Chapter 3

He set and watched Andy’s figure down the road. Then he took up the trowel once more, whistling. The floating cloud had sailed to the horizon. It grew rosy red and opened softly, spreading in little flames. The glow of color spread from north to south. A breeze had sprung up and ruffled the bay. Uncle William glanced at it and fell to work. “Andy’s right--it’s goin’ to change.”

He worked till the cold, clear moon came over the hill behind him. It shone on the chimney rising, straight and firm, above the little house. By its light William put on the finishing touches.

VII

The winter was a hard one. The cold that had set in the night the chimney was finished did not abate. The island froze to its core and a stinging keenness held the air. The very rocks seemed charged with it. One almost listened to hear them crack in the stillness of the long nights. Little snow fell, and it was soon dispersed--whirled away on the fierce blasts that swept the island. Uncle William went back and forth between woodshed and house, carrying great armfuls of wood. A roaring fire warmed the red room, Juno purred in comfort in its depths. The pile of wood in the shed lowered fast, and the pile of money hoarded behind the loose brick in the chimney lowered with it--the money faster than the wood, perhaps. There was a widow with three children, a mile down the shore. Her husband had been drowned the year before, and there was no brick loose in her chimney to look behind as the woodpile diminished. Old Grandma Gruchy, too, who had outlived all her men folks and at ninety-three was still tough and hearty, had need of things.

Between filling the wood-box and looking after the weather and keeping a casual eye on the widows and the fatherless, Uncle William had a full winter. He was not a model housekeeper at best, and ten o’clock of winter mornings often found him with breakfast dishes unwashed and the floor unswept. Andy, coming in for his daily visit, would cast an uncritical eye at the frying-pan, and seat himself comfortably by the stove. It did not occur to either of them, as Uncle William pottered about, finishing the dishes, that Andy should take a hand. 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. He seemed to have accepted the fact that there would never be any, as placidly as William himself. If there was dawning in his mind the virtuous resolve to help out a little when the time came, no one would have guessed it from the grim face that surveyed Uncle William’s movements with a kind of detached scorn. Now and then Andy let fall a word of advice as to the best way of adjusting a tin on the stove, or better methods for cleaning the coffee-pot. Sometimes Uncle William followed the advice. It generally failed to work.

It was late in the winter that Andy appeared one morning bringing a letter from the artist. Uncle William searched for his spectacles and placed them on his nose with a genial smile.

Andy had not relinquished the letter. “I can read it for ye,” he volunteered.

“I can read it all right now, Andy, thank ye.” Uncle William reached out a hand for it.

Andy’s fingers relaxed on it grudgingly. He had once or twice been allowed to open and read the letters in the temporary absence of Uncle William’s spectacles. He found them more entertaining than when Uncle William read them. He privately suspected him of suppressing bits of news.

Uncle William looked up from the lines with pleased countenance. “Now, that’s good. He’s finished up five on ’em.”

“Five what?”

“Picters,” responded Uncle William, spelling it out slowly. “There’s one of my house,”--lofty pride held the voice,--“and one of the cove down below, and two up by the end of old Bodet place, and one on the hill, this side of your place. Now, that’s quite a nice lot, ain’t it?”

“What’s he going to do with ’em,” asked Andy.

“There’s a kind of exhibit goin’ on.” Uncle William consulted the letter. “‘The Exhibition of American Artists’--suthin’ like a fair, I take it. And he’s goin’ to send ’em.”

“Thinks he’ll take a prize, I s’pose.” Andy’s tone held fine scepticism.

“Well, I dunno. He don’t say nuthin’ about a prize. He does kind o’ hint that he’ll be sendin’ me suthin’ pretty soon. I guess likely there’ll be prizes. He o’t to take one if there is. He made fust-rate picters, fust-rate--”

“The whole lot wa’n’t wuth the _Jennie_.” Andy spoke with sharp jealousy.

“Well, mebbe not--mebbe not. Want a game of checkers, Andy?”

“_I_ don’t care,” sullenly. Uncle William brought out the board and arranged the pieces with stiff fingers.

Andy watched the movements, his eye callous to pleasure.

“It’s your move, Andy.”

Andy drew up to the table and reached out a hand. . . . The spirit of the game descended upon him. He pushed forward a man with quick fingers. “Go ahead.”

Uncle William took time. His fingers hovered here and there in loving calculation. At last he lifted the piece and moved it slowly forward.

“Same move you al’ays make,” said Andy, contemptuously.

“Sometimes I beat that way, don’t I?”

“And sometimes you don’t.” Andy shoved forward another piece. The quick movement expressed scorn of dawdlers.

Uncle William met it mildly. He set his man in place with slow care.

Andy paused. He snorted a little. He bent above the board, knitting his forehead. His hand reached out and drew back. The fingers reached out and drew back. The fingers drummed a little on the edge of the board.

Uncle William, leaning forward, a hand on either knee, beamed on him benignantly.

Andy shifted a little in his chair. “You’re going to get into trouble,” he said warningly, “if you move that way.”

“Like enough, like enough. I gen’ally do. Is it my move?”

“No,” growled Andy. He returned to the board. The game was on in earnest. 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. He gave a little growl of triumph.

Uncle William studied the board. At last, with a heavy sigh, he lifted a piece and moved it cautiously.

Andy made the counter move in triumphant haste. “King,” he announced.

Uncle William covered the man, a little smile dawning in his eye. He looked at the pieces affectionately. A chuckle sounded somewhere in the room.

Andy looked up quickly. He glanced again at the board. Wrath froze his gaze.

Uncle William leaned back, nodding at him with genial meaning. A little conscious triumph flavored the nod.

Andy shoved back from the board. “Well, why don’t you take it? Take it if you’re goin’ to, and don’t set there cackling!”

“Why, Andy!” Uncle William moved the man mildly.

Andy shoved the counter in place with scornful touch.

Uncle William moved again.

Andy got up, looking sternly for his hat.

“Can’t you stay to dinner, Andy?”

“No.”

“I was goin’ to have a little meat.”

“Can’t stay.”

“It’s stormin’ putty hard.”

“_I_ don’t care!” He moved toward the door.

Uncle William took down an oil-skin coat from its peg. “You better put this on if ye can’t stay. No use in gettin’ wet through.”

Andy put it on and buttoned it up in fierce silence.

Uncle William watched him benignly. “If ’t was so ’s ’t you could stay, we could play another after dinner--play the rubber. You beat _me_ last time, you know.” He took off the stove-lid and peered in.

Andy’s eye had relaxed a little under its gloom. “When you goin’ to have dinner?” he asked.

“I was thinkin’ of havin’ it putty soon. I can have it right off if you’ll stay--must be ’most time.” He pulled a great watch from its fob pocket and looked at it with absent eye. His gaze deepened. He looked up slowly. Then he smiled--a cheerful smile that took in Andy, the board with its scattered checkers, Juno on the lounge, and the whole red room.

“Well, what time is it?” said Andy.

“It’s five minutes to three, Andy. Guess you’d better stay,” said Uncle William.

VIII

Uncle William carried the letter up the zigzag rocks in his big fingers. A touch of spring was in the air, but the _Andrew Halloran_ rocked alone at the foot of the cliff. Uncle William turned back once to look at her. Then he pursued his way up the rocky cliff. He had not heard from the artist for over a month. He glanced down curiously at the letter in his hand, once or twice, as he climbed the cliff. It was a woman’s handwriting.

He sat down by the table, tearing open the envelope with cautious fingers. A strip of bluish paper fluttered from it and fell to the floor. Uncle William bent over and picked it up. He looked at it a little bashfully and laid it on the table. He spread the letter before him, resting his elbows on the table and bending above it laboriously. As he read, an anxious line came between his eyes. “Now, that’s too bad--sick in bed--I want to know--Well, well! Pshaw, you needn’t ’a’ done that! Of course I’ll go.” He picked up the bluish slip and looked at it. He pushed the spectacles back on his head and sat surveying the red room. He shook his head slowly. “He must be putty sick to feel like that,” he said.

He took up the letter again, spelling it out slowly.

“MY DEAR MR. BENSLOW: You have not forgotten Alan Woodworth, the artist who was in Arichat last summer? I am writing to tell you that he is very ill. He has not been well for two months or more, and for the last three weeks he has been very ill indeed. He is in his rooms alone and there is no one to look after him. His friends have tried all along to have him go to a hospital, or to let them take care of him. But until two or three weeks ago he would have times of partial recovery--days when he seemed perfectly well. So no one has guessed how really ill he is, and they suppose now that he has gone away from the city to recuperate. No one, except me, knows that he is still in his rooms. The door is locked and no one answers if you go there. I am writing you as a last resort. He has told me about you--how good you were to him last summer--”

Uncle William looked up, perplexed. “Sho, now! What does she mean by that? I didn’t do nuthin’--nuthin’ to speak of.”

“I feel as if he would let you in and let you do things for him. He has talked about you to me, since he came back; and in his illness, earlier, when the fever was on, he would call for you--talking and muttering in his sleep. If you could come down for a little while, I feel almost sure that it would give him the start he needs. The fever makes him distrustful of every one, but I know that he would see you. I am inclosing a check for the trip. It is really money that belongs to him--to Alan. He gave me last year a beautiful present--something far too expensive for him to give; and now that he needs the money--needs to see you--more than I need the jewel. I am sending it to you, begging that you will come very soon if you can. Alan said that he had told you about me. You will not wonder who I am or why I am writing. I hope that I shall see you and know you when you come.

“Sincerely yours,

“SERGIA LVOVA.”

Uncle William nodded at the letter with a genial smile, as if he saw the girl herself and responded to the wish. He returned the letter with the blue slip to the envelope and stowed it away in his pocket. He surveyed the room again, shaking his head. “I couldn’t take their money, nohow,” he said slowly. “I must go and see Andy. He’ll help out. He’ll be reel glad to.”

He rose and began to set the table, bringing out the smoked herring and bread and tea and foxberries with lavish hand. He sat down with a look of satisfaction. Juno, from the red lounge, came across, jumping into the chair beside him. She rubbed expectantly against him. He fed her bits of the herring with impartial hand. When the meal was over, he went to the chimney and took out the loose brick, reaching in behind for the money. He counted it slowly. “Not near enough,” he said, shaking his head. “I knew there wa’n’t. I must go and see Andy.”

He washed the dishes and put them away, then he combed his tufts of hair and tied his neckerchief anew.

He found Andrew outside his house, feeding the hens. They stood in silence, watching the scramble for bits. “Shoo!” said Andrew, making a dash for a big cochin-china. “She eats a lot more ’an her share,” he grumbled, shaking out the dish. “Comin’ in?”

“I’ve got a little suthin’ to talk over with ye,” said William.

“Come out behind the barn,” said Andrew.

Seated on a well-worn bench with a glimpse of the bay in the distance, William drew out the envelope. “I’ve got a letter--”

Andy eyed it. “From that painter chap?”

“Well, not exactly. But it’s about him. He’s in a good deal of trouble--”

“What’s he been doin’?” demanded Andy.

“He’s been bein’ sick,” said William, reproachfully.

“Oh!” Andy’s face fell.

“He’s sick now,” went on Uncle William. He drew the letter from its envelope. “He’s feeling putty bad.”

“What’s the matter of him?” said Andy, gruffly.

Uncle William studied the letter.

“It’s a kind o’ fever--I guess--intermittent. Runs for a while, then lets up a day or two, and then runs again. We had it once--don’t you remember?--the whole crew, that time we broke down off Madagascar? ’Member how sick we felt?” Uncle William looked at him mildly.

Andy’s eye was fixed on the bay. “How d’ you know it’s the same?” he said.

“Well, I don’t _know_ it’s the same--not just the same, but she says--”

“_Who_ says?” Andy whirled about.

“Why, _she_ says--Sergia says.--Didn’t I jest tell you, Andy?”

“You didn’t tell me nuthin’,” said Andy. He had returned to the bay.

“She is his--she is goin’ to marry him,” said William.

“Huh!”

There was silence for a minute, while Andrew digested the morsel. “When they goin’ to be married?” he said at last.

Uncle William shook his head. “That’s jest it, Andy. They’re in a heap o’ trouble.”

Andy stirred uneasily. “What’d she write to _you_ for?”

“I’m comin’ to that--if you’ll give me time. She thought mebbe I could help--”

Andy moved a little away. “You hain’t got the means,” he said decisively.

“No”--the tone was soothing--“but I can get it, mebbe. She wants me to come down.”

“To New York? _You!_” Andy looked at him.

William returned the look apologetically. “Does sound ridiculous, don’t it, Andy? I shouldn’t ever ’a’ thought of the thing myself, but she says he kind o’ needs me. Keeps askin’ for me when the fever is on, and don’t seem to get along much when it lets up. She kind o’ thinks if I was there, it would help him to brace up, somehow, a little.”

Andy made no response. The green light was dawning far down in his eye.

Uncle William watched it. “It’s jest a sick man’s fancy, like enough.”

“When you goin’?” said Andy.

“I though ’bout day after to-morrow.”

“It’ll cost a heap.”

“I know it.”

“You’ve got it, I s’pose?” indifferently.

“Some of it,” said William.

Andy moved a little farther away. He was very near the edge of the bench.

Uncle William moved over by him, and laid a hand on his knee. “I was goin’ to ask you to lend me a hunderd, Andy.”

Andy wriggled a little. “You don’t _hev_ to go,” he said feebly.

“If he needs me, I’ll have to. I ain’t ever been needed much--livin’ alone so. You don’t know how ’t is. You have somebody to need you. Harriet needs you--”

“Lord, yes, Harr’et needs me. Don’t doubt she needs me this minute--pail o’ water or suthin’.” Andrew chuckled gloomily.

“And you hev your chickens, too.” Uncle William fixed his glance placidly on a strutting fowl that had appeared around the corner, cocking a surprised eye at them. William regarded her thoughtfully. “When a man’s alone, there ain’t much he can do for folks,” he said slowly, “except feed Juno night and mornin’,--and she catches so many mice it ain’t really wuth while. Now a hen needs to be fed.”

“Guess they do,” grumbled Andy.

“And a cow,” went on Uncle William, “but there--” he checked himself. “What am I talkin’ about? How’d I ever keep a cow? What’d I do with the milk? I couldn’t eat a whole cowful.” He sat gazing with far-off eyes at the glimpse of blue water.

Andy chewed scornfully on a bit of dry grass.

William turned to him suddenly. “We’ll go down and draw out the money to-morrow morning,” he said.

Andy chewed anxiously. “I dunno as I can let you have it,” he protested.

“Oh, yes, you’ll let me. You see I _need_ it, Andy, and I’m goin’ to pay you six per cent. How much do you get at the bank? Not more’n five, do you?”

“Four and a half,” said Andy, grudgingly.

“Four and a half. Well, you see, I give you six. So there’s a dollar and a half clear gain.”

Andrew’s eyes narrowed to the dollar and a half and fed on it awhile. “I shall hev to ask Harr’et,” he said.

“Now, I wouldn’t ask Harriet.” Uncle William spoke soothingly. “She don’t agree with you and me a good many times--Harriet don’t.”

Andrew admitted it. He chewed awhile in silence. “You’ll give me a mortgage?” he said at last. The tone was crafty.

“On my place!” Uncle William was roused. “No, sir, I don’t give mortgages to nobody.”

“Then I don’t see as I can let you hev it,” said Andy. “It’s fair to ask for a mortgage. What if anything should happen to ye--down there in New York? Where’d _I_ be?” He looked at him reproachfully.

“You _would_ miss me, Andy, and I know it. I’m goin’ to be careful. I shan’t take no more resks ’n I have to.”

“Nor me, neither,” said Andy.

“That’s right, Andy, you be careful, too, while I’m gone. Why, ’t wouldn’t ever be like home--to come back and not find you here.”

Andy’s eyes widened. “What you talkin’ ’bout?” he said.

Uncle William’s gaze was on him affectionately. He looked a little puzzled. “I dunno jest what I _did_ start to say,” he said apologetically. “I was thinkin’ what a store I set by you, Andy.”

Andy’s face softened a trifle. “Now, look here, Willum, a mortgage is fair. It wouldn’t hurt you none, nor your place--”

William shook his head. “I couldn’t do it, Andy. I wouldn’t reely trust you with a mortgage. You might get scared and foreclose some day if I couldn’t pay the interest, and you’d be ashamed enough--doin’ a thing like that.”

The next day Andy drew the hundred from the bank and turned it over to William without even a note to guard his sacred rights. Andy had tried in the night watches to formulate a note. He had selected the best, from a row of crafty suggestions, about four o’clock. But later, as he and William went up the road, the note dropped by the way.

Uncle William stowed the money in his pocket with a comfortable smile. “You’ve done the right thing, Andy, and I shall pay you back when I can. You’ll get your interest reg’lar--six per cent.”

Andy’s face held a kind of subdued gloom. He mourned not as those without hope, but with a chastened expectancy. To lend William money had almost the fine flavor of gambling.

He saw him off the following morning, with a sense of widened interests. He carried, moreover, an additional burden. “Remember, Andy,” Uncle William called to him as the boat moved away, “she don’t like potato, and she won’t touch a mite of fish--‘ceptin’ herrin’.” Juno had been intrusted to him.

Andy grinned a sickly good-by. “Good-by, Willum; I’ll do as well as I can by her.” He turned away with a sudden sense of loss. The island seemed very empty. Juno did not like Andy, and he was needed at home. The mental effort of thinking up a menu three times a day that did not include fish and potato for a magnificent creature like Juno weighed heavily on him. He had proposed bringing her down to the house, thinking to shift the burden on to Harriet, but Uncle William had refused sternly. “She wouldn’t be comfortable, Andy. The’ ’s a good deal of soap and water down to your house and she wouldn’t like it. You can run up two or three times, easy, to see she’s all right. Mebbe you’ll get fond of her.”

Andrew had no rosy hopes of fondness, but as he turned away from the wharf, there seemed no place on the island that would hold him so comfortably as the little house on the cliff. He climbed the rocky path to it and opened the door. Juno sprang down from her lounge. When she saw who it was she gave an indifferent lick to her front leg, as if she always jumped down to lick her leg. Then she jumped back on the lounge and tuned her back to the room, looking out of the window and blinking from time to time. The smoke of the steamer was dwindling in the distance.

Andy sat down in a vacant chair by the stove, staring at nothing. The sun poured in. It filled the room with warmth. Andy’s eyes rested on it vacantly. The stillness was warm and big. It seemed a kind of presence. Andy drew his hand across his eyes and got up. He went over and stood by the lounge, peering out. The smoke was gone. Juno turned her head and blinked an eye or two, indifferent. She ignored him pointedly. Her gaze returned to the sea. Andy had half put out his hand to stroke her. He drew it back. He had a sudden bitter desire to swear or kick something. He went out hastily, closing the door behind him. Juno, with her immovable gaze, stared out to sea.

IX

Uncle William sniffed the air of the docks with keen relish. The spring warmth had brought out the smells of lower New York teemingly. There was a dash of salt air and tar, and a dim odor of floating--of decayed vegetables and engine-grease and dirt. It was the universal port-smell the world over, and Uncle William took it in in leisurely whiffs as he watched the play of life in the dockshed--the backing of horses and the shouting of the men, the hollow sound of hoofs on the worn planks and the trundling hither and thither of boxes and barrels and bales.

He was in no hurry to leave the dock. It was a part of the journey--the sense of leisure. Men who travel habitually by sea do not rush from the vessel that has brought them to port, gripsack in hand. There are innumerable details--duties, inspections and quarantines, and delays and questionings. The sea gives up her cargo slowly. The customs move with the swift leisure of those who live daily between Life and the Deep Sea--without hurry and without rest.