“I’ll have a drop,” says I, “for comfort.”
My uncle’s hand anticipated me.
“Ah!” says he. “For comfort, is it?”
Unhappily, he had the bottle in his hand. ’Twas quite beyond my reach––done with any courtesy. I must wait for him to set it down again. The jug was close enough, the glass, too; but the bottle was in watchful custody. My uncle shook the bottle, and held it to the lamp; he gauged its contents: ’twas still stout––he sighed. And now he set it on the table, with his great, three-fingered hand about the neck of it, so that all hope of possession departed from me: ’twas a clutch too close and meaning to leave me room for hope. I heard the wind, rising to a blow, but had no fret on that account: there was none of us at sea, 295 thank God! we were all ashore, with no care for what the wind might do. I observed that my uncle was wrought up to a pitch of concern to which he was not used. He had gone pale, who was used, in exaltation of feeling, to go crimson and blue in the scars of him; but he had now gone quite white and coldly sweaty, in a ghastly way, with the black bottle held up before him, his wide little eyes upon it. I had never before known him to be in fact afraid; but he was now afraid, and I was persuaded of it, by his pallor, by his trembling hand, by the white and stare of his eyes, by the drooping lines of his poor, disfigured face. He turned from the bottle to look at me; but I could not withstand the poignancy of his regard: I looked away––feeling some shame, for which I could not account to myself. And then he sighed, and clapped the black bottle on the table, with a thump that startled me; and he looked towards me with a resolution undaunted and determined. I shall never forget, indeed, the expression he wore: ’twas one of perfect knightliness––as high and pure and courageous as men might wear, even in those ancient times when honorable endeavor (by the tales of John Cather) was a reward sufficient to itself.
I shall never forget: I could not forget.
“Dannie,” says he, listlessly, “’tis wonderful warm in here. Cast up the window, lad.”
’Twas not warm. There was no fire; and the weather had changed, and the wind came in at the open door, running in cold draughts about the house. ’Twas warm with the light of the lamp, to be sure; 296 ’twas cosey and grateful in the room: but the entering swirl of wind was cold, and the emotional situation was such in bleakness and mystery as to make me shiver.
I opened the window.
“That’s good,” he sighed. “How’s the tide?”
“’Tis the ebb, sir.”