-day—never—and you had settled this before you knew about the tobacco!” burst from Judith, in anger and with floods of tears.
“I knew that he has always been troublesome and mischievous, and he must be placed where he can be properly managed by those accustomed to such cases.”
“There is nothing the matter with Jamie.”
“You have humored and spoiled him. If he is such a plague to all who know him, it is because he has been treated injudiciously. He is now with men who are experienced, and able to deal with the like of Jamie.”
“Aunt, he must not be there. I promised my papa to be ever with him, and to look after him.”
“Then it is a pity your father did not set this down in writing. Please to remember that I, and not you, am constituted his guardian, by the terms of the will.”
“Oh, aunt! aunt! let him come back to me!”
“Then let me go to him!”
“Hoity-toity! here’s airs and nonsense. Really, Judith, you are almost imbecile enough to qualify for the asylum. But I cannot afford the cost of you both. Jamie’s cost in that establishment will be £70 in the year, and how much do you suppose that you possess?”
Judith remained kneeling upright, with her hands clasped, looking earnestly through her tears at her aunt.
“You have in all, between you, but £45 or £50. When the dilapidations are paid, and the expenses of the funeral, and the will-proving, and all that, I do not suppose you will be found to have a thousand pounds between you, and that put out to interest will not bring you more than I have said; so I shall have to make up the deficiency. That is not pleasing to me, you may well suppose. But I had rather pay £25 out of my poor income, than have the name of the family disgraced by Jamie.”
“Jamie will never, never disgrace the name. He is too good. And—it is wicked, it is cruel to put him where you have. He is not an idiot.”
“I am perhaps a better judge than you; so also is Mr. Obadiah Scantlebray, who has devoted his life to the care and study of the imbecile. Your brother has weak intellects.”
“He is not clever; that is all. With application——”
“He cannot apply his mind. He has no mind that can be got to be applied.”
“Aunt, he’s no idiot. He must not be kept in that place.”
“You had best go back to Polzeath. I have decided on what I considered right. I have done my duty.”
“It cannot be just. I will see what Mr. Menaida says. He must be released; if you will not let him out, I will.”
Miss Trevisa looked up at her quickly between her half-closed lids; a bitter, cruel smile quivered about her lips. “If any one can deliver him, it will be you.”
Judith did not understand her meaning, and Aunt Dionysia did not care at that time to further enlighten her thereon. Finding her aunt inflexible, the unhappy girl left Pentyre Glaze and hurried back to Polzeath, where she implored Mr. Menaida to accompany her to Wadebridge. Go there she would—she must—that same evening. If he would not attend her, she would go alone. She could not rest, she could not remain in the house, till she had been to the place where Jamie was, and seen whether she could not release him thence by her entreaties, her urgency.
Mr. Menaida shook his head. But he was a kind-hearted old man, and was distressed at the misery of the girl, and would not hear of her making the expedition alone, as she could not well return before dark. So he assumed his rough and shabby beaver hat, put on his best cravat, and sallied forth with Judith upon her journey to Wadebridge, one that he assured her must be fruitless, and had better be postponed till the morrow.
“I cannot! I cannot!” she cried. “I cannot sleep, thinking of my darling brother in that dreadful place, with such people about him, he crying, frightened, driven mad by the strangeness of it all, and being away from me. I must go. If I cannot save him and bring him back with me, I can see him and console him, and bid him wait in patience and hope.”
Mr. Menaida with a soft heart and a weak will, was hung about with scraps of old-world polish, scraps only. In him nothing was complete—here and there a bare place of rustic uncouthness, there patches of velvet courtesy of the Queen Anne age; so, also, was he made up of fine culture, of classic learning alternating with boorish ignorance—here high principle, there none at all—a picture worked to a miniature in points, and in others rudely roughed in and neglected. Now he was moved as he had not been moved for years by the manifest unhappiness of the girl, and he was willing to do his utmost to assist her, but that utmost consisted in little more than accompanying her to Wadebridge and ringing at the house-bell of Mr. Obadiah Scantlebray’s establishment. When it came to the interview that ensued with the proprietor of the establishment and jailer of Jamie, he failed altogether. Judith and Uncle Zachie were shown into the dreary parlor without ornaments, and presently to them entered Mr. Obadiah.
“Oh, sir, is he here?—have you got Jamie here?”
Mr. Scantlebray nodded his head, then went to the door and knocked with his fists against the wall. A servant maid appeared. “Send missus,” said he, and returned to the parlor.
Again Judith entreated to be told if her brother were there with all the vehemence and fervor of her tattered heart.
Mr. Obadiah listened with stolid face and vacant eyes that turned from her to Mr. Menaida, and then back to her again. Presently an idea occurred to him and his face brightened. He went to a sideboard, opened a long drawer, brought out a large book, thrust it before Judith, and said, “Pictures.” Then, as she took no notice of the book, he opened it.
“Oh, please sir,” pleaded Judith, “I don’t want that. I want to know about Jamie. I want to see him.”
Then in at the door came a lady in black silk, with small curls about her brow. She was stout, but not florid.
“What!” said she, “my dear, are you the young lady whose brother is here? Don’t you fret yourself. He is as comfortable as a chick in a feathered nest. Don’t you worry your little self about him now. Now your good days have begun. He will not be a trouble and anxiety to you any more. He is well cared for. I dare be sworn he has given you many an hour of anxiety. Now, O be joyful! that is over, and you can dance and play with a light heart. I have lifted the load off you, I and Mr. Scantlebray. Here he will be very comfortable and perfectly happy. I spare no pains to make my pets snug, and Scantlebray is inexhaustible in his ability to amuse them. He has a way with these innocents that is quite marvellous. Wait a while—give him and me a trial, and see what the result is. You may believe me as one of long and tried experience. It never does for amateurs—for relations—to undertake these cases; they don’t know when to be firm, or when to yield. We do—it is our profession. We have studied the half-witted.”
“But my brother is not half-witted.”
“So you say, and so it becomes you to say. Never admit that there is imbecility or insanity in the family. You are quite right, my dear; you look forward to being married some day, and you know very well it might stand in the way of an engagement, were it supposed that you had idiocy in the family blood. It is quite right. I understand all that sort of thing. We call it nervous debility, and insanity we term nervous excitement. Scantlebray, my poppet, isn’t it so!”
Mr. Obadiah nodded.
“You leave all care to us; thrust it upon our shoulders. They will bear it; and never doubt that your brother will be cared for in body and in soul. In body—always something nice and light for supper, tapioca, rice-pudding, batter; to-night, rolly-poly. After that, prayers. We don’t feed high, but we feed suitably. If you like to pay a little extra, we will feed higher. Now, my dear, you take all as for the best, and rely on it everything is right.”
“But Jamie ought not to be locked up.”
“My dear, he is at school under the wisest and most experienced of teachers. You have mismanaged him. Now he will be treated professionally; and Mr. Scantlebray superintends not the studies only, but the amusements of the pupils. He has such a fund of humor in him.” Obadiah at once produced his pocket-handkerchief and began to fold it. “No, dear, no ducky, no rabbit now! You fond thing, you! always thinking of giving entertainment to some one. No, nor the parson preaching either.” He was rolling his hands together and thrusting up his thumb as the representative of a sacred orator in his pulpit. “No, ducky darling! another time. My husband is quite a godsend to the nervously prostrate. He can amuse them by the hour; he never wearies of it; he is never so happy as when he is entertaining them. You cannot doubt that your brother will be content in the house of such a man. Take my word for it; there is nothing like believing that all is for the best as it is. Our pupils will soon be going to bed. Rolly-poly and prayers, and then to bed—that is the order.”
“Oh, let me see Jamie now.”
“No, my dear. It would be injudicious. He is settling in; he is becoming reconciled, and it would disturb him, and undo what has already been done. Don’t you say so, poppet?”
The poppet nodded his head.
“You see, this great authority agrees with me. Now, this evening Jamie and the others shall have an extra treat. They shall have the pig eating out of the trough. There—what more can you desire? As soon as lights are brought in, then rolly-poly, prayers, and the pig and the trough. Another time you shall see him. Not to-night. It is inadvisable. Take my word for it, your brother is as happy as a boy can be. He has found plenty of companions of the same condition as himself.”
“But he is not an idiot.”
“My dear, we know all about that; very nice and sweet for you to say so—isn’t it duckie?”
The duckie agreed it was so.
“There is the bell. My dear, another time. You will promise to come and see me again? I have had such a delightful talk with you. Good-night, good-night. ‘All is for the best in the best of worlds.’ Put that maxim under your head and sleep upon it.”