In the Roar of the Sea Part 7

Excuse me--I shall be ready in a moment. In the meantime there are books--Rollin's 'Ancient History,' a very reliable book. No--upon my word, my mind is distracted. I cannot get that kittiwake right without a gla.s.s of port. I have some good port. Oliver guarantees it--from Portugal, you know. He is there--first-rate business, and will make his fortune, which is more than his father ever did."

Mr. Menaida went to a closet, and produced a bottle.

"Come here, Jamie. I know what is good for you."

"No--please, Mr. Menaida, do not. He has not been accustomed to anything of the sort. Please not, sir."

"Fudge!" said Uncle Zachie, holding up a gla.s.s and pouring cherry-brandy into it. "What is your age?--seventeen or eighteen, and I am fifty-two. I have over thirty years' more experience of the world than you. Jamie, don't be tied to your sister's ap.r.o.n-string. I know what is best for you. Girls drink water, men something better. Come here, Jamie!"

"No, sir--I beseech you."

"Bless my soul! I know what is good for him. Come to me, Jamie. Look the other way, Judith, if I cannot persuade you."

Judith sighed, and covered her face with her hands. There was to be no help, no support in Uncle Zachie. On the contrary, he would break down her power over Jamie.

"Jamie," she said, "if you love me, go up-stairs."

"Presently, Ju. I want that first." And he took it, ran to his sister, and said:

"It is good, Ju!"

"You have disobeyed me, Jamie--that is bad."

She stood on the threshold of further trouble, and she knew it.

CHAPTER VII.

A VISIT.

No sleep visited Judith's eyes that night till the first streaks of dawn appeared, though she was weary, and her frail body and over-exerted brain needed the refreshment of sleep. But sleep she could not, for cares were gathering upon her.

She had often heard her father, when speaking of Mr. Menaida, lament that he was not a little more self-controlled in his drinking. It was not that the old fellow ever became inebriated, but that he hankered after the bottle, and was wont to take a nip continually to strengthen his nerves, steady his hand, or clear his brain. There was ever ready some excuse satisfactory to his own conscience; and it was due to these incessant applications to the bottle that his hand shook, his eyes became watery, and his nose red. It was a danger Judith must guard against, lest this trick should be picked up by the childish Jamie, always apt to imitate what he should not, and acquire habits easily gained, hardly broken, that were harmful to himself. Uncle Zachie, in his good-nature, would lead the boy after him into the same habits that marred his own life.

This was one thought that worked like a mole all night in Judith's brain; but she had other troubles as well to keep her awake. She was alarmed at the consequences of her conduct in the lane. She wondered whether Coppinger were more seriously hurt than had at first appeared.

She asked herself whether she had not acted wrongly when she acted inconsiderately, whether in her precipitation to protect herself she had not misjudged Coppinger, whether, if he had attempted to strike her, it would not have been a lesser evil to receive the blow, than to ward it off in such a manner as to break his bones. Knowing by report the character of the man, she feared that she had incurred his deadly animosity. He could not, that she could see, hurt herself in the execution of his resentment, but he might turn her aunt out of his house. That she had affronted her aunt she was aware; Mrs. Trevisa's manner in parting with her had shown that with sufficient plainness.

A strange jumble of sounds on the piano startled Judith. Her first thought and fear were that her brother had gone to the instrument, and was amusing himself on the keys. But on listening attentively she was aware that there was sufficient sequence in the notes to make it certain that the performer was a musician, though lacking in facility of execution. She descended the stairs and entered the little sitting-room. Uncle Zachie was seated on the music-stool, and was endeavoring to play a sonata of Beethoven that was vastly beyond the capacity of his stiff-jointed fingers. Whenever he made a false note he uttered a little grunt and screwed up his eyes, endeavored to play the bar again, and perhaps accomplish it only to break down in the next.

Judith did not venture to interrupt him. She took up some knitting, and seated herself near the piano, where he might see her without her disturbing him. He raised his brows, grunted, floundered into false harmony, and exclaimed, "Bless me! how badly they do print music nowadays. Who, without the miraculous powers of a prophet, could tell that B should be natural?" Then, turning his head over his shoulder, addressed Judith, "Good-morning, missie. Are you fond of music?"

"Yes, sir, very."

"So you think. Everyone says he or she is fond of music, because that person can hammer out a psalm tune or play the 'Rogue's March.' I hate to hear those who call themselves musical strum on a piano. They can't feel, they only execute."

"But they can play their notes correctly," said Judith, and then flushed with vexation at having made this pointed and cutting remark.

But it did not cause Mr. Menaida to wince.

"What of that? I give not a thank-you for mere literal music-reading.

Call Jump, set 'Shakespeare' before her, and she will hammer out a scene--correctly as to words; but where is the sense? Where the life?

You must play with the spirit and play with the understanding also, as you must read with the spirit and read with the understanding also.

It is the same thing with bird-stuffing. Any fool can ram tow into a skin and thrust wires into the neck, but what is the result? You must stuff birds with the spirit and stuff with the understanding also--or it is naught."

"I suppose it is the same with everything one does--one must do it heartily and intelligently."

"Exactly! Now you should see my boy, Oliver. Have you ever met him?"

"I think I have; but, to be truthful, I do not recollect him, sir."

"I will bring you his likeness--in miniature. It is in the next room."

Up jumped Mr. Menaida, and ran through the opening in the wall, and returned in another moment with the portrait, and gave it into Judith's hands.

"A fine fellow is Oliver! Look at his nose how straight it is. Not like mine--that is a pump-handle. He got his good looks from his mother, not from me. Ah!" He reseated himself at the piano, and ran--incorrectly--over a scale. "It is all the pleasure I have in life, to think of my boy, and to look at his picture, and read his letters, and drink the port he sends me--first-rate stuff. He writes admirable letters, and never a month pa.s.ses but I receive one. It would come expensive if he wrote direct, so his letter is enclosed in the business papers sent to the house at Bristol, and they forward it to me. You shall read his last--out loud. It will give me a pleasure to hear it read by you."

"If I read properly, Mr. Menaida--with the spirit and with the understanding."

"Exactly! But you could not fail to do that looking at the cheerful face in the miniature, and reading his words--pleasant and bright as himself. Pity you have not seen him; well, that makes something to live for. He has dark hair and blue eyes--not often met together, and when a.s.sociated, very refres.h.i.+ng. Wait! I'll go after the letter: only, bless my soul! where is it? What coat did I have on when I read it? I'll call Jump. She may remember. Wait! do you recall this?"

He stumbled over something on the keys which might have been anything.

"It is Haydn. I will tell you what I think: Mozart I delight in as a companion; Beethoven I revere as a master; but Haydn I love as a friend. You were about to say something?"

Judith had set an elbow on the piano and put her hand to her head, her fingers through the hair, and was looking into Uncle Zachie's face with an earnestness he could not mistake. She did desire to say something to him; but if she waited till he gave her an opportunity she might wait a long time. He jumped from one subject to another with alacrity, and with rapid forgetfulness of what he was last speaking about.

"Oh, sir, I am so very, very grateful to you for having received us into your snug little house----"

"You like it? Well, I only pay seven pounds for it. Cheap, is it not?

Two cottages--laborers' cottages--thrown together. Well, I might go farther and fare worse."

"And, Mr. Menaida, I venture to ask you another favor, which, if you will grant me, you will lay me under an eternal obligation."

"You may command me, my dear."

"It is only this: not to let Jamie have anything stronger than a gla.s.s of cider. I do not mind his having that; but a boy like him does not need what is, no doubt, wanted by you who are getting old. I am so afraid of the habit growing on him of looking for and liking what is too strong for him. He is such a child, so easily led, and so unable to control himself. It may be a fancy, a prejudice of mine"--she pa.s.sed her nervous hand over her face--"I do hope I am not offending you, dear Mr. Menaida; but I know Jamie so well, and I know how carefully he must be watched and checked. If it be a silly fancy of mine--and perhaps it is only a silly fancy--yet," she put on a pleading tone, "you will humor me in this, will you not, Mr. Menaida?"

"Bless my soul! you have only to express a wish and I will fulfil it.

For myself, you must know, I am a little weak; I feel a chill when the wind turns north or east, and am always relaxed when it is in the south or west; that forces me to take something just to save me from serious inconvenience, you understand."

"Oh quite, sir."

"And then--confound it!--I am goaded on to work when disinclined. Why, there's a letter come to me now from Plymouth--a naturalist there, asking for more birds; and what can I do? I slave, I am at it all day, half the night; I have no time to eat or sleep. I was not born to stuff birds. I take it as an amus.e.m.e.nt, a pastime, and it is converted into a toil. I must brace up my exhausted frame; it is necessary to my health, you understand!"

"Oh, yes, Mr. Menaida. And you really will humor my childish whim?"

"Certainly, you may rely on me."