Uncle William/Chapter 19

HE 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 would n’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 would n’t think any—”

“It was n’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 should n’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 jest by turnin’ and sailin’ that way when he was sick. Seem ’s if he stopped pullin’ against things and jest 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 would n’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.