Baring-Gould Sabine
In the Roar of the Sea
Then Mr. Menaida, still urged by his son and by his own feelings, incapable of action unless goaded by these double spurs, went to the rectory to ask Mr. Mules if he had seen Judith, and whether anything had been done about the signatures in the register.
Mr. Desiderius was communicative.
He had been to Pentyre about the matter. He was, as he said, “in a stew over it” himself. It was most awkward; he had filled in as much as he could of the register, and all that lacked were the signatures – he might say all but that of the bride and Mr. Menaida, for there had been a scene. Mrs. Coppinger had come down, and, in the presence of the Captain and her aunt, he had expostulated with her, had pointed out to her the awkward position in which it placed himself, the scruple he felt at retaining the fee, when the work was only half done; how, that by appearing at the ball, she had shown to the whole neighborhood that she was the wife of Captain Coppinger, and that, having done this, she might as well append her name to the entry in the register. Then Captain Coppinger and Miss Trevisa had made the requisite entries, but Judith had again calmly, but resolutely, refused.
Mr. Mules admitted there had been a scene. Mr. Coppinger became angry, and used somewhat violent words. But nothing that he himself could say, no representations made by her aunt, no urgency on the part of her husband could move the resolution of Judith, “which was a bit of arrant tomfoolery,” said Mr. Desiderius, “and I told her so. Even that – the knowledge that she went down a peg in my estimation – even that did not move her.”
“And how was she?” asked Mr. Menaida.
“Obstinate,” answered the rector, “obstinate as a – I mean as a donkey, that is the position of affairs. We are at a dead-lock.”
CHAPTER XLII
TWO LETTERS
Oliver Menaida was summoned to Bristol by the heads of the firm which he served, and he was there detained for ten days.
Whilst he was away, Uncle Zachie felt his solitude greatly. Had he had even Jamie with him he might have been content, but to be left completely alone was a trial to him, especially since he had become accustomed to having the young Trevisa in his house. He missed his music. Judith’s playing had been to him an inexpressibly great delight. The old man for many years had gone on strumming and fumbling at music by great masters, incapable of executing it, and unwilling to hear it performed by incompetent instrumentalists. At length Judith had seated herself at his piano, and had brought into life all that wondrous world of melody and harmony which he had guessed at, believed in, yearned for, but never reached. And now that he was left without her to play to him, he felt like one deprived of a necessary of life.
But his unrest did not spring solely from a selfish motive. He was not at ease in his mind about her. Why did he not see her anymore? Why was she confined to Pentyre! Was she ill? Was she restrained there against her will from visiting her old friends? Mr. Menaida was very unhappy because of Judith. He knew that she was resolved never to acknowledge Coppinger as her real husband; she did not love him, she shrank from him. And knowing what he did – the story of the invasion of the wreck, the fight with Oliver – he felt that there was no brutality, no crime which Coppinger was not capable of committing, and he trembled for the happiness of the poor little creature who was in his hands. Weak and irresolute though Mr. Menaida was, he was peppery and impulsive when irritated, and his temper had been roused by the manner of his reception at the Glaze, when he went there to inquire after Judith.
Whilst engaged on his birds, his hand shook, so that he could not shape them aright. When he smoked his pipe, he pulled it from between his lips every moment to growl out some remark. When he sipped his grog, he could not enjoy it. He had a tender heart, and he had become warmly attached to Judith. He firmly believed in identification of the ruffian with whom Oliver had fought on the deck, and it was horrible to think that the poor child was at his mercy; and that she had no one to counsel and to help her.
At length he could endure the suspense no longer. One evening, after he had drank a good many glasses of rum and water, he jumped up, put on his hat, and went off to Pentyre, determined to insist on seeing Judith.
As he approached the house he saw that the hall windows were lighted up. He knew which was Judith’s room, from what she had told him of its position. There was a light in that window also. Uncle Zachie, flushed with anger against Coppinger, and with the spirits he had drank, anxious about Judith, and resenting the way in which he had been treated, went boldly up to the front door and knocked. A maid answered his knock, and he asked to see Mrs. Coppinger. The woman hesitated, and bade him be seated in the porch. She would go and see.
Presently Miss Trevisa came, and shut the door behind her, as she emerged into the porch.
“I should like to see Mrs. Coppinger,” said the old man.
“I am sorry – you cannot,” answered Miss Trevisa.
“But why not?”
“This is not a fit hour at which to call.”
“May I see her if I come at any other hour?”
“I cannot say.”
“Why may I not see her?”
“She is unwell.”
“If she is unwell, then I am very certain she would be glad to see Uncle Zachie.”
“Of that I am no judge, but you cannot be admitted now.”
“Name the day, the hour, when I may.”
“That I am not at liberty to do.”
“What ails her? Where is Jamie?”
“Jamie is here – in good hands.”
“And Judith.”
“She is in good hands.”
“In good hands!” exclaimed Mr. Menaida, “I should like to see the good, clean hands worn by anyone in this house, except my dear, innocent little Judith. I must and will see her. I must know from her own lips how she is. I must see that she is happy – or at least not maltreated.”
“Your words are an insult to me, her aunt, and to Captain Coppinger, her husband,” said Miss Trevisa, haughtily.
“Let me have a word with Captain Coppinger.”
“He is not at home.”
“Not at home! – I hear a great deal of noise. There must be a number of guests in the hall. Who is entertaining them, you or Judith!”
“That is no concern of yours, Mr. Menaida.”
“I do not believe that Captain Coppinger is not at home. I insist on seeing him.”
“Were you to see him – you would regret it afterwards. He is not a person to receive impertinences and pass them over. You have already behaved in a most indecent manner, in encouraging my niece to visit your house, and sit, and talk, and walk with, and call by his Christian name, that young fellow, your son.”
“Oliver!” Mr. Menaida was staggered. It had never occurred to his fuddled, yet simple mind, that the intimacy that had sprung up between the young people was capable of misinterpretation. The sense that he had laid himself open to this charge made him very angry, not with himself, but with Coppinger and with Miss Trevisa.
“I’ll tell you what,” said the old man, “if you will not let me in I suppose you will not object to my writing a line to Judith?”
“I have received orders to allow of no communication of any kind whatsoever between my niece and you or your house.”
“You have received orders – from Coppinger?” the old man flamed with anger. “Wait a bit! There is no command issued that you are not to take a message from me to your master?”
He put his hand into his pocket, pulled out a note-book, and tore out of it a page. Then, by the light from the hall window, he scribbled on it a few lines in pencil.
“Sir! – You are a scoundrel. You bully your wife. You rob, and attempt to murder those who are shipwrecked. – Zachary Menaida.”
“There,” said the old man, “that will draw him, and I shall see him, and have it out with him.”
He had wafers in his pocket-book. He wetted and sealed the note. Then he considered that he had not said enough, so he opened the page again, and added: “I shall tell all the world what I know about you.” Then he fastened the note again, and directed it. But as it suddenly occurred to him that Captain Coppinger might refuse to open the letter, he added on the outside, “The contents I know by heart, and shall proclaim them on the house-tops.” He thrust the note into Miss Trevisa’s hand, and turned his back on the house, and walked home snorting and muttering. On reaching Polzeath, however, he had cooled, and thought that possibly he had done a very foolish thing, and that most certainly he had in no way helped himself to what he desired, to see Judith again. Moreover, with a qualm, he became aware that Oliver, on his return from Bristol, would in all probability greatly disapprove of this fiery outburst of temper. To what would it lead? Could he fight Captain Coppinger? If it came to that, he was ready. With all his faults Mr. Menaida was no coward.
On entering his house he found Oliver there, just arrived from Camelford. He at once told him what he had done. Oliver did not reproach him; he merely said, “A declaration of war, father! and a declaration before we are quite prepared.”
“Well – I suppose so. I could not help myself. I was so incensed.”
“The thing we have to consider,” said Oliver, “is what Judith wishes, and how it is to be carried out. Some communication must be opened with her. If she desires to leave the house of that fellow, we must get her away. If, however, she elects to remain, our hands are tied: we can do nothing.”
“It is very unfortunate that Jamie is no longer here; we could have sent her a letter through him.”
“He has been removed to prevent anything of the sort taking place.”
Then Oliver started up. “I will go and reconnoitre, myself.”
“No,” said the father. “Leave all to me. You must on no account meddle in this matter.”
“Why not?”
“Because” – the old man coughed. “Do you not understand – you are a young man.”
Oliver colored, and said no more. He had not great confidence in his father’s being able to do anything effectual for Judith. The step he had recently taken was injudicious and dangerous, and could further the end in view in no way.
He said no more to old Mr. Menaida, but he resolved to act himself, in spite of the remonstrance made and the objection raised by his father. No sooner was the elder man gone to bed, than he sallied forth and took the direction of Pentyre. It was a moonlight night. Clouds indeed rolled over the sky, and for awhile obscured the moon, but a moment after it flared forth again. A little snow had fallen and frosted the ground, making everything unburied by the white flakes to seem inky black. A cold wind whistled mournfully over the country. Oliver walked on, not feeling the cold, so glowing were his thoughts, and came within sight of the Glaze. His father had informed him that there were guests in the hall; but when he approached the house, he could see no lights from the windows. Indeed, the whole house was dark, as though everyone in it were asleep, or it were an uninhabited ruin. That most of the windows had shutters he was aware, and that these might be shut so as to exclude the chance of any ray issuing he also knew. He could not therefore conclude that all the household had retired for the night.
The moon was near its full. It hung high aloft in an almost cloudless sky. The air was comparatively still – still it never is on that coast, nor is it ever unthrilled by sound. Now, above the throb of the ocean, could be heard the shrill clatter and cry of the gulls. They were not asleep; they were about, fishing or quarrelling in the silver light.
Oliver rather wondered at the house being so hushed – wondered that the guests were all dismissed. He knew in which wing of the mansion was Judith’s room, and also which was Judith’s window. The pure white light shone on the face of the house and glittered in the window-panes.
As Oliver looked, thinking and wondering, he saw the casement opened, and Judith appeared at it, leaned with her elbow on the sill, and rested her face in her hand, looking up at the moon. The light air just lifted her fine hair. Oliver noticed how delicately pale and fragile she seemed – white as a gull, fragile as porcelain. He would not disturb her for a moment or two; he stood watching, with an oppression on his heart, and with a film forming over his eyes. Could nothing be done for the little creature? She was moped up in her room. She was imprisoned in this house, and she was wasting, dying in confinement.
And now he stole noiselessly nearer. There was an old cattle-shed adjoining the house, that had lost its roof. Coppinger concerned himself little about agriculture, and the shed that had once housed cows had been suffered to fall to ruin, the slates had been blown off, then the rain had wetted and rotted the rafters, and finally the decayed rafters had fallen with their remaining load of slates, leaving the walls alone standing.
Up one of the sides of this ruinous shed Oliver climbed, and then mounted to the gable, whence he could speak to Judith. But she must have heard him, and been alarmed, for she hastily closed the casement. Oliver, however, did not abandon his purpose. He broke off particles of mortar from the gable of the cow-house and threw them cautiously against the window. No notice was taken of the first or the second particle that clickered against a pane; but at the third a shadow appeared at the window, as though Judith had come to the casement to look out. Oliver was convinced that he could be seen; as he was on the very summit of the gable, and he raised his hands and arms to ensure attention.
Suddenly the shadow was withdrawn. Then hastily he drew forth a scrap of paper, on which he had written a few words before he left his father’s house, in the hopes of obtaining a chance of passing it to Judith, through Jamie, or by bribing a servant. This he now wrapped round a bit of stone and fastened it with a thread. Next moment the casement was opened and the shadow reappeared.
“Back!” whispered Oliver, sufficiently loud to be heard, and he dexterously threw the stone and the letter through the open window.
Next moment the casement was shut and the curtains were drawn.
He waited for full a quarter of an hour but no answer was returned.
CHAPTER XLIII
THE SECOND TIME
No sooner had Oliver thrown the stone with note tied round it into Judith’s room through the window, than he descended from a position which he esteemed too conspicuous should anyone happen to be about in the night near the house. He ensconced himself beneath the cow-shed wall in the shadow, where concealed, but was ready should the casement open to step forth and show himself.
He had not been there many minutes before he heard steps and voices, one of which he immediately recognized as that of Cruel Coppinger. Oliver had not been sufficiently long in the neighborhood to know the men in it by their voices, but looking round the corner of the wall he saw two figures against the horizon, one with hands in his pockets, and by the general slouch, he thought that he recognized the sexton of S. Enodoc.
“The Black Prince will be in before long,” said Coppinger. “I mean next week or fortnight, and I must have the goods shored here, this time. She will stand off Porth-leze, and mind you get information conveyed to the captain of the coast-guard that she will run her cargo there. Remember that. We must have a clear coast here. The stores are empty and must be refilled.”
“Yes, your honor.”
“You have furnished him with the key to the signals?”
“Yes, Cap’n.”
“And from Porth-leze there are to be signals to the Black Prince to come on here – but so that they may be read the other way – you understand?”
“Yes, Cap’n.”
“And what do they give you every time you carry them a bit of information?”
“A shilling.”
“A munificent government payment! and what did they give you for the false code of signals?”
“Half a crown.”
“Then here is half a guinea – and a crown for every lie you impose on them.”
Then Coppinger and the sexton went further. As soon as Oliver thought he could escape unobserved he withdrew and returned to Polzeath.
Next day he had a talk with his father.
“I have had opinions, in Bristol,” said he, “relative to the position of Judith.”
“From whom?”
“From lawyers.”
“Well – and what did they say?”
“One said one thing and one another. I stated the case of her marriage, its incompletion, the unsigned register, and one opinion was that nevertheless she was Mrs. Coppinger. But another opinion was that, in consequence of the incompleteness of the marriage, it was none – she was Miss Trevisa. Father, before I went to the barristers and obtained their opinions, I was as wise as I am now, for I knew then, what I know now, that she is either Mrs. Coppinger, or else that she is Miss Trevisa.”
“I could have told you as much.”
“It seems to me – but I may be uncharitable,” said Oliver, grimly, “that the opinion given was this way or that way according as I showed myself interested for the legality or against the legality of the marriage. Both of those to whom I applied regarded the case as interesting and deserving of being thrashed out in a court of law, and gave their opinions so as to induce me to embark in a suit. You understand what I mean, father? When I seemed urgent that the marriage should be pronounced none at all, then the verdict of the consulting barrister was that it was no marriage at all, and very good reasons he was able to produce to show that. But when I let it be supposed that my object was to get this marriage established against certain parties keenly interested in disputing it, I got an opinion that it was a good and legal marriage, and very good reasons were produced to sustain this conclusion.”
“I could have told you as much – and this has cost you money?”
“Yes – naturally.”
“And left you without any satisfaction?”
“Yes.”
“No satisfaction is to be got out of law – that is why I took to stuffing birds.”
“What is that noise at the door?” asked Oliver.
“There is some one trying to come in, and fumbling at the hasp,” said his father.
Oliver went to the door and opened it – to find Jamie there, trembling, white, and apparently about to faint. He could not speak, but he held out a note to Oliver.
“What is the matter with you?” asked the young man.
The boy, however, did not answer, but ran to Mr. Menaida, and crouched behind him.
“He has been frightened,” said the old man. “Leave him alone. He will come round presently and I will give him a drop of spirits to rouse him up. What letter is that?”
Oliver looked at the little note given him. It had been sealed, but torn open afterward. It was addressed to him, and across the address was written in bold, coarse letters with a pencil, “Seen and passed. C. C.” Oliver opened the letter and read as follows:
“I pray you leave me. Do not trouble yourself about me. Nothing can now be done for me. My great concern is for Jamie. But I entreat you to be very cautious about yourself where you go. You are in danger. Your life is threatened, and you do not know it. I must not explain myself, but I warn you. Go out of the country – that would be best. Go back to Portugal. I shall not be at ease in my mind till I know that you are gone, and gone unhurt. My dear love to Mr. Menaida – Judith.”
The hand that had written this letter had shaken, the letters were hastily and imperfectly formed. Was this the hand of Judith who had taught Jamie caligraphy, had written out his copies as neatly and beautifully as copper-plate?
Judith had sent him this answer by her brother, and Jamie had been stopped, forced to deliver up the missive, which Coppinger had opened and read. Oliver did not for a moment doubt whence the danger sprang with which he was menaced. Coppinger had suffered the warning to be conveyed to him with contemptuous indifference – it was as though he had scored across the letter – “Be forewarned, take what precautions you will – you shall not escape me.”
The first challenge had come from old Menaida, but Coppinger passed over that as undeserving of attention, but he proclaimed his readiness to cross swords with the young man. And Oliver could not deny that he had given occasion for this. Without counting the cost, without considering the risk; nay, further, without weighing the right and wrong in the matter, Oliver had allowed himself to slip into terms of some familiarity with Judith, harmless enough were she unmarried, but hardly calculated to be so regarded by a husband. They had come to consider each other as cousins, or they had pretended so to consider each other, so as to justify a half-affectionate, half-intimate association, and before he was aware of it Oliver had lost his heart. He could not and he would not regard Judith as the wife of Coppinger, because he knew that she absolutely refused to be so regarded by him, by herself, by his father, though by appearing at the ball with Coppinger, by living in his house, she allowed the world to so consider her. Was she his wife? He could not suppose it when she had refused to conclude the marriage ceremony, when there was no documentary evidence for the marriage. Let the question be mooted in a court of law; what could the witnesses say, but that she had fainted, and that all the latter portion of the ceremony had been performed over her when unconscious, and that on her recovery of her faculties she had resolutely persisted in resistance to the affixing of her signature to the register.
With respect to Judith’s feelings toward himself Oliver was ignorant. She had taken pleasure in his society, because he had made himself agreeable to her, and his company was a relief to her after the solitude of Pentyre and the association there with persons with whom she was wholly out of sympathy.
His quarrel with Coppinger had shifted ground. At first he had resolved, should occasion offer, to conclude with him the contest begun on the wreck, and to chastise him for his conduct on that night. Now, he thought little of that cause of resentment, he desired to punish him for having been the occasion of so much misery to Judith. He could not now drive from his head the scene of the girl’s wan face at the window, looking up at the moon.
Oliver would shrink from doing anything dishonorable, but it did not seem to him that there could be aught wrong and unbecoming a gentleman in endeavoring to snatch this hapless child from the claws of the wild beast that had struck it down.
“No, father,” said he hastily, as the old fellow was pouring out a pretty strong dose of his great specific and about to administer it to Jamie, “no father, it is not that the boy wants; and remember how strongly Judith objects to his being given spirits.”
“Dear, dear!” exclaimed Uncle Zachie, “to be sure she does, and she made me promise not to give him any. But this is an exceptional case.”
“Let him come to me, I will soothe him. The child is frightened, or stay, get him to help you with that kittiwake. Jamie, father can’t get the bird to look natural; his head does not seem to me to be right. Did you ever see a kittiwake turn his neck in that fashion? I wish you would put your fingers to the throat, and bend it about, and set the wadding where it ought to be. Father and I can’t agree about it.”
“It is wrong,” said Jamie. “Look, this is the way.” His mind was diverted. Always volatile, always ready to be turned from one thing to another, Oliver had succeeded in interesting him, and had made him forget for a moment the terrors that had shaken him.
After Jamie had been in the house for half an hour, Oliver advised him to return to the Glaze. He would give him no message, verbal or written. But the thought of having to return renewed the poor child’s fears, and Oliver could hardly allay them by promising to accompany him part of the way.
Oliver was careful not to speak to him on the subject of his alarm, but he gathered from his disjointed talk that Judith had given him the note and impressed on him that it was to be delivered as secretly as possible; that Coppinger had intercepted him, and suspecting something, had threatened and frightened him into divulging the truth. Then Captain Cruel had read the letter, scored over it some words in pencil, given it back to him, and ordered him to fulfil his commission, to deliver the note.
“Look you here, Jamie,” was Mr. Menaida’s parting injunction to the lad as he left the house, “there’s no reason for you to be idle when at Pentyre. You can make friends with some of the men and get birds shot. I don’t advise your having a gun, you are not careful enough. But if they shoot birds you may amuse your leisure in skinning them, and I gave Judith arsenic for you. She keeps it in her workbox, and will let you have sufficient for your purpose as you need it. I would not give it to you, as it might be dangerous in your hands as a gun. It is a deadly poison, and with carelessness you might kill a man. But go to Judith when you have a skin ready to dress and she will see that you have sufficient for the dressing. There, good-by, and bring me some skins shortly.”
Oliver accompanied the boy as far as the gate that led into the lane between the walls enclosing the fields of the Pentyre estate. Jamie pressed him to come farther, but this the young man would not do. He bade the poor lad farewell, bid him divert himself as his father had advised, with bird stuffing, and remained at the gate watching him depart. The boy’s face and feebleness touched and stirred the heart of Oliver. The face reminded him so strongly of his twin sister, but it was the shadow, the pale shadow of Judith only, without the intelligence, the character, and the force. And the helplessness of the child, his desolation, his condition of nervous alarm roused the young man’s pity. He was startled by a shot, that struck his gray hat simultaneously with the report.
In a moment he sprang over the hedge in the direction whence the smoke rose, and came upon Cruel Coppinger with a gun.
“Oh, you!” said the latter, with a sneer, “I thought I was shooting a rabbit.”
“This is the second time,” said Oliver.
“The first,” was Coppinger’s correction.
“Not so – the second time you have levelled at me. The first was on the wreck when I struck up your hand.”
Coppinger shrugged his shoulders. “It is immaterial. The third time is lucky, folks say.”
The two men looked at each other with hostility.
“Your father has insulted me,” said Coppinger. “Are you ready to take up his cause? I will not fight an old fool.”
“I am ready to take up his cause, mine also, and that of – ” Oliver checked himself.
“And that of whom?” asked Coppinger, white with rage, and in a quivering voice.
“The cause of my father and mine own will suffice,” said Oliver.
“And when shall we meet?” asked Captain Cruel, leaning on his gun and glaring at his young antagonist over it.
“When and where suits me,” answered Oliver, coldly.
“And when and where may that be?”
“When and where! – when and where I can come suddenly on you as you came on me upon the wreck. With such as you – one does not observe the ordinary rules.”
“Very well,” shouted Coppinger. “When and where suits you, and when and where suits me – that is, whenever we meet again – we meet finally.”
Then each turned and strode away.
