“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.