Uncle William/Chapter 17

HE 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 would n’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 could n’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 would n’t blow.” His eyes were on the shifting green waves. “I never put down a net nor a lobster-pot that I did n’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 is n’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.

“Could n’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 did n’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 just 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 did n’t cost more ’n three hunderd, all told, and I thought a picter of it would n’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.