In the Roar of the Sea Part 24

"Oh, aunt! Where am I!"

Miss Trevisa turned.

"So you have come round at last, or pleased to pretend to come round.

It is hard to tell whether or not dissimulation was here."

"Dissimulation, aunt?"

"There's no saying. Young folks are not what they were in my day. They have neither the straightforwardness nor the consideration for their elders and betters."

"But--where am I?"

"At the Glaze; not where I put you, but where you have put yourself."

"I did not come here, auntie, dear."

"Don't auntie dear me, and deprive me of my natural sleep."

"Have I?"

"Have you not? Three nights have I had to sit up. And natural sleep is as necessary to me at my age as is stays. I fall abroad without one or the other. Give me my choice--whether I'd have nephews and nieces crawling about me or erysipelas, and I'd choose the latter."

"But, aunt--I'm sorry if I am a trouble to you."

"Of course you are a trouble. How can you be other? Don't burs stick?

But that is neither here nor there."

"Aunt, how came I to Pentyre Glaze!"

"I didn't invite you, and I didn't bring you--you may be sure of that.

Captain Coppinger found you somewhere on the down at night, when you ought to have been at home. You were insensible, or pretended to be so--it's not for me to say which."

"Oh, aunt, I don't want to be here."

"Nor do I want you here--and in my room, too. Hoity-toity! nephews and nieces are just like pigs--you want them to go one way and they run the other."

"But I should like to know where Captain Coppinger found me, and all about it. I don't remember anything."

"Then you must ask him yourself."

"I should like to get up; may I?"

"I can't say till the doctor comes. There's no telling--I might be blamed. I shall be pleased enough when you are s.h.i.+fted to your own room," and she pointed to a door.

"My room, auntie?"

"I suppose so; I don't know whose else it is."

Then Miss Trevisa whisked out of the room.

Judith lay quietly in bed trying to collect her thoughts and recall something of what had happened. She could recollect fastening her wrist to the shrub by her brother's dog-chain; then, with all the vividness of a recurrence of the scene--the fall of the man, the stroke on her cheek, his roll over and plunge down the precipice. The recollection made a film come over her eyes and her heart stand still.

After that she remembered nothing. She tried hard to bring to mind one single twinkle of remembrance, but in vain. It was like looking at a wall and straining the eyes to see through it.

Then she raised herself in bed to look about her. She was in her aunt's room, and in her aunt's bed. She had been brought there by Captain Coppinger. He, therefore, had rescued her from the position of peril in which she had been. So far she could understand. She would have liked to know more, but more, probably, her aunt could not tell her, even if inclined to do so.

Where was Jamie? Was he at Uncle Zachie's? Had he been anxious and unhappy about her? She hoped he had got into no trouble during the time he had been free from her supervision. Judith felt that she must go back to Mr. Menaida's and to Jamie. She could not stay at the Glaze. She could not be happy with her ever-grumbling, ill-tempered aunt. Besides, her father would not have wished her to be there.

What did Aunt Dunes mean when she pointed to a door and spoke of her room?

Judith could not judge whether she were strong till she tried her strength. She slipped her feet to the floor, stood up and stole over the floor to that door which her aunt had indicated. She timidly raised the latch, after listening at it, opened and peeped into a small apartment. To her surprise she saw the little bed she had occupied at her dear home, the rectory, her old wash-stand, her mirror, the old chairs, the framed pictures that had adorned her walls, the common and trifling ornaments that had been arranged on her chimney-piece. Every object with which she had been familiar at the parsonage for many years, and to which she had said good-by, never expecting to have a right to them any more--all these were there, furnis.h.i.+ng the room that adjoined her aunt's apartment.

She stood looking around in surprise, till she heard a step on the stair outside, and, supposing it was that of Aunt Dionysia, she ran back to bed, and dived under the clothes and pulled the sheets over her golden head.

Aunt Dunes entered the room, bringing with her a bowl of soup. Her eye at once caught the opened door into the little adjoining chamber.

"You have been out of bed!"

Judith thrust her head out of its hiding-place, and said, frankly, "Yes, auntie! I could not help myself. I want to see. How have you managed to get all my things together?"

"I? I have had nothing to do with it."

"But--who did it, auntie?"

"Captain Coppinger; he was at the sale."

"Is the sale over, aunt?"

"Yes, whilst you have been ill."

"Oh, I am so glad it is over, and I knew nothing about it."

"Oh, exactly! Not a thought of the worry you have been to me; deprived of my sleep--of my bed--of my bed," repeated Aunt Dunes, grimly. "How can you expect a bulb to flower if you take it out of the earth and stick it on a bedroom chair stirring broth? I have no patience with you young people. You are consumed with selfishness."

"But, auntie! Don't be cross. Why did Captain Coppinger buy all my dear crink.u.m-crank.u.ms?"

Aunt Dionysia snorted and tossed her head.

Judith suddenly flushed; she did not repeat the question, but said hastily, "Auntie, I want to go back to Mr. Menaida."

"You cannot desire it more than I do," said Miss Trevisa, sharply.

"But whether _he_ will let you go is another matter."

"Aunt Dunes, if I want to go, I will go!"

"Indeed!"

"I will go back as soon as ever I can."