The room was filled with the hum of light--faces and flowers and color
everywhere. Uncle William walked among them erect, overtopping the
crowd, his gaze, for the most part, on the sky-line. Sergia, beside him,
seemed a slight figure. Glances followed them as they went, amused or
curious or a little admiring. Uncle William, oblivious to the glances
and to the crowd that opened before him, and closed silently behind the
great figure, beamed upon it all. He was used to making his way through
a crowd unhindered. To Sergia the experience was more novel, and she
watched the crowd and the pictures and the old man moving serene among
them, with amused eyes. Once she called his attention to a celebrated
painter in the crowd. Uncle William’s eye rested impartially upon him
for a moment and returned to its sky-line. “He looks to me kind o’
pindlin’. One o’ the best, is he?”
“He’s not strong, you mean?”
“Well, not strong, and not much _to_ him--as if the Lord was kind o’
skimped for material. Is that one o’ _his_ picters?”
Her eyes followed his hand. “Alan’s! Come.” They moved quickly to it
across the larger room. “They are all here.” Her glance had swept the
walls. “In the best light, too.” She moved eagerly from one to the
other. “See how well they are hung.”
Uncle William’s eye surveyed them. “Middlin’ plumb,” he assented. “That
fu’ther one looks to me a leetle mite off the level. It’s the one o’ my
house, too.” He moved toward it and straightened the frame with careful
hand, then he stepped back, gazing at it with pride. “Putty good, ain’t
it?” he said.
She smiled, quietly. “Perfect. He has never done anything so good.”
“It _is_ a putty nice house,” said Uncle William. His eye dwelt on it
fondly. “I’d a’most forgot how nice it was. You see that little cloud
there--that one jest over the edge? That means suthin’ ’fore mornin’.”
He lifted his hand to it. “I wouldn’t trust a sky like that--not without
reefin’ down good.” He drew a breath. “Cur’us how it makes you feel
right there!” he said. “I’d a’most forgot.” He glanced at the moving
crowd a little hostilely and drew another deep breath.
“The atmosphere _is_ fine,” said the girl. She was studying it with
half-shut eyes, her head thrown a little back. “It is clear and deep.
You can almost breathe it.”
“It is a good climate,” assented Uncle William. “You couldn’t get sick
there if you tried. Can’t hardly die.” He chuckled a little. “Sam’l
Gruchy’s been tryin’ for six year now. He was ninety-seven last month.
We don’t think nuthin’ o’ roundin’ out a hunderd up there--not the
cheerful ones. ’Course if you fret, you can die ’most anywhere.”
“Yes, if you fret.” The girl was looking at him with pleased eyes. “I
don’t suppose you’ve ever known what it was to fret?”
“Me? Lord, yes! I ust to fret about everything--fretted for fear it
would blow and for fear it wouldn’t blow.” His eyes were on the shifting
green waves. “I never put down a net nor a lobster-pot that I didn’t
see ’em bein’ chewed up or knocked to pieces. I’d see a shark a-swimmin’
right through a big hole--rip-p--tear. I could see it as plain as if I
was down there under the water--all kind o’ green and cool, and things
swimmin’ through it. I can see it jest the same now if I shut my eyes,
only it’s fishes I see swimmin’ into my net now--shoals of ’em. The’
ain’t a shark in sight.” He was looking down at her, smiling.
She nodded. “You’re an optimist now.”
He stared a little. “No, I don’t reckon I’m anything that sounds like
that, but I _do_ take life comf’tabul. The’ ain’t a place anywheres
’round to set and rest, is the’? You look to me kind o’ used up.”
“I am tired--a little. Come. There won’t be any one here.” She led the
way into a small room beyond. A bench facing the large room was vacant,
and they sat down on it. Through the vista of the open door they could
see two of Alan’s pictures. They sat in silence for a few minutes,
watching the crowd come and go in front of the pictures. She turned to
him at last with a little smile. “They are making a hit,” she said.
“Be they?” He peered at them intently. His face softened. “They’d o’t
to. They’re nice picters.”
“Yes.” She had started forward a little, her breath coming swiftly. “Do
you see that man--the tall one with the gray hair and pointed beard?”
Uncle William adjusted his spectacles. “That kind o’ peaked one, you
mean, that dips along some like a government lighter?”
She laughed out, her hands moving with little gestures of pleasure.
“That’s the one. I know him.”
“Do you?” Uncle William looked at him again politely. “He has a good
deal o’ trimmin’ on, but he looks like a nice sort o’ man.”
“He is--he is--if he’s the one I think--”
The man, who wore on his coat the decoration of several orders, had
turned a little and was looking back over the crowd.
The girl clasped her hands tightly. “Oh, it _is_,” she said under her
breath. “It is.”
Uncle William looked down almost jealously. “You set a good deal o’
store by seein’ him,” he said.
“It isn’t that. I like him, yes, but he knows good work. If he really
takes them in, he’ll not let them go.”
Uncle William adjusted his spectacles again. “You mean--”
“He will buy them, yes. Hush!” She held out her hand.
The man had turned back to the pictures. He lifted a pair of eyeglasses
that swung at the end of a long chain and placed them on his nose. He
looked again at the picture before him. The glasses dropped from his
nose, and he dipped to the catalogue he held in his hand.
Uncle William’s glance followed him a little uneasily. “You mean he’ll
buy my house?” he asked.
She nodded, her face overflowing with happiness.
Uncle William surveyed it. “I was cal’atin’ to have that one myself.” He
said it almost grudgingly.
“You were? Could you?” she faced him.
“Couldn’t I have it as well as him?” He nodded toward the man in the
distance intent on his catalogue.
The girl’s brow wrinkled a little. “He is rich,” she said. “I didn’t
know--”
“Well, I ain’t rich,” said Uncle William, “but I reckon I could scrape
together enough to pay for a picter.”
The girl’s face lighted. “Of course, Alan would rather you had it. And
he may buy one of the others.”
The man had moved on a little, out of sight. The picture remained facing
them. For a minute the crowd had parted in front of it and they saw it
at the end of a long pathway. Uncle William drew a proud breath. “How
much will it cost?” he said.
She took up the catalogue from her lap and opened it, glancing down the
page. “It must be here--somewhere. Yes, this is it--‘The House on the
Rocks,’ $2000.”
Uncle William’s jaw clicked a little as it came together. He held out a
hand. “Will you jest let me look at that a minute?” he said.
He ran his great finger down the page. When it came to the $2000, he
pressed it a little with his thumb, as if expecting it to rub off. Then
he looked at her, shaking his head. “It’s a leetle higher’n I can go,”
he said slowly. “I wa’n’t expectin’ it would cost so much. You see, the
house itself didn’t cost more’n three hunderd, all told, and I thought a
picter of it wouldn’t cost more’n five or six.”
“Five or six hundred?” Her eyes laughed.
Uncle William shook his head guiltily. “Not more’n five or six dollars,”
he said. “I reckon mebbe I _did_ put it a leetle low.” A smile had
bloomed again in his face. “If he can pay the price, he’ll have to have
it, I reckon--for all o’ me.”
“Yes, he can pay it. He is very rich, and he cares for pictures. He has
hundreds. He buys them everywhere--in Paris, London, St. Petersburg,
Italy--It only depends on whether he likes--”
The man had come into view again and was studying the picture, dipping
toward it in little sidewise flights. Uncle William watched the
pantomime jealously. “How’d you come to know him?” he asked.
“He knew my mother. He had known her from a girl. I think he loved her,”
she said quietly, her eyes on the man. “He was on the legation at St.
Petersburg--See! He _does_ like them!” She had leaned forward.
Uncle William glanced up.
The man was standing a little removed from the painting, his arms
folded, his head thrown back, oblivious to the crowd.
She rose quickly. “I am going to speak to him,” she said. “Wait here for
me.” She passed into the changing throng that filled the room beyond.
Uncle William waited patiently, his eyes studying the swift kaleidoscope
of the doorway. When she reappeared in it, her face was alight with
color. “Come.” She held out her hand. “I want you to meet him. He likes
them--oh, very much!” She pressed her hands together lightly. “I think
he will buy them--two, at least.”
Uncle William got to his feet. “I s’pose ye told him about Alan and
about my place.”
She stopped short, looking at him reproachfully. “Not a word,” she
said--“not a single word!”
Uncle William’s countenance fell. “Wa’n’t that what you went out for?”
“No; and you must not mention it. I only told him that you liked them.”
“Can’t I even say that’s my house out there?” He waved his hand.
“Never!” It was energetic. “You would spoil it all.”
“Will it hurt it any to be my house?” he asked, a little sore.
“You know it is not that.” She laid her hand on his arm affectionately.
“We shall tell him all about it some day; but now, just now, while he is
making up his mind, it would distract him. He wants to look at them as
art.”
Uncle William sighed gently. “Well, I’ll do my best, but it’s goin’
agen’ nature not to bust right out with it.” They passed into the larger
room. On the opposite side the man was standing, his eyeglasses on his
nose, looking expectantly toward the door.
When he saw them, he smiled and moved forward with suave grace.