Uncle William: The Man Who Was Shif'less Part 15

"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," a.s.sented 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.