Jennette Lee

“ 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, 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?” ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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 ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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.” ”

“ 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?” ”

“ 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?” ”

“ 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?” ”

“ 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!” ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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 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. ”

“ 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.” ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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 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.” ”

“ 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.” ”

“ 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.” ”

“ 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.” ”