UNCLE ZACHIE.
The astonishment, the consternation of Mrs. Trevisa at what had
occurred, which she could not fully comprehend, took from her the
power to speak. She had seen her niece in conversation with Cruel
Coppinger, and had caught snatches of what had passed between them.
All his words had reached her, and some of Judith's. When, suddenly,
she saw the girl dash the basket of buttons in the face of the
Captain, saw him thrown to the ground, drawn about by his frantic
horse, and left, as she thought, half dead, her dismay was unbounded.
It might have been that Coppinger threatened Judith with his whip, but
nothing could excuse her temerity in resisting him, in resisting him
and protecting herself in the way she did. The consequences of that
resistance she could not measure. Coppinger was bruised, bones were
broken, and Aunt Dionysia knew the nature of the man too well not to
expect his deadly animosity, and to feel sure of implacable revenge
against the girl who had injured him--a revenge that would envelop all
who belonged to her, and would therefore strike herself.
The elderly spinster had naturally plenty of strength and hardness
that would bear her through most shocks without discomposure, but such
an incident as that which had just taken place before her eyes
entirely unnerved and dismayed her.
Coppinger was conveyed home by men called to the spot, and Mrs.
Trevisa walked on with her niece and nephew in silence to the house of
Mr. Zachary Menaida. Jamie had escaped over the hedge, to put a
stone-and-earth barrier between himself and his assailant directly
Judith interposed between him and Coppinger. Now that the latter was
gone, he came, laughing, over the hedge again. To him what had
occurred was fun.
At Menaida's the aunt departed, leaving her nephew and niece with the
old man, that she might hurry to Pentyre Glaze and provide what was
needed for Coppinger. She took no leave of Judith. In the haze of
apprehension that enveloped her mind glowed anger against the girl for
having increased her difficulties and jeopardized her position with
Coppinger.
Mr. Zachary Menaida was an old man, or rather a man who had passed
middle age, with grizzled hair that stood up above his brow,
projecting like the beak of a ship or the horn of an unicorn. He had a
big nose inclined to redness, and kindly, watery eyes, was close
shaven, and had lips that, whenever he was in perplexity, or worried
with work or thought, he thrust forward and curled. He was a
middle-statured man, inclined to stoop.
Uncle Zachie, as he was commonly called behind his back, was a
gentleman by birth. In the Roman Catholic Church there is a religious
order called that of Minims. In England we have, perhaps, the most
widely-diffused of orders, not confined to religion--it is that of
Crotchets. To this order Mr. Menaida certainly belonged. He was made
up of hobbies and prejudices that might bore, but never hurt others.
Probably the most difficult achievement one can conceive for a man to
execute is to stand in his own light; yet Mr. Menaida had succeeded in
doing this all through his life. In the first place, he had been bred
up for the law, but had never applied himself to the duties of the
profession to which he had been articled. As he had manifested as a
boy a love of music, his mother and sister had endeavored to make him
learn to play on an instrument; but, because so urged, he had refused
to qualify himself to play on pianoforte, violin, or flute, till his
fingers had stiffened, whereupon he set to work zealously to practise,
when it was no longer possible for him to acquire even tolerable
proficiency.
As he had been set by his father to work on skins of parchment, he
turned his mind to skins of another sort, and became an eager
naturalist and taxidermist.
That he had genius, or rather a few scattered sparks of talent in his
muddled brain, was certain. Every one who knew him said he was clever,
but pitied his inability to turn his cleverness to purpose. But one
must take into consideration, before accepting the general verdict
that he was clever, the intellectual abilities of those who formed
this judgment. When we do this, we doubt much whether their opinion is
worth much. Mr. Menaida was not clever. He had flashes of wit, no
steady light of understanding. Above all, he had no application, a
little of which might have made him a useful member of society.
When his articleship was over he set up as a solicitor, but what
business was offered him he neglected or mismanaged, till business
ceased to be offered. He would have starved had not a small annuity of
fifty pounds been left him to keep the wolf from the door, and that he
was able to supplement this small income with money made by the sale
of his stuffed specimens of sea-fowl. Taxidermy was the only art in
which he was able to do anything profitable. He loved to observe the
birds, to wander on the cliffs listening to their cries, watching
their flight, their positions when at rest, the undulations in their
feathers under the movement of the muscles as they turned their heads
or raised their feet; and when he set himself to stuff the skins he
was able to imitate the postures and appearance of living birds with
rare fidelity. Consequently his specimens were in request, and
ornithologists and country gentlemen whose game-keepers had shot rare
birds desired to have the skins dealt with, and set in cases, by the
dexterous fingers of Mr. Zachary Menaida. He might have done more work
of the same kind, but that his ingrained inactivity and distaste for
work limited his output. In certain cases Mr. Menaida would not do
what was desired of him till coaxed and flattered, and then he did it
grumblingly and with sighs at being subjected to killing toil.
Mr. Menaida was a widower; his married life had not been long; he had
been left with a son, now grown to manhood, who was no longer at home.
He was abroad, in Portugal, in the service of a Bristol merchant, an
importer of wines.
As already said, Uncle Zachie did not begin the drudgery of music till
it was too late for him to acquire skill on any instrument. His
passion for music grew with his inability to give himself pleasure
from it. He occupied a double cottage at Polzeath, and a hole knocked
through the wall that had separated the lower rooms enabled him to
keep his piano in one room and his bird-stuffing apparatus in the
other, and to run from one to the other in his favorite desultory way,
that never permitted him to stick to one thing at a time.
Into this house Judith and her brother were introduced. Mr. Menaida
had been attached to the late rector, the only other gentleman in
culture, as in birth, that lived in the place, and when he was told by
Miss--or, as she was usually called, Mrs.--Trevisa that the children
must leave the parsonage and be put temporarily with some one
suitable, and that no other suitable house was available, he consented
without making much objection to receive them into his cottage. He was
a kindly man, gentle at heart, and he was touched at the bereavement
of the children whom he had known since they were infants.
After the first salutation Mr. Menaida led Judith and the boy into his
parlor, the room opening out of his workshop.
"Look here," said he, "what is that?" He pointed to his piano.
"A piano, sir," answered Judith.
"Yes--and mind you, I hate strumming, though I love music. When I am
in, engaged at my labors, no strumming. I come in here now and then as
relaxation, and run over this and that; then, refreshed, go back to my
work, but, if there is any strumming, I shall be put out. I shall run
my knife or needle into my hand, and it will upset me for the day. You
understand--no strumming. When I am out, then you may touch the keys,
but only when I am out. You understand clearly? Say the words after
me: 'I allow no strumming.'"
Judith did as required. The same was exacted of Jamie. Then Mr.
Menaida said--
"Very well; now we shall have a dish of tea. I daresay you are tired.
Dear me, you look so. Goodness bless me! indeed you do. What has tired
you has been the trial you have gone through. Poor things, poor
things! There, go to your rooms; my maid, Jump, will show you where
they are, and I will see about making tea. It will do you good. You
want it. I see it."
The kind-hearted man ran about.
"Bless my soul! where have I put the key of the caddy? And--really--my
fingers are all over arsenical soap. I think I will leave Jump to make
the tea. Jump, have you seen where I put the key? Bless my soul!
where did I have it last? Never mind; I will break open the caddy."
"Please, Mr. Menaida, do not do that for us. We can very well wait
till the key is found."
"Oh! I don't know when that will be. I shall have forgotten about it
if I do not find the key at once, or break open the caddy. But, if you
prefer it, I have some cherry-brandy, or I would give you some
milk-punch."
"No--no, indeed, Mr. Menaida."
"But Jamie--I am sure he looks tired. A little cherry-brandy to draw
the threads in him together. And suffer me, though not a doctor, to
recommend it to you. Bless my soul! my fingers are all over arsenical
soap. If I don't have some cherry-brandy myself I shall have the
arsenic get into my system. I hope you have no cuts or scratches on
your hand. I forgot the arsenic when I shook hands with you. Now, look
here, Jump, bring in the saffron cake, and I will cut them each a good
hunch. It will do you good, on my word it will. I have not spared
either figs or saffron, and then--I will help you, as I love you. Come
and see my birds. That is a cormorant--a splendid fellow--looks as if
run out of metal, all his plumage, you know, and in the attitude as if
swallowing a fish. Do you see!--the morsel is going down his throat.
And--how much luggage have you? Jump! show the young lady where she
can put away her gowns and all that sort of thing. Oh, not come yet?
All right--a lady and her dresses are not long parted. They will be
here soon. Now, then. What will you have?--some cold beef--and cider?
Upon my soul!--you must excuse me. I was just wiring that kittiwake.
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 glass 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 glass 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 apron-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.