Uncle 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 couldn’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 couldn’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 couldn’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’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 couldn’t help it. They sent back one for lack of room, but he will
have four hung.”
“That’s good. You haven’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 wouldn’t
let me do things for him, and he wouldn’t have a nurse, nor go to the
hospital.” She sighed a little. “He was very obstinate.”
“Just 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_ didn’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 _wouldn’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
chance 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 reg’lar clipper, and built for all
kinds of weather,” said Uncle William as he followed fast. “I wouldn’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.”