Chapter 7

The Frenchman’s eye followed it. “I do,” he said, cordially. “Don’t you?”

“Well, it’s middlin’ good.” Uncle William spoke craftily. They were moving toward it.

“It’s great!” said the Frenchman. He swung his eyeglasses to his nose and gazed at it. They came to a standstill a little distance away.

“The house ain’t much to boast on,” said Uncle William, modestly.

“The house?” The Frenchman stared at him politely.

Uncle William motioned with his hand. “It’s a kind o’ ramshackle ol’ thing--no chimbley to speak of--”

The man’s face cleared. “Oh, the house--a mere hut!” He dismissed it with a wave.

Uncle William’s face wore a subdued look. “It might be comf’tabul inside,” he hazarded after a silence.

The Frenchman stared again. “Comfortable? Oh, without doubt.” He granted the point in passing. “But the color in the rocks--do you see?--and the clear light and the sky--you see how it lifts itself!” His long finger made swift stabs here and there at the canvas. A little crowd had gathered near.

Uncle William pushed his spectacles farther up on the tufts. His face glowed. “The sky is all right,” he said, “if ye know how to take it; but ye wouldn’t trust a sky like that, would ye?”

The Frenchman turned to him, blinking a little. His glasses had slipped from his nose. They hung dangling from the end of the long chain. “Trust it?” he said vaguely. “It’s the real thing!”

Uncle William’s face assumed an air of explanation. “It’s good as far as it goes. The’ ain’t anything the matter with it--not anything you can lay your finger on--not till you get over there, a little east by sou’east. Don’t you see anything the matter over there?” He asked the question with cordial interest.

The Frenchman held the eyeglass chain in his fingers. He swung the glasses to his nose and stared at the spot indicated.

Uncle William regarded him hopefully.

The glasses dropped. He faced about, shaking his head. “I’m afraid I don’t see it.” He spoke in polite deprecation. “It seems to me very nearly perfect.” He faced it again. “I can breathe that air.”

“So can I,” said Uncle William. “So can I.”

They stood looking at it in silence. “It’ll be fo’-five hours before it strikes,” said Uncle William, thoughtfully.

“Before it--” The Frenchman had half turned. The rapt look in his face wrinkled a little.

“Before it strikes,” repeated Uncle William. “That cloud I p’inted out to you means business.”

The Frenchman looked again. The wrinkles crept to the corners of his eyes. He turned them on Uncle William. “I see. You were speaking of the weather?”

“Wa’n’t you?” demanded Uncle William.

“Well--partly. Yes, partly. But I’m afraid I was thinking how well it is done.” His face grew dreamy. “To think that paint and canvas and a few careless strokes--”

“He worked putty hard,” broke in Uncle William. Sergia’s hand on his arm stayed him. He remained open-mouthed, staring at his blunder.

But the Frenchman had not perceived it. He accepted the correction with a cordial nod. “Of course--infinite patience. And then a thing like that!” he lifted his hand toward it slowly. It was a kind of courteous salute--the obeisance due to royalty.

Uncle William watched it a little grudgingly. “They’re putty good rocks,” he said--“without paint.”

The Frenchman faced him. “Don’t I know?” He checked himself. “I’ve not mentioned it to you, but I was born and brought up on those rocks.”

“You was!” Uncle William confronted him.

The stranger nodded, smiling affably. His long nose was reminiscent. “I’ve played there many a time.”

Sergia’s face watched him hopefully.

Uncle William’s had grown a little stern. He bent toward the stranger. “I don’t think I jest caught your name,” he said slowly.

“My name is Curie,” said the man, politely--“Benjamin F. Curie.” He extracted a card from his pocket and handed it to Uncle William with a deep bow.

Uncle William pinched it between his thumb and forefinger. He drew down the spectacles from his tufts and examined it carefully. Then he bent and snapped it in his fingers. “I don’t know no such--”

A hand was laid lightly on his arm. “Come, we must look at the other pictures. It is almost time to go.”

The crowd had thinned a little and they walked through it easily, three abreast. But Uncle William had moved to the other side of the girl, as far away from the Frenchman as he could get. Now and then he cast a glance of disapproval at the tall, dipping figure as it bent to the girl or lifted itself to gaze at some picture. There was distrust in Uncle William’s glance, mingled with vague disturbance. When they paused again, he moved around in front of the man. “The’ ’s suthin’ kind o’ familiar about your face--” he began.

Sergia’s hand was again on his arm.

He patted it lightly. “Don’t you worry a mite, Sergia. I ain’t goin’ to say anything rash. But it does seem to me as if I’ve seen Mr. Curie’s face somewheres or other. ’T ain’t a face you’re liable to forget.”

The Frenchman acknowledged the compliment. “It is possible we have met. You have traveled?”

“A leetle,” admitted Uncle William.

Sergia’s face relaxed. She moved away for a minute.

The Frenchman nodded. “We have doubtless met; but one forgets--” He lifted his eyeglasses and surveyed Uncle William’s round, good face. “It doesn’t seem as if I could have forgotten yours,” he said thoughtfully. “And yet I don’t place it.”

Sergia had returned. “He has been to St. Petersburg,” she suggested.

The Frenchman’s look cleared. “Ah--! It must have been there. It is a privilege to have met you again, sir.” He held out his long, slim hand. “I wish you would come and see me. You have my address.” He motioned to the card.

Uncle William looked down at it. “I’m startin’ for home to-morrow,” he said dryly.

“Indeed! And your home is--”

Sergia interposed a graceful hand. “Good-night, M. Curie. _You_ will come and see _me_. Mama would be glad I have found you again.”

He looked down at her mistily. His gaze lingered on her face. “I shall come, my child,” he said gallantly, almost tenderly. “I shall come many times.”

“Yes, I shall look for you. Be sure.” She took Uncle William’s arm and moved away to the staircase.

Uncle William’s mouth opened and closed once or twice with a little puff. When they reached the foot of the stairs he broke out. “He says he’s a Curie.” He flipped the card in his hand. “I’ve known Arichat, man and boy, for sixty year. The’ wa’n’t never any Curies there.”

She looked up at him a little perplexed. “Couldn’t you have forgotten?”

Uncle William shook his head. “I wish ’t I had. You set a good deal o’ store by him, I can see. But I ain’t likely to forget anybody that’s been brought up there. The’ _was_ suthin’ kind o’ familiar about him, too.” He said it almost irascibly.

The girl sighed softly. “Well, he may have been romancing. Frenchmen do--at times--”

“I call it lying,” snorted Uncle William.

“Yes, yes.” She patted his arm. “But can’t you understand how you would feel if you saw something beautiful--some place that made you feel the way you used to feel when you were a child? You might think for a moment that you had really been there, and say it--without meaning to tell a lie. That’s what I meant.”

Uncle William looked down at her admiringly. “You do put that mighty nice, don’t you? You ’most make me believe I could do it, and I guess mebbe I could. But Andy couldn’t,” he added, with conviction.

The girl followed her thought. “And what does it matter--if he buys the pictures.”

“Well, it matters some,” said Uncle William, slowly. “I dunno ’s I want a liar, not a real liar, ownin’ a picter o’ my house. But if he jest romances, mebbe I could stand it. It does seem different somehow.”

When they parted, she looked at him a little wistfully. “I should like to see him again,” she said, waiting.

“Like enough,” said Uncle William, gently--“like enough. But I reckon he don’t need you just now.” He held her hand, looking down at her kindly.

“_I_ could see _him_,” she suggested.

“How’s that?”

“I could come down to the boat. I would be careful not to let him see me.”

Uncle William considered it. “Well, I dunno ’s that would do any harm--if you’re sure you could keep out o’ the way.”

“Yes,” eagerly.

“We’re goin’ by the Halifax boat,” said Uncle William. “I can make better ’rangements that way. I know the captain.”

“Yes?” It was a question.

“Well, I guess ’t you can come. Good night, my dear.” He bent and kissed her gravely.

Her eyes followed the tall figure till it loomed away in the dark.

XIX

The 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 wouldn’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 wouldn’t think any--”

“It wasn’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 shouldn’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 jut by turnin’ and sailin’ that way when he was sick. Seem ’s if he stopped pullin’ against things and just 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 wouldn’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.

XX

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; and when, a few hours later, he shifted it on account of wind or rain or sun, she followed without demur. For her the sun rose and set in Uncle William’s round face and the depths of the clam-basket.

The artist watched the comedy with amused disapproval. He suspected Uncle William of trifling away the time. The spring was fairly upon them, and the _Andrew Halloran_ still swung at anchor alone at the foot of the cliff. Whenever the artist broached the subject of a new boat, Uncle William turned it aside with a jest and trotted off to his clam-basket. The artist brooded in silence over his indebtedness and the scant chance of making it good. He got out canvas and brushes and began to paint, urged by a vague sense that it might bring in something, some time. When he saw that Uncle William was pleased, he kept on. The work took his mind off himself, and he grew strong and vigorous. Andy, coming upon him one day on the beach, looked at his brown face almost in disapproval. “You’re a-feelin’ putty well, ain’t you?” he said grudgingly.

“I am,” responded the artist. He mixed the color slowly on his palette. A new idea had come into his head. He turned it over once and then looked at Andy. The look was not altogether encouraging. But he brought it out quickly. “You’re a rich man, aren’t you, Andy?”

Andy, pleased and resentful, hitched the leg of his trousers. “I dunno’s I be,” he said slowly. “I’ve got money--some. But it takes a pile to live on.”

“Yes?” The artist stood away from his canvas, looking at it. “You and Uncle William are pretty good friends, aren’t you?”

“Good enough,” replied Andy. His mouth shut itself securely.

The artist did not look at it. He hastened on. “He misses his boat a good deal.”

“I know that,” snapped Andy. His green eye glowered at the bay. “Ef it hadn’t been for foolishness he’d hev it now.”

The artist worked on quietly. “I lost his boat for him, Andy. I know that as well as you do. You needn’t rub it in.”

“What you goin’ to do about it?” demanded Andy.

“I’m goin’ to ask you to lend me the money for a new one.”

“No, sir!” Andy put his hands in his pockets.

“I’ll give you my note for it,” said the artist.

“I do’ want your note,” retorted Andy. “I’d rather have William’s and his ain’t wuth the paper it’s writ on.”

The artist flushed under his new color. “I don’t know just why you say that. I shall pay all I owe--in time.”

“Well, you may, and then again you mayn’t,” said Andy. His tone was less crusty. “All I know is, you’ve cost William a heap o’ money, fust and last. You’ve et a good deal, and you lost the _Jennie_, and he had to borrow a hunderd of me to go to New York with.” Andy spoke with unction. He was relieving his mind.

The artist looked up. “I didn’t know that.” He began to gather up his materials.

“What you goin’ to do?” asked Andy.

“I’m going to find Uncle William,” said the artist.

Andy fidgeted a little. He looked off at the water. “I wa’n’t findin’ no fault,” he said uneasily. “I was just explainin’ why I couldn’t resk any more o’ my money on him.”

“That’s all right,” said the artist. “I want to see him.”

He found Uncle William sunning the kittens at the east of the house. He looked up with a nod as the artist appeared. “They’re doin’ fust-rate,” he said, adjusting the clam-basket a little. “They’ll be a credit to their raisin’. Set down.”

The artist seated himself on a rock near by. The sun fell warm on his back. Across the harbor a little breeze ran rippling. At the foot of the cliff Andy was making ready to lift anchor. The artist watched him a minute. “You’ve wasted a good deal of money on me,” he said soberly.

Uncle William looked at him. He dropped an eye to the _Andrew Halloran_. “He been talkin’ to ye?” he asked cheerfully.

“He told me you borrowed of him--”

“Now, don’t you mind that a mite. Andy don’t. He’s proud as Punch to hev me owe him suthin’. He reminds me of it every day or two. All I mind about is your frettin’ and takin’ on so. If you’d jest be easy in your mind, we’d have a reel comf’tabul time--with the kittens and all.” He replaced one that had sprawled over the edge. “The’ ’s a lot o’ comfort in doin’ for dumb things,” he went on cheerfully. “They can’t find fault with the way you fix ’em.” He chuckled a little.

The artist smiled. “Look here, Uncle William, you can’t fool me any longer. You’re just pining for a boat. Look at that!” He waved his hand at the water dimpling below.

Uncle William’s gaze dwelt on it fondly for a minute.

“And you sit here dawdling over that basket of kittens!” Scorn and disgust struggled in the artist’s voice.

Uncle William laughed out. He stood up. “What is ’t you want me to do?” he asked.

The artist eyed him miserably. “That’s the worst of it--I don’t know.”

“Well, I’ll tell ye,” said Uncle William. “We’ll row down and get the mail, and after that we’ll plan about the boat. I ain’t quite so daft as I look,” he said half apologetically. “I’ve been turnin’ it over in my mind whilst I’ve been doin’ the kittens, and I’ve ’bout decided what to do. But fust, we’ll get the mail.”

XXI

There was a letter for the artist. It contained a check from the Frenchman. He had bought three of the pictures--the one of Uncle William’s house and the two of the old Bodet place.

“Did you know it?” demanded the artist. He was facing Uncle William in the boat as they rowed home.

“I didn’t know it,” said Uncle William, with a long, easy pull, “but I reckoned suthin’ ’d be along putty soon. If it hadn’t come to-day, I was goin’ to make Andy give us enough to begin on.”

“He wouldn’t have done it.”

“Oh, yes, he’d ’a’ done it. He’d ’a’ squirmed and twisted some, but he’d ’a’ done it. He’d ’a’ had to!”

The artist laughed out happily. “Well, now you can do as you like. We’ll have the best boat there is going.”

Uncle William nodded. “I knew you’d want to. I’ve been kind o’ plannin’ for it. We’ll go down to-morrow or next day and see about it.”

The artist looked at him curiously. “I don’t believe you care half as much as I do!”

Uncle William returned the look, smiling broadly. “It’ll seem putty good to feel my own boards under me again,” he said cheerfully.

“But you didn’t care when you didn’t have them,” said the artist. “You just toted those infernal kittens--”

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 scanned the horizon with disappointed face. “He’ll be back by noon, perhaps?”

Uncle William shook his head. “Not afore night. I can tell by the way he’s movin’. We’ll come up and hev dinner and then we can plan her out.”

They sat on the rocks all the afternoon, looking at the dancing waves and planning for the new _Jennie_. Uncle William drew models on the back of an old envelope and explained figures. The artist followed him with eager eyes. Now and then his chest expanded and he drew a deep breath of satisfaction.

“Feel’s good, don’t it?” said Uncle William. “I ust to feel that way when I’d been in debt a good while and made a big ketch. Seemed ’s if the whole world slid off my shoulders.” He shook his head. “But it was kind o’ foolishness.”

“Wouldn’t you feel that way now?” demanded the artist.

“I don’t believe I would,” said Uncle William, slowly. “It’s a kind o’ wicked feelin’--when the sun’s a-shinin’ jest the same, and the water’s movin’ up and down,--” he motioned toward the harbor,--“and the boats are comin’ in at night, settlin’ down like birds, and the lights.” He looked affectionately at the water. “It’s all there jest the same whether I owe anybody or not. And the rocks don’t budge much--” He laid his big brown hand on the warm surface beside him, smoothing it in slow content.

The artist looked at him, smiling a little wistfully. “It sounds all very well to talk about,” he said, “but the world would go to rack and ruin if everybody felt that way.”

“I ust to think so,” said Uncle William, placidly. “I ust to lie awake nights worryin’ about it. But late years I’ve give it up. Seems to jog along jest about the same as when I was worryin’--and _I_ take a heap sight more comfort. Seems kind o’ ridiculous, don’t it, when the Lord’s made a world as good as this one, not to enjoy it some?”

“Don’t you feel any responsibility toward society?” asked the artist, curiously.