Baring-Gould Sabine
In the Roar of the Sea
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?”
The man with an inflamed face was gradually becoming purple, as he leaned forward on his stick, and said, “Humph! a Latin grammar. Propria quæ maribus. I remember it, but it was a long time ago I learned it. Now, whipper-snapper! How do you get on? Propria quæ maribus – Go on.” He waited. Jamie looked at him in astonishment. “Come! Tribu – ” again he waited. “Come! Tribuntur mascula dicas. Go on.” Again a pause. Then with an impatient growl. “Ut sunt divorum, Mars, Bacchus, Apollo. This will never do. Go on with the Scaramouch, Vokins. I’ll make my annotations.”
“He’s too hard on my little chap, ain’t he?” asked the thin man in ducks. “We won’t be done. We are not old enough – ”
“He is but eighteen,” said Judith.
“He is but eighteen,” repeated the red-headed man. “Of course he has not got so far as that, but musa, musæ.”
Jamie turned sulky.
“Not musa, musæ – and eighteen years! Jukes, this is serious, Jukes; eh, Jukes?”
“Now look here, you fellows,” said Scantlebray, senior. “You are too exacting. It’s holiday time, ain’t it, Orphing? We won’t be put upon, not we. We’ll sport, and frolic, and be joyful. Look here, Scanty, old man, take the slate and draw a pictur’ to my describing. Now then, Jamie, look at him and hearken to me. He’s the funniest old man that ever was, and he’ll surprise you. Are you ready, Scanty?” Mr. Obadiah drew the slate before him, and signed with the pencil to Jamie to observe him. The boy was quite ready to see him draw.
“There was once upon a time,” began Mr. Scantlebray, senior, “a man that lived in a round tower. Look at him, draw it, there you are. That is the tower. Go on. And in the tower was a round winder. Do you see the winder, Orphing? This man every morning put his hand out of the winder to ascertain which way the wind blew. He put it in thus, and drew it out thus. No! don’t look at me, look at the slate and then you’ll see it all. Now this man had a large pond, preserved full of fish.” Scratch, scratch went the pencil on the slate. “Them’s the fish,” said Scantlebray, senior. “Now below the situation of that pond, in two huts, lived a pair of thieves. You see them pokey things my brother has drawn? Them’s the ’uts. When night set in, these wicked thieves came walking up to the pond, see my brother drawing their respective courses! And on reaching the pond, they opened the sluice, and whish! whish! out poured the water.” Scratch, scratch, squeak, squeak, went the pencil on the slate. “There now! the naughty robbers went after fish, and got a goose! Look! a goo-oose.”
“Where’s the goose?” asked Jamie.
“Where? Before your eyes – under your nose. That brilliant brother of mine has drawn one. Hold the slate up, Scanty.”
“That’s not a goose,” said Jamie.
“Not a goose! You don’t know what geese are.”
“Yes, I do,” retorted the boy, resentfully, “I know the wild goose and the tame one – which do you call that?”
“Oh, wild goose, of course.”
“It’s not one. A goose hasn’t a tail like that, nor such legs,” said Jamie, contemptuously.
Mr. Scantlebray, senior, looked at Messrs. Vokins and Jukes and shook his head. “A bad case. Don’t know a goose when he sees it – and he is eighteen.”
Both Vokins and Jukes made an entry in their pocket-books.
“Now Jukes,” said Vokins, “will you take a turn, or shall I?”
“Oh, you, Vokins,” answered Jukes, “I haven’t recovered propria quæ maribus, yet.”
“Very well, my interesting young friend. Suppose now we change the subject and try arithmetic.”
“I don’t want any arithmetic,” said Jamie, sulkily.
“No – come – now we won’t call it by that name; suppose some one were to give you a shilling.”
Jamie looked up interested.
“And suppose he were to say. There – go and buy sweeties with this shilling. Tartlets at three for two pence, and barley-sugar at three farthings a stick, and – ”
“I want my shilling back,” said Jamie, looking straight into the face of Mr. Scantlebray, senior.
“And that there were burnt almonds at two pence an ounce.”
“I want my shilling,” exclaimed the boy, angrily.
“Your shilling, puff! puff!” said the red-headed man. “This is ideal, an ideal shilling, and ideal jam-tarts, almond rock, burnt almonds or what you like.”
“Give me back my shilling. I won it fair,” persisted Jamie.
Then Judith, distressed, interfered. “Jamie, dear! what do you mean? You have no shilling owing to you.”
“I have! I have!” screamed the boy. “I won it fair of that man there, because I made a rabbit, and he took it from me again.”
“Hallucinations,” said Jukes.
“Quite so,” said Vokins.
“Give me my shilling. It is a cheat!” cried Jamie, now suddenly roused into one of his fits of passion.
Judith caught him by the arm, and endeavored to pacify him.
“Let go, Ju! I will have my shilling. That man took it away. He is a cheat, a thief. Give me my shilling.”
“I am afraid he is excitable,” said Vokins.
“Like all irrational beings,” answered Jukes. “I’ll make a note. Rising out of hallucinations.”
“I will have my shilling,” persisted Jamie. “Give me my shilling or I’ll throw the ink at you.”
He caught up the ink-pot, and before Judith had time to interfere had flung it across the table, intending to hit Mr. Scantlebray, senior, but not hurt him, and the black fluid was scattered over Mr. Vokins’s white trousers.
“Bless my life!” exclaimed this gentleman, springing to his feet, pulling out his handkerchief to wipe away the ink, and only smearing it the more over his “ducks” and discoloring as well, his kerchief. “Bless my life – Jukes! a dangerous lunatic. Note at once. Clearly comes within the act. Clearly.”
In a few minutes all had left, and Judith was endeavoring to pacify her irritated brother. His fingers were blackened, and finally she persuaded him to go up-stairs and wash his hands clear of the ink.
Then she ran into the adjoining room to Mr. Menaida. “Oh, dear Mr. Menaida!” she said, “what does this mean? Why have they been here?”
Uncle Zachie looked grave and discomposed.
“My dear,” said he. “Those were doctors, and they have been here, sent by your aunt, to examine into the condition of Jamie’s intellect, and to report on what they have observed. There was a little going beyond the law, perhaps, at first. That is why they took it so easily when you carried Jamie off. They knew you were with an old lawyer; they knew that you or I could sue for a writ of Habeas Corpus.”
