XV
ncle William crept into the rooms like a thief, but the artist was sleeping soundly. He did not stir as the latch gave a little click in the lock. “That ’s good,” said Uncle William. He had slipped off his shoes and was in his stocking feet. He stole over to the bed and stood looking down at the thin face. It was a little drawn, with hollow eyes. “He ’ll perk considabul when he hears about them picters,” said Uncle William.
But in the morning when, after breakfast, Uncle William announced his great news, the artist ignored it. “Is she coming—Sergia?”
Uncle William scowled his forehead in recollection. “Now, I can’t seem to remember ’t she said so.”
“What did she say?” The tone was imperative.
“Well, she asked how you was gettin’ along. I told her that—as well as I could.”
“Did n’t you tell her I wanted to see her?”
“Yes, I told her that.” Uncle William’s voice was impartial.
“Well?”
“She did n’t seem to think much of it. I guess if I was you I ’d hurry up and get well so ’s to go see her.”
The artist’s face had grown hard. “I shall not go until I can carry her the money in my hand—all that I owe her.”
“Is ’t a good deal?” asked Uncle William.
But the artist had turned his face to the wall.
Uncle William looked down at him with a kind of compassionate justice. “If I was you—”
A whistle sounded and an arm, holding a letter, was thrust in at the door.
“What is it?” The artist had turned. He half raised himself, reaching out a hand. “What is it? Give it to me.”
Uncle William examined the lines slowly. “Why, it seems to be for me,” he said kindly. “I dunno anybody that ’d be writin’ to me.”
He found his glasses and opened it, studying the address once or twice and shaking his head.
The artist had sunk back, indifferent.
“Why!” The paper rustled in Uncle William’s hand. He looked up. “She ’s gone!” he said.
The artist started up, glaring at him.
Uncle William shook his head, looking at him pityingly. “Like as not we sha’n’t see her again, ever.”
The artist’s hand groped. “What is it?” he whispered.
“She ’s gone—left in the night.”
“She will come back.” The gaunt eyes were fixed on his face
Uncle William shook his head again, returning the gaze with a kind of sternness. “I dunno,” he says. “When a man treats her like Andy has, she must kind o’ hate him—like pizen.”
The artist sat up, a look of hope faint and perplexed, dawning beneath his stare. He leaned forward, speaking slowly. “What are you talking about?”
“I ’m talkin’ about that.” Uncle William held out the letter. “It ’s from Andy, and Juno ’s left him. Took to the woods. She could n’t stan’ havin’ him round, I guess.” Uncle William chuckled a little.
The young man lay back. He moistened his lips a little with his tongue. “You were talking about her?” The words were a whisper.
Uncle William looked at him over his glasses. “Did n’t you hear me say so?”
There was a long silence. “I thought you meant—Sergia.”
“Sergia!—What!” Uncle William looked down at the letter. A light dawned slowly in his eye. He fixed it on the young man. A chuckle sounded somewhere and grew in little rolls, tumbling up from the depths. “You thought I meant—her!” Uncle William’s sides shook gently. “Lord, no! Sergia did n’t run away. She ’ll stan’ by till the last man’s hung. She ’s that kind.”
“I know.” The tone was jealous. “I ought to know.”
“Yes, you ought to know.” Uncle William left the moral to take care of itself. He did up the work, singing hopefully as he rolled about the room, giving things what he called “a lick and a promise.”
“You were late last night,” said the artist, watching him.
“Yes, considabul late,” said Uncle William. He had come upon another pile of cigar-ashes behind a picture on the shelf, and was brushing it up, whistling softly. “You must ’a’ smoked a good deal,” he said, rapping out the ashes. “I ’ve been sweepin’ ’em up ever since I come.”
“I did. It helped me forget.”
“It did n’t help you get well, I reckon,” said Uncle William. “What you need,” he added, “is fresh air and wind—and rocks.”
The artist mused. “It would seem good.”
The old man had paused in his work. “Will you go—to-morrow?”
The artist looked about him, hesitating. “I could n’t get ready—”
“I ’ll get ye ready.”
“We might—in a week?”
“I can’t wait,” said Uncle William, decisively. “I ’ve got to look up Juno. She ’ll like enough get desperate—drown herself the first thing I know. I ’m goin’ to start to-morrow. If you want to go along, I ’ll pack ye up.”
The young man looked at him helplessly. “I can’t get along without you. You know I need you.”
“Yes, I know you need me,” said Uncle William. “I kind o’ counted on that.” He began to pack vigorously, emerging now and then out of the dust and clatter to beam on the young man. “Now, don’t you worry a mite. You ’re goin’ to get well and earn money and come back and pay her, and everything ’s comin’ out all right.”
In the afternoon tickets arrived from Sergia. There was a line with them, asking Uncle William to call for her, at eight, that evening. The artist looked at the tickets a little enviously. “I should like to go, myself,” he said. “It ’s the first view.” He glanced at Uncle William appealingly.
The old man ignored it. “You could n’t go, noways,” he said; “not if we ’re goin’ to start to-morrow.”
The artist sighed. He was sitting in an arm-chair, wrapped in a blanket, a pillow behind his head. “I don’t suppose I could.” He sighed again.
Uncle William looked at him keenly. “The’ ’s a good deal of leg-work to an exhibit, ain’t they?”
“Yes.” The artist smiled faintly.
Uncle William nodded. “I thought so. Well, it ’s all you can do to set in a chair with a piller behind you. I would n’t say no more about picters if I was you.” He took down the mirror and laid it between two cushions, holding it in place while he reached for the knot. “I don’t suppose you have the least idee how you look,” he said. “I cal’ate to have you look a sight better ’n that ’fore Sergia sees you.”
The artist’s face flushed. “Give me the glass.”
Uncle William shook his head. “I ’ve got to hustle to get these things done.” He drew the sailor’s knot firmly in place. “I cal’ate to have everything ready so ’s to get an early start.”
“She would n’t mind how I looked,” said the young man, defensively.
“Mebbe not.” Uncle William was gathering together the trifles from the shelf and table, and knotting them in a table-spread. “You want to save this out?” he asked indifferently. It was a picture of the girl in an oval frame.
The young man seized it. He was looking at it with warm eyes.
Uncle William glanced down on them from his height. “Mebbe not,” he said gently, “but I reckon she ’d hate to see ye lookin’ like that. It ’s about all I can stan’ to see ye, myself.”