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diff --git a/4634-0.txt b/4634-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6a0a286 --- /dev/null +++ b/4634-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5481 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Uncle William, by Jennette Lee + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Uncle William + The Man Who Was Shif’less + +Author: Jennette Lee + +Release Date: April 13, 2006 [EBook #4634] +Last Updated: February 20, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK UNCLE WILLIAM *** + + + + +Produced by Dagny; John Bickers + + + + + +UNCLE WILLIAM + +THE MAN WHO WAS SHIF’LESS + +By Jennette Lee + + + + TO GERALD STANLEY LEE + + “Let him sing to me + Who sees the watching of the stars above the day, + Who hears the singing of the sunrise + On its way + Through all the night. + + * * * * * + + Let him sing to me + Who is the sky-voice, the thunder-lover, + Who hears above the winds’ fast flying shrouds + The drifted darkness, the heavenly strife, + The singing on the sunny sides of all the clouds + Of his own life.” + + + + + +UNCLE WILLIAM + + + + +I + +“Yes, I’m shif’less. I’m gen’ally considered shif’less,” said William +Benslow. He spoke in a tone of satisfaction, and hitched his trousers +skilfully into place by their one suspender. + +His companion shifted his easel a little, squinting across the harbor +at the changing light. There was a mysterious green in the water that he +failed to find in his color-box. + +William Benslow watched him patiently. “Kind o’ ticklish business, ain’t +it?” he said. + +The artist admitted that it was. + +“I reckon I wouldn’t ever ’a’ done for a painter,” said the old man, +readjusting his legs. “It’s settin’-work, and that’s good; but you have +to keep at it steady-like--keep a-daubin’ and a-scrapin’ and a-daubin’ +and a-scrapin’, day in and day out. I shouldn’t like it. Sailin’ ’s more +in my line,” he added, scanning the horizon. “You have to step lively +when you do step, but there’s plenty of off times when you can set and +look and the boat just goes skimmin’ along all o’ herself, with the +water and the sky all round you. I’ve been thankful a good many times +the Lord saw fit to make a sailor of me.” + +The artist glanced a little quizzically at the tumble-down house on +the cliff above them and then at the old boat, with its tattered maroon +sail, anchored below. “There’s not much money in it?” he suggested. + +“Money? Dunno’s there is,” returned the other. “You don’t reely need +money if you’re a sailor.” + +“No, I suppose not--no more than an artist.” + +“Don’t you need money, either?” The old man spoke with cordial interest. + +“Well, occasionally--not much. I have to buy canvas now and then, and +colors--” + +The old man nodded. “Same as me. Canvas costs a little, and color. I dye +mine in magenta. You get it cheap in the bulk--” + +The artist laughed out. “All right, Uncle William, all right,” he said. +“You teach me to trust in the Lord and I’ll teach you art. You see that +color out there,--deep green like shadowed grass--” + +The old man nodded. “I’ve seen that a good many times,” he said. +“Cur’us, ain’t it?--just the color of lobsters when you haul ’em.” + +The young man started. He glanced again at the harbor. “Hum-m!” he said +under his breath. He searched in his color-box and mixed a fresh color +rapidly on the palette, transferring it swiftly to the canvas. “Ah-h!” + he said, again under his breath. It held a note of satisfaction. + +Uncle William hitched up his suspender and came leisurely across the +sand. He squinted at the canvas and then at the sliding water, rising +and falling across the bay. “Putty good,” he said approvingly. “You’ve +got it just about the way it looks--” + +“Just about,” assented the young man, with quick satisfaction. “Just +about. Thank you.” + +Uncle William nodded. “Cur’us, ain’t it? there’s a lot in the way you +see a thing.” + +“There certainly is,” said the painter. His brush moved in swift strokes +across the canvas. “There certainly is. I’ve been studying that water +for two hours. I never thought of lobsters.” He laughed happily. + +Uncle William joined him, chuckling gently. “That’s nateral enough,” he +said kindly. “You hain’t been seein’ it every day for sixty year, the +way I hev.” He looked at it again, lovingly, from his height. + +“What’s the good of being an artist if I can’t see things that you +can’t?” demanded the young man, swinging about on his stool. + +“Well, what _is_ the use? I dunno; do you?” said Uncle William, +genially. “I’ve thought about that a good many times, too, when I’ve +been sailin’,” he went on--“how them artists come up here summer after +summer makin’ picters,--putty poor, most on ’em,--and what’s the use? +I can see better ones settin’ out there in my boat, any day.--Not but +that’s better’n some,” he added politely, indicating the half-finished +canvas. + +The young man laughed. “Thanks to you,” he said. “Come on in and make +a chowder. It’s too late to do any more to-day--and that’s enough.” He +glanced with satisfaction at the glowing canvas with its touch of green. +He set it carefully to one side and gathered up his tubes and brushes. + +Uncle William bent from his height and lifted the easel, knocking it +apart and folding it with quick skill. + +The artist looked up with a nod of thanks. “All right,” he said, “go +ahead.” + +Uncle William reached out a friendly hand for the canvas, but the artist +drew it back quickly. “No, no,” he said. “You’d rub it off.” + +“Like enough,” returned the old man, placidly. “I gen’ally do get in +a muss when there’s fresh paint around. But I don’t mind my clothes. +They’re ust to it--same as yourn.” + +The young man laughed anxiously. “I wouldn’t risk it,” he said. “Come +on.” + +They turned to the path that zigzagged its way up the cliff, and with +bent backs and hinged knees they mounted to the little house perched on +its edge. + + + + +II + +The old man pushed open the door with a friendly kick. “Go right along +in,” he said. “I’ll be there ’s soon as I’ve got an armful of wood.” + +The artist entered the glowing room. Turkey-red blazed at the windows +and decorated the walls. It ran along the line of shelves by the fire +and covered the big lounge. One stepped into the light of it with a +sudden sense of crude comfort. + +The artist set his canvas carefully on a projecting beam and looked +about him, smiling. A cat leaped down from the turkey-red lounge and +came across, rubbing his legs. He bent and stroked her absently. + +She arched her back to his hand. Then, moving from him with stately +step, she approached the door, looking back at him with calm, imperious +gaze. + +“All right, Juno,” he said. “He’ll be along in a minute. Don’t you +worry.” + +She turned her back on him and, seating herself, began to wash her face +gravely and slowly. + +The door opened with a puff, and she leaped forward, dashing upon +the big leg that entered and digging her claws into it in ecstasy of +welcome. + +Uncle William, over the armful of wood, surveyed her with shrewd eyes. +He reached down a long arm and, seizing her by the tail, swung her clear +of his path, landing her on the big lounge. With a purr of satisfaction, +she settled herself, kneading her claws in its red softness. + +He deposited the wood in the box and stood up. His bluff, kind gaze +swept the little room affectionately. He took off the stove-lid and +poked together the few coals that glowed beneath. “That’s all right,” he +said. “She’ll heat up quick.” He thrust in some light sticks and pushed +forward the kettle. “Now, if you’ll reach into that box behind you and +get the potatoes,” he said, “I’ll do the rest of the fixin’s.” + +He removed his hat, and taking down a big oil-cloth apron, checked red +and black, tied it about his ample waist. He reached up and drew from +behind the clock a pair of spectacles in steel bows. He adjusted them to +his blue eyes with a little frown. “They’re a terrible bother,” he said, +squinting through them and readjusting them. “But I don’t dare resk +it without. I got hold of the pepper-box last time. Thought it was the +salt--same shape. The chowder _was_ hot.” He chuckled. “I can see a boat +a mile off,” he said, lifting the basket of clams to the sink, “but +a pepper-box two feet’s beyond me.” He stood at the sink, rubbing the +clams with slow, thoughtful fingers. His big head, outlined against the +window, was not unlike the line of sea-coast that stretched below, far +as the eye could see, rough and jagged. Tufts of hair framed his shining +baldness and tufts of beard embraced the chin, losing themselves in the +vast expanse of neckerchief knotted, sailor fashion, about his throat. + +Over the clams and the potatoes and the steaming kettles he hovered +with a kind of slow patience,--in a smaller man it would have been +fussiness,--and when the fragrant chowder was done he dipped it out with +careful hand. The light had lessened, and the little room, in spite +of its ruddy glow, was growing dark. Uncle William glanced toward the +window. Across the harbor a single star had come out. “Time to set my +light,” he said. He lighted a ship’s lantern and placed it carefully in +the window. + +The artist watched him with amused eyes. “You waste a lot of oil on the +government, Uncle William,” he said laughingly. “Why don’t you apply for +a salary?” + +Uncle William smiled genially. “Well, I s’pose the guvernment would say +the’ wa’n’t any reel need for a light here. And I don’t s’pose the’ is, +_myself_--not any _reel_ need. But it’s a comfort. The boys like to see +it, comin’ in at night. They’ve sailed by it a good many year now, and +I reckon they’d miss it. It’s cur’us how you do miss a thing that’s a +comfort--more’n you do one ’t you reely _need_ sometimes.” He lighted +the lamp swinging, ship fashion, from a beam above, and surveyed the +table. He drew up his chair. “Well, it’s ready,” he said, “such as it +is.” + +“That’s all airs, Uncle William,” said the young man, drawing up. “You +know it’s fit for a king.” + +“Yes, it’s good,” said the old man, beaming on him. “I’ve thought a good +many times there wa’n’t anything in the world that tasted better +than chowder--real good clam chowder.” His mouth opened to take in a +spoonful, and his ponderous jaws worked slowly. There was nothing gross +in the action, but it might have been ambrosia. He had pushed the big +spectacles up on his head for comfort, and they made an iron-gray bridge +from tuft to tuft, framing the ruddy face. + +“There was a man up here to Arichat one summer,” he said, chewing +slowly, “that e’t my chowder. And he was sort o’ possessed to have me go +back home with him.” + +The artist smiled. “Just to make chowder for him?” + +The old man nodded. “Sounds cur’us, don’t it? But that was what he +wanted. He was a big hotel keeper and he sort o’ got the idea that if he +could have chowder like that it would be a big thing for the hotel. He +offered me a good deal o’ money if I’d go with him--said he’d give +me five hunderd a year and keep.” The old man chuckled. “I told him I +wouldn’t go for a thousand--not for two thousand,” he said emphatically. +“Why, I don’t s’pose there’s money enough in New York to tempt me to +live there. + +“Have you been there?” + +“Yes, I’ve been there a good many times. We’ve put in for repairs and +one thing and another, and I sailed a couple of years between there and +Liverpool once. It’s a terrible shet-in place,” he said suddenly. + +“I believe you’re right,” admitted the young man. He had lighted his +pipe and was leaning back, watching the smoke. “You _do_ feel shut +in--sometimes. But there are a lot of nice people shut in with you.” + +“That’s what I meant,” he said, quickly. “I can’t stan’ so many folks.” + +“You’re not much crowded here.” The young man lifted his head. Down +below they could hear the surf beating. The wind had risen. It rushed +against the little house whirlingly. + +The old man listened a minute. “I shall have to go down and reef her +down,” he said thoughtfully. “It’s goin’ to blow.” + +“I should say it _is_ blowing,” said the young man. + +“Not yet,” returned Uncle William. “You’ll hear it blow afore mornin’ +if you stay awake to listen--though it won’t sound so loud up the shore +where you be. This is the place for it. A good stiff blow and nobody on +either side of you--for half a mile.” A kind of mellow enthusiasm held +the tone. + +The young man smiled. “You _are_ a hermit. Suppose somebody should build +next you?” + +“They can’t.” + +“Why not?” + +“I own it.” + +“A mile?” + +The old man nodded. “Not the shore, of course. That’s free to all. But +where anybody could build I own.” He said it almost exultantly. “I +guess maybe I’m part Indian.” He smiled apologetically. “I can’t seem to +breathe without I have room enough, and it just come over me once, how +I should feel if folks crowded down on me too much. So I bought it. I’m +what they call around here ’land-poor.’” He said it with satisfaction. +“I can’t scrape together money enough to buy a new boat, and it’s ’s +much as I can do to keep the _Jennie_ patched up and going. But I’m +comfortable. I don’t really want for anything.” + +“Yes, you’re comfortable.” The young man glanced about the snug room. + +“There ain’t a lot of folks shying up over the rocks at me.” He got up +with deliberation, knocking the ashes from his pipe. “I’m goin’ to make +things snug and put down the other anchor,” he said. “You stay till I +come back and we’ll have suthin’ hot.” + +He put on his oil-skin hat and coat, and taking the lantern from its +hook, went out into the night. + +Within, the light of the swinging lamp fell on the turkey-red. It +glowed. The cat purred in its depths. + + + + +III + +The artist had been dreaming. In his hand he held an open locket. The +face within it was dark, like a boy’s, with careless hair brushed from +the temples, and strong lines. The artist knew the lines by heart, and +the soft collar and loose-flowing tie and careless dress. He had been +leaning back with closed eyes, watching the lithe figure, tall and +spare, with the rude grace of the Steppes, the freshness of the wind. +. . . How she would enjoy it--this very night--the red room perched +aloft in the gale! + +A fresh blast struck the house and it creaked and groaned, and righted +itself. In the lull that followed, steps sounded up the rocky path. With +a snap, the young man closed the locket and sat up. The door opened on +Uncle William, shining and gruff. The lantern in his hand had gone out. +His hat and coat were covered with fine mist. He came across to the +fire, shaking it off. + +“It’s goin’ to blow all right,” he said, nodding to the artist. + +“And it’s raining. You’re wet.” + +“Well, not _wet_, so to speak.” He took off his hat, shaking it lightly +over the stove. A crackling and fine mist rose from the hot drops. Juno +lifted her head and yawned. She purred softly. The old man hung his hat +and coat on the wooden pegs behind the door and seated himself by the +stove, opening wide the drafts. A fresh blaze sprang up. The artist +leaned forward, holding out his hands to it. + +“You were gone a good while,” he said. The locket had slipped from his +fingers and hung lightly on its steel chain, swinging a little as he +bent to the fire. + +The old man nodded. “I see the _Andrew Halloran_ had dragged her anchor +a little, as I went out, and I stopped to fix her. It took quite a +spell. I couldn’t find the extry anchor. He’d got it stowed away for’ard +somewheres, and by the time I found it she was driftin’ putty bad. I +found a good bottom for her and made things fast before I left. I reckon +she’ll hold.” + +“Won’t he be down himself to look after her?” + +“Mebbe not. It’s a goodish step, from his place, down and back. He knows +I keep an eye out for her. + +“Why doesn’t he anchor up there,” said the artist, “near by?” + +The old man shook his head. “He’s a kind o’ set man, Andy is--part Irish +and part Scotch. He al’ays _has_ anchored here and I reckon he al’ays +_will_. I told him when I bought the land of him he was welcome to.” + +“It was his land, then?” + +“Most on it--I do’ know as he _wanted_ to sell reely, but I offered him +more’n he could stan’. He’s a little near--Andy is.” He chuckled. + +The artist laughed out. “So he keeps the anchorage and right of way and +you look after his boat. I don’t see but he’s fairly well fixed.” + +“Yes, he’s putty well fixed,” said the old man, slowly. “‘S fur as +_this_ world’s goods go Andy is comf’tably provided for.” His eyes +twinkled a little, but most of the big face was sober. “We’ve been +neighbors, Andy ’n’ me, ever sence we was boys,” he said. “I guess there +ain’t a mean thing about Andy that I don’t know, and he the same about +me. I should feel kind o’ lonesome nights not to hev his boat to look +after--and know, like as not, in the mornin’ he’ll come down, cussin’ +and swearin’ ’cause she wa’n’t fixed jest right.” He peered into the +kettle on the stove. “‘Most empty.” He filled it from the pail by the +sink, and resumed his seat, stretching his great legs comfortably. Juno +sprang from the lounge and perched herself on his knee. He tumbled her a +little, in rough affection, and rubbed his big fingers in her neck. She +purred loudly, kneading her claws with swift strokes in the heavy cloth. +He watched her benignly, a kind of detached humor in his eyes. “Wimmen +folks is a good deal alike,” he remarked dryly. “They like to be +comf’tabul.” + +“Some of them,” assented the artist. + +The old man looked up with a swift twinkle. “So-o?” he said. + +The artist sat up quickly. The locket swayed on its chain and his hand +touched it. “What do you mean?” he said. + +“Why, nuthin’, nuthin’,” said Uncle William, soothingly. “Only I thought +you was occupied with art and so on--“? + +“I am.” + +Uncle William said nothing. + +Presently the artist leaned forward. “Do you want to see her?” he said. +He was holding it out. + +Uncle William peered at it uncertainly. He rose and took down the +spectacles from behind the clock and placed them on his nose. Then he +reached out his great hand for the locket. The quizzical humor had gone +from his face. It was full of gentleness. + +Without a word the artist laid the locket in his hand. + +The light swung down from the lamp on it, touching the dark face. The +old man studied it thoughtfully. On the stove the kettle had begun to +hum. Its gentle sighing filled the room. The artist dreamed. + +Uncle William pushed up his spectacles and regarded him with a satisfied +look. “You’ve had a good deal more sense’n I was afraid you’d have,” he +said dryly. + +The artist woke. “You can’t tell--from that.” He held out his hand. + +Uncle William gave it up, slowly. “I can tell more’n you’d think, +perhaps. Wimmen and the sea are alike--some ways a good deal alike. I’ve +lived by the sea sixty year, you know, and I’ve watched all kinds of +doings. But what I’m surest of is that it’s deeper’n we be.” He chuckled +softly. “Now, I wouldn’t pertend to know all about her,”--he waved his +hand,--“but she’s big and she’s fresh--salt, too--and she makes your +heart big just to look at her--the way it ought to, I reckon. There’s +things about her I don’t know,” he nodded toward the picture. “She may +not go to church and I don’t doubt but what she has tantrums, but she’s +better’n we be, and she--What did you say her name was?” + +“Sergia Lvova.” + +“Sergia Lvova,” repeated the old man, slowly, yet with a certain ease. +“That’s a cur’us name. I’ve heard suthin’ like it, somewhere--” + +“She’s Russian.” + +“Russian--jest so! I might’n’ known it! I touched Russia once, ran up +to St. Petersburg. Now there’s a country that don’t hev breathin’ space. +She don’t hev half the sea room she’d o’t to. Look at her--all hemmed +in and froze up. You hev to squeeze past all the nations of the earth to +get to her--half choked afore you fairly get there. Yes, I sailed there +once, up through Skager Rack and Cattegat along up the Baltic and the +Gulf of Finland, just edging along--” He held out his hand again for the +locket, and studied it carefully. “Russian, is she? I might ’a’ known +it,” he said nodding. “She’s the sort--same look--eager and kind o’ +waitin’.” He looked up. “How’d you come to know her? You been there?” + +“In Russia? No. She’s not there now. She’s in New York. She lives +there.” + +“Is that so? Poor thing!” Uncle William looked at the pictured face with +compassion. + +The artist smiled. “Oh, it’s not so bad. She’s happy.” + +“Yes, she’s happy. I can see that easy enough. She’s the kind that’s +goin’ to be happy.” He looked again at the clear, fearless eyes. “You +couldn’t put her anywheres she wouldn’t sing--” + +“She _does_ sing. How did you know?” + +Uncle William’s eyes twinkled to the boyish face. “Well, I didn’t _know_ +it--not jest that way. I didn’t know as she sung songs on a platform, +dressed up, like I’ve heard ’em. What I meant was, her heart kind o’ +bubbles and sings--” + +“Yes”--the artist leaned forward--“that is Sergia. It’s the way she +is. She doesn’t sing in public. But her voice”--his eyes grew dark--“it +makes you want to laugh and cry. It’s like the wind and the sun +shining--” He broke off, listening. + +The old man’s eyes dwelt on him kindly. “She’s with her folks, is she?” + +He roused himself. “She hasn’t any. They all died over there--her father +and brother in the riots, her mother after that. She has no one. She +teaches music--piano and violin--night and day. Sometimes she gives a +recital with her pupils--and she has me.” He laughed a little bitterly. +“It isn’t an exciting life.” + +“I dunno’s I’d say jest that,” said Uncle William, slowly. “It ain’t +exactly the things that happen--” He broke off, looking at something +far away. “Why, I’ve had things happen to me--shipwreck, you know--winds +a-blowin’ and sousin’ the deck--and a-gettin’ out the boats and yellin’ +and shoutin’--Seems ’s if it ought to ’a’ been excitin’. But Lord! +’twa’n’t nuthin’ to what I’ve felt other times--times when it was all +still-like on the island here--and big--so’s ’t you kind o’ hear suthin’ +comin’ to ye over the water. Why, some days it’s been so’s I’d feel’s if +I’d _bust_ if I didn’t do suthin’--suthin’ to let off steam.” + +The young man nodded. “You ought to be an artist. That’s the way they +feel--some of them.” + +Uncle William beamed on him. “You don’t say so! Must be kind o’ hard +work, settin’ still and doin’ art when you feel like that. I gen’ally go +clammin’, or suthin’.” + +The artist laughed out, boyishly. He reached out a hand for the locket. + +But Uncle William held it a moment, looking down at it. “Things happen +to _her_--every day,” he said. “You can see that, plain enough. She +don’t hev to be most drowned to hev feelin’s.” He looked up. “When you +goin’ to be married?” + +“Not till we can afford it--years.” The tone was somber. + +Uncle William shook his head. “Now, I wouldn’t talk like that, Mr. +Woodworth!” He handed back the locket and pushed up his spectacles +again, beaming beneath them. “Seems to me,” he said slowly, studying the +fire--“seems to me I wouldn’t wait. I’d be married right off--soon’s I +got back.” + +“What would you live on?” said the artist. + +Uncle William waited. “There’s resk,” he said at last--“there’s resk in +it. But there’s resk in ’most everything that tastes good. I meant to +get married once,” he said after a pause. “I didn’t. I guess it’s about +the wust mistake I ever made. I thought this house wa’n’t good enough +for her.” He looked about the quaint room. “‘T wa’n’t, neither,” he +added with conviction. “But she’d ’a’ rather come--I didn’t know it +then,” he said gently. + +The artist waited, and the fire crackled between them. + +“If I’d ’a’ married her, I’d ’a’ seen things sooner,” went on the old +man. “I didn’t see much beauty them days--on sea or land. I was all for +a good ketch and makin’ money and gettin’ a better boat. And about that +time she died. I begun to learn things then--slow-like--when I hadn’t +the heart to work. If I’d married Jennie, I’d ’a’ seen ’em sooner, +bein’ happy. You learn jest about the same bein’ happy as you do bein’ +miserable--only you learn it quicker.” + +“I can’t give up my art,” said the young man. He was looking at Uncle +William with the superior smile of youth, a little lofty yet kind. “You +don’t allow for art,” he said. + +“I dunno’s I do,” returned Uncle William. “It’s like makin’ money, I +guess--suthin’ extry, thrown in, good enough if you get it, but not +necessary--no, not necessary. Livin’s the thing to live for, I reckon.” + He stopped suddenly, as if there were no more to be said. + +The artist looked at him curiously. “That’s what all the great artists +have said,” he commented. + +Uncle William nodded. “Like enough. I ain’t an artist. But I’ve had +sixty year of livin’, off and on.” + +“But you’ll die poor,” said the artist, with a glance about the little +room. He was thinking what a dear old duffer the man was--with his +curious, impracticable philosophy of life and his big, kind ways. +“You’ll die poor if you don’t look out,” he said again. + +“Yes, I s’pose I shall,” said Uncle William, placidly, “‘thout I make my +fortune aforehand. That hot water looks to me just about right.” He eyed +the tea-kettle critically. “You hand over them glasses and we’ll mix a +little suthin’ hot, and then we’ll wash the dishes and go to bed.” + +The artist looked up with a start. “I must be getting back.” He glanced +at the dark window with its whirling sleet. + +“You won’t get back anywheres to-night,” said Uncle William. “You +couldn’t hear yourself think out there--let alone findin’ the path. I’ll +jest shake up a bed for ye here on the lounge,--it’s a fust-rate bed; +I’ve slep’ on it myself, time and again,--and then in the mornin’ you’ll +be on hand to go to work--save a trip for ye. Hand me that biggest glass +and a teaspoon. I want that biggest there--second one--and a teaspoon. +We’ll have things fixed up fust-rate here.” + +Far into the night the artist watched the ruddy room. Gleams from the +fire darted up the wall and ran quivering along the red. Outside the +wind struck the house and beat upon it and went back, hoarse and slow. + +Down the beach the surf boomed in long rolls, holding its steady beat +through the uproar. When the wind lulled for a moment the house creaked +mysteriously, whispering, and when the gale returned a sound of flying +missiles came with it. Now and then something struck the roof and +thudded to the ground with heavier crash. + +About three o’clock Uncle William’s round face was thrust through +the crack of the door. “You can go to sleep all right, now,” he said +soothingly. “There wa’n’t but seven bricks left in the chimney, anyhow, +and the last one’s jest come down. I counted ’em fallin’.” + + + + +IV + +The artist stood on the beach, his hands in his pockets. Near by, seated +on a bit of driftwood, a man was cleaning fish. For a few minutes the +artist watched the swift motion of the knife, flashing monotonously. +Then he glanced at the harbor and at the two sailboats bobbing and +pulling their ropes. He was tired with a long strain of work. The summer +was almost done. For weeks--since the night of the big storm--he had +worked incessantly. A new light had come over things,--“The light that +never was on sea or land,” he called it,--and he had worked feverishly. +He saw the water and the rugged land as Uncle William saw them. Through +his eyes, he painted them. They took on color and bigness--simplicity. +“They will call it my third style,” said the artist, smiling, as he +worked. “They ought to call it the Uncle William style. I didn’t do +it--I shall never do it again,” and he worked fast. + +But now the sketches were done. They were safely packed and corded. +To-morrow he was going. To-day he would rest himself and do the things +he would like to remember. + +He looked again at the man cleaning fish. “Pretty steady work,” he said, +nodding toward the red pile. + +The man looked up with a grunt. “Everything’s steady--that pays,” he +said indifferently. + +The artist’s eyebrows lifted a little. “So?” + +“Yep.” The man tossed aside another fish. “Ye can’t earn money stan’in’ +with your hands in your pockets.” + +“I guess that’s so,” said the artist, cheerfully. He did not remove the +hands. The fingers found a few pennies in the depths and jingled them +merrily. + +“There’s Willum,” said the man, aggressively, sweeping his red knife +toward the cliff. “He’s poor--poor as poverty--an’ he al’ays will be.” + +“What do you think is the reason?” asked the artist. The tone held +respectful interest. + +The man looked at him more tolerantly. “Too fond of settin’.” + +The artist nodded. “I’m afraid he is.” + +“An’ then he’s al’ays a-givin’--a little here and a little there. Why, +what Willum Benslow’s give away would ’a’ made a rich man of him.” + +“Yes?” + +“Yep. I don’t s’pose I know half he’s give. But it’s a heap, Lord knows! +And then he’s foolish--plumb foolish.” He rested his arms on his legs, +leaning forward. “How much d’you s’pose he give me for that land--from +here to my house?” He pointed up the coast. + +The artist turned and squinted toward it with half-closed lids. It +glowed--a riot of color, green and red, cool against the mounting sky. +“I haven’t the least idea,” he said slowly. + +“Well, you won’t believe it when I tell you;--nobody’d believe it. He +paid me five hunderd dollars for it--five hunderd! It ain’t wuth fifty.” + +The artist smiled at him genially. “Well--he’s satisfied.” + +“But it ain’t right,” said the man, gloomily. He had returned to his +fish. “It ain’t right. I can’t bear to have Willum such a fool.” + +“I think I’ll go for a sail,” said the artist. + +The other glanced at the horizon. “It’s going to storm,” he said +indifferently. + +“I’ll keep an eye out.” + +“Ye better not go.” + +“Think not?” He looked again at the harbor. “It’s my last chance for a +sail--I’ll watch out.” + +“All right. ’T ain’t my business,” said the man. He went on slitting +fish. + + +The harbor held a still light--ominously--grey with a tinge of yellow +in its depths. Uncle William hurried down the face of the cliff, a +telescope in his hand. Now and then he paused on the zigzag path and +swept the bay with it. The grey stillness deepened. + +On the beach below, the man paused in his work to look up. As Uncle +William approached he grunted stiffly. “She’s off the island,” he said. +He jerked a fishy thumb toward the water. + +Uncle William’s telescope fixed the boat and held it. His throat hummed, +holding a kind of conversation with itself. + +The man had returned to his fish, slitting in rough haste and tossing to +one side. “Fool to go out--I told him it was coming.” + +The telescope descended. Uncle William regarded him mildly. “I o’t to +’a’ kept an eye on him,” he said humbly. “I didn’t jest sense he was +goin’. I guess mebbe he did mention it. But I was mixin’ a batch of +biscuit and kind o’ thinkin’ to myself. When I looked up he wa’n’t +there.” He slid the telescope together and slipped it into his pocket. +“I’ll hev to go after him,” he said. + +The other looked up quickly. “How’ll you go?” + +Uncle William nodded toward the boat that dipped securely at anchor. +“I’ll take _her_,” he said. + +The man laughed shortly. “The _Andrew Halloran_? I guess not!” He shut +his knife with a decisive snap and stood up. “I don’t trust her--not in +such a storm as that’s going to be.” He waved his arm toward the harbor. +The greyness was shifting rapidly. It moved in swift green touches, +heavy and clear--a kind of luminous dread. In its sallow light the man’s +face stood out tragically. “I won’t resk her,” he cried. + +“You’ll hev to, Andrew.” Uncle William bent to the bow of the dory that +was beached near by. “Jump in,” he said. + +The man drew back a step. The hand with the clasped knife fell to his +side. “Don’t you make me go, William,” he said pacifically. “You can +take the boat in welcome, but don’t take _me_. It’s too much resk!” + +“It’s al’ays a resk to do your duty,” said Uncle William. “Jump in. I +can’t stand talkin’.” An edge of impatience grazed the words. + +The man stepped in and seized the oars. “I’ll help get her off,” he +said, “but I won’t go.” + +In the green light of the harbor a smile played over Uncle William’s +face grotesquely. He gave a shove to the boat and sprang in. “I guess +you’ll go, Andrew,” he said; “you wouldn’t want a man drowned right at +your door-yard.” + +“You can’t live in it,” said Andrew. He lifted his face to the light. +Far to the east a boat crawled against it. “It’ll strike in five +minutes,” he said. + +“Like enough,” said Uncle William--“like enough. Easy there!” He seized +the stern of the _Andrew Halloran_ and sprang on board. They worked +in swift silence, hoisting the anchor, letting out the sail,--a single +reef,--making it fast. “All she’ll stan’,” said Uncle William. He turned +to the helm. + +Andrew, seated on the tiller bench, glared at him defiantly. “If she’s +going out, I take her,” he said. + +“You get right over there and tend the sheet, Andy,” said Uncle William. + +In silence the other obeyed. He undid the rope, letting it out with +cautious hand. The low sail caught the breeze and stiffened to it. The +boat came round to the wind, dipping lightly. She moved through the +murky light as if drawn by unseen hands. + +The light thickened and grew black--clouded and dense and swift. Then, +with a wrench, heaven parted about them. The water descended in sheets, +gray-black planes that shut them in--blinded them, crushed them. Andrew, +crouching to the blows, drew in the sheet, closer, closer--hugging the +wind with tense grasp. About them, the water flattened like a plate +beneath the flood. When the rain shifted a second they saw it, a +gray-white floor, stretching as far as the eye could reach. Uncle +William bent to it, scanning the east. “Hold her tight, Andy,” he +yelled. His leg was braced against the tiller, and his back strained to +it. His hat was gone. The tufts of hair, lashed flat to the big skull, +were mere lines. “Hold her tight! Make fast!” he yelled again. + +Through the dark they drove, stunned and grim. The minutes lengthened +to ages and beat them, eternally, in torment. Water and clouds were all +about them--underneath them, and over. The boat, towering on each wave, +dropped from its crest like a ball. Andy, crouching on the bottom of +the boat, held on like grim death. Then, in a breath the storm was gone. +With a sucking sound it had swept beyond them, its black skirts hurtling +behind it as it ran, kicking a wake of foam. + +Andrew from beneath the bench lifted his sopped head, like a turtle, +breathless. Uncle William, bent far to the right, gazed to the east. +Slowly his face lightened. He drew his big hand down its length, mopping +off the wet. “There she is!” he said in a deep voice. “Let her out, +Andy.” + +With stiff fingers, Andrew reached to the sail, untying a second reef +and loosing it to the wind. + +The water still tossed in tumbling waves and the fitful rain blew past. +But the force of the storm was gone. Away to the north it towered, +monstrous and black. + +With his eyes strained to the east, Uncle William held the tiller. +“We’ll make it, Andy,” he said quietly. “We’ll make it yet if the +_Jennie_ holds out--” Suddenly he stood upright, his hand on the tiller, +his eyes glued fast. + +“Luff her,” he cried. “She’s gone--Luff her, I tell you!” He sprang +back, jamming the tiller from him. “Let her out, Andy, every inch!” + +The canvas flew wide to the wind. The great boat responded to its touch. +She rose like a bird and dipped, in sweeping sidewise flight, to the +race. + +Across the water something bobbed--black, uncertain. + +“Look sharp, Andy,” said Uncle William. + +Andrew peered with blinking eyes across the waste. The spirit of the +chase was on him. His indifference had washed from him, like a husk, +in that center of terror. His eyes leaped to the mass and glowed on it. +“Yep,” he said solemnly, “he’s held on--he’s there!” + +“Keep your eye on her, Andy. Don’t lose her.” Uncle William’s big arms +strained to the wind, forcing the great bird in her course. Nearer +she came and nearer, circling with white wings that opened and closed +silently, softly. Close to the bobbing boat she grazed, hung poised a +moment, and swept away with swift stroke. + +The artist had swung through the air at the end of a huge arm. As he +looked up from the bottom of the boat where he lay, the old man’s head, +round and smooth, like a boulder, stood out against the black above +him. It grew and expanded and filled the horizon--thick and nebulous and +dizzy. + +“Roll him over, Andy,” said Uncle William, “roll him over. He’s shipped +too much.” + + + + +V + +Uncle William sat on the beach mending his nets. He drew the twine +deftly in and out, squinting now and then across the harbor at a line of +smoke that dwindled into the sky. Each time he looked it was fainter on +the horizon. He whistled a little as he bent to his work. + +Over the rocks Andrew appeared, bearing on his back a huge bundle of +nets. He threw it on the sand with a grunt. Straightening himself, he +glanced at the line of smoke. “_He’s_ gone,” he said, jerking his thumb +toward it. + +“He’s gone,” assented Uncle William, cheerfully. + +Andrew kicked the bundle of nets apart and drew an end toward him, +spreading it along the beach. “He’s left _you_ poorer’n he found you,” + he said. His tough fingers worked swiftly among the nets, untying knots +and straightening meshes. + +“I dunno ’bout that,” said Uncle William. His eyes followed the whiff of +smoke kindly. + +“You kep’ him a good deal, off and on. He must ’a’ e’t considerable,” + said Andrew. “And now he’s up and lost your boat for you.” He glanced +complacently at the _Andrew Halloran_ swinging at anchor. “You’ll never +see _her_ again,” he said. He gave a final toss to the net. + +“Mebbe not,” said Uncle William. “Mebbe not.” His eyes were on the +horizon, where the gray-blue haze lingered lightly. The blue sky dipped +to meet it. It melted in sunlight. Uncle William’s eyes returned to his +nets. + +“How you going to get along ’bout a bout?” asked Andrew, carelessly. + +Uncle William paused. He looked up to the clear sky. “I shouldn’t need +her much more this fall, anyways,” he said. “An’ come spring, I’ll get +another. I’ve been needin’ a new boat a good while.” + +Andrew grunted. He glanced a little jealously at the _Andrew Halloran_. +“Got the money?” he asked. + +“Well, not _got_ it, so to speak,” said Uncle William, “but I reckon I +shall have it when the time comes.” + +Andrew’s face lightened a little. “What you countin’ on?” he said. + +Uncle William considered. “There’s the fish. Gunnion hain’t settled with +me yet for my fish.” + +Andrew nodded. “Seventy-five dollars.” + +“And I’ve got quite a count of lobsters up to the boardin’-house--” + +Andrew’s small eyes squinted knowingly. “Out o’ season?” + +Uncle William returned the look benignly. “We didn’t date the +’count--just lumped ’em, so much a catch; saves trouble.” + +Andrew chuckled. “I’ve saved trouble that way myself.” He made a rough +calculation. “It won’t make a hunderd, all told. How you goin’ to get +the rest?” + +“Mebbe I shall borrow it,” said Uncle William. He looked serenely at the +sky. “Like enough _he’ll_ send a little suthin’,” he added. + +“Like enough!” said Andrew. + +“He mentioned it,” said Uncle William. + +“He’s gone,” said Andrew. He gave a light _p-f-f_ with his lips and +screwed up his eyes, seeming to watch a bubble sail away. + +Uncle William smiled. “You don’t have faith, Andy,” he said +reproachfully. “Folks do do things, a good many times--things that they +say they will. You o’t to have faith.” + +Andrew snuffed. “When I pin my faith to a thing, Willum, I like to hev +suthin’ to stick the pin into,” he said scornfully. + +They worked in silence. Seagulls dipped about them. Off shore the +sea-lions bobbed their thick, flabby black heads inquiringly in the +water and climbed clumsily over the kelp-covered rocks. + +Andrew’s eyes rested impassively on their gambols. “Wuthless critters,” + he said. + +Uncle William’s face softened as he watched them. “I kind o’ like to +see ’em, Andy--up and down and bobbin’ and sloppin’ and scramblin’; you +never know _where_ they’ll come up next.” + +“Don’t need to,” grumbled Andy. “Can’t eat the blamed things--nor wear +’em. I tell you, Willum,”--he turned a gloomy eye on his companion,--“I +tell you, you set too much store by wuthless things.” + +“Mebbe I do,” said William, humbly. + +“This one, now--this painter fellow.” Andrew gave a wave of his hand +that condensed scorn. “What’d you get out o’ him, a-gabblin’ and sailin’ +all summer?” + +“I dunno, Andy, as I could jest put into words,” said William, +thoughtfully, “what I _did_ get out o’ him.” + +“Ump! I guess you couldn’t--nor anybody else. When he sends you anything +for that boat o’ yourn, you jest let me know it, will you?” + +“Why, yes, Andy, I’ll let you know if you want me to. I’ll be reel +pleased to let you know,” said Uncle William. + + + + +VI + +It was Indian summer. Uncle William was mending his chimney. He had +built a platform to work on. Another man would have clung to the sloping +roof while he laid the bricks and spread the mortar. But Uncle William +had constructed an elaborate platform with plenty of room for bricks and +the pail of mortar, and space in which to stretch his great legs. It was +a comfortable place to sit and look out over Arichat harbor. Andy, +who had watched the preparations with scornful eye, had suggested an +arm-chair and cushion. + +“I like to be comf’tabul,” assented Uncle William. “I know I do. I don’t +like to work none too well, anyhow. Might as well be comf’tabul if you +can.” + +The platform was comfortable. Even Andy admitted that, when Uncle +William persuaded him to climb up one day, on the pretext of advising +whether the row of bricks below the roof line would hold. It was a +clear, warm day, with little clouds floating lightly, as in summer. Andy +had climbed the ladder grumbling. + +“Nice place to see,” suggested Uncle William. + +Andy peered down the chimney hole. “You will have to take off the top +row all around,” he said resentfully. + +“Ye think so, do ye? I kind o’ thought so myself. They seemed sort o’ +tottery. But I thought mebbe they’d hold. Sit down, Andy, sit down.” He +pushed the pail of mortar a little to one side to make room. + +Andy edged away. “Can’t stop,” he said. He was searching with his foot +for the ladder. + +“What you going to do?” demanded Uncle William. + +Andy glanced at the sky. “I’m going to take in the _Andrew Halloran_.” + He was already on his way down the ladder. + +Uncle William pursued him, peering over. “You’ll have to have me to help +ye, Andy. Can’t you jest wait till to-morrow--till I get my chimbley +done?” + +“You’ve been a month now,” said Andy. He was glowering at the bay and +the little boat bobbing below. + +“I know it, Andy, I know it.” Uncle William was descending the ladder +with slow care. “But I don’t want my mortar to freeze, and I’m kind o’ +’fraid of its comin’ off cold again to-night. I was jest goin’ to begin +to hurry up. I was goin’ to begin to-day.” + +“I can get along without you,” said Andrew, doggedly. + +“Why, no, you can’t, Andy. How you goin’ to haul her up?” Uncle William +spoke reproachfully. + +Andy moved away. “I can do it, I guess.” He was mumbling it to his +teeth. “I don’t need anybody’s help.” + +With a sigh and a look of affection at the platform and the pail and the +blue sky above, Uncle William followed him down the rocky path. + +They worked busily all the morning, towing in the _Andrew Halloran_, +cleaning her up and stowing away tackle, making her ready for the +winter. + +In the afternoon Uncle William mounted the roof again. His face, under +its vast calm, wore a look of resolve. He looked thoughtfully down the +chimney hole. Then he sat down on the platform and took up his trowel. +He balanced it on his palm and looked at the pile of bricks. His gaze +wandered to the sky. It swept the bay and came back across the moors. +A look of soft happiness filled it; the thin edges of resolve melted +before it. “Best kind of weather,” murmured Uncle William, “best kind--” + His eye fell on the pile of bricks and he took up one, looking at it +affectionately. He laid it in place and patted down the mortar, rumbling +to himself. + +When Andy came by, half an hour later, three bricks were in place. Uncle +William nodded to him affably. “Where goin’, Andy?” + +“How much you got done?” demanded Andy. + +Uncle William looked at it thoughtfully. “Well, there’s quite a piece. +Comin’ up?” he said hopefully. + +“It don’t show any.” + +“No, it don’t show much--yet. It’s kind of down below.--Think we’re +goin’ to have a change?” The tone was full of hopeful interest. + +Andy nodded. “Freeze inside of twenty-four hours.” + +Uncle William scanned the horizon. + +“When you calculatin’ to finish?” asked Andy. + +“Well, I was thinkin’ of finishin’ to-night.” + +Andy’s gaze sought the sun. + +Uncle William took up another brick. + +Andy seated himself on a rock. He had done a good day’s work. His +conscience was clear; and then William worked better when Andy was +around, and Andy took pride in it. “Where’d you get your bricks?” he +asked. + +Uncle William looked at the one in his hand. “I wheeled them over from +the Bodet cellar-place. The’ ’s quite a pile left there yet.” + +“They all good?” + +“Putty good.” Uncle William was working thoughtfully. “We’ve set by them +bricks a good many times, Andy.” + +“Yep.” + +“You remember the things she used to give us to eat?” + +Andy swung about. “Who give us?” + +“Old Mis’ Bodet.” + +Andy’s eye lighted. “So she did. I’d forgot all about ’em.” + +Uncle William nodded. “There was a kind of tart she used to make--” + +Andy broke in. A look of genuine enthusiasm filled his eye. “I +know--that gingery, pumpkin kind--” + +“That’s it. And you and me and Benjy used to sit and toast our toes by +the fire and eat it--” + +“He was a mean cuss,” said Andy. + +“Who Benjy? Why, we was al’ays fond of Benjy!” Uncle William’s face +beamed over the edge of the roof. “We was fond of him, wa’n’t we?” + +“I wa’n’t,” said Andy, shortly. “He’ lick a feller every chance he got.” + +“Yes, that’s so--I guess that’s so.” Uncle William was slapping on the +mortar with heavy skill. “But he did it kind o’ neat, didn’t he?” + His eye twinkled to his work. “‘Member that time you ’borrowed’ his +lobster-pot--took it up when it happened to have lobsters in it, and +kep’ the lobsters--not to hev ’em waste?” + +Andy’s face was impassive. + +“Oh, you was fond of Benjy!” Uncle William spoke cheeringly. “You’ve +kind o’ forgot, I guess. And I set a heap o’ store by him. He was jest +about our age--twelve year the summer they moved away. I cried much as a +week, off and on I should think. Couldn’t seem to get ust to not havin’ +him around.” + +“Reckon he’s dead by this time?” Andy spoke hopefully. A little green +gleam had crept into his eye. + +Uncle William leaned over, looking down at him reproachfully. “Now, what +makes you say that, Andy? He don’t hev no more call to be dead’n we do. +We was both fond of him.” + +Andy stirred uneasily. “I liked him well enough, but it ain’t any use +talkin’ about folks that’s moved away, or dead.” + +“Do you feel that way, Andy? Now I don’t feel so.” Uncle William’s gaze +was following a floating cloud. “I feel as if they was kind o’ near us; +not touching close, but round somewheres. Now, I wouldn’t really say +Benjy Bodet was in that cloud--” + +Andy stared at it suspiciously. + +“He ain’t really there, but it makes me feel the way he did. I used to +get up kind o’ light in the mornin’, ’cause I was goin’ to see Benjy. +The’ wa’n’t ever anybody I was so fond of, except Jennie--and you, +mebbe.” + +Andy’s gaze was looking out to sea. “You was mighty thick with that +painter chap,” he said gruffly. + +“That wa’n’t the same,”--Uncle William spoke thoughtfully,--“not quite +the same.” + +The gloom in Andy’s face lifted. + +“I’ve thought about that a good many times,” went on Uncle William. +“It’s cur’us. You get to know folks that’s a good deal nicer than your +own folks that you was born and brought up and have lived and quarreled +with,--and you get to know ’em a good deal better some ways--but they +ain’t the same as your own.” + +Andy’s face had grown almost mild. “I guess that’s right,” he said. “Now +there’s Harr’et--I’ve lived with Harr’et a good many year.” + +Uncle William nodded. “She come from Digby way, didn’t she?” + +“Northeast o’ Digby. And some days I feel as if I wa’n’t even acquainted +with her.” + +Uncle William chuckled. + +Andy glanced at the sun. “I must be gettin’ home. It’s supper-time.” His +gaze sought the ridge-pole. The few rows of bricks set above its line +gleamed red and white in the sun. “You won’t get that done to-night.” + The tone was not acrid. It was almost sympathetic--for Andy. + +Uncle William glanced at it placidly. “I reckon I shall. There’s a moon, +you know. And this is a pleasant place to set. It ought to be quite nice +up here by moonlight.” + +He set and watched Andy’s figure down the road. Then he took up the +trowel once more, whistling. The floating cloud had sailed to the +horizon. It grew rosy red and opened softly, spreading in little flames. +The glow of color spread from north to south. A breeze had sprung up and +ruffled the bay. Uncle William glanced at it and fell to work. “Andy’s +right--it’s goin’ to change.” + +He worked till the cold, clear moon came over the hill behind him. It +shone on the chimney rising, straight and firm, above the little house. +By its light William put on the finishing touches. + + + + +VII + +The winter was a hard one. The cold that had set in the night the +chimney was finished did not abate. The island froze to its core and a +stinging keenness held the air. The very rocks seemed charged with it. +One almost listened to hear them crack in the stillness of the long +nights. Little snow fell, and it was soon dispersed--whirled away on the +fierce blasts that swept the island. Uncle William went back and forth +between woodshed and house, carrying great armfuls of wood. A roaring +fire warmed the red room, Juno purred in comfort in its depths. The pile +of wood in the shed lowered fast, and the pile of money hoarded behind +the loose brick in the chimney lowered with it--the money faster than +the wood, perhaps. There was a widow with three children, a mile down +the shore. Her husband had been drowned the year before, and there was +no brick loose in her chimney to look behind as the woodpile diminished. +Old Grandma Gruchy, too, who had outlived all her men folks and at +ninety-three was still tough and hearty, had need of things. + +Between filling the wood-box and looking after the weather and keeping +a casual eye on the widows and the fatherless, Uncle William had a +full winter. He was not a model housekeeper at best, and ten o’clock of +winter mornings often found him with breakfast dishes unwashed and +the floor unswept. Andy, coming in for his daily visit, would cast an +uncritical eye at the frying-pan, and seat himself comfortably by the +stove. It did not occur to either of them, as Uncle William pottered +about, finishing the dishes, that Andy should take a hand. Andy had +women folks to do for him. + +As the winter wore on, letters came from the artist--sometimes gay +and full of hope sometimes a little despondent. Uncle William read the +letters to Andy, who commented on them according to his lights. “He +don’t seem to be makin’ much money,” he would say from time to time. The +letters revealed flashes of poverty and a kind of fierce struggle. +“He’s got another done,” Uncle William would respond: “that makes three; +that’s putty good.” Andy had ceased to ask about the money for the +boat--when it was coming. He seemed to have accepted the fact that there +would never be any, as placidly as William himself. If there was dawning +in his mind the virtuous resolve to help out a little when the time +came, no one would have guessed it from the grim face that surveyed +Uncle William’s movements with a kind of detached scorn. Now and then +Andy let fall a word of advice as to the best way of adjusting a tin +on the stove, or better methods for cleaning the coffee-pot. Sometimes +Uncle William followed the advice. It generally failed to work. + +It was late in the winter that Andy appeared one morning bringing a +letter from the artist. Uncle William searched for his spectacles and +placed them on his nose with a genial smile. + +Andy had not relinquished the letter. “I can read it for ye,” he +volunteered. + +“I can read it all right now, Andy, thank ye.” Uncle William reached out +a hand for it. + +Andy’s fingers relaxed on it grudgingly. He had once or twice been +allowed to open and read the letters in the temporary absence of Uncle +William’s spectacles. He found them more entertaining than when Uncle +William read them. He privately suspected him of suppressing bits of +news. + +Uncle William looked up from the lines with pleased countenance. “Now, +that’s good. He’s finished up five on ’em.” + +“Five what?” + +“Picters,” responded Uncle William, spelling it out slowly. “There’s one +of my house,”--lofty pride held the voice,--“and one of the cove down +below, and two up by the end of old Bodet place, and one on the hill, +this side of your place. Now, that’s quite a nice lot, ain’t it?” + +“What’s he going to do with ’em,” asked Andy. + +“There’s a kind of exhibit goin’ on.” Uncle William consulted the +letter. “‘The Exhibition of American Artists’--suthin’ like a fair, I +take it. And he’s goin’ to send ’em.” + +“Thinks he’ll take a prize, I s’pose.” Andy’s tone held fine scepticism. + +“Well, I dunno. He don’t say nuthin’ about a prize. He does kind o’ hint +that he’ll be sendin’ me suthin’ pretty soon. I guess likely there’ll +be prizes. He o’t to take one if there is. He made fust-rate picters, +fust-rate--” + +“The whole lot wa’n’t wuth the _Jennie_.” Andy spoke with sharp +jealousy. + +“Well, mebbe not--mebbe not. Want a game of checkers, Andy?” + +“_I_ don’t care,” sullenly. Uncle William brought out the board and +arranged the pieces with stiff fingers. + +Andy watched the movements, his eye callous to pleasure. + +“It’s your move, Andy.” + +Andy drew up to the table and reached out a hand. . . . The spirit of +the game descended upon him. He pushed forward a man with quick fingers. +“Go ahead.” + +Uncle William took time. His fingers hovered here and there in loving +calculation. At last he lifted the piece and moved it slowly forward. + +“Same move you al’ays make,” said Andy, contemptuously. + +“Sometimes I beat that way, don’t I?” + +“And sometimes you don’t.” Andy shoved forward another piece. The quick +movement expressed scorn of dawdlers. + +Uncle William met it mildly. He set his man in place with slow care. + +Andy paused. He snorted a little. He bent above the board, knitting his +forehead. His hand reached out and drew back. The fingers reached out +and drew back. The fingers drummed a little on the edge of the board. + +Uncle William, leaning forward, a hand on either knee, beamed on him +benignantly. + +Andy shifted a little in his chair. “You’re going to get into trouble,” + he said warningly, “if you move that way.” + +“Like enough, like enough. I gen’ally do. Is it my move?” + +“No,” growled Andy. He returned to the board. The game was on in +earnest. Now and then Andy grunted or moved a leg, and once or twice +Uncle William arose to put more wood into the glowing stove. But he +did it with the gaze of a sleep-walker. Outside the wind had risen and +dashed fiercely against the little house. Neither man lifted his head to +listen. Their hands reached mechanically to the pieces. They jumped men +and placed them one side with impassive faces. The board was clearing +fast. Only seven men remained. Andy moved forward a piece with a swift +flourish. He gave a little growl of triumph. + +Uncle William studied the board. At last, with a heavy sigh, he lifted a +piece and moved it cautiously. + +Andy made the counter move in triumphant haste. “King,” he announced. + +Uncle William covered the man, a little smile dawning in his eye. He +looked at the pieces affectionately. A chuckle sounded somewhere in the +room. + +Andy looked up quickly. He glanced again at the board. Wrath froze his +gaze. + +Uncle William leaned back, nodding at him with genial meaning. A little +conscious triumph flavored the nod. + +Andy shoved back from the board. “Well, why don’t you take it? Take it +if you’re goin’ to, and don’t set there cackling!” + +“Why, Andy!” Uncle William moved the man mildly. + +Andy shoved the counter in place with scornful touch. + +Uncle William moved again. + +Andy got up, looking sternly for his hat. + +“Can’t you stay to dinner, Andy?” + +“No.” + +“I was goin’ to have a little meat.” + +“Can’t stay.” + +“It’s stormin’ putty hard.” + +“_I_ don’t care!” He moved toward the door. + +Uncle William took down an oil-skin coat from its peg. “You better put +this on if ye can’t stay. No use in gettin’ wet through.” + +Andy put it on and buttoned it up in fierce silence. + +Uncle William watched him benignly. “If ’t was so ’s ’t you could stay, +we could play another after dinner--play the rubber. You beat _me_ last +time, you know.” He took off the stove-lid and peered in. + +Andy’s eye had relaxed a little under its gloom. “When you goin’ to have +dinner?” he asked. + +“I was thinkin’ of havin’ it putty soon. I can have it right off if +you’ll stay--must be ’most time.” He pulled a great watch from its fob +pocket and looked at it with absent eye. His gaze deepened. He looked +up slowly. Then he smiled--a cheerful smile that took in Andy, the board +with its scattered checkers, Juno on the lounge, and the whole red room. + +“Well, what time is it?” said Andy. + +“It’s five minutes to three, Andy. Guess you’d better stay,” said Uncle +William. + + + + +VIII + +Uncle William carried the letter up the zigzag rocks in his big fingers. +A touch of spring was in the air, but the _Andrew Halloran_ rocked alone +at the foot of the cliff. Uncle William turned back once to look at her. +Then he pursued his way up the rocky cliff. He had not heard from the +artist for over a month. He glanced down curiously at the letter in +his hand, once or twice, as he climbed the cliff. It was a woman’s +handwriting. + +He sat down by the table, tearing open the envelope with cautious +fingers. A strip of bluish paper fluttered from it and fell to the +floor. Uncle William bent over and picked it up. He looked at it a +little bashfully and laid it on the table. He spread the letter before +him, resting his elbows on the table and bending above it laboriously. +As he read, an anxious line came between his eyes. “Now, that’s too +bad--sick in bed--I want to know--Well, well! Pshaw, you needn’t ’a’ +done that! Of course I’ll go.” He picked up the bluish slip and looked +at it. He pushed the spectacles back on his head and sat surveying the +red room. He shook his head slowly. “He must be putty sick to feel like +that,” he said. + +He took up the letter again, spelling it out slowly. + + +“MY DEAR MR. BENSLOW: You have not forgotten Alan Woodworth, the artist +who was in Arichat last summer? I am writing to tell you that he is very +ill. He has not been well for two months or more, and for the last three +weeks he has been very ill indeed. He is in his rooms alone and there is +no one to look after him. His friends have tried all along to have him +go to a hospital, or to let them take care of him. But until two or +three weeks ago he would have times of partial recovery--days when he +seemed perfectly well. So no one has guessed how really ill he is, and +they suppose now that he has gone away from the city to recuperate. No +one, except me, knows that he is still in his rooms. The door is locked +and no one answers if you go there. I am writing you as a last resort. +He has told me about you--how good you were to him last summer--” + + +Uncle William looked up, perplexed. “Sho, now! What does she mean by +that? I didn’t do nuthin’--nuthin’ to speak of.” + + +“I feel as if he would let you in and let you do things for him. He has +talked about you to me, since he came back; and in his illness, earlier, +when the fever was on, he would call for you--talking and muttering in +his sleep. If you could come down for a little while, I feel almost +sure that it would give him the start he needs. The fever makes him +distrustful of every one, but I know that he would see you. I am +inclosing a check for the trip. It is really money that belongs to +him--to Alan. He gave me last year a beautiful present--something far +too expensive for him to give; and now that he needs the money--needs +to see you--more than I need the jewel. I am sending it to you, begging +that you will come very soon if you can. Alan said that he had told you +about me. You will not wonder who I am or why I am writing. I hope that +I shall see you and know you when you come. + +“Sincerely yours, + +“SERGIA LVOVA.” + + +Uncle William nodded at the letter with a genial smile, as if he saw the +girl herself and responded to the wish. He returned the letter with the +blue slip to the envelope and stowed it away in his pocket. He surveyed +the room again, shaking his head. “I couldn’t take their money, nohow,” + he said slowly. “I must go and see Andy. He’ll help out. He’ll be reel +glad to.” + +He rose and began to set the table, bringing out the smoked herring and +bread and tea and foxberries with lavish hand. He sat down with a look +of satisfaction. Juno, from the red lounge, came across, jumping into +the chair beside him. She rubbed expectantly against him. He fed her +bits of the herring with impartial hand. When the meal was over, he went +to the chimney and took out the loose brick, reaching in behind for the +money. He counted it slowly. “Not near enough,” he said, shaking his +head. “I knew there wa’n’t. I must go and see Andy.” + +He washed the dishes and put them away, then he combed his tufts of hair +and tied his neckerchief anew. + +He found Andrew outside his house, feeding the hens. They stood in +silence, watching the scramble for bits. “Shoo!” said Andrew, making +a dash for a big cochin-china. “She eats a lot more ’an her share,” he +grumbled, shaking out the dish. “Comin’ in?” + +“I’ve got a little suthin’ to talk over with ye,” said William. + +“Come out behind the barn,” said Andrew. + +Seated on a well-worn bench with a glimpse of the bay in the distance, +William drew out the envelope. “I’ve got a letter--” + +Andy eyed it. “From that painter chap?” + +“Well, not exactly. But it’s about him. He’s in a good deal of +trouble--” + +“What’s he been doin’?” demanded Andy. + +“He’s been bein’ sick,” said William, reproachfully. + +“Oh!” Andy’s face fell. + +“He’s sick now,” went on Uncle William. He drew the letter from its +envelope. “He’s feeling putty bad.” + +“What’s the matter of him?” said Andy, gruffly. + +Uncle William studied the letter. + +“It’s a kind o’ fever--I guess--intermittent. Runs for a while, then +lets up a day or two, and then runs again. We had it once--don’t you +remember?--the whole crew, that time we broke down off Madagascar? +’Member how sick we felt?” Uncle William looked at him mildly. + +Andy’s eye was fixed on the bay. “How d’ you know it’s the same?” he +said. + +“Well, I don’t _know_ it’s the same--not just the same, but she says--” + +“_Who_ says?” Andy whirled about. + +“Why, _she_ says--Sergia says.--Didn’t I jest tell you, Andy?” + +“You didn’t tell me nuthin’,” said Andy. He had returned to the bay. + +“She is his--she is goin’ to marry him,” said William. + +“Huh!” + +There was silence for a minute, while Andrew digested the morsel. “When +they goin’ to be married?” he said at last. + +Uncle William shook his head. “That’s jest it, Andy. They’re in a heap +o’ trouble.” + +Andy stirred uneasily. “What’d she write to _you_ for?” + +“I’m comin’ to that--if you’ll give me time. She thought mebbe I could +help--” + +Andy moved a little away. “You hain’t got the means,” he said +decisively. + +“No”--the tone was soothing--“but I can get it, mebbe. She wants me to +come down.” + +“To New York? _You!_” Andy looked at him. + +William returned the look apologetically. “Does sound ridiculous, don’t +it, Andy? I shouldn’t ever ’a’ thought of the thing myself, but she says +he kind o’ needs me. Keeps askin’ for me when the fever is on, and don’t +seem to get along much when it lets up. She kind o’ thinks if I was +there, it would help him to brace up, somehow, a little.” + +Andy made no response. The green light was dawning far down in his eye. + +Uncle William watched it. “It’s jest a sick man’s fancy, like enough.” + +“When you goin’?” said Andy. + +“I though ’bout day after to-morrow.” + +“It’ll cost a heap.” + +“I know it.” + +“You’ve got it, I s’pose?” indifferently. + +“Some of it,” said William. + +Andy moved a little farther away. He was very near the edge of the +bench. + +Uncle William moved over by him, and laid a hand on his knee. “I was +goin’ to ask you to lend me a hunderd, Andy.” + +Andy wriggled a little. “You don’t _hev_ to go,” he said feebly. + +“If he needs me, I’ll have to. I ain’t ever been needed much--livin’ +alone so. You don’t know how ’t is. You have somebody to need you. +Harriet needs you--” + +“Lord, yes, Harr’et needs me. Don’t doubt she needs me this minute--pail +o’ water or suthin’.” Andrew chuckled gloomily. + +“And you hev your chickens, too.” Uncle William fixed his glance +placidly on a strutting fowl that had appeared around the corner, +cocking a surprised eye at them. William regarded her thoughtfully. +“When a man’s alone, there ain’t much he can do for folks,” he said +slowly, “except feed Juno night and mornin’,--and she catches so many +mice it ain’t really wuth while. Now a hen needs to be fed.” + +“Guess they do,” grumbled Andy. + +“And a cow,” went on Uncle William, “but there--” he checked himself. +“What am I talkin’ about? How’d I ever keep a cow? What’d I do with the +milk? I couldn’t eat a whole cowful.” He sat gazing with far-off eyes at +the glimpse of blue water. + +Andy chewed scornfully on a bit of dry grass. + +William turned to him suddenly. “We’ll go down and draw out the money +to-morrow morning,” he said. + +Andy chewed anxiously. “I dunno as I can let you have it,” he protested. + +“Oh, yes, you’ll let me. You see I _need_ it, Andy, and I’m goin’ to pay +you six per cent. How much do you get at the bank? Not more’n five, do +you?” + +“Four and a half,” said Andy, grudgingly. + +“Four and a half. Well, you see, I give you six. So there’s a dollar and +a half clear gain.” + +Andrew’s eyes narrowed to the dollar and a half and fed on it awhile. “I +shall hev to ask Harr’et,” he said. + +“Now, I wouldn’t ask Harriet.” Uncle William spoke soothingly. “She +don’t agree with you and me a good many times--Harriet don’t.” + +Andrew admitted it. He chewed awhile in silence. “You’ll give me a +mortgage?” he said at last. The tone was crafty. + +“On my place!” Uncle William was roused. “No, sir, I don’t give +mortgages to nobody.” + +“Then I don’t see as I can let you hev it,” said Andy. “It’s fair to ask +for a mortgage. What if anything should happen to ye--down there in New +York? Where’d _I_ be?” He looked at him reproachfully. + +“You _would_ miss me, Andy, and I know it. I’m goin’ to be careful. I +shan’t take no more resks ’n I have to.” + +“Nor me, neither,” said Andy. + +“That’s right, Andy, you be careful, too, while I’m gone. Why, ’t +wouldn’t ever be like home--to come back and not find you here.” + +Andy’s eyes widened. “What you talkin’ ’bout?” he said. + +Uncle William’s gaze was on him affectionately. He looked a +little puzzled. “I dunno jest what I _did_ start to say,” he said +apologetically. “I was thinkin’ what a store I set by you, Andy.” + +Andy’s face softened a trifle. “Now, look here, Willum, a mortgage is +fair. It wouldn’t hurt you none, nor your place--” + +William shook his head. “I couldn’t do it, Andy. I wouldn’t reely trust +you with a mortgage. You might get scared and foreclose some day if I +couldn’t pay the interest, and you’d be ashamed enough--doin’ a thing +like that.” + +The next day Andy drew the hundred from the bank and turned it over to +William without even a note to guard his sacred rights. Andy had tried +in the night watches to formulate a note. He had selected the best, from +a row of crafty suggestions, about four o’clock. But later, as he and +William went up the road, the note dropped by the way. + +Uncle William stowed the money in his pocket with a comfortable smile. +“You’ve done the right thing, Andy, and I shall pay you back when I can. +You’ll get your interest reg’lar--six per cent.” + +Andy’s face held a kind of subdued gloom. He mourned not as those +without hope, but with a chastened expectancy. To lend William money had +almost the fine flavor of gambling. + +He saw him off the following morning, with a sense of widened interests. +He carried, moreover, an additional burden. “Remember, Andy,” Uncle +William called to him as the boat moved away, “she don’t like potato, +and she won’t touch a mite of fish--‘ceptin’ herrin’.” Juno had been +intrusted to him. + +Andy grinned a sickly good-by. “Good-by, Willum; I’ll do as well as +I can by her.” He turned away with a sudden sense of loss. The island +seemed very empty. Juno did not like Andy, and he was needed at home. +The mental effort of thinking up a menu three times a day that did not +include fish and potato for a magnificent creature like Juno weighed +heavily on him. He had proposed bringing her down to the house, thinking +to shift the burden on to Harriet, but Uncle William had refused +sternly. “She wouldn’t be comfortable, Andy. The’ ’s a good deal of soap +and water down to your house and she wouldn’t like it. You can run up +two or three times, easy, to see she’s all right. Mebbe you’ll get fond +of her.” + +Andrew had no rosy hopes of fondness, but as he turned away from the +wharf, there seemed no place on the island that would hold him so +comfortably as the little house on the cliff. He climbed the rocky path +to it and opened the door. Juno sprang down from her lounge. When she +saw who it was she gave an indifferent lick to her front leg, as if she +always jumped down to lick her leg. Then she jumped back on the lounge +and tuned her back to the room, looking out of the window and blinking +from time to time. The smoke of the steamer was dwindling in the +distance. + +Andy sat down in a vacant chair by the stove, staring at nothing. The +sun poured in. It filled the room with warmth. Andy’s eyes rested on it +vacantly. The stillness was warm and big. It seemed a kind of presence. +Andy drew his hand across his eyes and got up. He went over and stood +by the lounge, peering out. The smoke was gone. Juno turned her head and +blinked an eye or two, indifferent. She ignored him pointedly. Her gaze +returned to the sea. Andy had half put out his hand to stroke her. He +drew it back. He had a sudden bitter desire to swear or kick something. +He went out hastily, closing the door behind him. Juno, with her +immovable gaze, stared out to sea. + + + + +IX + +Uncle William sniffed the air of the docks with keen relish. The spring +warmth had brought out the smells of lower New York teemingly. There +was a dash of salt air and tar, and a dim odor of floating--of decayed +vegetables and engine-grease and dirt. It was the universal port-smell +the world over, and Uncle William took it in in leisurely whiffs as he +watched the play of life in the dockshed--the backing of horses and the +shouting of the men, the hollow sound of hoofs on the worn planks and +the trundling hither and thither of boxes and barrels and bales. + +He was in no hurry to leave the dock. It was a part of the journey--the +sense of leisure. Men who travel habitually by sea do not rush from +the vessel that has brought them to port, gripsack in hand. There are +innumerable details--duties, inspections and quarantines, and delays and +questionings. The sea gives up her cargo slowly. The customs move with +the swift leisure of those who live daily between Life and the Deep +Sea--without hurry and without rest. + +Uncle William watched it all in good-humored detachment. He made friends +with half the shed, wandering in and out through the crowd, his great +bulk towering above it. Here and there he helped a fat, heavy baby down +the length of the shed, or lifted aside a big box that blocked the way. +He might have been the Presiding Genius of the place. Men took him in +with a good-humored wink, as he towered along, and women looked after +him gratefully. Amid the bustle and enforced waiting, he was the only +soul at rest. Time belonged to him. He was at home. He had played his +part in similar scenes in hundreds of ports. The city bubbling and +calling outside had no bewilderments for Uncle William. New York was +only one more foreign port, and he had touched too many to have fear of +them. They were all alike--exorbitant cab-men, who came down on their +fare if you stood by your box and refused to let it be lifted till terms +were made; rum-shops and gambling-holes, and worse, hedging the way from +the wharf; soiled women haunting one’s steps, if one halted a bit or +turned to the right or left in indecision. He had talked with women of +every port. They were a huge band, a great sisterhood that reached thin +hands about the earth, touching it with shame; and they congregated most +where the rivers empty their burden of filth into the sea. Uncle William +knew them well. He could steer a safe path among them; and he could +turn a young man, hesitating, with foolish, confident smile on his face. +Uncle William had not been in New York for twelve years, but he had a +sailor’s unerring instinct for the dangers and the comforts of a port. +He knew which way hell lay, and which of the drivers, backing and +cursing and calling, one could trust. He signaled to one with his eye. + +“What’ll ye charge to give this young feller a lift?” Uncle William +indicated the youth beside him. + +The driver looked him over with keen eye. “That’s all right.” He moved +along on the seat to make room. “Come on, young man.” + +The youth climbed up with clumsy foot. + +“You might know of a job,” suggested Uncle William. “He looks strong and +willin’.” + +The man nodded back. “I’ll keep an eye on him, sir.” The van rumbled +away and Uncle William faced the crowed once more. + +He made friends as he moved among the throngs of hurrying men and women. +Men who never saw him again recalled his face sometimes at night, as +they wakened for a minute from sleep. The big smile reached to them +across time and gave them a sense of the goodness of life before they +turned again and slept. + +If he had been a little man, Uncle William would still have run hither +and thither through the crowd, a kind of gnome of usefulness. But his +great frame gave him advantage. He was like a mountain among them--with +the breath of winds about it--or some huge, quiet engine at sea, making +its way with throbbing power. + +If the thought of the artist crossed Uncle William’s mind, it did not +disturb him. He was accustomed to do what he called his duty; and it had +for him the simplicity, common to big men, of being the thing next at +hand. Like a force of nature he laid hold on it, and out of the ground +and the sky and the thrill of life, he wrought beauty upon it. If this +were philosophy or religion, Uncle William did not know it. He called it +“jest livin’ along.” + +It was ten o’clock before he reached the artist’s rooms, and his rap at +the door, gentle as a woman’s, brought no response. He rapped again. + +“What’s wanted?” It was the querulous voice of a sick man. + +Uncle William set the door ajar with his foot while he reached behind +him for his box. + +The artist had sprung up in bed and was staring at the door. In the dim +light from the street below, his face stood out rigidly white. + +Uncle William looked at it kindly as he came across. “There, there,” he +said soothingly. “I guess I’d lie down.” He put his hands on the young +man’s shoulders, pushing him back gently. + +The artist yielded to the touch, staring at him with wide eyes. +“Who--are--you?” he said. The words were a whisper. + +Uncle Williams’ smile deepened. “I guess ye know _me_ all right, don’t +ye?” + +The artist continued to stare at him. “You came through the door. It was +locked.” + +“Shucks, no!” said Uncle William. “‘T wa’n’t locked any more’n I be. You +jest forgot it.” + +“Did I?” The tense look broke. “I thought you had come again.” + +“Well, I hev.” + +“I don’t mean that way. Sit down.” He looked feebly for a chair. + +Uncle William had drawn one up to the bed. He sat down, bending forward +a little. One big hand rested on the young man’s wrist. “Now, tell me +all about it,” he said quietly. + +The artist raised his eyes with a smile. He drew a deep breath. +“Yes--you’ve come,” he said. “You’ve come.” + +“I’ve come,” said Uncle William. His big bulk had not stirred. It seemed +to fill the room. + +The sick man rested in it. His eyes closed. “I’ve wanted--you.” + +Uncle William nodded. “Sick folks get fancies,” he said. + +“--and I kept seeing you in the fever--and you--” The voice droned away +and was still. + +Uncle William sat quiet, one hand on the thin wrist. The galloping pulse +slowed--and leaped again--and fluttered, and fell at last to even beats. +The tense muscles relaxed. The parted lips closed with a half-smile. + +Uncle William bent forward, watching it. In the dim light of the room, +his face had a kind of gentleness--a kindliness and bigness that watched +over the night and reached out beyond it to the ends of the earth. + + + + +X + +In the morning the big form was still there. The artist turned to it as +he opened his eyes. “You are not gone!” + +“Gone? Land, no!” Uncle William sat up from a cat-nap, rubbing his +eyes and blinking a little. “I cal’ate to stay quite a spell yet.” He +stretched his great legs slowly, first one and then the other, as if +testing them. + +Reproach filled the artist’s eyes. “You’ve not lain down all night!” + +“Didn’t need to,” said Uncle William. He got to his feet briskly. “I +slep’ a good deal comin’ down in the boat. There wa’n’t a great deal +goin’ on. If you’ve got a little water and soap handy, I reckon I could +use it.” + +The artist half started to get up, but a firm hand held him back. “Now, +stay right there. You jest tell me where things be--” + +He pointed to a door at the left. “You won’t find it in very good order, +I’m afraid.” + +“Don’t you mind.” Uncle William had disappeared through the doorway. “It +won’t bother me a mite.” His voice came back sociably. “I’m considabul +ust to havin’ things mussed up.” + +The artist lay with a smile, listening to the sounds that came through +the half-open door--thumping and blowing and splashing. + +Uncle William reappeared with shining face. “It seems good to hev +suthin’ bigger’n a teacup to wash in,” he said. “I like the hull ocean, +myself, but a tub does putty well. Now, jest let me see.” + +He drew up to the bed, looking at the young man with keen glance. + +“Oh, I’m all right--now.” + +“Had a fever?” + +“A little--yes.” + +“You all alone?” + +“There’s a man comes in by and by. He’ll clean up and get things for +me.” + +Uncle William ignored the pride in the tone. “Jest roll over a little +mite. There--” He placed his broad hand under the thin back. “Feel sore +there? Kind o’ hurts, don’t it? I thought so--There.” He laid him back +gently. “You jest wait a minute.” He was fumbling at the lock that held +his box. + +“Are you a doctor?” The young man was watching him with half-amused +eyes. + +“Well, not a doctor exactly.” Uncle William had taken out a small bottle +and was holding it up to the light, squinting through it. “But I had a +fever once, myself--kep’ a-runnin’.” He had come over to the bedside, +the bottle in his hand. “You got a doctor?” + +The young man shook his head. “He will come if I send for him.” + +Uncle William nodded. “That’s the best kind.” He held out the bottle. +“I’d like to give you ’bout five on ’em.” + +“What are they?” + +“Well, that’s what I don’t know, but it took about five on ’em to break +up mine.” He had poured one into the palm of his hand and held it out. +It was a small, roughly shaped pill, with grayish surface pitted with +black. + +The young man eyed it doubtfully. + +“It _don’t_ look very nice,” said Uncle William, “and the man that made +it never had a stitch of clothes on his back in his life; but I guess +you better take it.” + +The young man opened his lips. The thing slid down, leaving a sickish, +sweetish taste behind it. + +Uncle William brought him a glass of water. “I know how it tastes, but I +reckon it’ll do the work. Now, let’s see.” he stood back, surveying the +untidy room, a mellow smile on his lips. “‘T is kind o’ cluttered up,” + he said. “I’ll jest make a path through.” He gathered up a handful of +shoes and slippers and thrust them under the bed, drawing the spread +down to hid them. The cups and glasses and scattered spoons and knives +he bore away to the bath-room, and the artist heard them descending +into the tub with a sound of rushing water. Uncle William returned +triumphant. “I’ve put ’em a-soak,” he explained. The table-spread, with +its stumps of cigars, bits of torn papers, and collars and neckties and +books and paint-brushes and tubes, he gathered up by the four corners, +dumping it into a half-open drawer. He closed the drawer firmly. “Might +’s well start fresh.” He replaced the spread and stood back, surveying +it proudly. “What’s that door?” He pointed across the room. + +“It’s your bedroom,” said the artist, a little uneasily. “But I don’t +believe you can get in.” + +Uncle William approached cautiously. He pushed open the door and looked +in. He came back beaming. “The’ ’s quite a nice lot of room,” he said, +taking hold of the end of his box and dragging it away. + +The artist lay looking about the room with brightening eyes. The +window-shades were still askew and there were garments here and there, +but Uncle William’s path was a success. The sun was coming over the tops +of the houses opposite, and Uncle William reappeared with shining face. + +“You reely needed a man around,” he said. “I’m putty glad I come.” + +“What made you come?” asked the artist. + +“What made me?” Uncle William paused, looking about him. “Where’s my +spectacles? Must ’a’ left ’em in there.” He disappeared once more. + +While the artist was waiting for him to return he dozed again, and when +he opened his eyes, Uncle William was standing by the bed with a cup of +something hot. He slipped a hand under the young man’s head, raising it +while he drank. + +The artist took his time--in slow, surprised sips. “It’s good!” he said. +He released the cup slowly. + +Uncle William nodded. “I’ve been overhaulin’ your locker a little.” + +“You didn’t find _that_ in it.” The artist motioned to the cup. + +“Well--all but a drop or two,” said Uncle William, setting it down. “A +drop o’ suthin’ hot’ll make ’most anything tasty, I reckon. I’ll go out +and stock up pretty soon.” + +A slow color had come into the artist’s face. He turned it away. “I +don’t need much,” he said. + +“No more’n a robin,” said Uncle William, cheerfully; “but I can’t live +on bird-seed myself. I reckon I’ll lay in suthin’--two-three crackers, +mebbe, enough to make a chowder.” + +The young man laughed out. “I feel better,” he declared. + +“It’s a good pill,” said Uncle William. “Must be ’most time for +another.” He pulled out his great watch. “Jest about.” He doled out the +pill with careful hand. + +The young man looked at the bottle. “You haven’t many left?” + +“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?” + +Andy, pleased and resentful, hitched the leg of his trousers. “I dunno’s +I be,” he said slowly. “I’ve got money--some. But it takes a pile to +live on.” + +“Yes?” The artist stood away from his canvas, looking at it. “You and +Uncle William are pretty good friends, aren’t you?” + +“Good enough,” replied Andy. His mouth shut itself securely. + +The artist did not look at it. He hastened on. “He misses his boat a +good deal.” + +“I know that,” snapped Andy. His green eye glowered at the bay. “Ef it +hadn’t been for foolishness he’d hev it now.” + +The artist worked on quietly. “I lost his boat for him, Andy. I know +that as well as you do. You needn’t rub it in.” + +“What you goin’ to do about it?” demanded Andy. + +“I’m goin’ to ask you to lend me the money for a new one.” + +“No, sir!” Andy put his hands in his pockets. + +“I’ll give you my note for it,” said the artist. + +“I do’ want your note,” retorted Andy. “I’d rather have William’s and +his ain’t wuth the paper it’s writ on.” + +The artist flushed under his new color. “I don’t know just why you say +that. I shall pay all I owe--in time.” + +“Well, you may, and then again you mayn’t,” said Andy. His tone was less +crusty. “All I know is, you’ve cost William a heap o’ money, fust and +last. You’ve et a good deal, and you lost the _Jennie_, and he had to +borrow a hunderd of me to go to New York with.” Andy spoke with unction. +He was relieving his mind. + +The artist looked up. “I didn’t know that.” He began to gather up his +materials. + +“What you goin’ to do?” asked Andy. + +“I’m going to find Uncle William,” said the artist. + +Andy fidgeted a little. He looked off at the water. “I wa’n’t findin’ no +fault,” he said uneasily. “I was just explainin’ why I couldn’t resk any +more o’ my money on him.” + +“That’s all right,” said the artist. “I want to see him.” + +He found Uncle William sunning the kittens at the east of the house. He +looked up with a nod as the artist appeared. “They’re doin’ fust-rate,” + he said, adjusting the clam-basket a little. “They’ll be a credit to +their raisin’. Set down.” + +The artist seated himself on a rock near by. The sun fell warm on his +back. Across the harbor a little breeze ran rippling. At the foot of +the cliff Andy was making ready to lift anchor. The artist watched him a +minute. “You’ve wasted a good deal of money on me,” he said soberly. + +Uncle William looked at him. He dropped an eye to the _Andrew Halloran_. +“He been talkin’ to ye?” he asked cheerfully. + +“He told me you borrowed of him--” + +“Now, don’t you mind that a mite. Andy don’t. He’s proud as Punch to +hev me owe him suthin’. He reminds me of it every day or two. All I mind +about is your frettin’ and takin’ on so. If you’d jest be easy in your +mind, we’d have a reel comf’tabul time--with the kittens and all.” He +replaced one that had sprawled over the edge. “The’ ’s a lot o’ comfort +in doin’ for dumb things,” he went on cheerfully. “They can’t find fault +with the way you fix ’em.” He chuckled a little. + +The artist smiled. “Look here, Uncle William, you can’t fool me any +longer. You’re just pining for a boat. Look at that!” He waved his hand +at the water dimpling below. + +Uncle William’s gaze dwelt on it fondly for a minute. + +“And you sit here dawdling over that basket of kittens!” Scorn and +disgust struggled in the artist’s voice. + +Uncle William laughed out. He stood up. “What is ’t you want me to do?” + he asked. + +The artist eyed him miserably. “That’s the worst of it--I don’t know.” + +“Well, I’ll tell ye,” said Uncle William. “We’ll row down and get the +mail, and after that we’ll plan about the boat. I ain’t quite so daft as +I look,” he said half apologetically. “I’ve been turnin’ it over in my +mind whilst I’ve been doin’ the kittens, and I’ve ’bout decided what to +do. But fust, we’ll get the mail.” + + + + +XXI + +There was a letter for the artist. It contained a check from the +Frenchman. He had bought three of the pictures--the one of Uncle +William’s house and the two of the old Bodet place. + +“Did you know it?” demanded the artist. He was facing Uncle William in +the boat as they rowed home. + +“I didn’t know it,” said Uncle William, with a long, easy pull, “but I +reckoned suthin’ ’d be along putty soon. If it hadn’t come to-day, I was +goin’ to make Andy give us enough to begin on.” + +“He wouldn’t have done it.” + +“Oh, yes, he’d ’a’ done it. He’d ’a’ squirmed and twisted some, but he’d +’a’ done it. He’d ’a’ had to!” + +The artist laughed out happily. “Well, now you can do as you like. We’ll +have the best boat there is going.” + +Uncle William nodded. “I knew you’d want to. I’ve been kind o’ plannin’ +for it. We’ll go down to-morrow or next day and see about it.” + +The artist looked at him curiously. “I don’t believe you care half as +much as I do!” + +Uncle William returned the look, smiling broadly. “It’ll seem putty good +to feel my own boards under me again,” he said cheerfully. + +“But you didn’t care when you didn’t have them,” said the artist. “You +just toted those infernal kittens--” + +Uncle William’s chuckle was genial. “Kittens ain’t everything,” he said +mildly. “But I’ve seen the time when kittens wa’n’t to be despised. +You jest set that way a little mite, Mr. Woodworth, and I’ll beach her +even.” + +“One thing I’m glad of,” said the artist, as the boat grated along the +pebbles. “You can pay Andy.” + +“Andy’ll be glad,” responded Uncle William, “but it’ll be quite a spell +before he has a chance to.” He waved his arm toward the bay. “He’s off +for the day.” + +The artist scanned the horizon with disappointed face. “He’ll be back by +noon, perhaps?” + +Uncle William shook his head. “Not afore night. I can tell by the way +he’s movin’. We’ll come up and hev dinner and then we can plan her out.” + +They sat on the rocks all the afternoon, looking at the dancing waves +and planning for the new _Jennie_. Uncle William drew models on the back +of an old envelope and explained figures. The artist followed him with +eager eyes. Now and then his chest expanded and he drew a deep breath of +satisfaction. + +“Feel’s good, don’t it?” said Uncle William. “I ust to feel that way +when I’d been in debt a good while and made a big ketch. Seemed ’s if +the whole world slid off my shoulders.” He shook his head. “But it was +kind o’ foolishness.” + +“Wouldn’t you feel that way now?” demanded the artist. + +“I don’t believe I would,” said Uncle William, slowly. “It’s a kind o’ +wicked feelin’--when the sun’s a-shinin’ jest the same, and the water’s +movin’ up and down,--” he motioned toward the harbor,--“and the boats +are comin’ in at night, settlin’ down like birds, and the lights.” + He looked affectionately at the water. “It’s all there jest the same +whether I owe anybody or not. And the rocks don’t budge much--” He laid +his big brown hand on the warm surface beside him, smoothing it in slow +content. + +The artist looked at him, smiling a little wistfully. “It sounds all +very well to talk about,” he said, “but the world would go to rack and +ruin if everybody felt that way.” + +“I ust to think so,” said Uncle William, placidly. “I ust to lie awake +nights worryin’ about it. But late years I’ve give it up. Seems to jog +along jest about the same as when I was worryin’--and _I_ take a heap +sight more comfort. Seems kind o’ ridiculous, don’t it, when the Lord’s +made a world as good as this one, not to enjoy it some?” + +“Don’t you feel any responsibility toward society?” asked the artist, +curiously. + +Uncle William shook his head with a slow smile. “I don’t believe I do. +I ust to. Lord, yes! I ust to think about folks that was hungry till my +stummick clean caved in. I ust to eat my dinner like it was sawdust, for +fear I’d get a little comfort out of it, while somebody somewheres was +starvin’--little childern, like enough. That was al’ays the hardest part +of it--little childern. I ust to think some of foundin’ a’sylum up here +on the rocks--sailin’ round the world and pickin’ up a boat-load and +then bringin’ ’em up here and turnin’ ’em loose on the rocks, givin’ ’em +all they could stuff to eat. And then one night, when I was cal’atin’ +and figgerin’ on it, I saw that I couldn’t get half of ’em into my boat, +nor a quarter, nor a tenth--jest a little corner of ’em. And then it +come over me, all of a sudden, what a big job I’d tackled, and I jest +turned it over to the Lord, then an there. And all the next day I +kep’ kind o’ thinkin’ about it out here on the rocks--how he’d took a +thousand year--mebbe ’t was more; a good long spell, they say--to get +the rocks ready for folks to live on--jest the rocks! And like enough he +knew what he was plannin’ to do, and didn’t expect me to finish it all +up for him in fo’-five years. Since then I’ve been leavin’ it to him +more--takin’ a hand when I could, but payin’ more attention to livin’. I +sort o’ reckon that’s what he made us for--to live. The’ ’s a good deal +o’ fin in it if you go at it right.” + +“That’s a great idea, Uncle William,” said the artist. + +“It’s comf’tabul,” assented Uncle William. “You get your livin’ as you +go along, and a little suthin’ over. Seems ’s if some folks didn’t even +get a livin’ they’re so busy doing things.” + +He was silent for a while, his blue eyes following the light on the +water. “The’ was a man I sailed with once,--a cur’us sort o’ chap,--and +when he wa’n’t sober he could tell you interestin’ things. He hadn’t +been a sailor al’ays--took to it ’cause he liked it, he said. And he +tol’ me a good deal about the goings-on of the earth. Like enough ’t +wa’n’t so--some on it--but it was interestin’. He told me ’t the earth +was all red-hot once, and cooled off quicker on the outside--like a hot +pertater, I s’pose. You’ve heard about it?” He looked inquiringly at the +artist. + +The artist nodded. “Yes.” + +“Well, I’ve thought about that a good many times when I’ve been sailin’. +I could see it all, jest the way he put it, the earth a-whirlin’ and +twirlin’, and the fire and flames a-shootin’ up to the sky, and rocks +and stones and stuff a’b’ilin’ and flyin’--” Uncle William’s eye dwelt +lovingly on the picture. “I’d seem to see it all jest the way he tol’ +it, and then I’d put my hand out over the side of the boat and trail +it along in the water to cool off a little.” Uncle William chuckled. +“Sometimes it seems ’s if you’d come a million miles all in a +minute--rocks all along the shore, good hard rocks ’t you could set on, +and the hill up to the sky with grass on it, green and soft, and the +water all round. It a’most takes your breath away to come back like that +from that red-hot ball he talked about and see it all lyin’ there, so +cool and still, and the sun shinin’ on it. I got to thinkin’ ’bout it, +days when I was sailin’, and wondering if mebbe the Lord wa’n’t gettin’ +_folks_ ready jest the way he did the rocks--rollin’ ’em over and havin’ +’em pound each other and claw and fight and cool off, slow-like, +till byme-by they’d be good sweet earth and grass and little +flowers--comf’tabul to live with.” + +The artist sat up. “Do you mean to say you wouldn’t stop folks fighting +if you could?” + +Uncle William eyed the proposition. “Well I dunno’s I’d say jest _that_. +I’ve thought about it a good many times. Men al’ays _hev_ fit and I +reckon they _will_--quite a spell yet. There’s Russia and Japan now: you +couldn’t ’a’ stopped them fightin’ no more’n two boys that had got at +it. All them Russians and them little Japs--we couldn’t ’a’ stopped ’em +fightin’--the whole of us couldn’t hev stopped ’em--not unless we’d +’a’ took ’em by the scruff o’ the neck and thrown ’em down and set on +’em--one apiece. And I dunno’s that’d be much better’n fightin’--settin’ +on ’em one apiece.” + +The artist laughed out. + +Uncle William beamed on him. “You see, this is the way I figger it: +Russia and Japan wa’n’t fightin’ so much for anything they reely wanted +to _git_. It was suthin’ _in_ ’em that made ’em go for each other, tooth +and nail, and pommel so--a kind o’ pizen bubbling and sizzling inside +’em; we’ve all got a little of it.” He smiled genially. “It has to work +out slow-like. Some does it by fightin’ and some does it by prayin’; and +I reckon the Lord’s in the fightin’, same as in the prayin’.” + +The artist looked at him curiously. “Some people call that the devil, +you know.” + +Uncle William cleared his throat. He picked up a little stone and +balanced it thoughtfully on the palm of his hand. Then he looked up with +a slow smile. “I ain’t so well acquainted with the devil as I ust to +be,” he said. “I ust to know him reel well; ust to think about him when +I was out sailin’--figger how to get ahead of him. But late years I’d +kind o’ forgot--He’s livin’ still, is he?” + +The artist laughed quietly. “They say so--some of them.” + +Uncle William’s smile grew wider and sweeter. “Well, let him live. Poor +old thing! ’T won’t hurt none, and he _is_ a kind o’ comfort to lay +things on when you’ve been, more’n usual, cussed. That’s the _Andrew +Halloran_ over there to the left.” He pointed to a dusky boat that was +coming in slowly. “That’s his last tack, if he makes it, and I reckon he +will. Now, if you’ll go in and start the chowder, I’ll see if he want’s +any help about makin’ fast.” + + + + +XXII + +Andy eased in to the wharf with cautious eye. He threw the rope to Uncle +William and busied himself with the sail. + +Uncle William peered down upon him. “Got quite a nice mess, didn’t ye?” + +“Yep.” + +“How’d they run?” + +“Cod--mostly.” + +“Ye got _some_ halibut.” + +“A few.” Andy admitted it grudgingly. His tone implied that the Creator +withheld halibut out of pure spite. The ways of the universe were a +personal grievance to Andy. + +“Quite a nice mess,” said Uncle William. “Goin’ to unload?” + +“Nope--wait for the tide.” + +“Ye’ll jest about make it,” said Uncle William. He glanced at the sky. +“I’ll come down and help ye clean, like enough, after supper.” + +Andy climbed up in silence. His somber face appeared above the edge of +the wharf. Uncle William looked down on it, smiling. “I’ve got good news +for ye, Andy.” + +“Huh?” Andy paused half way. + +Uncle William nodded. “You’ll be reel tickled about it. I’m goin’ to +have a new boat--right off.” + +“Ye be?” Andy’s mouth remained open. It took in the sky and the bay and +Uncle William’s smile. + +“Right off. I knew ye’d be glad.” + +The mouth came together. “Where you goin’ to get it?” + +“He’s got some money.” Uncle William nodded toward the cliff. + +Andy looked. “He’s poor as poverty. He’s said so--times enough.” + +Uncle William smiled. “He’s had luck--quite a run o’ luck. He’s been +sellin’ picters--three-four on ’em.” + +“What’s picters!” said Andrew, scornfully. He scrambled on to the wharf +with a backward glance at the _Andrew Halloran_. “You won’t buy no boat +off o’ picters, Willum. A boat costs three hunderd dollars--a good one.” + +“I was cal’atin’ to pay five hunderd,” said Uncle William. + +“You was?” Andy wheeled about. “You wont’ get it out o’ him!” He jerked +a thumb at the cliff. + +Uncle William chuckled. “Now, ye’ve made a mistake, Andy. He’s got that +much and he’s got more.” The gentle triumph in Uncle William’s tone +diffused itself over the landscape. + +Andy took it in slowly. “How much?” he asked at last. + +“Six-seven thousand,” said Uncle William. + +“What!” Andy’s feet scuffed a little. “‘T ain’t reasonable,” he said +feebly. + +“No, ’t ain’t reasonable.” Uncle William spoke gently. “I was a good +deal s’prised myself, Andy, when I found how high they come--picters. Ye +can’t own a gre’t many of ’em--not at one time.” + +“Don’t want to,” said Andy, caustically. + +“No, you wouldn’t take much comfort in ’em,” said William. “_‘T is_ +cur’us ’t anybody should want a picter o’ my old hut up there ’nough to +pay--how much d’ye s’pose they did pay for it, Andy?” + +Andy glanced at it contemptuously. It glowed in the light of the late +sun, warm and radiant. “‘T ain’t wuth a hunderd,” he said. + +Uncle William’s face fell a little. “Well, I wouldn’t say jest that, +Andy. + +“Roof leaks,” said Andrew. + +“A leetle,” admitted Uncle William, “over ’n the southeast corner, +She’s weather-tight all but that.” He gazed at the little structure +affectionately. The sun flamed at the windows, turning them to gold. +The artist’s face appeared at one of them, beckoning and smiling. Uncle +William turned to Andy. “A man give him two thousand for it,” he said. +There was sheer pride in the words. + +“For that?” Andy looked at him for a minute. Then he looked at the house +and the bay and the flaming sky. His left eyelid lowered itself slowly +and he tapped his forehead significantly with one long finger. + +Uncle William shook his head. “He’s as sensible as you be, Andy--or me.” + +Andy pondered the statement. A look of craft crept into his eye. +“What’ll ye bet he ain’t foolin’ ye?” he said. + +Uncle William returned the look with slow dignity. “I don’t speak that +way o’ my friends, Andy,” he said gently. “I’d a heap rather trust ’em +and get fooled, than not to trust ’em and hev ’em all right.” + +Andy looked guilty. “When’s it comin’?” he said gruffly. + +“It’s come a’ready,” replied Uncle William; “this mornin’. We’ve been +figgerin’ on a new boat all day, off and on. He’s goin’ to give me five +hunderd to make up for the _Jennie_.” + +“She wa’n’t wuth it!” Andy spoke with conviction. He dropped a jealous +eye to the _Andrew Halloran_ rising slowly on the tide. + +“No, she wa’n’t wuth more’n three hunderd, if she was that,” admitted +Uncle William. “I’m goin’ to take the three hunderd outright and borrow +the rest. I’m goin’ to pay you, too, Andy.” + +Andy’s face, in the light of the setting sun, grew almost mellow. He +turned it slowly. “When you goin’ to pay me, Willum?” + +“To-morrow,” answered William, promptly, “or mebbe next day. I reckoned +we’d all go down and see about the boat together.” + +Andy looked at him helplessly. “Everything seems kind o’ turnin’ +upside down,” he said. He drew a deep breath. “What d’ye s’pose it is, +Willum--about ’em--picters--that makes ’em cost so like the devil?” + +Uncle William looked thoughtful. “I dunno,” he said slowly. “I’ve +thought about that, myself. Can’t be the paint nor the canvas.” + +“Cheap as dirt,” said Andy. + +“Must be the way he does ’em.” + +“Just a-settin’ and a-daubin’, and a-settin’ and a-daubin’,” sneered +Andrew. + +“I dunno’s I’d say that, Andy,” said Uncle William, reprovingly. “He +sweat and fussed a lot.” + +Andy’s eye roamed the landscape. “‘T ain’t reasonable,” he said, +jealously. “A thing o’t to be wuth more’n a picter of it. There’s more +_to_ a thing.” He struck the solid ground of fact with relief. + +Uncle William’s eye rested on him mildly. “Ye can’t figger it that way, +Andy. I’ve tried it. A shark’s bigger’n a halibut, but he ain’t wuth +much--‘cept for manure.” + +“Chowder!” The call rang down from the little house, clear and full. + +Both men looked up. “_He’s_ a-callin’ ye,” said Andrew. There was +mingled scorn and respect in the tone. + +“You come on up to supper, Andy. We can talk it over whilst we’re +eatin’.” + +Andy looked down at his clothes. “I’m all dirt.” + +Uncle William surveyed him impartially. “Ye ain’t any dirtier ’n ye +al’ays be.” + +“I dunno’s I be,” admitted Andy. + +“Well, you come right along, and after supper we’ll all turn to and help +you clean.” + +The artist looked up as they entered. “How are you, Andy? The fish are +running great to-day.” + +Andy grinned feebly. “I’ve heard about it,” he said. He drew up to the +table with a subdued air and took his chowder in gulps, glancing now and +then at the smiling face and supple hands on the opposite side of +the table. It was a look of awe tinged with incredulity, and a little +resentment grazing the edges of it. + + + + +XXIII + +The noon sun shone down upon the harbor. The warmth of early summer was +in the air. A little breeze ran through it, ruffling the surface of the +water. The artist, from his perch on the rock, looked out over it with +kindling eye. + +His easel, on the rock before him, had held him all morning. He had been +trying to catch the look of coming summer, the crisp, salt tang of the +water, and the scudding breeze. When he looked at the canvas, a scowl +held his forehead, but when he glanced back at the water, it vanished +in swift delight. It was color to dream on, to gloat over--to wait for. +Some day it would grow of itself on his palette, and then, before it +could slip away, he would catch it. It only needed a stroke--he would +wait. His eye wandered to the horizon. + +A face appeared over the edge of the cliff and cut off the vision. It +was Uncle William, puffing a little and warm. “Hello.” He climbed up and +seated himself on the rock, stretching his legs slowly to the sun. +“I reckoned I’d find ye here. Been doin’ her?” He nodded toward the +horizon. + +The artist looked into the distance with puzzled eyes. “Her?” He put the +word doubtingly. + +Uncle William glanced at him sharply. “Don’t you see nuthin’ over +there?” He waved a huge arm at the horizon. + +The artist looked again and shook his head slowly. “I see a color I’d +give my eyes to get.” + +Uncle William chuckled a little. “Reckon they ain’t wuth much to ye.” + His hand slid into the pocket of his coat and brought out a small +spy-glass. He slipped the parts into place and adjusted it to his eye. +“There!” He handed it to the young man. “See if that’ll help ye any.” + +The young man took it, looking out over the bay. “Yes, I see her now. +She’s a schooner.” He put down the glass. “Do you mean to say you can +see that with the naked eye?” + +“Al’ays could.” Uncle William held out his hand again for the glass. “I +don’t make her out a schooner, though.” + +“She’s two-masted.” + +“Yes.” Uncle William’s eye was glued to the glass. “But she’s lighter +built, trimmer. Some pleasure-craft, like enough. You can see her +walk--same as if she was a lady--a-bowin’ and bobbin’.” He laid down the +glass, a look of pleasure in his face. “She’s comin’ right in, whoever +she is. She’ll drop anchor by noon-time.” He glanced at the easel. “You +been paintin’?” + +“Trying to.” + +“‘Bout a thousand dollars’ wuth, I s’pose?” + +“Not ten cents’ worth.” + +“Sho, now! Is that so?” He got up and looked down at the canvas, bending +above it like some genial giraffe. He straightened himself, smiling. +“‘Tis kind o’ dobby,” he admitted. “Mebbe you’ll do better to-morrow.” + +“Maybe. Was there a letter for me?” + +The old man shook his head. “Nary letter.--I reckon ’t ain’t time yet,” + he added consolingly. + +The young man looked gloomily at the water. “She must be ill.” + +“Busy, more likely,” said Uncle William. + +“It’s been six weeks.” + +“You’re feelin’ putty well,” said Uncle William. + +“I shall go down to-morrow,” said the young man. He had begun to gather +up his brushes. The hands that lifted them were firm and strong. A clear +color ran beneath the tan of his face. + +Uncle William watched him with a little smile. “I dunno’s I’d go +to-morrow. You could go next week if you don’t hear nuthin’.” + +“I shall go to-morrow. I’ve been a fool to wait so long.” + +Uncle William’s eye twinkled. “You’ve been gettin’ well,” he said. + +“I’m well now.” + +“Yes, you’re--Hello, there’s Andy.” He leaned over the edge of the +cliff. “What d’ye make her?” he called down. + +Andy squinted at the distance. “Coaster,” he announced. + +“Come up here and take a look at her.” + +Andy climbed slowly up the cliff. “Got your glass?” He took it and fixed +the moving speck. “‘T ain’t a coaster,” he muttered. “What you folks +been doin’ all the mornin’?” + +“Well, I’ve been for the mail and some things, and Mr. Woodworth here +he’s been paintin’.” + +Andy cast a side glance at the easel. Then he gazed fixedly at the bay. +He seated himself on a rock. “It’s time for me to go home,” he said. + +No one paid any attention to it--Andy least of all. He sat with one leg +swinging over the other, chewing a bit of grass and staring gloomily out +to sea. The look of baffled humility in his face made it almost tragic. +The artist fell to sketching it under cover of his hand. Uncle William +studied the approaching boat. “She’s never been in these waters afore,” + he announced. “She’s comin’ in keerful.” No one replied. Andy stared +at fate and the artist worked fast. Uncle William reached out for the +glass. He took a long look. He dropped it hastily and glanced at the +young man, who was working with serene touch--oblivious to the bay. +Uncle William looked through the glass again--a long, slow look. Then he +slipped it into his pocket and got up, decision in his face. “Comin’ in +to dinner, Andy?” + +Andy looked up mildly. “I reckon Harr’et’s waitin’ for me.” He got +slowly to his feet. “You’ve got another done, I s’pose?” He glanced +enviously at the easel. + +The artist laughed out. “Want to see it?” He withdrew his hand. + +Andy shambled across. He looked down at it casually. A sheepish grin +crept into this face, and spread. “You’ve made me look kind o’ queer, +hain’t you?” He gazed, fascinated, at his tragic face. + +Uncle William came over and bent to the canvas. He drew out his +spectacles and peered at it, almost rubbing the paint with his great +nose. “It’s Andy!” he said with shrewd delight. “It’s Andy! And it’s the +spittin’ image of him!” He pushed up the glasses, beaming upon Andrew. + +Andrew returned the look somberly. “It’s a good likeness, you think, do +you?” + +“Fust-rate, Andy, fust-rate; couldn’t be better.” Uncle William laid an +affectionate hand on his shoulder. “It looks jest as mean as you do--and +jest as good, too, Andy.” + +Andy cast a glance at the young man. “How long was ye makin’ it?” + +“Half an hour, perhaps; while we’ve been sitting here.” + +Andy sighed heavily. “Wuth more’n I be, too, I reckon?” + +The artist stared at him. + +“I mean--” Andy was almost apologetic. “I know they come high--picters. +I don’t suppose I could afford to buy it of ye--” + +The artist’s face lighted. “Do you want it?” + +“Harr’et might,”--cautiously,--“if ’t wa’n’t too high. She’s got an +easel for it. She al’ays cal’ated to have me done, and she’d got as fur +as the easel.” His eye returned almost wistfully to the canvas. “Willum +says it’s a good likeness.” He spoke with a kind of dubious pride. + +“It _is_ good.” The young man’s eye rested on it affectionately. “It’s a +ripping good sketch--and you may have it and welcome.” + +Andy drew back a step. “You mean--” + +“I’ll give it to you, yes.” The artist was holding it out laughingly. +“And some day you’ll sit for me again. That’ll be pay enough.” + +Andy rubbed his hands carefully on the sides of his trousers. He reached +them out for the canvas. “It’s kind o’ wet,” he said. “I’ll have to hold +it keerful.” He took it in both hands, beaming upon it with a kind of +somber joy. Carrying it at arm’s-length, he bore it away over the rocks. +The artist watched the stern, angular figure loom against the sky and +dip down over the cliff out of sight. + +“I shall do a sketch of him some day that will make us famous,” he said +quietly. + +“It’s time for dinner,” responded Uncle William. + + + + +XXIV + +Uncle William set the table, with one eye on the harbor. As he pottered +about with the bread and cheese and salmon, a smile widened his round +face. + +The artist looked up from the brushes he was cleaning at the door. “You +look as happy as if you’d had a fortune left you,” he said. + +“Well, I’m considabul contented. I gen’ally am, ain’t I?” he added +quickly. + +“So-so,” admitted the young man. “You’re shiftless, that’s what’s the +matter with you.” + +Uncle William gave his long, low chuckle. “I guess I be,” he said +softly. “I guess I be. But I do take a sight o’ comfort.” + +The young man finished the brushes and brought them in, standing them up +in a quart cup. “Dinner ready?” he asked. + +“I reckon it is.” Uncle William scowled at the lavish table. “‘Pears to +me there’s suthin’ I’ve forgot. Oh, pickles!” He said it triumphantly. +“If you wouldn’t mind takin’ that plate, Mr. Woodworth, and goin’ down +cellar?” + +“All right.” The young man took the plate and disappeared down the +ladder that served as a stairway to the tiny hole beneath. + +Uncle William looked cautiously at the trap-door. Then he tiptoed to the +window. He drew the glass from his pocket and pointed it at the harbor. +The boat had come to anchor just off the island. Uncle William fixed her +with his glass. “Uh-huh, jest as I thought,” he said softly. + +A step sounded on the ladder and he shut the glass, thrusting it into +his pocket and turning a bland, innocent face upon the room. “Does beat +all how good pickles be with fish. Set ’em right there, Mr. Woodworth. +Now we’re ready.” + +Uncle William’s chair faced the window, and as he ate his eye dropped, +now and then, to the bay below. Once it lighted with a swift gleam and +he craned his neck a little. + +“What is it?” asked the artist, half turning. + +“Nuthin’,” said Uncle William, hastily, “nuthin’. ’T ain’t wuth turnin’ +your head for. I’m al’ays seein’ things. Get up in the night, like +enough, and wander round the island, jest to see ’em. Go all over the +island some nights. You see a good deal that way--fust and last: little +critturs runnin’ round, softlike, and the moon and stars--” Uncle +William was talking against time. His eye had lost interest in the +bay. It seemed to be fixed on the moon and stars. One ear was turned +expectantly toward the door. + +The artist watched him with an amused smile. He never interrupted one of +Uncle William’s monologues. + +“I’ve spent a good deal o’ my life,” went on Uncle William, “lookin’ +round at things.” + +The gravel crunched outside. + +The artist started. + +Uncle William turned a little. “Andy, like enough,” he said. He rose and +went leisurely toward the door. + +The figure of a tall man stood in it, surveying the room. + +Uncle William’s smile broke into radiance. It crinkled his eyes and nose +and mouth. “I said ’t was you.” He held out a big hand, and drew the man +into the room, peering behind him. A little look of disappointment came +over his face. “You all alone?” he demanded. + +“I am at present,” said the man, smiling. “I left a friend on the beach +below. I wasn’t sure how I should find you.” His courteous glance took +in the young man. + +Uncle William turned quickly. “It’s Mr. Curie,” he said, “the one that +bought your picters. And he’s left somebody--a friend--down below. Mebbe +you wouldn’t mind stepping down and fetchin’ ’em up.” + +“Of course.” The young man rose, holding out a hand. “I’m glad to meet +you, sir. I shall be back in a minute. I’ll bring him right up.” His +step rang quick on the rock outside. + +The two old men looked at each other. + +Uncle William’s face wore its roundest smile. “I wouldn’t be s’prised if +he stayed quite a spell.” He brought a chair and planted it in front of +the stranger. “Set down.” + +The man sat down, looking around the room. “It is good to be here,” he +said. + +Uncle William, with a hand on either knee, surveyed him over his +spectacles. “I saw ’t was you ’fore you landed.” + +The man’s face fell a little. “We wanted to surprise you--” + +“You’ve s’prised _him_ all right. He hain’t no idea what he’s runnin’ +to.” He looked toward the door. “I reckon he’ll stay an hour.” + +The man crossed one thin leg over another. “That gives me more time,” he +said contentedly. + +Uncle William gazed politely. “Was you wantin’ time?” he asked. + +The man smiled. “I wanted to see you.” + +“You wanted to see _me_?” Uncle William’s face held pleasure, but not +very much curiosity. + +The man nodded. “I came on purpose.” + +“You did? I thought you come to bring her?” His thumb indicated the +beach. + +“I wanted to see you, and she wanted to come, so here we are.” + +“Here you be,” assented Uncle William. “And I’m glad to see ye. He was +gettin’ middlin’ hard to hold.” + +The other man studied his face. “How much will you take for your place?” + he asked. + +Uncle William looked up. He shook his head slowly. “I won’t take +nuthin’.” + +The man smiled. “I’ll give you five thousand for it.” + +“You will?” Uncle William’s glance was mild. A smile crept into it. “I +wish ’t Andy could hear you say that,” he said; “but I can’t sell.” + +“Why not?” + +“Where’d I live?” + +The stranger appeared to ponder a minute. “You could keep enough to live +on,” he said at last. “I’d rather have you, in fact.” + +“I’ll give _you_ enough to live on,” said Uncle William. “I like your +looks. I’d like to have you round.” + +“That won’t do for me,” said the man. + +“‘T won’t do for me, either,” said Uncle William. + +They confronted each other. The stranger’s eyes dropped first. “I’ll +give you ten thousand,” he said quietly. + +“You will?” Uncle William moistened his lips with his tongue. “I’ll +_hev_ to go tell Andy that,” he said. + +“You’ll take it?” + +“Lord, no, I couldn’t take it! Nor twenty thousand; so don’t you go +offerin’ it to me. I _should_ like to tell Andy you was offerin’ it, +though.” + +The man laughed out. “I was thinking of it,” he said. + +Uncle William leaned forward, looking at him. “What are you so set on +buyin’ my place for? It’s a God-forsaken spot--most folks would call it. +Andy does.” + +“I like it,” said the man. + +“So do I,” said Uncle William. + +The Frenchman waited a minute. Then he turned a little, looking into +Uncle William’s face. “Did you ever see be before?” he asked slowly. + +Uncle William returned the look in full measure. “You ain’t forgot I saw +you in New York--‘long in the spring?” + +“I don’t mean that. I mean before--years ago.” The man’s voice was +mellow. + +Uncle William studied the thin face and looked over the thin legs. +“No, I hain’t ever seen ye,” he said. “And yet the’ ’s suthin’ about +ye,”--the man uncrossed his legs,--“suthin’ that keeps kind o’ pullin’ +on me.” Uncle William rubbed the back of his head thoughtfully. “You +ever seen me?” he demanded. + +The man’s eyes laughed. “Hundreds of times.” + +“You hev?” Uncle William sat up. “Where?” + +“Right here.” + +“In this house?” + +“Well, around here,” said the man, “on these rocks and near by. I lived +here once. I dote on these rocks--every one.” He waved a hand at the +landscape. + +Uncle William fixed him with stern eye. “You hain’t ever lived here,” + he said slowly. “You don’t mean to lie.” His gaze grew kindlier. “You’re +jest romancin’.” He brought it out with unction. + +The Frenchman stared. Then he laughed out. “Well done! I can’t fight you +for that.” He leaned forward. “Who lived this side of Gunnion’s when you +were a boy?” he asked. + +Uncle William paused. He looked again at the face with its lifted +eyebrows and pointed beard. He shook his head. A light grew in his face +slowly--he started forward. “Not Bodet?” he said eagerly. “Not little +Benjy Bodet?” He stared again. + +The man laughed musically. “Right.” He stood up, holding out his hand. +“I thought you would know me.” + +Uncle William took it slowly. He studied the thin, keen face. “Benjy +Bodet,” he said. “I’d know you--much as you’ve changed--I’d know you! +Set right down and tell me all about it.” + +“All?” said the man. He laughed again, looking contentedly about the +room. “It will take some time.” + +“You’ll have to stay quite a while,” said Uncle William. + +The man nodded. “I mean to. I’ve wanted to come back ever since the day +we sailed for France.” + +“You was twelve year old that summer,” said Uncle William. “Your folks +come into property, didn’t they, over there?” + +“Yes--on my mother’s side. We took her name. I was sick for months after +we got there--homesick, cooped up in rooms.” + +“You poor little chap!” Uncle William surveyed him. Affection was in +his eyes, and memory. “You was al’ays a kind o’ peaked little thing,” he +said reflectively. “You hain’t changed much--when you come to look. Take +off your whiskers and slick up your hair and fetch down your eyebrows a +little--jest about the same.” + +The man laughed out. He swung his eyeglasses boyishly from their chain. +“Well, you’re not.” + +“Me?” Uncle William looked down at his bulk. “More of me--bigger a +little, sort o’, mebbe.” + +The man nodded. “But just the same underneath.” + +“Jest the same,” said Uncle William. + +The man drew a deep breath. “I’ve traveled all over the world. There’s +no place like this anywhere.” + +“Nowheres,” said Uncle William, fervently. + +“I shall spend my days here.” + +“Right here,” assented Uncle William. + +The man looked at him keenly. “Will you sell?” + +Uncle William shook his head. “I’ll divide.” + +The man held out his hand. “It’s a bargain.” + +Uncle William took it and held it fast. His eyes twinkled. “I _must_ go +and tell Andy,” he said. “He’ll be reel pleased.” + +“Andy?” The man’s face lighted. “You don’t mean Andy Halloran? Is he +here yet?” + +“Right on deck; jest slid down the rock here this minute,” said Uncle +William. + +The man’s eyes twinkled. “Remember the day he took my lobster-pot?” + +“Borrowed it,” said Uncle William, dryly. + +“Borrowed it,” assented the man. He chuckled a little. “He got his pay.” + +Uncle William nodded. “He al’ays does. Andy’s borrowin’ lobster-pots +now--same Andy--gets his pay every time. He’s great on gettin’ his pay, +Andy is.” + +“He ought to have made a mean man,” said the other, thoughtfully. + +“Well, he hain’t, not so to speak,” said Uncle William, slowly. “There’s +mean spots--rocks; you hev to steer some, but it’s sandy bottom if you +know how to make it. I’ve anchored on him a good many year now and I +never knew him to slip anchor. It may drift a little now and then. Any +bottom will drift.” + +The man laughed out. “So it will.” He took up his hat. “I must go and +look up a place to stay,” he said. + +Uncle William looked at him sternly. “Not a step. You don’t stir a step, +Benjy Bodet.” He pointed to the red lounge. + +The Frenchman paused, irresolute. “I’m going to stay some time, you +know.” He glanced about the little room. “I shall be in the way.” + +“You set right down,” said Uncle William. + +The man looked at him with raised brows. “You want me?” + +“Want you? Why shouldn’t I want you!” roared Uncle William. “I’ve been +waitin’ for you sixty year and odd. Set down!” + +The Frenchman sat down on the red lounge and crossed his legs. + +A ball of gray fur descended upon them and fluffed itself, purring. + +He peered at it uncertainly. He swung the glasses to place upon his +nose, surveying it. + +“Now, don’t that show?” demanded Uncle William. “She don’t take to +strangers--never. Look at her.” She was kneading her paws in the thin +knees, delicately, with treading softness. + +The Frenchman’s eyes lighted. “She’s your cat?” + +“She is,” said Uncle William, “and she knows a lot. If she says you’re +goin’ to stay, you’re goin’ to. You won’t leave here, not till you’ve +built over there on the old cellar place.” He waved his hand toward the +horizon. “I’ll help ye build,” he exclaimed. “They ain’t nuthin’ I like +better’n potterin’ around and tellin’ folks what to do. I can’t fish +till the _Jennie’s_ done and I’ll turn to and help. The’ ’s a girl I can +get to do the work. She’s a good cook, and she’ll come down and do for +us--be glad to.” He rubbed his hands, beaming upon his guest. + +The Frenchman stroked the gray fur with slow touch. “I might take the +young man’s place,” he said thoughtfully. + +Uncle William paused. “Lord! I’d clean forgot--I feel about twelve +year old,” he added apologetically. “But don’t you worry. This house’ll +stretch. We three’ll get along all right in it.” + +“And Sergia?” said the man, with a smile. + +Uncle William rubbed his head. “Um--I’d forgot _her_, too.” + +The man laughed out. “You don’t need to worry. I’m going to lend them my +yacht for a trip.” + +“Both on ’em?” asked Uncle William. His puzzled face gazed at the man. + +“Yes.” + +Uncle William stared. Then the light dawned. “Right off?” he demanded. + +“Right off,” said the man. “And when they come back, the house will be +ready for them.” + +Uncle William glowed. “They goin’ to live with you?” + +“I hope so.” + +“Well, well!” He rubbed his great knees thoughtfully with either hand. +“I wouldn’t ever ’a’ thought o’ that. And the Lord himself couldn’t ’a’ +planned anything better ’n that.” + +“Thank you,” said the man, smiling. + +“Jest the right thing,” went on Uncle William. “And byme-by there’ll be +little toddlers--gettin’ over the rocks between here and there.” + +“Yes.” + +“And settin’ by the fire, warmin’ their toes and eatin’ tarts jest the +way we used to.” + +“Just the same,” said the man. + +Uncle William mused thoughtfully. The light of flitting memories was in +his face. + +The man on the lounge watched him through the high-perched glasses. +Presently he took off the glasses and rubbed them on his handkerchief. +Then he blew his nose. + +Uncle William looked up. The smile on his face was beautiful and tender +and full of light. “Where be they?” he said. + + + + +XXV + +They were standing by a great rock at the foot of the cliff. The +afternoon had slipped away and the harbor was full of changing light, +but the artist’s back was turned to it. He was looking into two little +round mirrors of light. Perhaps he saw the harbor reflected there. He +saw everything else--the whole round world, swinging in space, and +life and death. He bent closer to them. “Why didn’t you write?” + reproachfully. + +“Uncle William wouldn’t let me.” + +“Uncle William!” + +She nodded. “He told me not to write. He said you would get well +faster if you had something to bother you.” The demure face was full +of glinting lights. “He seemed to think that is what we are made +for--mostly. He’s an old dear!” she added. + +“He is!” He had gained possession of the quick-moving hand. “I shall +keep you now that I have you--” + +“Yes.” + +“--for that very purpose!” + +She smiled quietly. “I’ll try to live up to it. You took the prize, you +know.” + +He caged the other hand. “Bother the prize! There’s only one thing I +want.” + +Her lip trembled a little. + +He watched it jealously. He bent and touched the trembling line. The +world was blotted out--sun and bay and wheeling sky. A new world was +born--of two souls and swift desire. The heart of the universe opened to +them. When they drew apart, her eyes were lighted with tears. He wiped +them away slowly, holding the prisoned hands. “We will not wait,” he +whispered. + +“No,” half breathed. + +“In a week?” insistently. + +“Yes.” + +“To-morrow?” imperiously. + +The laughter had come back to her eyes. “To-day!” She freed her hands. +“Come.” + +He was searching her face. “You mean it?” + +“Why not? They will be glad to get rid of us.” She lifted a laughing +gesture to the cliff. + +“They?” + +“William and Benjamin.” She said the names with slow pleasure, smiling +at his puzzled face. “It all came out when I told him that I knew you +and that Uncle William lived here. He saw in a flash--everything! We +started next day.” + +He had put an arm about her, guardingly. “We’ll go hunt up a priest,” he +said. + +“Now?” + +“At once!” decisively. “Uncle William might think I needed more +discipline.” + +“You’re looking very well.” She was gazing at him with fond eyes. + +“I _am_ well.” He stretched out his arms. “I could conquer the world.” + +“We’ll sail round it.” She nodded to the boat that was anchored off the +island. “She is ours--for as long as we want her.” + +He stared at the boat and raised a glance to the cliff. “And what will +_he_ do?” + +“M. Curie? He builds for himself a house, for himself--and for us.” She +half chanted the words in sheer delight. + +“A house--here--for himself--and for us!” His glance took in the bare, +stern grandeur. “It will be very near heaven.” + +“Very near. Come, let us go.” They climbed the steep path, with +many pauses to look back on the gleaming bay and the boat riding at +anchor--the boat that was to carry them away to the ends of the earth. + +“We will go to St. Petersburg,” said Sergia, watching the shining light. + +“And Italy.” + +“And build castles there.” + +“Castles! And then we will come home at last--” + +“Home!” He said the word under his breath. They had come close to the +little house. Through the open door they saw the red room,--half in +shadow, half in light,--and in the red room the two old men looking at +each other. + +Uncle William saw them first and got to his feet, his big face filled +with welcome. “Come in, my dear.” He took the girl’s face between his +hands, looking down into it with gentle delight. “We’re glad you’ve +come,” he said slowly. “It was jest about time.” He studied the face. +“We want you to feel to home,” he went on. “‘Most everybody does feel +to home, that comes here.” He bent and kissed the face with rough +tenderness. + +Juno, from her perch, jumped down and rubbed a sidewise welcome along +the gray skirt. + +The girl stooped to stroke her. When she looked up, her eyes were filled +with tears. She brushed them hastily aside. + +Uncle William, from his height, looked down on them benignly. “You +needn’t mind those, my dear. Good salt water never hurt anybody yet--on +sea or land. You do it all you want to.” + +The girl laughed out. And the music of her laugh filled the room. +The twilight was lighted with it. Down below the tide came in slowly, +lapping the stones. Across the harbor a single star shone out. + +Uncle William glanced across to it. “Time to light up,” he said. He +took down the lantern from its place and lighted it with clumsy, careful +fingers, setting it in the window. Then he surveyed the little room and +his guests, a look of affection in his big face. “Must be ’most time for +supper,” he said. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Uncle William, by Jennette Lee + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK UNCLE WILLIAM *** + +***** This file should be named 4634-0.txt or 4634-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/4/6/3/4634/ + +Produced by Dagny; John Bickers; David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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