XVIII
hey met midway in the room. The two tall men stood facing each other, overtopping the crowd. The Frenchman held out his hand. “I am glad to meet you,” he said.
Uncle William took the thin hand in his hearty one. “I am glad to meet you,” he responded. “Sergia ’s been tellin’ me about you. She said you liked the picter over yonder.” Uncle William’s thumb described the arc of a circle.
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 would n’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 does n’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. “Could n’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 could n’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.