IX
ncle William sniffed the air of the docks with keen relish. The spring warmth had brought out the smells of lower New York teemingly. There was a dash of salt air and tar, and a dim odor of floating—of decayed vegetables and engine-grease and dirt. It was the universal port-smell the world over, and Uncle William took it in in leisurely whiffs as he watched the play of life in the dockshed—the backing of horses and the shouting of the men, the hollow sound of hoofs on the worn planks and the trundling hither and thither of boxes and barrels and bales.
He was in no hurry to leave the dock. It was a part of the journey—the sense of leisure. Men who travel habitually by sea do not rush from the vessel that has brought them to port, gripsack in hand. There are innumerable details—duties, inspections and quarantines, and delays and questionings. The sea gives up her cargo slowly. The customs move with the swift leisure of those who live daily between Life and the Deep Sea—without hurry and without rest.
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.