XIII
ncle William found the door of the studio, and bent to examine the card tacked on the panel. “Sergia Lvova, Teacher of Piano and Violin.”
He knocked gently.
“Come in.” The call came clear and straight.
Uncle William opened the door.
A girl sat at a table across the room, her eyes protected by a green shade from the lamp that burned near and threw its light on the page she was copying. She glanced up as the door opened and pushed up the green shade, looking out from under it inquiringly. She peered a moment and then sprang up, thrusting aside the shade with a quick turn. “I am so glad you ’ve come.” She crossed the room, holding out her hands. There was something clear and fresh in the motion—like a free creature, out of doors.
Uncle William stood smiling at her. “How do you know it ’s me?” he said.
The girl laughed quietly. “There could n’t be two.” Her voice had a running, musical quality, with deep notes in it and a little accent that caught at the words, tripping them lightly. She had taken his hands with a swift movement and was holding them, looking at him earnestly. “You are just as he said,” she nodded.
Uncle William returned the look. The upturned face flushed a little, but it did not fall. He put out his hand and touched it. “Some like a flower,” he said, “as near as I can make out—in the dark.” He looked about the huge, bare room, with its single flame shining on the page.
She moved away and lighted a gas-jet on the wall, and then another. She faced about, smiling. “Will that do?”
Uncle William nodded. “I like a considabul light,” he said.
“Yes.” She drew forward a chair. “Sit down.”
She folded her hands lightly, still scanning him. Uncle William settled his frame in the big chair. His glance traveled about the room. The two gas-jets flared at dark corners. A piano emerged mistily. Music-racks sketched themselves on the blackness. The girl’s face was the only bit of color. It glowed like a red flower, out of the gloom. Uncle William’s glance came back to it. “I got your letter all right,” he said.
“I knew you would come.”
“Yes.” He was searching absently in his pocket. He drew out the bluish slip of paper with rough edge. He handed it to her gravely. “I could n’t take that, my dear, you know.”
She put it aside on the table. “I thought you might not have money enough to come at once, and he needed you.”
“Yes, he needed me. He ’s better.”
Her face lightened. The rays of color awoke and played in it. “You have cured him.”
“Well,”—Uncle William was judicious,—“I give him a pill.”
She laughed out. “He needed you,” she said.
“Did he?” Uncle William leaned forward. “I never had anybody need me—not really need me.” His tone confided it to her.
She looked back at him. “I should think every one would.”
He looked a little puzzled. “I dunno. But I see, from the way you wrote, that he did, so I come right along.”
“He will get well now.”
“He was middlin’ discouraged,” said Uncle William.
“He could n’t see anything the way it is.” Her face had flushed a little, but the light in her eyes was clear.
Uncle William met it. “You showed a good deal of sense,” he said.
The face, as she pushed back the hair from it, looked tired. “I had to think for two.”
Uncle William nodded. “He wants to see you.”
She mused over it. “Do you think I ’d better?”
“No,” said Uncle William, promptly.
Her lips remained parted. “Not to-morrow?” she said. Her lips closed on the word gently.
“Not for a considabul spell.” Uncle William shook his head. “He ain’t acted right.”
“He was ill.”
“He was sick,” admitted Uncle William, “—some. But it was some cussedness, too. That ain’t the main thing though.” Uncle William leaned nearer. “He ’ll get well faster if he has suthin’ to kind o’ pester him.”
She looked at him with open eyes.
“It ’s the way men be,” said Uncle William. “The Lord knew how ’t was, I reckon, when he made ’em. He hadn’t more ’n got ’em done, ’fore he made wimmen.” He beamed on her genially. “He ’ll get well a good deal faster if the’ ’s suthin’ he thinks he wants and can’t have.”
“Yes.—How will you keep him away?” A little twinkle sounded in her voice.
“I ’ll take him home with me,” said Uncle William, “up to Arichat.”
“Now?”
“Well, in a day or two—soon ’s it ’s safe. It ’ll do him good to be up there. It ’d do anybody good.” His face grew wistful. “If you jest see it once, the way it is, you ’d know what I mean: kind o’ big sweeps,”—he waved his arm over acres of moor,—“an’ a good deal o’ sky—room enough for clouds, sizable ones, and wind. You ’d o’t to hear our wind.” He paused, helpless, before the wind. He could not convey it.
“I have heard it.”
He stared at her. “You been there?”
“I ’ve seen it, I mean—in Alan’s pictures.”
“Oh, them!” His tone reduced them to mere art. But a thought hung on it. “Where be they?” he asked.
“At the ‘Exhibition of American Artists.’” It was the tone of sheer pride.
“They took ’em, did they?” said William.
“They could n’t help it. They sent back one for lack of room, but he will have four hung.”
“That ’s good. You have n’t told him?”
“I only heard an hour ago, and I had copying to finish. I have a little recital, of my pupils, this evening. I was planning to write the letter and mail it on the way out.”
Uncle William started up. “I ’m hinderin’ ye.”
“No—please.” She had forced him back gently. “I shall not have to write the letter now. Tell me about him.” Her face was alight.
Uncle William considered. “The’ ain’t much to tell, I guess. He ’s gettin’ better. He ’s actin’ the way men gen’ally do.”
“Yes—?” Her voice sang a little. “And he wants to see me?”
“Wust way,” said Uncle William; “but he ain’t goin’ to. What was you copyin’ when I come in?”
“Some music—for one of the big houses. It helps out.”
Uncle William was looking at her thoughtfully. “He ’d better give up his place when we go,” he said. “He ’ll, like enough, stay with me all summer.”
“His rooms, you mean?” She mused a little. “Yes, perhaps—”
“They must cost a good deal,” said Uncle William.
“They do.” She paused a minute. “He is almost sure to take a prize,” she said. “It ’s the best work he has done.”
“That ’ll be good,” said Uncle William. “But we won’t count too much on it. He won’t need money in Arichat. A little goes a long ways up there. Good night.” He was holding out his hand.
She placed hers in it slowly. Uncle William lifted the slim fingers. He patted them benignly. “They don’t look good for much, but they ’re pretty,” he said.
She laughed out quietly. “They have to be,” she said. “They ’re my tools. I have to be careful of them. That is one of the things we quarreled about—Alan and I. He knew I ought not to use them and he would n’t let me do things for him, and he would n’t have a nurse, nor go to the hospital.” She sighed a little. “He was very obstinate.”
“Jest like a mule,” assented Uncle William. He was stroking the fingers gently. “But he ’s got a new driver this time.” He chuckled a little.
She looked up quickly. “Has he consented to go?”
“Well, we ’re goin’.—It comes to the same thing I reckon,” said Uncle William. He was looking at the dark face with the darker lines beneath the eyes. “You ’ll hev an easier time,” he said. “It ’s been putty hard on you.”
“Oh, I don’t mind,” quickly, “—only the misunderstandings—and the quarrels—”
“That was the fever,” said Uncle William.
“But I did n’t have the fever,” said the girl. “I might have been patient.”
“Well, I reckon the Angil Gabriel himself ’d quarrel with a man that had one of them intermittent fevers,” said the old man thoughtfully. “They ’re powerful trying’. You feel better—a little—and you perk up and think you ’re goin’ to get well, and then, fust thing you know, there you are—all to do over again. If I had my ch’ice of all the diseases in the calendar, that ’s the one I would n’t take. Some on ’em you hev the comfort of knowin’ you ’ll die of ’em—if ye live long enough.” He chuckled a little. “But this one, ye can’t die and ye can’t get well.”
“But he is going to get well?” The girl’s eyes held him.
“Yes, he ’ll be all right if he can set out in the wind a spell—and the sun. The fever ’s broke. What he wants now is plenty to eat and good company. You ’ll be comin’ up to see us byme-by, mebbe?” He looked at her hopefully.
“Do you think I could?”
“Well, I dunno why not. He ’ll be gettin’ restless in a month or so. You might as well be married up there as anywhere. We ’ve got a good minister—a fust-rate one.”
She smiled a little wistfully. “He won’t have me,” she said.
“Shucks!” said Uncle William. “You come up, and if he don’t marry you, I will.”
A bell sounded somewhere. She started. “I must go.” A thought crossed her face. “I wonder if you would like it—the recital?” 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. I might like ’em fust-rate. And it won’t take long?”
“No—only an hour or two. You can leave him, can’t you?” The pretty forehead had wrinkled again.
“Easy as not,” said Uncle William. “Best thing for him. He ’ll have a chanct to miss me a little.”
She smiled at him reproachfully. “We ’ll have to hurry, I ’m afraid. It ’s only a step. But we ought to go at once.”
Uncle William followed in her wake, admiring the quick, lithe movements of the tall figure. Now that the flower-like face was turned away, she seemed larger, more vigorous. “A regular clipper, and built for all kinds of weather,” said Uncle William as he followed fast. “I would n’t be afraid to trust her anywheres. She ’d reef down quick in a blow.” He chuckled to himself.
She looked around. “Here we are.”