



Produced by Dagny; John Bickers





UNCLE WILLIAM

THE MAN WHO WAS SHIF'LESS

By Jennette Lee



     TO GERALD STANLEY LEE

     "Let him sing to me
     Who sees the watching of the stars above the day,
     Who hears the singing of the sunrise
     On its way
     Through all the night.

     * * * * *

     Let him sing to me
     Who is the sky-voice, the thunder-lover,
     Who hears above the winds' fast flying shrouds
     The drifted darkness, the heavenly strife,
     The singing on the sunny sides of all the clouds
     Of his own life."





UNCLE WILLIAM




I

"Yes, I'm shif'less. I'm gen'ally considered shif'less," said William
Benslow. He spoke in a tone of satisfaction, and hitched his trousers
skilfully into place by their one suspender.

His companion shifted his easel a little, squinting across the harbor
at the changing light. There was a mysterious green in the water that he
failed to find in his color-box.

William Benslow watched him patiently. "Kind o' ticklish business, ain't
it?" he said.

The artist admitted that it was.

"I reckon I wouldn't ever 'a' done for a painter," said the old man,
readjusting his legs. "It's settin'-work, and that's good; but you have
to keep at it steady-like--keep a-daubin' and a-scrapin' and a-daubin'
and a-scrapin', day in and day out. I shouldn't like it. Sailin''s more
in my line," he added, scanning the horizon. "You have to step lively
when you do step, but there's plenty of off times when you can set and
look and the boat just goes skimmin' along all o' herself, with the
water and the sky all round you. I've been thankful a good many times
the Lord saw fit to make a sailor of me."

The artist glanced a little quizzically at the tumble-down house on
the cliff above them and then at the old boat, with its tattered maroon
sail, anchored below. "There's not much money in it?" he suggested.

"Money? Dunno's there is," returned the other. "You don't reely need
money if you're a sailor."

"No, I suppose not--no more than an artist."

"Don't you need money, either?" The old man spoke with cordial interest.

"Well, occasionally--not much. I have to buy canvas now and then, and
colors--"

The old man nodded. "Same as me. Canvas costs a little, and color. I dye
mine in magenta. You get it cheap in the bulk--"

The artist laughed out. "All right, Uncle William, all right," he said.
"You teach me to trust in the Lord and I'll teach you art. You see that
color out there,--deep green like shadowed grass--"

The old man nodded. "I've seen that a good many times," he said.
"Cur'us, ain't it?--just the color of lobsters when you haul 'em."

The young man started. He glanced again at the harbor. "Hum-m!" he said
under his breath. He searched in his color-box and mixed a fresh color
rapidly on the palette, transferring it swiftly to the canvas. "Ah-h!"
he said, again under his breath. It held a note of satisfaction.

Uncle William hitched up his suspender and came leisurely across the
sand. He squinted at the canvas and then at the sliding water, rising
and falling across the bay. "Putty good," he said approvingly. "You've
got it just about the way it looks--"

"Just about," assented the young man, with quick satisfaction. "Just
about. Thank you."

Uncle William nodded. "Cur'us, ain't it? there's a lot in the way you
see a thing."

"There certainly is," said the painter. His brush moved in swift strokes
across the canvas. "There certainly is. I've been studying that water
for two hours. I never thought of lobsters." He laughed happily.

Uncle William joined him, chuckling gently. "That's nateral enough," he
said kindly. "You hain't been seein' it every day for sixty year, the
way I hev." He looked at it again, lovingly, from his height.

"What's the good of being an artist if I can't see things that you
can't?" demanded the young man, swinging about on his stool.

"Well, what _is_ the use? I dunno; do you?" said Uncle William,
genially. "I've thought about that a good many times, too, when I've
been sailin'," he went on--"how them artists come up here summer after
summer makin' picters,--putty poor, most on 'em,--and what's the use?
I can see better ones settin' out there in my boat, any day.--Not but
that's better'n some," he added politely, indicating the half-finished
canvas.

The young man laughed. "Thanks to you," he said. "Come on in and make
a chowder. It's too late to do any more to-day--and that's enough." He
glanced with satisfaction at the glowing canvas with its touch of green.
He set it carefully to one side and gathered up his tubes and brushes.

Uncle William bent from his height and lifted the easel, knocking it
apart and folding it with quick skill.

The artist looked up with a nod of thanks. "All right," he said, "go
ahead."

Uncle William reached out a friendly hand for the canvas, but the artist
drew it back quickly. "No, no," he said. "You'd rub it off."

"Like enough," returned the old man, placidly. "I gen'ally do get in
a muss when there's fresh paint around. But I don't mind my clothes.
They're ust to it--same as yourn."

The young man laughed anxiously. "I wouldn't risk it," he said. "Come
on."

They turned to the path that zigzagged its way up the cliff, and with
bent backs and hinged knees they mounted to the little house perched on
its edge.




II

The old man pushed open the door with a friendly kick. "Go right along
in," he said. "I'll be there's soon as I've got an armful of wood."

The artist entered the glowing room. Turkey-red blazed at the windows
and decorated the walls. It ran along the line of shelves by the fire
and covered the big lounge. One stepped into the light of it with a
sudden sense of crude comfort.

The artist set his canvas carefully on a projecting beam and looked
about him, smiling. A cat leaped down from the turkey-red lounge and
came across, rubbing his legs. He bent and stroked her absently.

She arched her back to his hand. Then, moving from him with stately
step, she approached the door, looking back at him with calm, imperious
gaze.

"All right, Juno," he said. "He'll be along in a minute. Don't you
worry."

She turned her back on him and, seating herself, began to wash her face
gravely and slowly.

The door opened with a puff, and she leaped forward, dashing upon
the big leg that entered and digging her claws into it in ecstasy of
welcome.

Uncle William, over the armful of wood, surveyed her with shrewd eyes.
He reached down a long arm and, seizing her by the tail, swung her clear
of his path, landing her on the big lounge. With a purr of satisfaction,
she settled herself, kneading her claws in its red softness.

He deposited the wood in the box and stood up. His bluff, kind gaze
swept the little room affectionately. He took off the stove-lid and
poked together the few coals that glowed beneath. "That's all right," he
said. "She'll heat up quick." He thrust in some light sticks and pushed
forward the kettle. "Now, if you'll reach into that box behind you and
get the potatoes," he said, "I'll do the rest of the fixin's."

He removed his hat, and taking down a big oil-cloth apron, checked red
and black, tied it about his ample waist. He reached up and drew from
behind the clock a pair of spectacles in steel bows. He adjusted them to
his blue eyes with a little frown. "They're a terrible bother," he said,
squinting through them and readjusting them. "But I don't dare resk
it without. I got hold of the pepper-box last time. Thought it was the
salt--same shape. The chowder _was_ hot." He chuckled. "I can see a boat
a mile off," he said, lifting the basket of clams to the sink, "but
a pepper-box two feet's beyond me." He stood at the sink, rubbing the
clams with slow, thoughtful fingers. His big head, outlined against the
window, was not unlike the line of sea-coast that stretched below, far
as the eye could see, rough and jagged. Tufts of hair framed his shining
baldness and tufts of beard embraced the chin, losing themselves in the
vast expanse of neckerchief knotted, sailor fashion, about his throat.

Over the clams and the potatoes and the steaming kettles he hovered
with a kind of slow patience,--in a smaller man it would have been
fussiness,--and when the fragrant chowder was done he dipped it out with
careful hand. The light had lessened, and the little room, in spite
of its ruddy glow, was growing dark. Uncle William glanced toward the
window. Across the harbor a single star had come out. "Time to set my
light," he said. He lighted a ship's lantern and placed it carefully in
the window.

The artist watched him with amused eyes. "You waste a lot of oil on the
government, Uncle William," he said laughingly. "Why don't you apply for
a salary?"

Uncle William smiled genially. "Well, I s'pose the guvernment would say
the' wa'n't any reel need for a light here. And I don't s'pose the' is,
_myself_--not any _reel_ need. But it's a comfort. The boys like to see
it, comin' in at night. They've sailed by it a good many year now, and
I reckon they'd miss it. It's cur'us how you do miss a thing that's a
comfort--more'n you do one 't you reely _need_ sometimes." He lighted
the lamp swinging, ship fashion, from a beam above, and surveyed the
table. He drew up his chair. "Well, it's ready," he said, "such as it
is."

"That's all airs, Uncle William," said the young man, drawing up. "You
know it's fit for a king."

"Yes, it's good," said the old man, beaming on him. "I've thought a good
many times there wa'n't anything in the world that tasted better
than chowder--real good clam chowder." His mouth opened to take in a
spoonful, and his ponderous jaws worked slowly. There was nothing gross
in the action, but it might have been ambrosia. He had pushed the big
spectacles up on his head for comfort, and they made an iron-gray bridge
from tuft to tuft, framing the ruddy face.

"There was a man up here to Arichat one summer," he said, chewing
slowly, "that e't my chowder. And he was sort o' possessed to have me go
back home with him."

The artist smiled. "Just to make chowder for him?"

The old man nodded. "Sounds cur'us, don't it? But that was what he
wanted. He was a big hotel keeper and he sort o' got the idea that if he
could have chowder like that it would be a big thing for the hotel. He
offered me a good deal o' money if I'd go with him--said he'd give
me five hunderd a year and keep." The old man chuckled. "I told him I
wouldn't go for a thousand--not for two thousand," he said emphatically.
"Why, I don't s'pose there's money enough in New York to tempt me to
live there.

"Have you been there?"

"Yes, I've been there a good many times. We've put in for repairs and
one thing and another, and I sailed a couple of years between there and
Liverpool once. It's a terrible shet-in place," he said suddenly.

"I believe you're right," admitted the young man. He had lighted his
pipe and was leaning back, watching the smoke. "You _do_ feel shut
in--sometimes. But there are a lot of nice people shut in with you."

"That's what I meant," he said, quickly. "I can't stan' so many folks."

"You're not much crowded here." The young man lifted his head. Down
below they could hear the surf beating. The wind had risen. It rushed
against the little house whirlingly.

The old man listened a minute. "I shall have to go down and reef her
down," he said thoughtfully. "It's goin' to blow."

"I should say it _is_ blowing," said the young man.

"Not yet," returned Uncle William. "You'll hear it blow afore mornin'
if you stay awake to listen--though it won't sound so loud up the shore
where you be. This is the place for it. A good stiff blow and nobody on
either side of you--for half a mile." A kind of mellow enthusiasm held
the tone.

The young man smiled. "You _are_ a hermit. Suppose somebody should build
next you?"

"They can't."

"Why not?"

"I own it."

"A mile?"

The old man nodded. "Not the shore, of course. That's free to all. But
where anybody could build I own." He said it almost exultantly. "I
guess maybe I'm part Indian." He smiled apologetically. "I can't seem to
breathe without I have room enough, and it just come over me once, how
I should feel if folks crowded down on me too much. So I bought it. I'm
what they call around here 'land-poor.'" He said it with satisfaction.
"I can't scrape together money enough to buy a new boat, and it's's
much as I can do to keep the _Jennie_ patched up and going. But I'm
comfortable. I don't really want for anything."

"Yes, you're comfortable." The young man glanced about the snug room.

"There ain't a lot of folks shying up over the rocks at me." He got up
with deliberation, knocking the ashes from his pipe. "I'm goin' to make
things snug and put down the other anchor," he said. "You stay till I
come back and we'll have suthin' hot."

He put on his oil-skin hat and coat, and taking the lantern from its
hook, went out into the night.

Within, the light of the swinging lamp fell on the turkey-red. It
glowed. The cat purred in its depths.




III

The artist had been dreaming. In his hand he held an open locket. The
face within it was dark, like a boy's, with careless hair brushed from
the temples, and strong lines. The artist knew the lines by heart, and
the soft collar and loose-flowing tie and careless dress. He had been
leaning back with closed eyes, watching the lithe figure, tall and
spare, with the rude grace of the Steppes, the freshness of the wind.
... How she would enjoy it--this very night--the red room perched
aloft in the gale!

A fresh blast struck the house and it creaked and groaned, and righted
itself. In the lull that followed, steps sounded up the rocky path. With
a snap, the young man closed the locket and sat up. The door opened on
Uncle William, shining and gruff. The lantern in his hand had gone out.
His hat and coat were covered with fine mist. He came across to the
fire, shaking it off.

"It's goin' to blow all right," he said, nodding to the artist.

"And it's raining. You're wet."

"Well, not _wet_, so to speak." He took off his hat, shaking it lightly
over the stove. A crackling and fine mist rose from the hot drops. Juno
lifted her head and yawned. She purred softly. The old man hung his hat
and coat on the wooden pegs behind the door and seated himself by the
stove, opening wide the drafts. A fresh blaze sprang up. The artist
leaned forward, holding out his hands to it.

"You were gone a good while," he said. The locket had slipped from his
fingers and hung lightly on its steel chain, swinging a little as he
bent to the fire.

The old man nodded. "I see the _Andrew Halloran_ had dragged her anchor
a little, as I went out, and I stopped to fix her. It took quite a
spell. I couldn't find the extry anchor. He'd got it stowed away for'ard
somewheres, and by the time I found it she was driftin' putty bad. I
found a good bottom for her and made things fast before I left. I reckon
she'll hold."

"Won't he be down himself to look after her?"

"Mebbe not. It's a goodish step, from his place, down and back. He knows
I keep an eye out for her.

"Why doesn't he anchor up there," said the artist, "near by?"

The old man shook his head. "He's a kind o' set man, Andy is--part Irish
and part Scotch. He al'ays _has_ anchored here and I reckon he al'ays
_will_. I told him when I bought the land of him he was welcome to."

"It was his land, then?"

"Most on it--I do' know as he _wanted_ to sell reely, but I offered him
more'n he could stan'. He's a little near--Andy is." He chuckled.

The artist laughed out. "So he keeps the anchorage and right of way and
you look after his boat. I don't see but he's fairly well fixed."

"Yes, he's putty well fixed," said the old man, slowly. "'S fur as
_this_ world's goods go Andy is comf'tably provided for." His eyes
twinkled a little, but most of the big face was sober. "We've been
neighbors, Andy 'n' me, ever sence we was boys," he said. "I guess there
ain't a mean thing about Andy that I don't know, and he the same about
me. I should feel kind o' lonesome nights not to hev his boat to look
after--and know, like as not, in the mornin' he'll come down, cussin'
and swearin' 'cause she wa'n't fixed jest right." He peered into the
kettle on the stove. "'Most empty." He filled it from the pail by the
sink, and resumed his seat, stretching his great legs comfortably. Juno
sprang from the lounge and perched herself on his knee. He tumbled her a
little, in rough affection, and rubbed his big fingers in her neck. She
purred loudly, kneading her claws with swift strokes in the heavy cloth.
He watched her benignly, a kind of detached humor in his eyes. "Wimmen
folks is a good deal alike," he remarked dryly. "They like to be
comf'tabul."

"Some of them," assented the artist.

The old man looked up with a swift twinkle. "So-o?" he said.

The artist sat up quickly. The locket swayed on its chain and his hand
touched it. "What do you mean?" he said.

"Why, nuthin', nuthin'," said Uncle William, soothingly. "Only I thought
you was occupied with art and so on--"?

"I am."

Uncle William said nothing.

Presently the artist leaned forward. "Do you want to see her?" he said.
He was holding it out.

Uncle William peered at it uncertainly. He rose and took down the
spectacles from behind the clock and placed them on his nose. Then he
reached out his great hand for the locket. The quizzical humor had gone
from his face. It was full of gentleness.

Without a word the artist laid the locket in his hand.

The light swung down from the lamp on it, touching the dark face. The
old man studied it thoughtfully. On the stove the kettle had begun to
hum. Its gentle sighing filled the room. The artist dreamed.

Uncle William pushed up his spectacles and regarded him with a satisfied
look. "You've had a good deal more sense'n I was afraid you'd have," he
said dryly.

The artist woke. "You can't tell--from that." He held out his hand.

Uncle William gave it up, slowly. "I can tell more'n you'd think,
perhaps. Wimmen and the sea are alike--some ways a good deal alike. I've
lived by the sea sixty year, you know, and I've watched all kinds of
doings. But what I'm surest of is that it's deeper'n we be." He chuckled
softly. "Now, I wouldn't pertend to know all about her,"--he waved his
hand,--"but she's big and she's fresh--salt, too--and she makes your
heart big just to look at her--the way it ought to, I reckon. There's
things about her I don't know," he nodded toward the picture. "She may
not go to church and I don't doubt but what she has tantrums, but she's
better'n we be, and she--What did you say her name was?"

"Sergia Lvova."

"Sergia Lvova," repeated the old man, slowly, yet with a certain ease.
"That's a cur'us name. I've heard suthin' like it, somewhere--"

"She's Russian."

"Russian--jest so! I might'n' known it! I touched Russia once, ran up
to St. Petersburg. Now there's a country that don't hev breathin' space.
She don't hev half the sea room she'd o't to. Look at her--all hemmed
in and froze up. You hev to squeeze past all the nations of the earth to
get to her--half choked afore you fairly get there. Yes, I sailed there
once, up through Skager Rack and Cattegat along up the Baltic and the
Gulf of Finland, just edging along--" He held out his hand again for the
locket, and studied it carefully. "Russian, is she? I might 'a' known
it," he said nodding. "She's the sort--same look--eager and kind o'
waitin'." He looked up. "How'd you come to know her? You been there?"

"In Russia? No. She's not there now. She's in New York. She lives
there."

"Is that so? Poor thing!" Uncle William looked at the pictured face with
compassion.

The artist smiled. "Oh, it's not so bad. She's happy."

"Yes, she's happy. I can see that easy enough. She's the kind that's
goin' to be happy." He looked again at the clear, fearless eyes. "You
couldn't put her anywheres she wouldn't sing--"

"She _does_ sing. How did you know?"

Uncle William's eyes twinkled to the boyish face. "Well, I didn't _know_
it--not jest that way. I didn't know as she sung songs on a platform,
dressed up, like I've heard 'em. What I meant was, her heart kind o'
bubbles and sings--"

"Yes"--the artist leaned forward--"that is Sergia. It's the way she
is. She doesn't sing in public. But her voice"--his eyes grew dark--"it
makes you want to laugh and cry. It's like the wind and the sun
shining--" He broke off, listening.

The old man's eyes dwelt on him kindly. "She's with her folks, is she?"

He roused himself. "She hasn't any. They all died over there--her father
and brother in the riots, her mother after that. She has no one. She
teaches music--piano and violin--night and day. Sometimes she gives a
recital with her pupils--and she has me." He laughed a little bitterly.
"It isn't an exciting life."

"I dunno's I'd say jest that," said Uncle William, slowly. "It ain't
exactly the things that happen--" He broke off, looking at something
far away. "Why, I've had things happen to me--shipwreck, you know--winds
a-blowin' and sousin' the deck--and a-gettin' out the boats and yellin'
and shoutin'--Seems's if it ought to 'a' been excitin'. But Lord!
'twa'n't nuthin' to what I've felt other times--times when it was all
still-like on the island here--and big--so's 't you kind o' hear suthin'
comin' to ye over the water. Why, some days it's been so's I'd feel's if
I'd _bust_ if I didn't do suthin'--suthin' to let off steam."

The young man nodded. "You ought to be an artist. That's the way they
feel--some of them."

Uncle William beamed on him. "You don't say so! Must be kind o' hard
work, settin' still and doin' art when you feel like that. I gen'ally go
clammin', or suthin'."

The artist laughed out, boyishly. He reached out a hand for the locket.

But Uncle William held it a moment, looking down at it. "Things happen
to _her_--every day," he said. "You can see that, plain enough. She
don't hev to be most drowned to hev feelin's." He looked up. "When you
goin' to be married?"

"Not till we can afford it--years." The tone was somber.

Uncle William shook his head. "Now, I wouldn't talk like that, Mr.
Woodworth!" He handed back the locket and pushed up his spectacles
again, beaming beneath them. "Seems to me," he said slowly, studying the
fire--"seems to me I wouldn't wait. I'd be married right off--soon's I
got back."

"What would you live on?" said the artist.

Uncle William waited. "There's resk," he said at last--"there's resk in
it. But there's resk in'most everything that tastes good. I meant to
get married once," he said after a pause. "I didn't. I guess it's about
the wust mistake I ever made. I thought this house wa'n't good enough
for her." He looked about the quaint room. "'T wa'n't, neither," he
added with conviction. "But she'd 'a' rather come--I didn't know it
then," he said gently.

The artist waited, and the fire crackled between them.

"If I'd 'a' married her, I'd 'a' seen things sooner," went on the old
man. "I didn't see much beauty them days--on sea or land. I was all for
a good ketch and makin' money and gettin' a better boat. And about that
time she died. I begun to learn things then--slow-like--when I hadn't
the heart to work. If I'd married Jennie, I'd 'a' seen 'em sooner,
bein' happy. You learn jest about the same bein' happy as you do bein'
miserable--only you learn it quicker."

"I can't give up my art," said the young man. He was looking at Uncle
William with the superior smile of youth, a little lofty yet kind. "You
don't allow for art," he said.

"I dunno's I do," returned Uncle William. "It's like makin' money, I
guess--suthin' extry, thrown in, good enough if you get it, but not
necessary--no, not necessary. Livin's the thing to live for, I reckon."
He stopped suddenly, as if there were no more to be said.

The artist looked at him curiously. "That's what all the great artists
have said," he commented.

Uncle William nodded. "Like enough. I ain't an artist. But I've had
sixty year of livin', off and on."

"But you'll die poor," said the artist, with a glance about the little
room. He was thinking what a dear old duffer the man was--with his
curious, impracticable philosophy of life and his big, kind ways.
"You'll die poor if you don't look out," he said again.

"Yes, I s'pose I shall," said Uncle William, placidly, "'thout I make my
fortune aforehand. That hot water looks to me just about right." He eyed
the tea-kettle critically. "You hand over them glasses and we'll mix a
little suthin' hot, and then we'll wash the dishes and go to bed."

The artist looked up with a start. "I must be getting back." He glanced
at the dark window with its whirling sleet.

"You won't get back anywheres to-night," said Uncle William. "You
couldn't hear yourself think out there--let alone findin' the path. I'll
jest shake up a bed for ye here on the lounge,--it's a fust-rate bed;
I've slep' on it myself, time and again,--and then in the mornin' you'll
be on hand to go to work--save a trip for ye. Hand me that biggest glass
and a teaspoon. I want that biggest there--second one--and a teaspoon.
We'll have things fixed up fust-rate here."

Far into the night the artist watched the ruddy room. Gleams from the
fire darted up the wall and ran quivering along the red. Outside the
wind struck the house and beat upon it and went back, hoarse and slow.

Down the beach the surf boomed in long rolls, holding its steady beat
through the uproar. When the wind lulled for a moment the house creaked
mysteriously, whispering, and when the gale returned a sound of flying
missiles came with it. Now and then something struck the roof and
thudded to the ground with heavier crash.

About three o'clock Uncle William's round face was thrust through
the crack of the door. "You can go to sleep all right, now," he said
soothingly. "There wa'n't but seven bricks left in the chimney, anyhow,
and the last one's jest come down. I counted 'em fallin'."




IV

The artist stood on the beach, his hands in his pockets. Near by, seated
on a bit of driftwood, a man was cleaning fish. For a few minutes the
artist watched the swift motion of the knife, flashing monotonously.
Then he glanced at the harbor and at the two sailboats bobbing and
pulling their ropes. He was tired with a long strain of work. The summer
was almost done. For weeks--since the night of the big storm--he had
worked incessantly. A new light had come over things,--"The light that
never was on sea or land," he called it,--and he had worked feverishly.
He saw the water and the rugged land as Uncle William saw them. Through
his eyes, he painted them. They took on color and bigness--simplicity.
"They will call it my third style," said the artist, smiling, as he
worked. "They ought to call it the Uncle William style. I didn't do
it--I shall never do it again," and he worked fast.

But now the sketches were done. They were safely packed and corded.
To-morrow he was going. To-day he would rest himself and do the things
he would like to remember.

He looked again at the man cleaning fish. "Pretty steady work," he said,
nodding toward the red pile.

The man looked up with a grunt. "Everything's steady--that pays," he
said indifferently.

The artist's eyebrows lifted a little. "So?"

"Yep." The man tossed aside another fish. "Ye can't earn money stan'in'
with your hands in your pockets."

"I guess that's so," said the artist, cheerfully. He did not remove the
hands. The fingers found a few pennies in the depths and jingled them
merrily.

"There's Willum," said the man, aggressively, sweeping his red knife
toward the cliff. "He's poor--poor as poverty--an' he al'ays will be."

"What do you think is the reason?" asked the artist. The