In the Roar of the Sea/Chapter 47
CHAPTER XLVII.
FAST IN HIS HANDS.
Judith and Jamie were together in Othello Cottage—banished from Pentyre with a dark and threatening shadow over them, but this, however, gave the boy but little concern; he was delighted to be away from a house where he had been in incessant terror, and where he was under restraint; moreover, it was joy to him to be now where he need not meet Coppinger at every turn.
Judith forbade his going to Polzeath to see Uncle Zachie and Oliver Menaida, as she thought it advisable, under the circumstances, to keep themselves to themselves, and above all not to give further occasion for the suspicions and jealousy of Coppinger. This was to her, under the present condition of affairs, specially distressing, as she needed some counsel as to what she should do. Uncle Zachie at his best was a poor adviser, but on no account now would she appeal to his son. She was embarrassed and alarmed. And she had excuse for embarrassment and alarm. She had taken upon herself the attempt that had been made on the life of Coppinger, and he would, she supposed, believe her to be guilty.
What would he do? Would he proceed against her for attempted murder? If so, the case against her was very complete. It could be shown that Mr. Menaida had given her this arsenic, that she had kept it by her in her workbox while at the Glaze, that she had been on the most unsatisfactory terms with Captain Coppinger, and that she had refused to complete her marriage with him by appending her signature to the register. She was now aware—and the thought made her feel sick at heart and faint—that her association with the Menaidas had been most injudicious and had been capable of misinterpretation. It had been misinterpreted by Coppinger, and probably also by the gossips of Polzeath. It could be shown that a Secret correspondence had been carried on between her and Oliver, which had been intercepted by her husband. This was followed immediately by the attempt to poison Coppinger. The arsenic had been given him in the porridge her own hands had mixed, and which had been touched by no one else. It was natural to conclude that she had deliberately purposed to destroy her husband, that she might be free to marry Oliver Menaida.
If she were prosecuted on the criminal charge of attempted murder, the case could be made so conclusive against her that her conviction was certain.
Her only chance of escape lay in two directions—one that she should tell the truth, and allow Jamie to suffer the consequences of what he had done, which would be prison or a lunatic asylum. The other was that she should continue to screen him and trust that Coppinger would not prosecute her. He might hesitate about proceeding with such a case, which would attract attention to himself, to his household, and lay bare to the public eye much that he would reasonably be supposed to wish to keep concealed. If, for instance, the case were brought into court the story of the enforced marriage must come out, and that would rake up once more the mystery of the wreckers on Doom Bar, and of Lady Knighton's jewels. Coppinger might and probably would grasp at the other alternative—take advantage of the incompletion of the marriage, repudiate her, and let the matter of the poisoned porridge remain untouched.
The more Judith turned the matter over in her head the more sure she became that the best course, indeed the only one in which safety lay, was for her to continue to assume to herself the guilt of the attempt on Coppinger's life. He would see by her interference the second time, and prevention of his taking a second portion of the arsenic, that she did not really seek his life, but sought to force him, through personal fear, to drive her from his house and break the bond by which he bound her to him. For the sake of this going back from a purpose of murder, or from thinking that she had never intended to do more than drive him to a separation by alarm for his own safety; for the sake of the old love he had borne her, he might forbear pressing this matter to its bitter consequences, and accept what she desired—their separation, But if Judith allowed the truth to come out, then her husband would have no such compunction. It would be an opportunity for him to get rid of the boy he detested, and even if he did not have him consigned to jail, then it would be only because he would send him to an asylum.
Judith went out on the cliffs. The sea was troubled, far as the horizon, strewn with white horses shaking their manes, pawing and prancing in their gallop landward. There was no blue, no greenness in the ocean now. The dull tinctures of winter were in it. The Atlantic wore its scowl, was leaden and impatient. The foam on the rocks was driven up in spouts into the air and carried over the downs, it caught in the thorn bushes like flocks of wool, and was no cleaner. It lay with the thin melting snow and melted with it into a dirty slush. It plastered the face of Othello Cottage as though, in brutal insolence, Ocean had been spitting at the house that was built of the wreck he had failed to gulp down, though he had chewed the life out of it. The foam rested in flakes on the rushes where it hung and fluttered like tufts of cotton-grass. It was dropped about by the wind for miles inland as though the wind were running in a paper chase. It was as though sky and sea were contending in a game of pelting the land, the one with snow, the other with foam, the one sweet, the other salt. Judith walked where, near the edge of the cliffs, where there was no snow, and looked out at the angry ocean. All without was cold, rugged, ruffled, wretched; and within her heart burned a fire of apprehension, distress, almost of despair. All at once she came upon Mr. Desiderius Mules, walking in an opposite direction, engaged in wiping the foam-flakes out of his eyes.
"Halloo! you here Mrs. Coppinger?" exclaimed the rector; "glad to see you. I'm not here like S. Anthony preaching to the fishes, because I am a practical man. In the first place, in such a disturbed sea the fishes would have enough to do to look after themselves and would be ill-disposed to lend me an ear. In the next place the wind is on shore, and they would not hear me were I to lift up my voice. So I don't waste words and over-strain my larynx. If the bishop were a mile or a mile and a half inland, it might be different, he might admire my zeal. And what brings you here?"
"Oh, Mr. Mules!" exclaimed Judith, with a leap of hope in her heart—here was someone who might if he would be a help to her. She had indeed made up her own mind as to what was the safest road on which to set her feet, but she was timid, shrank from falsehood, and earnestly craved for someone to whom she could speak, and from whom she could obtain advice.
"Oh, Mr. Mules! will you give me some advice and assistance?"
"Advice, by all means," said the rector. "I'll turn and walk your way, the froth is blown into my face and stings it. My skin is sensitive, so are my eyes. Upon my word, when I got home my face will be as salt as if I had flooded it with tears—fancy me crying. "What did you say you wanted—advice?"
"Advice and assistance."
"Advice you shall have, it is my profession to give it. I mix it with pepper and salt and serve it out in soup plates every week—am ready with it every day, Mrs. Coppinger. I have buckets of it at your disposal, bring your tureen and I'll tip in as much of the broth as you want, and may you like it. As to assistance, that is another matter. Pecuniary assistance I never give. I am unable to do so. My principles stand in the way. I have set up a high standard for myself and I stick to it. I never render pecuniary assistance to anyone, as it demoralizes the receiver. I hope and trust it was not pecuniary assistance you wanted."
"No, Mr. Mules—not that, only guidance."
"Oh, guidance! I'm your sign-post, where do you want to go?"
"It is this, sir. I have given poison to Mr. Coppinger."
"Mercy on me!" the rector jumped back and turned much the tinge of the foam plasters that were on his face.
"That is to say, I gave him arsenic mixed with his porridge the day before yesterday, and it made him very ill. Yesterday——"
"Hush, hush!" said Mr. Mules, "no more of this. This is ghastly. Let us. say it is hallucination on your part. You are either not right in your head or are very wicked. If you please—don't come nearer to me. I can hear you quite well, hear a great deal more than pleases me. You ask my advice, and I give it: Sign the register, that will set me square, and put me in an unassailable position with the public, and also, secondarily, it will be to your advantage. You are now a nondescript, and a nondescript is objectionable. If you please—you will excuse me—I should prefer not standing between you and the cliff. There is no knowing what a person who confesses to poisoning her husband might do. If it be a case of lunacy—well, more reason that I should use precautions. My life is valuable. Come, there is only one thing you can do to make me comfortable—sign the register."
"You will not mention what I have told you to anyone?"
"Save and defend us! I speak of it!—I! Come, come, be rational. Sign the register and set my mind at ease, that is all I want and ask for, and then I wash my hands of you."
Then away went Mr. Desiderius Mules, with the wind catching his coat tails, twisting them, throwing them up against his back, parting them, and driving them one on each side of him, taking and cutting them and sending them between his legs.
Judith stood mournfully looking after him. The sign-post, as he had called himself was flying from the traveller whom it was his duty to direct.
Then a hand was laid on her arm. She started, turned and saw Oliver Menaida, flushed with rapid walking and with the fresh air he had encountered.
"I have come to see you," he said. "I have come to offer you my father's and my assistance. We have just heard——"
"What?"
"That Captain Coppinger has turned you and Jamie out of his house."
"Have you heard any reason assigned?"
"Because—so it is said—he had beaten the boy, and you were incensed, angry words passed—and it ended in a rupture."
"That, then, is the common explanation?"
"Everyone is talking about it. Everyone says that. And now, what will you do?"
"Thank you. Jamie and I are at Othello Cottage, where we are comfortable. My aunt had furnished it intending to reside in it herself. As for our food, we receive that from the Glaze."
"But this cannot continue."
"It must continue for a while."
"And then?"
"The future is not open to my eyes."
"Judith, that has taken place at length which I have been long expecting."
"What do you mean?"
"This miserable condition of affairs has reached its climax, and there has been a turn."
Judith sighed. "It has taken a turn, indeed."
"Now that Captain Coppinger has been brought to his senses, and he sees that your resolve is not to be shaken, and he releases you, or you have released yourself from the thraldom you have been in. I do not suppose the popular account of the matter is true, wholly."
"It is not at all true."
"That matters not. The fact remains that you are out of Pentyre Glaze and your own mistress. The snare is broken and you are delivered."
Again Judith sighed, and she shook her head despondingly.
"You are free," persisted Oliver, "just consider. You were hurried through a marriage when insensible, and when you came to consciousness you did what was the only thing you could do—you absolutely refused your signature that would validate what had taken place. That was conclusive. That ceremony was as worthless as this sea-foam that blows by. No court in the world would hold that you were bound by it. The consent, the free consent, of each party in such a convention is essential. As to your being at Pentyre, nothing against that can be alleged; Miss Trevisa was your aunt and constituted your guardian by your father. Your place was by her. To her you went when my father's house was no longer at your service through my return. At Pentyre you remained as long as Miss Trevisa was there. She went, and at once you left the house."
"You do not understand."
"Excuse me, I think I do. But no matter as to details. When your aunt went, you went also—as was proper under the circumstances. We have heard, I do not know whether it be true, that your aunt has come in for a good property."
"For a little something."
"Then, shall you go to her and reside with her?"
"No; she will not have Jamie and me."
"So we supposed. Now my father has a proposal to make. The firm to which I belong has been good enough to take me into partnership, esteeming my services far higher than they deserve, and I am to live at Oporto, and act for them there. As my income will now be far larger than my humble requirements, I have resolved to allow my dear father sufficient for him to live upon comfortably where he wills, and he has elected to follow me, and take up his abode in Portugal. Now what he has commissioned me to say is—will you go with him? Will you continue to regard him as Uncle Zachie, and be to him as his dear little niece, and keep house for him in the sunny southern land?"
Judith's eyes filled with tears.
"And Jamie is included in the invitation. He is to come also, and help my father to stuff the birds of Portugal. A new ornithological field is opening before him, he says, and he must have help in it."
"I cannot," said Judith, in a low tone, with her head sunk on her breast. "I cannot leave here till Captain Coppinger gives me leave."
"But, surely, you are no longer bound to him?"
"He holds me faster than before."
"I cannot understand this."
"No; because you do not know all."
"Tell me the whole truth. Let me help you. Let my father help you. You little know how we both have our hearts in your service."
"Well, I will tell you."
But she hesitated and trembled. She fixed her eyes on the wild, foaming, leaden sea, and pressed her bosom with both hands.
"I poisoned him."
"Judith!"
"It is true, I gave him arsenic, once; that your father had let me have for Jamie. If he had taken it the second time, when I offered it him in his bowl of porridge, he would be dead now. Do you see—he holds me in his hands and I cannot stir. I could not escape till I know what he intends to do with me. Now go—leave me to my fate."
"Judith—it is not true! Though. I hear this from your lips I will not believe it. No; you need my father's, you need my help more than ever." He put her hand to his lips. "It is white—innocent. I know it, in spite of your words."