Uncle William: The Man Who Was Shif'less Part 14

"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 pa.s.sed. 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 s.h.i.+ning 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."