“Eight more,” said Uncle William, rapping the cork into place. “That ‘lows for one more fever for me afore I die–I don’t cal’ate to have but one more.” He looked about for his hat. “I’m goin’ out a little while,” he said, settling it on his head.
“Wait a minute, Uncle William.” The young man stretched out his hand. “How did you come to know I needed you?”
Uncle William took the hand in his, patting it slowly. “Why, that was nateral enough,” he said. “When Sergia wrote me, sayin’ you was sick–“
“Sergia wrote you?” the young man had turned away his eyes. “She should not have done it. She had no right–“
“Why not?” said Uncle William. He seated himself by the bed. There was something keen in the glance of his blue eyes. “You’re goin’ to be married, ain’t you?”
The head on the pillow turned uneasily. “No–not now.”
“Why not?”
“I shall never be able to take care of her.”
“Shucks!” said Uncle William. “Let her take care of you, then.”
The tears of weakness came into the young man’s eyes.
Uncle William’s gaze was fixed on space. “You’ve been foolish,” he said–“turrible foolish. I don’t doubt she wants to marry you this minute.”
“She shall not do it.” He spoke almost fiercely.
“There, there,” said Uncle William, soothingly, “I wouldn’t make such a fuss about it. Nobody’s goin’ to marry you ‘thout you want ’em to. You jest quiet down and go to sleep. We’ll talk it over when I come back.”
XI
When he returned the artist was awake. His eyes had a clearer look.
Uncle William surveyed them over the top of his parcels. “Feelin’ better?” he said.
“Yes.”
He carried the parcels into the next room, and the artist heard him pottering around and humming. He came out presently in his shirt- sleeves. His spectacles were mounted on the gray tufts. “I’ve got a chowder going’,” he said. “You take another pill and then you’ll be about ready to eat some of it, when it’s done.”
“Can I eat chowder?” The tone was dubious, but meek.
“You’ve got all your teeth, hain’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then, I guess you can eat it.”
“I haven’t been eating much.”
“I shouldn’t think you had.” Uncle William spoke dryly. “You needn’t be a mite afraid o’ one o’ my chowders. A baby could eat ’em, if it had got its teeth.”
The artist ate the chowder, when it came, and called for more, but Uncle William refused him sternly. “You jest wait awhile,” he said, bearing away the empty plate. “There ain’t more’n enough for a comfortable dish for me. You don’t want to eat it all, do you?”
“No,” said the artist, flushing.
“I thought not.” It took Uncle William a long time to eat his portion, and the artist fell asleep again, watching the rhythmic motion of the great jaw as it went slowly back and forth.
When he wakened again it was almost dark in the room. Uncle William sat by the window, looking down into the street. He came across to the bed as the artist stirred. “You’ve had a good long sleep.” He laid a hand on the moist forehead. “That’s good. Fever’s gone.”
“It will come back. It always does.” There was anxious dread in the tone.
“It won’t this time.” Uncle William sat nodding at him mildly. “I know how you feel–kind o’ scared to believe anything–anything that’s good.”
The artist smiled. “/You/ never felt that way!”
“Jest that way,” said Uncle William. “I didn’t /want/ to believe I wa’n’t al’ays goin’ to be sick. I kep’ kind o’ thinkin’ I’d rather be sick’n not–jest as if the devil had me.”
“Yes”–the young man spoke almost eagerly–“it’s the way I’ve been! Only I didn’t know it till you said so.”
“The’ ‘s a good many things we don’t know–not jest exactly know–till somebody says ’em.”
They sat quiet, listening to the hum from the street.
“I’ve done some queer things,” said the artist.
“Like enough.” Uncle William did not ask what they were.
“They begin to look foolish.” He turned his head a little.
“Do you good–best thing in the world.”
“I don’t see how I /could/.” The tone was uneasy. “I must have been beastly to her.”
Uncle William said nothing.
“She didn’t tell you?” The artist was looking at him.
“She? Lord, no! women don’t tell anything you’ve done to ’em–not if it’s anything bad.”
“I might have known. . . . I fairly turned her out. But she kept coming back. She wanted me to marry her, so she could stay and take care of me.” He was not looking at Uncle William.
“And you wouldn’t let her?”
“I couldn’t– There was no money,” he said at last.
Uncle William glanced about him in the clear dusk. “Comf’tabul place,” he said.
The artist flushed. “She pays the rent, I suppose. They would have turned me out long since. I haven’t asked, but I know she pays it. There is no one else.”
“She is rich, probably,” said Uncle William.
“Rich?” The young man smiled bitterly. “She has what she earns. She works day and night. If she should stop, there would be nothing for either of us.”
“Not unless suthin’ come in,” said Uncle William. “Suthin’ might come in. You’d kind o’ like to see her, wouldn’t you?”
The artist held out a hand as if to stop him. “Not till I can pay her back, every cent!”
“Guess you need another pill, likely,” said Uncle William. He got up in the dark and groped about for the bottle. His great form loomed large above the bed as he handed it to the young man. “That’s four,” he said soothingly. “Jest about one more’ll fix ye.”
The young man swallowed it almost grudgingly. He lay back upon the pillow. “I can pay her the money sometime.” His gaunt eyes were staring into the dark. “But I can never make up to her for the way I treated her.”
“Mebbe she didn’t mind,” said Uncle William, non-committally. “Sometimes they don’t.”
“Mind? She couldn’t help minding. I was a fiend to her. I did everything but strike her.”
A smile grew, out of the dark, in Uncle William’s face. “I was thinkin’ about that ol’ chief,” he said slowly–“the one that give me the pills. I treated him–why, I treated him wuss ‘n anything. ‘Course, he wa’n’t like white folks; but I was fightin’ crazy with the fever, not sick enough to go to bed, but jest sittin’ around and jawin’ at things. I dunno /how/ he come to take such a likin’ to me. Might ‘a’ been on account o’ my size–we was about the same build. I’d set and jaw at him, callin’ him names. Don’t s’pose he understood half of ’em, but he could see plain enough I was spittin’ mad. He’d kind o’ edge up to me, grinnin’ like and noddin’, and fust thing I knew, one day, he’d fetched a pill and made me take it. I was mad enough to ‘a’ killed him easy, but ‘fore I could get up to do it, I fell asleep somehow. And when I woke up I felt different. /You/ feel different, don’t you?”
The artist smiled through the soft dark. “I would like to get down on my knees.”
Uncle William smoothed the spread in place. “They’d feel kind o’ sharp, I guess. I wouldn’t try it–not yet. You wait till Sergia comes.”
“/Will/ she come?”
“She’d come to-night if she knew you wanted her. You go to sleep, and in the mornin’ you’ll take that other pill.” He lifted the pillow and turned it over, patting it in place. “Why, that ol’ chief he was so glad when he see me feelin’ better he acted kind o’ crazy-like. I held out my hand to him when I woke up; but he didn’t know anything about shakin’ hands. He jest got down and took my feet and hugged ’em. It made me feel queer,” said Uncle William. “You do feel queer when you hain’t acted jest right.”
XII
“Can I see her to-day?” It was the first question in the morning.
“You better?”
“Yes.”
“You feelin’ well enough to sit up?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then, you can stay where you be another day.” Uncle William smiled cheerfully.
“Can I see her?”
“We’ll see about that. I’ve got a good many things to tend to.” Uncle William bustled away.
After a time his head was thrust in the door. “I’ll go see her, myself, byme-by,” he said kindly. “Mebbe she’ll come back with me.”
“It’s too late now.” The artist spoke a little bitterly.
“Too late!” Uncle William came out, reproachful and surprised. “What d’you mean?”
“It’s quarter to nine. She goes to work at nine. She has pupils–she teaches all day.”
Uncle William’s face dropped a little. “That’s too bad now, ain’t it! But don’t you mind. I wa’n’t just certain I’d let you see her to-day, anyhow.”
“When can I?”
Uncle William pondered. “You’re in a good deal of a hurry, ain’t you?”
“I want to tell her–“
“Yes, yes, I know. Well, ’bout to-morrow. How’d that do?”
“You could send her a note,” said the artist.
“I’m goin’ to see her,” said Uncle William. “She’ll be to home this evenin’, won’t she?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll go see her.”
The artist looked doubtful.
“Can’t I got see her?” said Uncle William.
“I was wondering whether you could find the way.”
“H’m-m. Where’d you say it was?”
“Eighteenth Street, near Broadway.”
“Eighteenth? That’s somewheres between Seventeenth and Nineteenth, ain’t it?” said Uncle William, dryly.
“Yes.” The artist smiled faintly.
Uncle William nodded. “I thought so. And I don’t s’pose they’ve changed the lay of Broadway a gre’ deal?”
“No–not much.”
“Well, I reckon I can find it. I gen’ally do; and I can’t get far out o’ the way with this.” He touched the compass that hung from the fob of the great watch. “I’ve been putty much all over the world with that. I reckon it’ll p’int about the same in New York as it does in Arichat. Now, I’ve got your breakfast ‘most ready, but I can’t seem to remember about your coffee.– You take sugar and milk in it, don’t you?”
“Yes.” The tone was almost sulky.
Uncle William looked at him shrewdly over his spectacles. “I don’t believe you feel well enough to see anybody for a good while, do you?”
The artist’s face changed subtly–like a child’s. It was almost cheerful.
Uncle William laughed out. “That’s better–a little mite better. I guess ’bout day after to-morrow you’ll do to see company.”
The young man stretched out a hand. “I /must/ see her. I shall get up–“
“There, there. I wouldn’t try to get up if I was you,” said Uncle William, genially. “I’ve put away your clothes, different places. I don’t jest know where they be, myself. It’ll be quite a chore to get ’em all together. You jest lie still, and let me manage.”
The young man ate his breakfast with relish. A subtle resolve to get up and do things was in his eye.
Uncle William watched it, chuckling. “Sha’n’t be able to keep him there more’n a day longer,” he said. “Better feed him well whilst I can.” He prepared clam-broth and toast, and wondered about an omelet, rolling in and out of the room with comfortable gait.
The artist ate everything that was set before him, eagerly. The resolve in his eye yielded to appreciation. “You ought to have been a chef, Uncle William. I never tasted anything better than that.” He was eating a last bit of toast, searching with his fork for stray crumbs.
Uncle William nodded. “The’ ‘s a good many things I’d o’t to ‘a’ been if I’d had time. That’s the trouble with livin’. You don’t hev time. You jest practise a day or two on suthin’–get kind o’ ust to it–and then you up and hev to do suthin’ else. I like cookin’ fust rate while I’m doin’ it. . . . I dunno as I /should/ like it reg’lar, though. It’d be kind o’ fiddlin’ work, gettin’ up and makin’ omelets every mornin’.”
“You’re an artist,” said the young man.
“Mebbe. Don’t you think you’ve licked that plat about clean?” Uncle William looked at it approvingly. “It ain’t much work to wash dishes for you.”
At intervals during the day the artist demanded his clothes, each time a little more vigorously. Uncle William put him off. “I don’t see that picter of my house anywheres ’round,” he said when pressed too close.
“No.”
“You sent it off?”
“Yes.” The young man was silent a minute. “Sergia took them–all of them–when I fell sick. They were not ready–not even framed. She was to send them to the committee. I have not heard.”
“I’ll go see ’em in the mornin’,” said Uncle William.
“I don’t know that you can–“
“Can’t anybody go in–if it’s an exhibit–by payin’ suthin’?”
“I mean, I don’t know that they’re hung.”
“Well, I wouldn’t bother about that. I’d like to see ’em jest as well if they ain’t hung. I’m putty tall, but I can scooch down as well as anybody. It’ll seem kind o’ good to see the ol’ place. I was thinkin’ this mornin’ I wish’t there was two-three rocks round somewheres. I guess that’s what picters are for. Some folks /hev/ to live in New York–can’t /get/ away. I sha’n’t mind if they ain’t hung up. I can see ’em all right, scoochin’ a little.”
The young man smiled. “I don’t know that they’re accepted.”
“Why not–if she sent ’em?”
“Oh, she sent them all right. They may have been refused.”
“At an exhibit?”
“Yes.”
“Well, up our way we don’t do like that. We take everything that comes in–pies and pickles and bedquilts and pumpkins and everything; putty triflin’ stuff, some of it, but they take it. This is different, I s’pose?”
“A little. Yes. They only take the best–or what they call the best.” The tone was bitter.
Uncle William looked at him mildly. “Then they took yourn–every one on ’em. They was as good picters as I ever see.”
The artist’s face lightened a little. “They /were/ good.” His thought dwelt on them lovingly.
Uncle William slipped quietly away to his room. The artist heard him moving about, opening and shutting bureau drawers, humming gently and fussing and talking in broken bits. Time passed. It was growing dark in the room.
The artist turned a little impatiently. “Hallo there!”
Uncle William stuck out his head. “Want suthin’?”
“What are you doing?” said the artist. It was almost querulous.
Uncle William came out, smoothing his neckerchief. It was a new one, blue like the sky. “I was fixin’ up a little to go see her. Do I look to suit you?” He moved nearer in the dusk with a kind of high pride. The tufts of hair stood erect on his round head, the neckerchief had a breezy knot with fluttering ends, and the coat hung from his great shoulders like a sail afloat.
The artist looked him over admiringly. “You’re great!” he said. “How did you come to know enough not to change?”
“I’ve changed everything!” declared Uncle William. His air of pride drooped a little.
The artist laughed out. “I mean you kept your same kind of clothes. A good many people, when they come down here to New York, try to dress like other folks–get new things.”
Uncle William’s face cleared. He looked down his great bulk with a smile. “I like my own things,” he said. “I feel to home in ’em.”
XIII
Uncle William found the door of the studio, and bent to examine the card tacked on the panel. “Sergia Lvova, Teacher of Piano and Violin.”
He knocked gently.
“Come in.” The call came clear and straight.
Uncle William opened the door.
A girl sat at a table across the room, her eyes protected by a green shade from the lamp that burned near and threw its light on the page she was copying. She glanced up as the door opened and pushed up the green shade, looking out from under it inquiringly. She peered a moment and then sprang up, thrusting aside the shade with a quick turn. “I am so glad you’ve come.” She crossed the room, holding out her hands. There was something clear and fresh in the motion–like a free creature, out of doors.
Uncle William stood smiling at her. “How do you know it’s me?” he said.
The girl laughed quietly. “There couldn’t be two.” Her voice had a running, musical quality, with deep notes in it and a little accent that caught at the words, tripping them lightly. She had taken his hands with a swift movement and was holding them, looking at him earnestly. “You are just as he said,” she nodded.
Uncle William returned the look. The upturned face flushed a little, but it did not fall. He put out his hand and touched it. “Some like a flower,” he said, “as near as I can make out–in the dark.” He looked about the huge, bare room, with its single flame shining on the page.
She moved away and lighted a gas-jet on the wall, and then another. She faced about, smiling. “Will that do?”
Uncle William nodded. “I like a considabul light,” he said.
“Yes.” She drew forward a chair. “Sit down.”
She folded her hands lightly, still scanning him. Uncle William settled his frame in the big chair. His glance traveled about the room. The two gas-jets flared at dark corners. A piano emerged mistily. Music-racks sketched themselves on the blackness. The girl’s face was the only bit of color. It glowed like a red flower, out of the gloom. Uncle William’s glance came back to it. “I got your letter all right,” he said.
“I knew you would come.”
“Yes.” He was searching absently in his pocket. He drew out the bluish slip of paper with rough edge. He handed it to her gravely. “I couldn’t take that, my dear, you know.”
She put it aside on the table. “I thought you might not have money enough to come at once, and he needed you.”
“Yes, he needed me. He’s better.”
Her face lightened. The rays of color awoke and played in it. “You have cured him.”
“Well,”–Uncle William was judicious,–“I give him a pill.”
She laughed out. “He needed /you/,” she said.
“Did he?” Uncle William leaned forward. “I never had anybody need me– not really need me.” His tone confided it to her.
She looked back at him. “I should think every one would.”
He looked a little puzzled. “I dunno. But I see, from the way you wrote, that /he/ did, so I come right along.”
“He will get well now.”
“He was middlin’ discouraged,” said Uncle William.
“He couldn’t see anything the way it is.” Her face had flushed a little, but the light in her eyes was clear.
Uncle William met it. “You showed a good deal of sense,” he said.
The face, as she pushed back the hair from it, looked tired. “I had to think for two.”
Uncle William nodded. “He wants to see you.”
She mused over it. “Do you think I’d better?”
“No,” said Uncle William, promptly.
Her lips remained parted. “Not to-morrow?” she said. Her lips closed on the word gently.
“Not for a considabul spell.” Uncle William shook his head. “He ain’t acted right.”
“He was ill.”
“He was sick,” admitted Uncle William, “–some. But it was some cussedness, too. That ain’t the main thing though.” Uncle William leaned nearer. “He’ll get well faster if he has suthin’ to kind o’ pester him.”
She looked at him with open eyes.
“It’s the way men be,” said Uncle William. “The Lord knew how ‘t was, I reckon, when he made ’em. He hadn’t more’n got ’em done, ‘fore he made wimmen.” He beamed on her genially. “He’ll get well a good deal faster if the’ ‘s suthin’ he thinks he wants and can’t have.”
“Yes. How will you keep him away?” A little twinkle sounded in her voice.
“I’ll take him home with me,” said Uncle William, “up to Arichat.”
“Now?”
“Well, in a day or two–soon’s it’s safe. It’d do anybody good.” His face grew wistful. “If you jest see it once, the way it is, you’d know what I mean: kind o’ big sweeps,”–he waved his arm over acres of moor,–“an’ a good deal o’ sky–room enough for clouds, sizable ones, and wind. You’d o’t to hear our wind.” He paused, helpless, before the wind. He could not convey it.
“I /have/ heard it.”
He stared at her. “You been there?”
“I’ve seen it, I mean–in Alan’s pictures.”
“Oh, them!” His tone reduced them to mere art. But a thought hung on it. “Where be they?” he asked.
“At the ‘Exhibition of American Artists.'” It was the tone of sheer pride.
“They took ’em, did they?” said William.
“They couldn’t help it. They sent back one for lack of room, but he will have four hung.”
“That’s good. You haven’t told him?”
“I only heard an hour ago, and I had copying to finish. I have a little recital, of my pupils, this evening. I was planning to write the letter and mail it on the way out.”
Uncle William started up. “I’m hinderin’ ye.”
“No–please.” She had forced him back gently. “I shall not have to write the letter now. Tell me about him.” Her face was alight.
Uncle William considered. “The’ ain’t much to tell, I guess. He’s gettin’ better. He’s actin’ the way men gen’ally do.”
“Yes–?” Her voice sang a little. “And he wants to see me?”
“Wust way,” said Uncle William; “but he ain’t goin’ to. What was you copyin’ when I come in?”
“Some music–for one of the big houses. It helps out.”
Uncle William was looking at her thoughtfully. “He’d better give up his place when we go,” he said. “He’ll, like enough, stay with me all summer.”
“His rooms, you mean?” She mused a little. “Yes, perhaps–“
“They must cost a good deal,” said Uncle William.
“They do.” She paused a minute. “He is almost sure to take a prize,” she said. “It’s the best work he has done.”
“That’ll be good,” said Uncle William. “But we won’t count too much on it. He won’t need money in Arichat. A little goes a long ways up there. Good night.” He was holding out his hand.
She placed hers in it slowly. Uncle William lifted the slim fingers. He patted them benignly. “They don’t look good for much, but they’re pretty,” he said.
She laughed out quietly. “They have to be,” she said. “They’re my tools. I /have/ to be careful of them. That is one of the things we quarreled about–Alan and I. He knew I ought not to use them and he wouldn’t let me do things for him, and he wouldn’t have a nurse, nor go to the hospital.” She sighed a little. “He was very obstinate.”
“Just like a mule,” assented Uncle William. He was stroking the fingers gently. “But he’s got a new driver this time.” He chuckled a little.
She looked up quickly. “Has he consented to go?”
“Well, we’re goin’.–It comes to the same thing I reckon,” said Uncle William. He was looking at the dark face with the darker lines beneath the eyes. “You’ll hev an easier time,” he said. “It’s been putty hard on you.”
“Oh, I don’t mind,” quickly, “–only the misunderstandings–and the quarrels–“
“That was the fever,” said Uncle William.
“But /I/ didn’t have the fever,” said the girl. “I might have been patient.”
“Well, I reckon the Angil Gabriel himself’d quarrel with a man that had one of them intermittent fevers,” said the old man thoughtfully. “They’re powerful trying’. You feel better–a little–and you perk up and think you’re goin’ to get well, and then, fust thing you know, there you are–all to do over again. If I had my ch’ice of all the diseases in the calendar, that’s the one I /wouldn’t/ take. Some on ’em you hev the comfort of knowin’ you’ll die of ’em–if ye live long enough.” He chuckled a little. “But this one, ye can’t die and ye can’t get well.”
“But /he/ is going to get well?” The girl’s eyes held him.
“Yes, he’ll be all right if he can set out in the wind a spell–and the sun. The fever’s broke. What he wants now is plenty to eat and good company. You’ll be comin’ up to see us byme-by, mebbe?” He looked at her hopefully.
“Do you think I could?”
“Well, I dunno why not. He’ll be gettin’ restless in a month or so. You might as well be married up there as anywhere. We’ve got a good minister–a fust-rate one.”
She smiled a little wistfully. “He won’t have me,” she said.
“Shucks!” said Uncle William. “You come up, and if he don’t marry you, I will.”
A bell sounded somewhere. She started. “I must go.” A thought crossed her face. “I wonder if you would like it–the recital?” She was looking at him, an amused question in her eyes.”
“Is it speaking pieces?” said Uncle William, cautiously.
“Playing them, and singing–one or two. It’s a musicale, you know. You might like it–” She was still thinking, her forehead a little wrinkled. “They are nice girls and– Oh–?” the forehead suddenly lifted, “you /would/ like it. There are sea-pieces–MacDowell’s. They’re just the thing.–” She held him hospitably.–“Do come. You would be sure to enjoy it.”
“Like enough,” said Uncle William. “It takes all kinds of singing to make a world. I might like ’em fust-rate. And it won’t take long?”
“No–only an hour or two. You can leave /him/, can’t you?” The pretty forehead had wrinkled again.
“Easy as not,” said Uncle William. “Best thing for him. He’ll have a chance to miss me a little.”
She smiled at him reproachfully. “We’ll have to hurry, I’m afraid. It’s only a step. But we ought to go at once.”
Uncle William followed in her wake, admiring the quick, lithe movements of the tall figure. Now that the flower-like face was turned away, she seemed larger, more vigorous. “A reg’lar clipper, and built for all kinds of weather,” said Uncle William as he followed fast. “I wouldn’t be afraid to trust her anywheres. She’d reef down quick in a blow.” He chuckled to himself.
She looked around. “Here we are.”
XIV
They had paused at the foot of a flight of stairs. Down the narrow hall-way floated a mingled sound of voices, high and low, with drifting strains of violin-bows laid across strings and quickly withdrawn.
The old man looked at her inquiringly. “They hain’t begun?”
She shook her head. “They’re tuning up.”
His face lifted a little. “I reckoned that couldn’t be the beginnin’. But ye can’t al’ays tell. They make queer noises sometimes.”
“Yes.–I must leave you now.” She had ushered him into a small hall. “I’m going to have you sit here, quite near the platform, where I can see you.” She looked at him a little anxiously. “You don’t need to stay if you don’t like it, you know.”
“Oh, I shall like it fust-rate,” he responded. “It looks like a real comf’tabul chair to set in.”
He seated himself in it and beamed upon the room. The place she had selected for him was near the platform and facing a little toward the audience. It had occurred to her, in a last moment of indecision, that Uncle William might enjoy the audience if the music proved too classic for him. She left him with a little murmur of apology.
A young girl in pink chiffon, with a bunch of huge pink roses, fluttered forward with a program.
Uncle William took it in pleased fingers. He searched for his spectacles and mounted them on his nose, staring at the printed lines. The audience had settled down to attention. Amused glances traveled toward the big figure absorbed in its program. Sergia had whispered a word here and there as she left the room. It made its way back through the crowd–“A friend of Mademoiselle Lvova’s–a sea-captain. She has brought him to hear the MacDowell pieces.” The audience smiled and relaxed. The music was beginning. Two young girls played a concerto from Rubenstein, with scared, flying fingers. They were relieved when it was done, and the audience clapped long and loud. Some one brought them bunches of flowers–twin lilies, tied exactly alike, with long white ribbons. Uncle William, his spectacles pushed up on the tufts of hair, watched with admiring glance as they escaped from the stage. He turned to his right-hand neighbor, an old gentleman with white hair and big, smooth, soft hands, who had watched the performance with gentle care.
“Putty girls,” said Uncle William, cordially.
The man looked at him, smiling. “One of them is my granddaughter, sir,” he responded affably.
She came from the door by the platform and sat down near her grandfather, the lilies and the long white ribbons trailing from nervous fingers. Uncle William leaned forward and smiled at her, nodding encouragement.
She replied with a quick, shy smile and fixed her eyes on the platform.
More pupils followed–young girls and old ones, and a youth with a violin that fluttered and wailed and grew harmonious at last as the youth forgot himself. Uncle William’s big, round face beamed upon him. Sergia, watching him from behind the scenes, could see that he regarded them all as nice children. He would have looked the same had they played on jews’-harps and tin horns. But he was enjoying it. She was glad of that.
She came out during the intermission to speak with him. “They’re all through now,” she said encouragingly.
He looked down at his program bewildered, and a little disappointed, she thought. “They got ’em all done?–I didn’t hear that ‘Wanderin’ Iceberg’ one,” he said regretfully. “I cal’ated to listen to that. But I was so interested in the children that I clean forgot.–They’re nice children.” He looked about the room where they were laughing and talking in groups. “Time to go, is it?”
“Not yet. That was only the first half–the pupils’ half. The rest is what I wanted you to hear–the sea-pieces and the others. They are played by real musicians.”
“You goin’ to do one?” asked Uncle William.
“Yes, one.” She smiled at him.
“I’ll stay.” He settled back comfortably.
“That’s right. I must go now and speak to some of the mothers. They only come for the first half. They will be going home.” She moved away.
Uncle William’s eyes followed her admiringly. He turned to the old gentleman beside him. “Nice girl,” he said.
“She is a fine teacher,” responded the old gentleman. “She had not been here long, but she had a good following. She has temperament.”
“Has she?” Uncle William looked after her a little quizzically. “Makes ’em stand around does she? You can’t ever tell about temper. Sometimes it’s the quietest ones has the wust. But she makes ’em work good. You can see that.”
“Yes, she makes them work.” The old gentleman smiled upon him kindly and patronizingly. He had been born and brought up in New York. He was receptive to new ideas and people. There was something about Uncle William–a subtle tang–that he liked. It was a new flavor.
Uncle William studied his program. “Sounds more sensible’n some of it.” He had laid a big finger on a section near the end. “I can understand that, now, ‘To an Old White Pine.’ That’s interestin’. Now that one there.” He spelled out the strange sounds slowly, “‘Opus 6, No. 2, A minor, All-e-gro.’ Now mebbe /you/ know what that means–/I/ don’t. But an ol’ white-pine tree–anybody can see that. We don’t hev ’em up my way–pine-trees. But I like ’em–al’ays did–al’ays set under ’em when they’re handy. You don’t hev many round here?”
The old gentleman smiled. “No; there are not many old white pines in New York. I can remember a few, as a boy.”
“Can ye?–Right in the center here?” Uncle William was interested.
“Well, not just here–a little out. But they’re gone.” The old gentleman sighed. “MacDowell has caught the spirit. You can hear the wind soughing through them and the branches creaking a little and rubbing, and a still kind of light all around. It’s very nice.”
“Good poetry, I s’pose,” assented Uncle William. “I don’t care so much for poetry myself. Some on it’s good,” he added thoughtfully. “‘The Boy Stood on the Burning Deck,’ that swings off kind o’ nice, and ‘Horatius at the Bridge.’ But most on it has a kind o’ travelin’ round way with it–has to go round by Robin Hood’s barn to get anywheres. I’m gen’ally sort o’ drowsy whilst it’s bein’ read.”
The old gentleman had laughed out genially. “MacDowell doesn’t write poetry, except short things–lines for headings. He makes it on the piano.”
“Makes an old white-pine tree?” demanded Uncle William.
“Well–something like that.”
Uncle William returned to his program. “There’ll be a ‘water-lily,’ then, will the’? and an ‘eagle,’ and a ‘medder brook,’ and a ‘wanderin’ iceberg,’ and a ‘pair o’ bars’?” He looked up with a soft twinkle. “And like enough a rooster or two, and a knock-kneed horse. I keep a-wonderin’ what that wanderin’ iceberg’ll be like. I’ve /seen/ a wanderin’ iceberg,–leastways I’ve come mighty near one,–but I ain’t ever /heard/ it. You ever met a wanderin’ iceberg?” His tone was friendly and solicitous.
The New York man shook his head. “Only the human kind.”
Uncle William chuckled. “I’ve met that kind myself–and the other kind, too.” He paused suddenly. The audience had hushed itself. Sergia was seated at the piano.
It was a Beethoven number, a sonata. Uncle William apparently went to sleep. Sergia, watching him, smiled gently. He must be very tired, poor dear. The next number will keep him awake all right. It did. It was sung by a famous baritone–“Fifteen men on a dead man’s chest! Yo ho! Yo ho!” Uncle William sat up. Joy radiated from him. He clutched his chair with both hands and beamed. The audience laughed with delight and clapped an encore.
“Goin’ to do it again, is he?” said Uncle William. “Now that’s good of him, ain’t it? But I should think he’d kind o’ like to. I’d like to do it myself if I could.”
“Fifteen men on a dead man’s chest!” rolled out the voice.
“He gets the spirit of it,” said the old gentleman when the song had ended and the applause had subsided.
“Jest so. I’ve been there myself–come within an ace o’ havin’ /my/ chest set on once. They was all fightin’ drunk, too–jest like that. Gives ye the same kind o’ feelin’s–creepy and shivery-like. What’s /he/ goin’ to do?” A long-haired youth had appeared on the platform. He approached the piano and stood looking at it thoughtfully, his head a little to one side.
“It’s Flanders. He plays the MacDowell–the ‘Wandering Iceberg,’ you know.”
“H’m-m.” Uncle William took down his spectacles to look at the youth through them. “You think he can do it all right? He ain’t very hefty.”
The youth had seated himself. He struck a heavy, thundering chord on the keys and subsided. His hands hung relaxed at his sides and his eyes were fixed dreamily on the wall before him.
“Has he got her started?” It was a loud whisper from Uncle William.
The old gentleman shook his head.
Uncle William waited patiently. There was a gentle trickle on the keys –and another. Then a pause and more trickles–then some galloping notes, with heavy work in the bass.
Uncle William looked interested. “She’s gettin’ under way, like enough.
“Sh-h!” The old gentleman held up a hand.
There were some long, flowing lines and a swirling sound that might have been water, and low growls in the bass, and a general rumbling and gritting and sliding and tumbling among the notes. The sounds stopped altogether. The youth sat staring before him. Applause broke from the audience. The youth got up and left the platform.
Uncle William stared after him with open mouth. “Has he got her done?” He turned to the man at his side.
“All done. How did you like it?”
“Well”–Uncle William squinted thoughtfully at his program–“I thought I was goin’ to like it fust-rate–if he’d got to it.”
“He didn’t get there, then?” The man laughed.
“Not to the iceberg.” Uncle William shook his head. A kindly look grew in his face. “I dunno’s he’s so much to blame, though. An iceberg must be kind o’ hard to do, I should think likely.”
“/I/ should think it might be. Music isn’t cold enough.”
“‘T ain’t the cold,” said Uncle William, hastily. “I run acrost an iceberg once. We was skirmishin’ round up North, in a kind o’ white fog, frosty-like, and cold–cold as blazes; and all of a sudden we was on her–close by her, somewheres, behind the frost. We wa’n’t cold any more. It was about the hottest time I ever knew,” he said thoughtfully.
“What happened?”
Uncle William roused himself. “Well, after a spell we knew she wa’n’t there any more, and we cooled down some. But we wa’n’t real cold–not for much as a day or so.”
The youth had returned to the piano. The audience met him with wild applause, half-way, and he bowed solemnly from his hips. There was a weary look in his face.
Uncle William looked him over critically. “He don’t more’n half like it, does he?”
The other man coughed a little. Then he laughed out.
Uncle William smiled genially. “I’ve seen his kind–a good many times. Looks as if they was goin’ to cry when you was feedin’ ’em sugar. They gen’ally like it real well, too.” He consulted his program. “Goin’ to do a hammock, is he?”
The hammock began to sway, and Uncle William’s big head rocked softly in time to it. “Some like it,” he said when it was done; “not enough to make you sea-sick–jest easy swingin’.”
The youth had not left the piano. He played “The Bars at Sunset,” and “A Water Lily,” and “The Eagle,” and then the two sea pieces. Uncle William listened with mild attention.
When it was over and the audience had begun to disperse, Sergia came out. She approached Uncle William, scanning his face. “How did you like it?”
“They all done?” he demanded.
“Yes. Did you like the sea pieces?”
“I liked ’em. Yes–I liked ’em.” Uncle William’s tone was moderate.
Sergia was smiling at him a little. “The ‘Depths of the Ocean’–you liked that best, didn’t you?”
Uncle William looked guilty. “I knew you was goin’ to ask me about that one,” he said, “and I’d meant to listen hard–real hard–to it. I hain’t ever been quite so far down as that, but I thought mebbe I could gauge it. But you see,”–his tone grew confidential and a little apologetic,–“when they got that far along, I couldn’t really tell which was which. I wa’n’t /plumb/ sure whether it was the eagle he was doin’ or the dep’hs, and it mixed me up some. I didn’t jest know whether to soar up aloft or dive considabul deep. It kep’ me kind o’ teeterin’ betwixt and between–” He looked at her appealingly, yet with a little twinkle somewhere below.
“I see.” Sergia’s face was dancing. “The names /do/ help.”
“That’s it,” said Uncle William, gallantly. “If he’d ‘a’ read off the names, or stopped quite a spell between the pieces, I’d ‘a’ done fust- rate. He was playin’ ’em nice. I could see the folks liked ’em.” He smiled at her kindly.
Sergia smiled back. “Yes, they like MacDowell. They think they understand him–when they know which it is.” Her smile had grown frank, like a boy’s. “But which did you like best of all?”
“Of the hull thing?” he demanded. He looked down at the program. “They was all nice,” he said slowly–“real nice. I dunno when I’ve heard nicer singin’ ‘n playin’. But I reckon that one was about the nicest of the lot.” He laid his big thumb on a number.
Sergia and the old gentleman bent to look. It was the Beethoven sonata.
Sergia glanced at the old gentleman. He met the glance, smiling. “A tribute to our hostess,” he said.
“A tribute to Beethoven,” returned Sergia. Then, after a moment, she laughed softly. Sergia was not addicted to MacDowell.
XV
Uncle William crept into the rooms like a thief, but the artist was sleeping soundly. He did not stir as the latch gave a little click in the lock. “That’s good,” said Uncle William. He had slipped off his shoes and was in his stocking feet. He stole over to the bed and stood looking down at the thin face. It was a little drawn, with hollow eyes. “He’ll perk considabul when he hears about them picters,” said Uncle William.
But in the morning when, after breakfast, Uncle William announced his great news, the artist ignored it. “Is she coming–Sergia?”
Uncle William scowled his forehead in recollection. “Now, I can’t seem to remember ‘t she said so.”
“What /did/ she say?” The tone was imperative.
“Well, she asked how you was gettin’ along. I told her that–as well as I could.”
“Didn’t you tell her I wanted to see her?”
“Yes, I told her that.” Uncle William’s voice was impartial.
“Well?”
“She didn’t seem to think much of it. I guess if I was you I’d hurry up and get well so ‘s to go see /her/.”
The artist’s face had grown hard. “I shall not go until I can carry her the money in my hand–all that I owe her.”
“Is ‘t a good deal?” asked Uncle William.
But the artist had turned his face to the wall.
Uncle William looked down at him with a kind of compassionate justice. “If I was you–“
A whistle sounded and an arm, holding a letter, was thrust in at the door.
“What is it?” The artist had turned. He half raised himself, reaching out a hand. “What is it? Give it to me.”
Uncle William examined the lines slowly. “Why, it seems to be for me,” he said kindly. “I dunno anybody that’d be writin’ to me.”
He found his glasses and opened it, studying the address once or twice and shaking his head.
The artist had sunk back, indifferent.
“Why!” The paper rustled in Uncle William’s hand. He looked up. “She’s gone!” he said.
The artist started up, glaring at him.
Uncle William shook his head, looking at him pityingly. “Like as not we sha’n’t see her again, ever.”
The artist’s hand groped. “What is it?” he whispered.
“She’s gone–left in the night.”
“She will come back.” The gaunt eyes were fixed on his face
Uncle William shook his head again, returning the gaze with a kind of sternness. “I dunno,” he says. “When a man treats her like Andy has, she must kind o’ hate him–like pizen.”
The artist sat up, a look of hope faint and perplexed, dawning beneath his stare. He leaned forward, speaking slowly. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talkin’ about that.” Uncle William held out the letter. “It’s from Andy, and Juno’s left him. Took to the woods. She couldn’t stan’ havin’ him round, I guess.” Uncle William chuckled a little.
The young man lay back. He moistened his lips a little with his tongue. “You were talking about /her/?” The words were a whisper.
Uncle William looked at him over his glasses. “Didn’t you hear me say so?”
There was a long silence. “I thought you meant–Sergia.”
“Sergia!–What!” Uncle William looked down at the letter. A light dawned slowly in his eye. He fixed it on the young man. A chuckle sounded somewhere and grew in little rolls, tumbling up from the depths. “You thought I meant–her!” Uncle William’s sides shook gently. “Lord, no! Sergia didn’t run away. She’ll stan’ by till the last man’s hung. She’s that kind.”
“I know.” The tone was jealous. “I ought to know.”
“Yes, you ought to know.” Uncle William left the moral to take care of itself. He did up the work, singing hopefully as he rolled about the room, giving things what he called “a lick and a promise.”
“You were late last night,” said the artist, watching him.
“Yes, considabul late,” said Uncle William. He had come upon another pile of cigar-ashes behind a picture on the shelf, and was brushing it up, whistling softly. “You must ‘a’ smoked a good deal,” he said, rapping out the ashes. “I’ve been sweepin’ ’em up ever since I come.”
“I did. It helped me forget.”
“It didn’t help you get well, I reckon,” said Uncle William. “What you need,” he added, “is fresh air and wind–and rocks.”
The artist mused. “It would seem good.”
The old man had paused in his work. “Will you go–to-morrow?”
The artist looked about him, hesitating. “I couldn’t get ready–“
“/I’ll/ get ye ready.”
“We might–in a week?”
“I can’t wait,” said Uncle William, decisively. “I’ve got to look up Juno. She’ll like enough get desperate–drown herself the first thing I know. /I’m/ goin’ to start to-morrow. If you want to go along, I’ll pack ye up.”
The young man looked at him helplessly. “I can’t get along without you. You know I need you.”
“Yes, I know you need me,” said Uncle William. “I kind o’ counted on that.” He began to pack vigorously, emerging now and then out of the dust and clatter to beam on the young man. “Now, don’t you worry a mite. You’re goin’ to get well and earn money and come back and pay her, and everything’s comin’ out all right.”
In the afternoon tickets arrived from Sergia. There was a line with them, asking Uncle William to call for her, at eight, that evening. The artist looked at the tickets a little enviously. “I should like to go, myself,” he said. “It’s the first view.” He glanced at Uncle William appealingly.
The old man ignored it. “You couldn’t go, noways,” he said; “not if we’re goin’ to start to-morrow.”
The artist sighed. He was sitting in an arm-chair, wrapped in a blanket, a pillow behind his head. “I don’t suppose I could.” He sighed again.
Uncle William looked at him keenly. “The’ ‘s a good deal of leg-work to an exhibit, ain’t they?”
“Yes.” The artist smiled faintly.
Uncle William nodded. “I thought so. Well, it’s all /you/ can do to set in a chair with a piller behind you. I wouldn’t say no more about picters if I was you.” He took down the mirror and laid it between two cushions, holding it in place while he reached for the knot. “I don’t suppose you have the least idee how you look,” he said. “I cal’ate to have you look a sight better’n that ‘fore Sergia sees you.”
The artist’s face flushed. “Give me the glass.”
Uncle William shook his head. “I’ve got to hustle to get these things done.” He drew the sailor’s knot firmly in place. “I cal’ate to have everything ready so ‘s to get an early start.”
“She wouldn’t mind how I looked,” said the young man, defensively.
“Mebbe not.” Uncle William was gathering together the trifles from the shelf and table, and knotting them in a table-spread. “You want to save this out?” he asked indifferently. It was a picture of the girl in an oval frame.
The young man seized it. He was looking at it with warm eyes.
Uncle William glanced down on them from his height. “Mebbe not,” he said gently, “but I reckon she’d hate to see ye lookin’ like that. It’s about all I can stan’ to see ye, myself.”
XVI
The girl looked up from her copying. Uncle William stood in the doorway, beaming on her. She got up quickly. “You are early.”
Uncle William held out a hand detainingly. “You set right down and go to work. I come early a-purpose. I thought I’d like to set a spell and watch ye.”
The girl resumed her copying. The lamp beside her shed its dull glow on the page, and on her face and neck, as she bent to it. The dark room rose mysteriously behind her. Uncle William settled himself in his chair with a breath of relief.
When she had finished the copying she came across to him. “It is done now.” She smiled to him through the dim light.
“Keeps you workin’ pretty steady, don’t it?” said Uncle William.
“Yes.” There was no complaint in the word.
Uncle William nodded. “I reckoned I’d find you doin’ it. That’s why I come early. I kind o’ wanted a chance to set–where ‘t was quiet and things wa’n’t worryin’.”
She leaned forward. “Is he worse?”
“Well, not worse, so to speak, but kind o’ triflin’–wanting his own way a good deal. If I was home, I wouldn’t mind it a mite. I’d go outdoor and take two-three good whiffs, look at the water and see how things was comin’ on. I’d be all right in no time. But here–” He drew a kind of caged breath. “It’s worse /out/door ‘n ‘t is /in/.”
“You mind the noise, don’t you?” She was looking at him sympathetically.
“Well, ‘t ain’t the noise so much,–I’ve heard the ocean roar,–it’s folks. Pesters me havin’ ’em round–so many on ’em.”
Her look changed to a little wonder. “I should think you would like to be with them. You help them.” She spoke the words softly, almost shyly. The clear glow of her eyes rested on his face.
The face showed no pride. “Yes, I reckon I help ’em–some. There’s gen’ally suthin’ to do, if you’re where folks be; but I have to get away from ’em. Can’t breathe if I don’t. And there ain’t any place to go to. I was feelin’ a good deal cooped up to-night, and then I thought o’ your place here.” He moved his hand toward the dark recesses. “It’s kind o’ clean and high.”
They sat in silence, the girl’s head resting on her hand.
Uncle William watched her face in the half-light. “You’re gettin’ tired and kind o’ peaked.”
She looked up. “I am resting.”
“Yes–yes, I know how it is. You stan’ all you can and byme-by you come to a place you can rest in, and you jest rest–hard.”
“Yes.”
“You ought to ‘a’ asked somebody to help ye,” said Uncle William, gently.
“There wasn’t any one.”
“There was me.”
“Yes. I /did/ ask you when I couldn’t go on.”
“That wa’n’t the way. Somebody would ‘a’ helped–your folks, like enough–” He stopped, remembering.
“They are dead.”
He nodded. “I know. He told me. But I’d forgot–for a minute. They been dead long?”
“Two years. It was before I came away–at home, in Russia. We were all coming–father and mother and I, and my brother. Then they died; but I wanted to be free.” She had flung out her arms with a light movement.
“It’s a dretful good place to get away from,” said Uncle William. “Nice folks come from there, too. I never saw one that wa’n’t glad to come,” he added.
She smiled. “I was glad; and I am glad I came here. It has been hard– a little–but I found Alan.” Her voice sang.
“Some folks would say that was the wust of it,” said Uncle William. “You found him and he fell sick, and you had him to take care on– cross as two sticks some of the time.” He regarded her mildly.
“/You/ don’t think so,” she said.
“Well, mebbe not, mebbe not,” responded Uncle William. “I’m sort o’ queer, perhaps.”
She had turned to him half wistfully. “Don’t you think I might see him –just a little while?”
Uncle William shook his head. “You’ve been too good to him. That’s the wust of wimmen folks. What he needs now is a tonic–suthin’ kind o’ bitter.” He chuckled. “He’s got me.”
She smiled. “When are you going to take him away?”
“To-morrow.”
She started. “It is very soon,” she said softly.
“Sooner the better,” said Uncle William. “It’ll do us both good to smell the sea.” He pulled out the great watch. “Must be ‘most time to be startin’.” He peered at it uncertainly.
“Yes, we must go.” She rose and brought her hat, a fragile thing of lace and mist, and a little lace mantle with long floating ends. She put them on before the mirror that hung above the table where the copying lay, giving little turns and touches of feminine pleasure.
Uncle William’s eyes followed her good-humoredly.
She turned to him, her face glowing, starlike, out of the lace and mist. “You’re laughing at me,” she said, reproachfully.
“No, I wa’n’t laughing, so to speak,” returned Uncle William. “I was thinkin’ what a sight o’ comfort there is in a bunnit. If men folks wore ’em I reckon they’d take life easier.” He placed his hat firmly on the gray tufts. “That’s one o’ the cur’us things–about ’em.” They were going down the long flight of stairs and he had placed his hand protectingly beneath her arm. “That’s one o’ the cur’us things–how different they be, men and women. I’ve thought about it a good many times, how it must ‘a’ tickled the Lord a good deal when he found how different they turned out–made o’ the same kind o’ stuff, so.”
“Don’t you suppose he meant it?” She was smiling under the frilling lace.
“Well, like enough,” returned Uncle William, thoughtfully. “It’s like the rest o’ the world–kind o’ comical and big. Like enough he did plan it that way.”
XVII
The room was filled with the hum of light–faces and flowers and color everywhere. Uncle William walked among them erect, overtopping the crowd, his gaze, for the most part, on the sky-line. Sergia, beside him, seemed a slight figure. Glances followed them as they went, amused or curious or a little admiring. Uncle William, oblivious to the glances and to the crowd that opened before him, and closed silently behind the great figure, beamed upon it all. He was used to making his way through a crowd unhindered. To Sergia the experience was more novel, and she watched the crowd and the pictures and the old man moving serene among them, with amused eyes. Once she called his attention to a celebrated painter in the crowd. Uncle William’s eye rested impartially upon him for a moment and returned to its sky-line. “He looks to me kind o’ pindlin’. One o’ the best, is he?”
“He’s not strong, you mean?”
“Well, not strong, and not much /to/ him–as if the Lord was kind o’ skimped for material. Is that one o’ /his/ picters?”
Her eyes followed his hand. “Alan’s! Come.” They moved quickly to it across the larger room. “They are all here.” Her glance had swept the walls. “In the best light, too.” She moved eagerly from one to the other. “See how well they are hung.”
Uncle William’s eye surveyed them. “Middlin’ plumb,” he assented. “That fu’ther one looks to me a leetle mite off the level. It’s the one o’ my house, too.” He moved toward it and straightened the frame with careful hand, then he stepped back, gazing at it with pride. “Putty good, ain’t it?” he said.
She smiled, quietly. “Perfect. He has never done anything so good.”
“It /is/ a putty nice house,” said Uncle William. His eye dwelt on it fondly. “I’d a’most forgot how nice it was. You see that little cloud there–that one jest over the edge? That means suthin’ ‘fore mornin’.” He lifted his hand to it. “I wouldn’t trust a sky like that–not without reefin’ down good.” He drew a breath. “Cur’us how it makes you feel right there!” he said. “I’d a’most forgot.” He glanced at the moving crowd a little hostilely and drew another deep breath.
“The atmosphere /is/ fine,” said the girl. She was studying it with half-shut eyes, her head thrown a little back. “It is clear and deep. You can almost breathe it.”
“It is a good climate,” assented Uncle William. “You couldn’t get sick there if you tried. Can’t hardly die.” He chuckled a little. “Sam’l Gruchy’s been tryin’ for six year now. He was ninety-seven last month. We don’t think nuthin’ o’ roundin’ out a hunderd up there–not the cheerful ones. ‘Course if you fret, you can die ‘most anywhere.”
“Yes, if you fret.” The girl was looking at him with pleased eyes. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever known what it was to fret?”
“Me? Lord, yes! I ust to fret about everything–fretted for fear it would blow and for fear it wouldn’t blow.” His eyes were on the shifting green waves. “I never put down a net nor a lobster-pot that I didn’t see ’em bein’ chewed up or knocked to pieces. I’d see a shark a-swimmin’ right through a big hole–rip-p–tear. I could see it as plain as if I was down there under the water–all kind o’ green and cool, and things swimmin’ through it. I can see it jest the same now if I shut my eyes, only it’s fishes I see swimmin’ into my net now– shoals of ’em. The’ ain’t a shark in sight.” He was looking down at her, smiling.
She nodded. “You’re an optimist now.”
He stared a little. “No, I don’t reckon I’m anything that sounds like that, but I /do/ take life comf’tabul. The’ ain’t a place anywheres ’round to set and rest, is the’? You look to me kind o’ used up.”
“I am tired–a little. Come. There won’t be any one here.” She led the way into a small room beyond. A bench facing the large room was vacant, and they sat down on it. Through the vista of the open door they could see two of Alan’s pictures. They sat in silence for a few minutes, watching the crowd come and go in front of the pictures. She turned to him at last with a little smile. “They are making a hit,” she said.
“Be they?” He peered at them intently. His face softened. “They’d o’t to. They’re nice picters.”
“Yes.” She had started forward a little, her breath coming swiftly. “Do you see that man–the tall one with the gray hair and pointed beard?”
Uncle William adjusted his spectacles. “That kind o’ peaked one, you mean, that dips along some like a government lighter?”
She laughed out, her hands moving with little gestures of pleasure. “That’s the one. I know him.”
“Do you?” Uncle William looked at him again politely. “He has a good deal o’ trimmin’ on, but he looks like a nice sort o’ man.”
“He is–he is–if he’s the one I think–“
The man, who wore on his coat the decoration of several orders, had turned a little and was looking back over the crowd.
The girl clasped her hands tightly. “Oh, it /is/,” she said under her breath. “It is.”
Uncle William looked down almost jealously. “You set a good deal o’ store by seein’ him,” he said.
“It isn’t that. I like him, yes, but he knows good work. If he really takes them in, he’ll not let them go.”
Uncle William adjusted his spectacles again. “You mean–“
“He will buy them, yes. Hush!” She held out her hand.
The man had turned back to the pictures. He lifted a pair of eyeglasses that swung at the end of a long chain and placed them on his nose. He looked again at the picture before him. The glasses dropped from his nose, and he dipped to the catalogue he held in his hand.
Uncle William’s glance followed him a little uneasily. “You mean he’ll buy my house?” he asked.
She nodded, her face overflowing with happiness.
Uncle William surveyed it. “I was cal’atin’ to have that one myself.” He said it almost grudgingly.
“You were? Could you?” she faced him.
“Couldn’t I have it as well as him?” He nodded toward the man in the distance intent on his catalogue.
The girl’s brow wrinkled a little. “He is rich,” she said. “I didn’t know–“
“Well, I ain’t rich,” said Uncle William, “but I reckon I could scrape together enough to pay for a picter.”
The girl’s face lighted. “Of course, Alan would rather you had it. And he may buy one of the others.”
The man had moved on a little, out of sight. The picture remained facing them. For a minute the crowd had parted in front of it and they saw it at the end of a long pathway. Uncle William drew a proud breath. “How much will it cost?” he said.
She took up the catalogue from her lap and opened it, glancing down the page. “It must be here–somewhere. Yes, this is it–‘The House on the Rocks,’ $2000.”
Uncle William’s jaw clicked a little as it came together. He held out a hand. “Will you jest let me look at that a minute?” he said.
He ran his great finger down the page. When it came to the $2000, he pressed it a little with his thumb, as if expecting it to rub off. Then he looked at her, shaking his head. “It’s a leetle higher’n I can go,” he said slowly. “I wa’n’t expectin’ it would cost so much. You see, the house itself didn’t cost more’n three hunderd, all told, and I thought a picter of it wouldn’t cost more’n five or six.”
“Five or six hundred?” Her eyes laughed.
Uncle William shook his head guiltily. “Not more’n five or six dollars,” he said. “I reckon mebbe I /did/ put it a leetle low.” A smile had bloomed again in his face. “If he can pay the price, he’ll have to have it, I reckon–for all o’ me.”
“Yes, he can pay it. He is very rich, and he cares for pictures. He has hundreds. He buys them everywhere–in Paris, London, St. Petersburg, Italy– It only depends on whether he likes–“
The man had come into view again and was studying the picture, dipping toward it in little sidewise flights. Uncle William watched the pantomime jealously. “How’d you come to know him?” he asked.
“He knew my mother. He had known her from a girl. I think he loved her,” she said quietly, her eyes on the man. “He was on the legation at St. Petersburg– See! He /does/ like them!” She had leaned forward.
Uncle William glanced up.
The man was standing a little removed from the painting, his arms folded, his head thrown back, oblivious to the crowd.
She rose quickly. “I am going to speak to him,” she said. “Wait here for me.” She passed into the changing throng that filled the room beyond.
Uncle William waited patiently, his eyes studying the swift kaleidoscope of the doorway. When she reappeared in it, her face was alight with color. “Come.” She held out her hand. “I want you to meet him. He likes them–oh, very much!” She pressed her hands together lightly. “I think he will buy them–two, at least.”
Uncle William got to his feet. “I s’pose ye told him about Alan and about my place.”
She stopped short, looking at him reproachfully. “Not a word,” she said–“not a single word!”
Uncle William’s countenance fell. “Wa’n’t that what you went out for?”
“No; and you must not mention it. I only told him that you liked them.”
“Can’t I even say that’s my house out there?” He waved his hand.
“Never!” It was energetic. “You would spoil it all.”
“Will it hurt it any to be my house?” he asked, a little sore.
“You know it is not that.” She laid her hand on his arm affectionately. “We shall tell him all about it some day; but now, just now, while he is making up his mind, it would distract him. He wants to look at them as art.”
Uncle William sighed gently. “Well, I’ll do my best, but it’s goin’ agen’ nature not to bust right out with it.” They passed into the larger room. On the opposite side the man was standing, his eyeglasses on his nose, looking expectantly toward the door.
When he saw them, he smiled and moved forward with suave grace.
XVIII
They met midway in the room. The two tall men stood facing each other, overtopping the crowd. The Frenchman held out his hand. “I am glad to meet you,” he said.
Uncle William took the thin hand in his hearty one. “I am glad to meet /you/,” he responded. “Sergia’s been tellin’ me about you. She said you liked the picter over yonder.” Uncle William’s thumb described the arc of a circle.
The Frenchman’s eye followed it. “I do,” he said, cordially. “Don’t you?”
“Well, it’s middlin’ good.” Uncle William spoke craftily. They were moving toward it.
“It’s great!” said the Frenchman. He swung his eyeglasses to his nose and gazed at it. They came to a standstill a little distance away.
“The house ain’t much to boast on,” said Uncle William, modestly.
“The house?” The Frenchman stared at him politely.
Uncle William motioned with his hand. “It’s a kind o’ ramshackle ol’ thing–no chimbley to speak of–“
The man’s face cleared. “Oh, the house–a mere hut!” He dismissed it with a wave.
Uncle William’s face wore a subdued look. “It might be comf’tabul inside,” he hazarded after a silence.
The Frenchman stared again. “Comfortable? Oh, without doubt.” He granted the point in passing. “But the color in the rocks–do you see? –and the clear light and the sky–you see how it lifts itself!” His long finger made swift stabs here and there at the canvas. A little crowd had gathered near.
Uncle William pushed his spectacles farther up on the tufts. His face glowed. “The sky is all right,” he said, “if ye know how to take it; but ye wouldn’t trust a sky like that, would ye?”
The Frenchman turned to him, blinking a little. His glasses had slipped from his nose. They hung dangling from the end of the long chain. “Trust it?” he said vaguely. “It’s the real thing!”
Uncle William’s face assumed an air of explanation. “It’s good as far as it goes. The’ ain’t anything the matter with it–not anything you can lay your finger on–not till you get over there, a little east by sou’east. Don’t you see anything the matter over there?” He asked the question with cordial interest.
The Frenchman held the eyeglass chain in his fingers. He swung the glasses to his nose and stared at the spot indicated.
Uncle William regarded him hopefully.
The glasses dropped. He faced about, shaking his head. “I’m afraid I don’t see it.” He spoke in polite deprecation. “It seems to me very nearly perfect.” He faced it again. “I can breathe that air.”
“So can I,” said Uncle William. “So can I.”
They stood looking at it in silence. “It’ll be fo’-five hours before it strikes,” said Uncle William, thoughtfully.
“Before it–” The Frenchman had half turned. The rapt look in his face wrinkled a little.
“Before it strikes,” repeated Uncle William. “That cloud I p’inted out to you means business.”
The Frenchman looked again. The wrinkles crept to the corners of his eyes. He turned them on Uncle William. “I see. You were speaking of the weather?”
“Wa’n’t you?” demanded Uncle William.
“Well–partly. Yes, partly. But I’m afraid I was thinking how well it is done.” His face grew dreamy. “To think that paint and canvas and a few careless strokes–“
“He worked putty hard,” broke in Uncle William. Sergia’s hand on his arm stayed him. He remained open-mouthed, staring at his blunder.
But the Frenchman had not perceived it. He accepted the correction with a cordial nod. “Of course–infinite patience. And then a thing like that!” he lifted his hand toward it slowly. It was a kind of courteous salute–the obeisance due to royalty.
Uncle William watched it a little grudgingly. “They’re putty good rocks,” he said–“without paint.”
The Frenchman faced him. “Don’t I know?” He checked himself. “I’ve not mentioned it to you, but I was born and brought up on those rocks.”
“You was!” Uncle William confronted him.
The stranger nodded, smiling affably. His long nose was reminiscent. “I’ve played there many a time.”
Sergia’s face watched him hopefully.
Uncle William’s had grown a little stern. He bent toward the stranger. “I don’t think I jest caught your name,” he said slowly.
“My name is Curie,” said the man, politely–“Benjamin F. Curie.” He extracted a card from his pocket and handed it to Uncle William with a deep bow.
Uncle William pinched it between his thumb and forefinger. He drew down the spectacles from his tufts and examined it carefully. Then he bent and snapped it in his fingers. “I don’t know no such–“
A hand was laid lightly on his arm. “Come, we must look at the other pictures. It is almost time to go.”
The crowd had thinned a little and they walked through it easily, three abreast. But Uncle William had moved to the other side of the girl, as far away from the Frenchman as he could get. Now and then he cast a glance of disapproval at the tall, dipping figure as it bent to the girl or lifted itself to gaze at some picture. There was distrust in Uncle William’s glance, mingled with vague disturbance. When they paused again, he moved around in front of the man. “The’ ‘s suthin’ kind o’ familiar about your face–” he began.
Sergia’s hand was again on his arm.
He patted it lightly. “Don’t you worry a mite, Sergia. I ain’t goin’ to say anything rash. But it does seem to me as if I’ve seen Mr. Curie’s face somewheres or other. ‘T ain’t a face you’re liable to forget.”
The Frenchman acknowledged the compliment. “It is possible we have met. You have traveled?”
“A leetle,” admitted Uncle William.
Sergia’s face relaxed. She moved away for a minute.
The Frenchman nodded. “We have doubtless met; but one forgets–” He lifted his eyeglasses and surveyed Uncle William’s round, good face. “It doesn’t seem as if I could have forgotten yours,” he said thoughtfully. “And yet I don’t place it.”
Sergia had returned. “He has been to St. Petersburg,” she suggested.
The Frenchman’s look cleared. “Ah–! It must have been there. It is a privilege to have met you again, sir.” He held out his long, slim hand. “I wish you would come and see me. You have my address.” He motioned to the card.
Uncle William looked down at it. “I’m startin’ for home to-morrow,” he said dryly.
“Indeed! And your home is–“
Sergia interposed a graceful hand. “Good-night, M. Curie. /You/ will come and see /me/. Mama would be glad I have found you again.”
He looked down at her mistily. His gaze lingered on her face. “I shall come, my child,” he said gallantly, almost tenderly. “I shall come many times.”
“Yes, I shall look for you. Be sure.” She took Uncle William’s arm and moved away to the staircase.
Uncle William’s mouth opened and closed once or twice with a little puff. When they reached the foot of the stairs he broke out. “He says he’s a Curie.” He flipped the card in his hand. “I’ve known Arichat, man and boy, for sixty year. The’ wa’n’t never any Curies there.”
She looked up at him a little perplexed. “Couldn’t you have forgotten?”
Uncle William shook his head. “I wish ‘t I had. You set a good deal o’ store by him, I can see. But I ain’t likely to forget anybody that’s been brought up there. The’ /was/ suthin’ kind o’ familiar about him, too.” He said it almost irascibly.
The girl sighed softly. “Well, he may have been romancing. Frenchmen do–at times–“
“I call it lying,” snorted Uncle William.
“Yes, yes.” She patted his arm. “But can’t you understand how you would feel if you saw something beautiful–some place that made you feel the way you used to feel when you were a child? You might think for a moment that you had really been there, and say it–without meaning to tell a lie. That’s what I meant.”
Uncle William looked down at her admiringly. “You do put that mighty nice, don’t you? You ‘most make me believe I could do it, and I guess mebbe I could. But Andy couldn’t,” he added, with conviction.
The girl followed her thought. “And what does it matter–if he buys the pictures.”
“Well, it matters some,” said Uncle William, slowly. “I dunno ‘s I want a liar, not a real liar, ownin’ a picter o’ my house. But if he jest romances, mebbe I could stand it. It does seem different somehow.”
When they parted, she looked at him a little wistfully. “I should like to see him again,” she said, waiting.
“Like enough,” said Uncle William, gently–“like enough. But I reckon he don’t need you just now.” He held her hand, looking down at her kindly.
“/I/ could see /him/,” she suggested.
“How’s that?”
“I could come down to the boat. I would be careful not to let him see me.”
Uncle William considered it. “Well, I dunno ‘s that would do any harm –if you’re sure you could keep out o’ the way.”
“Yes,” eagerly.
“We’re goin’ by the Halifax boat,” said Uncle William. “I can make better ‘rangements that way. I know the captain.”
“Yes?” It was a question.
“Well, I guess ‘t you can come. Good night, my dear.” He bent and kissed her gravely.
Her eyes followed the tall figure till it loomed away in the dark.
XIX
The boat eased away from the wharf. The invalid on deck gazed back at the city. A little spot of red lay in the hollow of either cheek. Uncle William hovered about, adjusting pillows and rugs. Now and then his eye dropped to the wharf and picked out, casually, a figure that moved in the crowd. “There–that’s a leetle mite easier, ain’t it?”
The young man nodded almost fretfully. “I’m all right, Uncle William. Don’t you fuss any more.” He leaned forward, looking toward the wharf. “Who is that?”
Uncle William pushed up his spectacles and peered. “I don’t seem to see anybody,” he said truthfully. He was gazing with some painstaking in the opposite direction.
“Not there. Look!–She’s gone!” He sank back with a sigh.
“Somebody you knew, like enough?” The question was indifferent.
“I thought it was–her.”
“She, now! She wouldn’t be likely to be down here this time o’ day.”
“No, I suppose not. It was just a fancy.”
“That’s all. You comf’tabul?”
“Yes–” a little impatiently.
“That’s good. Now we’re off.” Uncle William beamed on the water that billowed before and behind. He went off to find the captain.
When he came back, the young man had ceased to look toward the shore. “I made a mistake,” he said regretfully.
“That’s nateral,” said Uncle William. “I s’pose you’ve been thinkin’ of her, off and on, and you jest thought you saw her. I wouldn’t think any–“
“It wasn’t that,” the young man broke in. “I /did/ see her. I know now. I saw her face for a minute as plain as I see yours. She was looking straight at me and I saw all of a sudden what a fool I was.”
“You’re getting better,” said Uncle William.
“Do you think so? I was afraid–” he hesitated.
“You thought mebbe you was a-goin’ to die?”
“Well–I have heard that people see clearly– It came over me in a flash so–“
“Lord, no!” Uncle William chuckled. “You’re jest gettin’ your wits back, that’s all. I shouldn’t wonder if you’d be real pert by the time we get there. I cal’ate you’ll be considabul help to me–dish-washin’ an’ so on.”
The towers and chimneys behind them dwindled. The smoke of the city faded to a blur and grew to clear azure. The wind blew against their faces. After a little the young man got to his feet. “I’m going to walk awhile.” He spoke defiantly.
“Walk right along,” said Uncle William, cheerfully.
He tottered a few steps, and held out his hand.
Uncle William chuckled. “I reckoned you’d want a lift.” He placed a strong hand under the young man’s arm. They paced back and forth the length of the deck. “Feel good?” asked Uncle William.
The young man nodded. “I shall go alone to-morrow.”
“Yes, I reckon you will,” soothingly. “And the further north we get, the better you’ll feel. It’s cur’us about the North. The’ ‘s suthin’ up there keeps drawin’ you like a needle. I’ve known a man to be cured jut by turnin’ and sailin’ that way when he was sick. Seem ‘s if he stopped pullin’ against things and just let go. You look to me a little mite tired. I’d go below for a spell if I was you.”
The young man went below and slept. When he woke he felt better, as Uncle William had predicted. At Halifax he insisted on sending a telegram to Sergia. After that he watched the water with gleaming face, and when they boarded the /John L. Cann/ and the shores of Arichat shaped themselves out of space, he was like a boy.
Uncle William leaned forward, scanning the wharf. “There’s Andy!” he exclaimed.
“Where?”
“Right there. Don’t you see him–dangling his legs over the edge?”
“Hallo, Andy!” The young man’s voice had a joyous note.
Andy grunted.
When they landed, he held out a limp hand. “Got any duds?” he asked indifferently.
“There’s my box and hisn and some traps down below. He’s gone down to look after ’em,” said Uncle William. “Juno come back?”
“Nope.”
The young man appeared on deck with his hand-bag. “How are you, Andy?”
Andy nodded.
“He says she ain’t come back,” said Uncle William.
“Who?”
“Juno. She must ‘a’ been gone as much as a week, ain’t she, Andy?”
“Two weeks last night,” said Andy.
“Tuh-tuh!” Uncle William’s tongue expressed concern. “We’ll hev to go look for her. You goin’ to row us up?”
“Guess so,” said Andy.
“I thought ye’d want to. Set right there, Mr. Woodworth. Don’t you mind bein’ in the way. Andy’s used to it.”
They rowed up through the clear light. The harbor stretched away, gleaming, to darkness. The cliffs rose on the right, somber and waiting. Uncle William lifted his face. The little house on the cliff caught a gleam and twinkled. The boat grated on the beach. There was a stiff climb up the path, with long pauses for breath. Uncle William opened the door. He moved back swiftly. A gray avalanche had descended upon him. She clawed at his shoulder and perched there, looking down at him.
A smile overspread Uncle William’s face. He put up a hand to the gray fur, stroking it. “Now, don’t that beat all!” he said. “She’s been here all along, like enough, Andy.”
“Durned if I know,” said Andy. He looked at her aggressively. “I hain’t seen hide nor hair of her for two weeks.”
Juno returned the look, purring indifferently. She leaped from Uncle William’s shoulder, leading the way into the house, her back arched and her tail erect; her toes scarcely touched the boards she trod upon.
She disappeared under the red lounge. In a moment her head reappeared –with something dangling from the mouth. She laid it proudly at Uncle William’s feet.
He peered at it. “Ketched a mouse, hev ye? I reckoned she wouldn’t starve, Andy!” He beamed on him.
“That ain’t a mouse,” said Andy.
“Why, so ‘t ain’t. Juno!” Uncle William’s voice was stern. “You come here!”
Juno came–with another. She laid it at his feet and departed for a third. By the time the fifth was deposited before him, Uncle William said feebly: “That’s enough for this time, Juno. Don’t you do no more.”
She added one more to the wriggling row, and seated herself calmly beside it, looking up for approval.
Uncle William glared at her for a minute. Then a sunny smile broke his face. “That’s all right, Juno.” He bent and stroked the impassive head. “I was prepared to mourn for ye, if need be, but not to rejoice –not to this extent. But it’s all right.” Juno purred in proud content.
XX
It was fortunate that the artist was better, for Uncle William became lost in the kittens and their welfare. The weakest thing at hand claimed his interest. He carried them in a clam-basket from point to point, seeing the best spots for their comfort and development. Juno marched at his side, proud and happy. She purred approval of the universe and the ways of man. Wherever Uncle William deposited the basket, she took up her abode, serenely pleased; and when, a few hours later, he shifted it on account of wind or rain or sun, she followed without demur. For her the sun rose and set in Uncle William’s round face and the depths of the clam-basket.
The artist watched the comedy with amused disapproval. He suspected Uncle William of trifling away the time. The spring was fairly upon them, and the /Andrew Halloran/ still swung at anchor alone at the foot of the cliff. Whenever the artist broached the subject of a new boat, Uncle William turned it aside with a jest and trotted off to his clam-basket. The artist brooded in silence over his indebtedness and the scant chance of making it good. He got out canvas and brushes and began to paint, urged by a vague sense that it might bring in something, some time. When he saw that Uncle William was pleased, he kept on. The work took his mind off himself, and he grew strong and vigorous. Andy, coming upon him one day on the beach, looked at his brown face almost in disapproval. “You’re a-feelin’ putty well, ain’t you?” he said grudgingly.
“I am,” responded the artist. He mixed the color slowly on his palette. A new idea had come into his head. He turned it over once and then looked at Andy. The look was not altogether encouraging. But he brought it out quickly. “You’re a rich man, aren’t you, Andy?”