Chapter 4

Uncle William watched it all in good-humored detachment. He made friends with half the shed, wandering in and out through the crowd, his great bulk towering above it. Here and there he helped a fat, heavy baby down the length of the shed, or lifted aside a big box that blocked the way. He might have been the Presiding Genius of the place. Men took him in with a good-humored wink, as he towered along, and women looked after him gratefully. Amid the bustle and enforced waiting, he was the only soul at rest. Time belonged to him. He was at home. He had played his part in similar scenes in hundreds of ports. The city bubbling and calling outside had no bewilderments for Uncle William. New York was only one more foreign port, and he had touched too many to have fear of them. They were all alike--exorbitant cab-men, who came down on their fare if you stood by your box and refused to let it be lifted till terms were made; rum-shops and gambling-holes, and worse, hedging the way from the wharf; soiled women haunting one’s steps, if one halted a bit or turned to the right or left in indecision. He had talked with women of every port. They were a huge band, a great sisterhood that reached thin hands about the earth, touching it with shame; and they congregated most where the rivers empty their burden of filth into the sea. Uncle William knew them well. He could steer a safe path among them; and he could turn a young man, hesitating, with foolish, confident smile on his face. Uncle William had not been in New York for twelve years, but he had a sailor’s unerring instinct for the dangers and the comforts of a port. He knew which way hell lay, and which of the drivers, backing and cursing and calling, one could trust. He signaled to one with his eye.

“What’ll ye charge to give this young feller a lift?” Uncle William indicated the youth beside him.

The driver looked him over with keen eye. “That’s all right.” He moved along on the seat to make room. “Come on, young man.”

The youth climbed up with clumsy foot.

“You might know of a job,” suggested Uncle William. “He looks strong and willin’.”

The man nodded back. “I’ll keep an eye on him, sir.” The van rumbled away and Uncle William faced the crowed once more.

He made friends as he moved among the throngs of hurrying men and women. Men who never saw him again recalled his face sometimes at night, as they wakened for a minute from sleep. The big smile reached to them across time and gave them a sense of the goodness of life before they turned again and slept.

If he had been a little man, Uncle William would still have run hither and thither through the crowd, a kind of gnome of usefulness. But his great frame gave him advantage. He was like a mountain among them--with the breath of winds about it--or some huge, quiet engine at sea, making its way with throbbing power.

If the thought of the artist crossed Uncle William’s mind, it did not disturb him. He was accustomed to do what he called his duty; and it had for him the simplicity, common to big men, of being the thing next at hand. Like a force of nature he laid hold on it, and out of the ground and the sky and the thrill of life, he wrought beauty upon it. If this were philosophy or religion, Uncle William did not know it. He called it “jest livin’ along.”

It was ten o’clock before he reached the artist’s rooms, and his rap at the door, gentle as a woman’s, brought no response. He rapped again.

“What’s wanted?” It was the querulous voice of a sick man.

Uncle William set the door ajar with his foot while he reached behind him for his box.

The artist had sprung up in bed and was staring at the door. In the dim light from the street below, his face stood out rigidly white.

Uncle William looked at it kindly as he came across. “There, there,” he said soothingly. “I guess I’d lie down.” He put his hands on the young man’s shoulders, pushing him back gently.

The artist yielded to the touch, staring at him with wide eyes. “Who--are--you?” he said. The words were a whisper.

Uncle Williams’ smile deepened. “I guess ye know _me_ all right, don’t ye?”

The artist continued to stare at him. “You came through the door. It was locked.”

“Shucks, no!” said Uncle William. “‘T wa’n’t locked any more’n I be. You jest forgot it.”

“Did I?” The tense look broke. “I thought you had come again.”

“Well, I hev.”

“I don’t mean that way. Sit down.” He looked feebly for a chair.

Uncle William had drawn one up to the bed. He sat down, bending forward a little. One big hand rested on the young man’s wrist. “Now, tell me all about it,” he said quietly.

The artist raised his eyes with a smile. He drew a deep breath. “Yes--you’ve come,” he said. “You’ve come.”

“I’ve come,” said Uncle William. His big bulk had not stirred. It seemed to fill the room.

The sick man rested in it. His eyes closed. “I’ve wanted--you.”

Uncle William nodded. “Sick folks get fancies,” he said.

“--and I kept seeing you in the fever--and you--” The voice droned away and was still.

Uncle William sat quiet, one hand on the thin wrist. The galloping pulse slowed--and leaped again--and fluttered, and fell at last to even beats. The tense muscles relaxed. The parted lips closed with a half-smile.

Uncle William bent forward, watching it. In the dim light of the room, his face had a kind of gentleness--a kindliness and bigness that watched over the night and reached out beyond it to the ends of the earth.

X

In the morning the big form was still there. The artist turned to it as he opened his eyes. “You are not gone!”

“Gone? Land, no!” Uncle William sat up from a cat-nap, rubbing his eyes and blinking a little. “I cal’ate to stay quite a spell yet.” He stretched his great legs slowly, first one and then the other, as if testing them.

Reproach filled the artist’s eyes. “You’ve not lain down all night!”

“Didn’t need to,” said Uncle William. He got to his feet briskly. “I slep’ a good deal comin’ down in the boat. There wa’n’t a great deal goin’ on. If you’ve got a little water and soap handy, I reckon I could use it.”

The artist half started to get up, but a firm hand held him back. “Now, stay right there. You jest tell me where things be--”

He pointed to a door at the left. “You won’t find it in very good order, I’m afraid.”

“Don’t you mind.” Uncle William had disappeared through the doorway. “It won’t bother me a mite.” His voice came back sociably. “I’m considabul ust to havin’ things mussed up.”

The artist lay with a smile, listening to the sounds that came through the half-open door--thumping and blowing and splashing.

Uncle William reappeared with shining face. “It seems good to hev suthin’ bigger’n a teacup to wash in,” he said. “I like the hull ocean, myself, but a tub does putty well. Now, jest let me see.”

He drew up to the bed, looking at the young man with keen glance.

“Oh, I’m all right--now.”

“Had a fever?”

“A little--yes.”

“You all alone?”

“There’s a man comes in by and by. He’ll clean up and get things for me.”

Uncle William ignored the pride in the tone. “Jest roll over a little mite. There--” He placed his broad hand under the thin back. “Feel sore there? Kind o’ hurts, don’t it? I thought so--There.” He laid him back gently. “You jest wait a minute.” He was fumbling at the lock that held his box.

“Are you a doctor?” The young man was watching him with half-amused eyes.

“Well, not a doctor exactly.” Uncle William had taken out a small bottle and was holding it up to the light, squinting through it. “But I had a fever once, myself--kep’ a-runnin’.” He had come over to the bedside, the bottle in his hand. “You got a doctor?”

The young man shook his head. “He will come if I send for him.”

Uncle William nodded. “That’s the best kind.” He held out the bottle. “I’d like to give you ’bout five on ’em.”

“What are they?”

“Well, that’s what I don’t know, but it took about five on ’em to break up mine.” He had poured one into the palm of his hand and held it out. It was a small, roughly shaped pill, with grayish surface pitted with black.

The young man eyed it doubtfully.

“It _don’t_ look very nice,” said Uncle William, “and the man that made it never had a stitch of clothes on his back in his life; but I guess you better take it.”

The young man opened his lips. The thing slid down, leaving a sickish, sweetish taste behind it.

Uncle William brought him a glass of water. “I know how it tastes, but I reckon it’ll do the work. Now, let’s see.” he stood back, surveying the untidy room, a mellow smile on his lips. “‘T is kind o’ cluttered up,” he said. “I’ll jest make a path through.” He gathered up a handful of shoes and slippers and thrust them under the bed, drawing the spread down to hid them. The cups and glasses and scattered spoons and knives he bore away to the bath-room, and the artist heard them descending into the tub with a sound of rushing water. Uncle William returned triumphant. “I’ve put ’em a-soak,” he explained. The table-spread, with its stumps of cigars, bits of torn papers, and collars and neckties and books and paint-brushes and tubes, he gathered up by the four corners, dumping it into a half-open drawer. He closed the drawer firmly. “Might ’s well start fresh.” He replaced the spread and stood back, surveying it proudly. “What’s that door?” He pointed across the room.

“It’s your bedroom,” said the artist, a little uneasily. “But I don’t believe you can get in.”

Uncle William approached cautiously. He pushed open the door and looked in. He came back beaming. “The’ ’s quite a nice lot of room,” he said, taking hold of the end of his box and dragging it away.

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.

While the artist was waiting for him to return he dozed again, and when he opened his eyes, Uncle William was standing by the bed with a cup of something hot. He slipped a hand under the young man’s head, raising it while he drank.

The artist took his time--in slow, surprised sips. “It’s good!” he said. He released the cup slowly.

Uncle William nodded. “I’ve been overhaulin’ your locker a little.”

“You didn’t find _that_ in it.” The artist motioned to the cup.

“Well--all but a drop or two,” said Uncle William, setting it down. “A drop o’ suthin’ hot’ll make ’most anything tasty, I reckon. I’ll go out and stock up pretty soon.”

A slow color had come into the artist’s face. He turned it away. “I don’t need much,” he said.

“No more’n a robin,” said Uncle William, cheerfully; “but I can’t live on bird-seed myself. I reckon I’ll lay in suthin’--two-three crackers, mebbe, enough to make a chowder.”

The young man laughed out. “I feel better,” he declared.

“It’s a good pill,” said Uncle William. “Must be ’most time for another.” He pulled out his great watch. “Jest about.” He doled out the pill with careful hand.

The young man looked at the bottle. “You haven’t many left?”

“Eight more,” said Uncle William, rapping the cork into place. “That ’lows for one more fever for me afore I die--I don’t cal’ate to have but one more.” He looked about for his hat. “I’m goin’ out a little while,” he said, settling it on his head.

“Wait a minute, Uncle William.” The young man stretched out his hand. “How did you come to know I needed you?”

Uncle William took the hand in his, patting it slowly. “Why, that was nateral enough,” he said. “When Sergia wrote me, sayin’ you was sick--”

“Sergia wrote you?” the young man had turned away his eyes. “She should not have done it. She had no right--”

“Why not?” said Uncle William. He seated himself by the bed. There was something keen in the glance of his blue eyes. “You’re goin’ to be married, ain’t you?”

The head on the pillow turned uneasily. “No--not now.”

“Why not?”

“I shall never be able to take care of her.”

“Shucks!” said Uncle William. “Let her take care of you, then.”

The tears of weakness came into the young man’s eyes.

Uncle William’s gaze was fixed on space. “You’ve been foolish,” he said--“turrible foolish. I don’t doubt she wants to marry you this minute.”

“She shall not do it.” He spoke almost fiercely.

“There, there,” said Uncle William, soothingly, “I wouldn’t make such a fuss about it. Nobody’s goin’ to marry you ’thout you want ’em to. You jest quiet down and go to sleep. We’ll talk it over when I come back.”

XI

When he returned the artist was awake. His eyes had a clearer look.

Uncle William surveyed them over the top of his parcels. “Feelin’ better?” he said.

“Yes.”

He carried the parcels into the next room, and the artist heard him pottering around and humming. He came out presently in his shirt-sleeves. His spectacles were mounted on the gray tufts. “I’ve got a chowder going’,” he said. “You take another pill and then you’ll be about ready to eat some of it, when it’s done.”

“Can I eat chowder?” The tone was dubious, but meek.

“You’ve got all your teeth, hain’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, I guess you can eat it.”

“I haven’t been eating much.”

“I shouldn’t think you had.” Uncle William spoke dryly. “You needn’t be a mite afraid o’ one o’ my chowders. A baby could eat ’em, if it had got its teeth.”

The artist ate the chowder, when it came, and called for more, but Uncle William refused him sternly. “You jest wait awhile,” he said, bearing away the empty plate. “There ain’t more’n enough for a comfortable dish for me. You don’t want to eat it all, do you?”

“No,” said the artist, flushing.

“I thought not.” It took Uncle William a long time to eat his portion, and the artist fell asleep again, watching the rhythmic motion of the great jaw as it went slowly back and forth.

When he wakened again it was almost dark in the room. Uncle William sat by the window, looking down into the street. He came across to the bed as the artist stirred. “You’ve had a good long sleep.” He laid a hand on the moist forehead. “That’s good. Fever’s gone.”

“It will come back. It always does.” There was anxious dread in the tone.

“It won’t this time.” Uncle William sat nodding at him mildly. “I know how you feel--kind o’ scared to believe anything--anything that’s good.”

The artist smiled. “_You_ never felt that way!”

“Jest that way,” said Uncle William. “I didn’t _want_ to believe I wa’n’t al’ays goin’ to be sick. I kep’ kind o’ thinkin’ I’d rather be sick’n not--jest as if the devil had me.”

“Yes”--the young man spoke almost eagerly--“it’s the way I’ve been! Only I didn’t know it till you said so.”

“The’ ’s a good many things we don’t know--not jest exactly know--till somebody says ’em.”

They sat quiet, listening to the hum from the street.

“I’ve done some queer things,” said the artist.

“Like enough.” Uncle William did not ask what they were.

“They begin to look foolish.” He turned his head a little.

“Do you good--best thing in the world.”

“I don’t see how I _could_.” The tone was uneasy. “I must have been beastly to her.”

Uncle William said nothing.

“She didn’t tell you?” The artist was looking at him.

“She? Lord, no! women don’t tell anything you’ve done to ’em--not if it’s anything bad.”

“I might have known. . . . I fairly turned her out. But she kept coming back. She wanted me to marry her, so she could stay and take care of me.” He was not looking at Uncle William.

“And you wouldn’t let her?”

“I couldn’t--There was no money,” he said at last.

Uncle William glanced about him in the clear dusk. “Comf’tabul place,” he said.

The artist flushed. “She pays the rent, I suppose. They would have turned me out long since. I haven’t asked, but I know she pays it. There is no one else.”

“She is rich, probably,” said Uncle William.

“Rich?” The young man smiled bitterly. “She has what she earns. She works day and night. If she should stop, there would be nothing for either of us.”

“Not unless suthin’ come in,” said Uncle William. “Suthin’ might come in. You’d kind o’ like to see her, wouldn’t you?”

The artist held out a hand as if to stop him. “Not till I can pay her back, every cent!”

“Guess you need another pill, likely,” said Uncle William. He got up in the dark and groped about for the bottle. His great form loomed large above the bed as he handed it to the young man. “That’s four,” he said soothingly. “Jest about one more’ll fix ye.”

The young man swallowed it almost grudgingly. He lay back upon the pillow. “I can pay her the money sometime.” His gaunt eyes were staring into the dark. “But I can never make up to her for the way I treated her.”

“Mebbe she didn’t mind,” said Uncle William, non-committally. “Sometimes they don’t.”

“Mind? She couldn’t help minding. I was a fiend to her. I did everything but strike her.”

A smile grew, out of the dark, in Uncle William’s face. “I was thinkin’ about that ol’ chief,” he said slowly--“the one that give me the pills. I treated him--why, I treated him wuss ’n anything. ’Course, he wa’n’t like white folks; but I was fightin’ crazy with the fever, not sick enough to go to bed, but jest sittin’ around and jawin’ at things. I dunno _how_ he come to take such a likin’ to me. Might ’a’ been on account o’ my size--we was about the same build. I’d set and jaw at him, callin’ him names. Don’t s’pose he understood half of ’em, but he could see plain enough I was spittin’ mad. He’d kind o’ edge up to me, grinnin’ like and noddin’, and fust thing I knew, one day, he’d fetched a pill and made me take it. I was mad enough to ’a’ killed him easy, but ’fore I could get up to do it, I fell asleep somehow. And when I woke up I felt different. _You_ feel different, don’t you?”

The artist smiled through the soft dark. “I would like to get down on my knees.”

Uncle William smoothed the spread in place. “They’d feel kind o’ sharp, I guess. I wouldn’t try it--not yet. You wait till Sergia comes.”

“_Will_ she come?”

“She’d come to-night if she knew you wanted her. You go to sleep, and in the mornin’ you’ll take that other pill.” He lifted the pillow and turned it over, patting it in place. “Why, that ol’ chief he was so glad when he see me feelin’ better he acted kind o’ crazy-like. I held out my hand to him when I woke up; but he didn’t know anything about shakin’ hands. He jest got down and took my feet and hugged ’em. It made me feel queer,” said Uncle William. “You do feel queer when you hain’t acted jest right.”

XII

“Can I see her to-day?” It was the first question in the morning.

“You better?”

“Yes.”

“You feelin’ well enough to sit up?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, you can stay where you be another day.” Uncle William smiled cheerfully.

“Can I see her?”

“We’ll see about that. I’ve got a good many things to tend to.” Uncle William bustled away.

After a time his head was thrust in the door. “I’ll go see her, myself, byme-by,” he said kindly. “Mebbe she’ll come back with me.”

“It’s too late now.” The artist spoke a little bitterly.

“Too late!” Uncle William came out, reproachful and surprised. “What d’you mean?”

“It’s quarter to nine. She goes to work at nine. She has pupils--she teaches all day.”

Uncle William’s face dropped a little. “That’s too bad now, ain’t it! But don’t you mind. I wa’n’t just certain I’d let you see her to-day, anyhow.”

“When can I?”

Uncle William pondered. “You’re in a good deal of a hurry, ain’t you?”

“I want to tell her--”

“Yes, yes, I know. Well, ’bout to-morrow. How’d that do?”

“You could send her a note,” said the artist.

“I’m goin’ to see her,” said Uncle William. “She’ll be to home this evenin’, won’t she?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll go see her.”

The artist looked doubtful.

“Can’t I got see her?” said Uncle William.

“I was wondering whether you could find the way.”

“H’m-m. Where’d you say it was?”

“Eighteenth Street, near Broadway.”

“Eighteenth? That’s somewheres between Seventeenth and Nineteenth, ain’t it?” said Uncle William, dryly.

“Yes.” The artist smiled faintly.

Uncle William nodded. “I thought so. And I don’t s’pose they’ve changed the lay of Broadway a gre’ deal?”

“No--not much.”

“Well, I reckon I can find it. I gen’ally do; and I can’t get far out o’ the way with this.” He touched the compass that hung from the fob of the great watch. “I’ve been putty much all over the world with that. I reckon it’ll p’int about the same in New York as it does in Arichat. Now, I’ve got your breakfast ’most ready, but I can’t seem to remember about your coffee.--You take sugar and milk in it, don’t you?”

“Yes.” The tone was almost sulky.

Uncle William looked at him shrewdly over his spectacles. “I don’t believe you feel well enough to see anybody for a good while, do you?”

The artist’s face changed subtly--like a child’s. It was almost cheerful.

Uncle William laughed out. “That’s better--a little mite better. I guess ’bout day after to-morrow you’ll do to see company.”

The young man stretched out a hand. “I _must_ see her. I shall get up--”

“There, there. I wouldn’t try to get up if I was you,” said Uncle William, genially. “I’ve put away your clothes, different places. I don’t jest know where they be, myself. It’ll be quite a chore to get ’em all together. You jest lie still, and let me manage.”

The young man ate his breakfast with relish. A subtle resolve to get up and do things was in his eye.

Uncle William watched it, chuckling. “Sha’n’t be able to keep him there more’n a day longer,” he said. “Better feed him well whilst I can.” He prepared clam-broth and toast, and wondered about an omelet, rolling in and out of the room with comfortable gait.

The artist ate everything that was set before him, eagerly. The resolve in his eye yielded to appreciation. “You ought to have been a chef, Uncle William. I never tasted anything better than that.” He was eating a last bit of toast, searching with his fork for stray crumbs.

Uncle William nodded. “The’ ’s a good many things I’d o’t to ’a’ been if I’d had time. That’s the trouble with livin’. You don’t hev time. You jest practise a day or two on suthin’--get kind o’ ust to it--and then you up and hev to do suthin’ else. I like cookin’ fust rate while I’m doin’ it. . . . I dunno as I _should_ like it reg’lar, though. It’d be kind o’ fiddlin’ work, gettin’ up and makin’ omelets every mornin’.”

“You’re an artist,” said the young man.

“Mebbe. Don’t you think you’ve licked that plat about clean?” Uncle William looked at it approvingly. “It ain’t much work to wash dishes for you.”

At intervals during the day the artist demanded his clothes, each time a little more vigorously. Uncle William put him off. “I don’t see that picter of my house anywheres ’round,” he said when pressed too close.

“No.”

“You sent it off?”

“Yes.” The young man was silent a minute. “Sergia took them--all of them--when I fell sick. They were not ready--not even framed. She was to send them to the committee. I have not heard.”

“I’ll go see ’em in the mornin’,” said Uncle William.

“I don’t know that you can--”

“Can’t anybody go in--if it’s an exhibit--by payin’ suthin’?”

“I mean, I don’t know that they’re hung.”

“Well, I wouldn’t bother about that. I’d like to see ’em jest as well if they ain’t hung. I’m putty tall, but I can scooch down as well as anybody. It’ll seem kind o’ good to see the ol’ place. I was thinkin’ this mornin’ I wish’t there was two-three rocks round somewheres. I guess that’s what picters are for. Some folks _hev_ to live in New York--can’t _get_ away. I sha’n’t mind if they ain’t hung up. I can see ’em all right, scoochin’ a little.”

The young man smiled. “I don’t know that they’re accepted.”

“Why not--if she sent ’em?”

“Oh, she sent them all right. They may have been refused.”