Uncle William: The Man Who Was Shif'less Part 16

"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."

XIV

They had paused at the foot of a flight of stairs. Down the narrow hall-way floated a mingled sound of voices, high and low, with drifting strains of violin-bows laid across strings and quickly withdrawn.

The old man looked at her inquiringly. "They hain't begun?"

She shook her head. "They're tuning up."

His face lifted a little. "I reckoned that couldn't be the beginnin'.

But ye can't al'ays tell. They make queer noises sometimes."

"Yes.--I must leave you now." She had ushered him into a small hall.

"I'm going to have you sit here, quite near the platform, where I can see you." She looked at him a little anxiously. "You don't need to stay if you don't like it, you know."

"Oh, I shall like it fust-rate," he responded. "It looks like a real comf'tabul chair to set in."

He seated himself in it and beamed upon the room. The place she had selected for him was near the platform and facing a little toward the audience. It had occurred to her, in a last moment of indecision, that Uncle William might enjoy the audience if the music proved too cla.s.sic for him. She left him with a little murmur of apology.

A young girl in pink chiffon, with a bunch of huge pink roses, fluttered forward with a program.

Uncle William took it in pleased fingers. He searched for his spectacles and mounted them on his nose, staring at the printed lines. The audience had settled down to attention. Amused glances traveled toward the big figure absorbed in its program. Sergia had whispered a word here and there as she left the room. It made its way back through the crowd--"A friend of Mademoiselle Lvova's--a sea-captain. She has brought him to hear the MacDowell pieces." The audience smiled and relaxed. The music was beginning. Two young girls played a concerto from Rubenstein, with scared, flying fingers. They were relieved when it was done, and the audience clapped long and loud. Some one brought them bunches of flowers--twin lilies, tied exactly alike, with long white ribbons. Uncle William, his spectacles pushed up on the tufts of hair, watched with admiring glance as they escaped from the stage. He turned to his right-hand neighbor, an old gentleman with white hair and big, smooth, soft hands, who had watched the performance with gentle care.

"Putty girls," said Uncle William, cordially.

The man looked at him, smiling. "One of them is my granddaughter, sir,"

he responded affably.

She came from the door by the platform and sat down near her grandfather, the lilies and the long white ribbons trailing from nervous fingers. Uncle William leaned forward and smiled at her, nodding encouragement.

She replied with a quick, shy smile and fixed her eyes on the platform.

More pupils followed--young girls and old ones, and a youth with a violin that fluttered and wailed and grew harmonious at last as the youth forgot himself. Uncle William's big, round face beamed upon him.

Sergia, watching him from behind the scenes, could see that he regarded them all as nice children. He would have looked the same had they played on jews'-harps and tin horns. But he was enjoying it. She was glad of that.

She came out during the intermission to speak with him. "They're all through now," she said encouragingly.

He looked down at his program bewildered, and a little disappointed, she thought. "They got 'em all done?--I didn't hear that 'Wanderin' Iceberg'

one," he said regretfully. "I cal'ated to listen to that. But I was so interested in the children that I clean forgot.--They're nice children."

He looked about the room where they were laughing and talking in groups.

"Time to go, is it?"

"Not yet. That was only the first half--the pupils' half. The rest is what I wanted you to hear--the sea-pieces and the others. They are played by real musicians."

"You goin' to do one?" asked Uncle William.

"Yes, one." She smiled at him.

"I'll stay." He settled back comfortably.

"That's right. I must go now and speak to some of the mothers. They only come for the first half. They will be going home." She moved away.

Uncle William's eyes followed her admiringly. He turned to the old gentleman beside him. "Nice girl," he said.

"She is a fine teacher," responded the old gentleman. "She had not been here long, but she had a good following. She has temperament."

"Has she?" Uncle William looked after her a little quizzically. "Makes 'em stand around does she? You can't ever tell about temper. Sometimes it's the quietest ones has the wust. But she makes 'em work good. You can see that."

"Yes, she makes them work." The old gentleman smiled upon him kindly and patronizingly. He had been born and brought up in New York. He was receptive to new ideas and people. There was something about Uncle William--a subtle tang--that he liked. It was a new flavor.

Uncle William studied his program. "Sounds more sensible'n some of it."

He had laid a big finger on a section near the end. "I can understand that, now, 'To an Old White Pine.' That's interestin'. Now that one there." He spelled out the strange sounds slowly, "'Opus 6, No. 2, A minor, All-e-gro.' Now mebbe _you_ know what that means--_I_ don't. But an ol' white-pine tree--anybody can see that. We don't hev 'em up my way--pine-trees. But I like 'em--al'ays did--al'ays set under 'em when they're handy. You don't hev many round here?"

The old gentleman smiled. "No; there are not many old white pines in New York. I can remember a few, as a boy."

"Can ye?--Right in the center here?" Uncle William was interested.

"Well, not just here--a little out. But they're gone." The old gentleman sighed. "MacDowell has caught the spirit. You can hear the wind soughing through them and the branches creaking a little and rubbing, and a still kind of light all around. It's very nice."

"Good poetry, I s'pose," a.s.sented Uncle William. "I don't care so much for poetry myself. Some on it's good," he added thoughtfully. "'The Boy Stood on the Burning Deck,' that swings off kind o' nice, and 'Horatius at the Bridge.' But most on it has a kind o' travelin' round way with it--has to go round by Robin Hood's barn to get anywheres. I'm gen'ally sort o' drowsy whilst it's bein' read."

The old gentleman had laughed out genially. "MacDowell doesn't write poetry, except short things--lines for headings. He makes it on the piano."

"Makes an old white-pine tree?" demanded Uncle William.

"Well--something like that."

Uncle William returned to his program. "There'll be a 'water-lily,'

then, will the'? and an 'eagle,' and a 'medder brook,' and a 'wanderin'

iceberg,' and a 'pair o' bars'?" He looked up with a soft twinkle.

"And like enough a rooster or two, and a knock-kneed horse. I keep a-wonderin' what that wanderin' iceberg'll be like. I've _seen_ a wanderin' iceberg,--leastways I've come mighty near one,--but I ain't ever _heard_ it. You ever met a wanderin' iceberg?" His tone was friendly and solicitous.

The New York man shook his head. "Only the human kind."

Uncle William chuckled. "I've met that kind myself--and the other kind, too." He paused suddenly. The audience had hushed itself. Sergia was seated at the piano.

It was a Beethoven number, a sonata. Uncle William apparently went to sleep. Sergia, watching him, smiled gently. He must be very tired, poor dear. The next number will keep him awake all right. It did. It was sung by a famous baritone--"Fifteen men on a dead man's chest! Yo ho! Yo ho!"

Uncle William sat up. Joy radiated from him. He clutched his chair with both hands and beamed. The audience laughed with delight and clapped an encore.