work,” he said. He got to his feet, slipping the file into his pocket.
“Benjy needs somebody like you up to his place,” said Uncle William.
“I thought he ’d got a man from Boston.” The tone was non-committal and
dry. The young man was looking at the window.
“Well, I guess he’s got somebody—He’s from Boston—yes. Benjy’s a good
deal bothered,” added Uncle William hopefully.
George shook his head. “I don’t want to be building—as long as the
fishing suits me.”
“Cod—so far,” said Uncle William.
“You can ’t tell what ’ll be along any day now,” said the young man. He
moved toward the door.
“You think it over, George,” said Uncle William—he held up a benignant
hand and cut off the answer—“You just think it over. Mebbe he won’t need
you. But if he does—you ’ll hev to help him out, I guess. He’s livin’ on
the Island now, you know, same as the rest of us.”
VI
UNCLE WILLIAM and Benjy had been away all day—up at the new house—and
Andy’s wife had sent dinner to them.... They came home in the dusk,
hungry and tired. “Harr’et’s cooking ’do ’t to be e’t hot,” said Uncle
William. He looked up at his own house. “Hello! somebody’s visitin’ us.”
Benjy’s eye lighted. A glow from the red room shone in the dusk. “It’s
the new girl,” he said. They quickened their pace a little.
Uncle William went ahead and opened the door. The little room was full
of warm light and the pleasant smell of cooking. By the stove knelt a
young girl, her hand on the oven door. She looked up as they came in and
closed the door carefully. Then she got to her feet—a little smile on
her face. “I’ve come, Mr. Benslow,” she said.
“We’re glad to see you,” said Uncle William heartily. He glanced at the
table. “‘D you find dishes enough for a meal?”
A little dimple in her cheek came out, and ran away. “I washed a few,”
she replied.
Uncle William’s eye ran along the shelf over the sink. “You’ve done ’em
all!”
“Not quite—I put some of them outside by the door—pots and kettles and
pans—”
“That’s what I fell over,” said Uncle William, “I gen’ally keep ’em
under the sink—out o’ sight—kind of—?” He looked at her.
“I saw where you kept them.” She had dear, searching eyes and quick
little movements that ran ahead of her and did things for her. “Supper
is ready,” she said. “The biscuit are just right.” She took the biscuit
from the oven and set chairs for them at the table and flitted about,
with quick, soft steps. Juno, on her lounge, huddled herself a little
and turned her halfshut eyes on the swish of skirts. By and by she got
down and came over to Uncle William.
He fed her a bit of fish and she returned to her lounge, closing her
eyes. “She knows suthin’ ’s happened,” said Uncle William, “Her mind’s
going round and round.”
Bodet smiled. “She looks placid enough.”
“You can’t tell that way,” said Uncle William. “Women ain’t like
men-folks—not just like ’em. They ’ll smile and look polite and fix
their faces—and then, all of a sudden, things ’ll happen.”
A little laugh bubbled over from the sink.
Uncle William turned in his chair and looked at her. He adjusted his
glasses and looked again. “‘D you say anything, Celia?”
“No, sir—I just thought it was kind of funny about women—”
“So ’tis,” said Uncle William, “It’s funny’s anything I know—the way
women be. I take a sight o’ comfort thinkin’ about women and the way
they be.”
“Yes, sir—would you like some more tea?”
Uncle William waved it away—“Not another mite. We’ve had a good supper.”
He pushed back from the table. “Now, we ’ll help you clear up a little—”
He looked about him.
“I don’t want anybody to touch my dishes,” she said promptly.
Uncle William looked at her over his glasses. “I was going to show you
where things be,” he said.
“I know where everything is.’.rdquo; The little smile played about her
lips. “And I don’t need any help.” She whisked the cloth from the table
and bore it away.
Uncle William’s eye followed her.
“There’s a letter for you.” She took it from behind the dock and laid it
on the table.
Uncle William took it up with slow fingers. “I gen’ally read my letters
first thing,” he said reflectively.
“It’s better to have your supper first.” She disappeared out of the door
and they heard a little rattle of pans. Uncle William chuckled. “Some
like the sou’-west wind,” he said. “You read it, Benjy.”
Bodet held out his hand. “They’re in Greenland,” he said, glancing at
the postmark.
“I reckoned they ’d be.” Uncle William reached down the map and they
bent over the table, talking and tracing the line of travel and reading
bits from the letter.
The girl, as she moved about the room, glanced at them contentedly now
and then. When she had finished her work, she took off her apron
and folded it up. “I’m going now,” she announced, “I’ll be up in the
morning—along about six.” She moved toward the door.
Uncle William looked up, blinking. He had come from Labrador at a lively
rate.... “Why—you can’t go—alone, Celia. You wait a minute whilst I see
about getting ready to go with you.”
“I know the way,” she said promptly, “I came up.”
“The’s rocks,” said Uncle William. He was lighting a lantern.
“I know about the rocks—I’ll take the lantern—thank you, sir.” She went
out of the door and the light of her lantern flitted along down the path
over the cliff.
Uncle William’s eye followed it. He chuckled softly and looked at
Benjy. “A good deal like the sou’-west wind,” he said, “a little
west-by-sou’-west, mebbe—and blowin’ hard.”
“She’s a pretty girl,” said Bodet, watching the light out in the dark.
“She’s a good girl,” said Uncle William. He looked silently at the
shining rows of dishes over the sink—He crossed the room and opened the
cupboard door under the sink and looked in—“The’ ain’t a dish left,” he
said solemnly, “She’s washed ’em all!”
VII
I’VE got a fire made, Celia. You come right along in,” said Uncle
William. He regarded her kindly as she stood in the doorway, her curls
freshened in the wind and her cheeks touched with clear pink—like the
morning outside.
She cast a quick glance at the disordered room and came in.
Uncle William retreated a little. “I was cal’lating to clear it up ’fore
you got here,” he said. He gathered in an armful of boots and shoes and
slippers that had strayed away and looked about him a little helplessly—
A smile crept into her face and lingered in it. “You’ve got somebody to
take care of you now,” she said. “You put those right down and bring me
a pail of water and some wood—” she looked in the box, “—and a little
fine stuff—to hurry with. Nobody could hurry with that—” She cast a
scornful hand at the wood in the box.
“‘Tis kind o’ green,” admitted Uncle William. He took the water-pail
and went outside, looking at the morning with slow content and moving
in supreme restfulness toward the well. When he returned the room was in
order, a smell of coffee filled the air, and the table by the window was
set, in the sunshine, with plates for two.
“Benjy up?” asked Uncle William. He glanced toward the inner door as he
set the pail on its shelf.
She nodded quickly. “I called him,” she said.
“I gen’ally let him sleep,” replied Uncle William.
“Better for him to be up.” She filled a dipper of water and carried it
to the table, filling the glasses.
“Ain’t you going to have breakfast with us?” asked Uncle William,
glancing at the table.
“I’ve had mine—I brought in the kindling-wood myself,” she added
pointedly.
Uncle William’s face fell. “I did kind o’ forget—” The door opened and
Benjy came out—yawning, but brisk. “Well, we’ve got a good start,” he
said. He nodded to the girl and sat down.
Uncle William looked relieved. “I thought you ’d kind o’ mind getting up
so early?” he said.
Bodet laughed out. “I don’t mind getting up—It’s waiting for breakfast
that I mind.”
Uncle William looked out of the window. “I go kind o’ slow on
breakfasts,” he admitted. He craned his neck a little—“Guess George is
going out.” He glanced behind him. The girl had stepped outside the door
a minute and Uncle William leaned forward with a confidential whisper,
“She ’d make a dretful good wife for a young man, wouldn’t she!”
“You ’d better eat your breakfast, William—and be thankful,” said Bodet
severely.
Uncle William made no reply. A look of deep craft was in his eye. When
Bodet started off, he lingered behind.
“I’ll be’long byme-by, Benjy,” he said. He nodded to him kindly. “You go
tell Ordway what you want and I’ll talk to him ’bout it when I come. I
reckon he ’ll do it the way you want it,” he said hopefully.
Bodet disappeared up the road, and Uncle William pottered about the
door. By and by he went in.
The girl glanced up quickly. “I thought you ’d gone.”
“No, I ain’t gone.” Uncle William’s tone was cheerful. “The’s two-three
little things I want to tend to.” He strayed into the bedroom and when
he came out she was seated by the window paring potatoes. “I’ll have to
soak ’em an hour,” she said briskly, “You ought to buy some new ones.”
“They be kind o’ old,” said Uncle William. He glanced past her, out of
the window. “Nice place to set,” he suggested.
She did not look up.
“Guess George Manning’s going out,” said Uncle William.
“Who’s George Manning?” said Celia. She finished another potato, with
efficiency, and dropped it into the pan of water beside her.
“George Manning—He’s about the nicest young man on the Island, I guess,”
said Uncle William innocently.
A little laugh flitted at the potatoes.
She glanced out of the window and returned to her work.
Uncle William’s look deepened. “He ’d make a dretful good husband for
somebody.”
“I don’t believe much in husbands,” she replied. She held the knife in
her hand, and she was looking at him with candid, laughing eyes.
Uncle William returned the look reproachfully. “You don’t have no call
to say that, Celia!”
“I’ve been engaged,” she replied promptly. She took up another potato
with a little glance of scorn at it.
Uncle William leaned forward. “When you goin’ to be married?” he asked
happily, “I might ’a’ known you was engaged—nice as you be!”
She looked at him. “I’m not engaged any more,” she replied, “I just
was.”
Uncle William’s face was full of sympathy. “I didn’t know ’t you ’d lost
anybody,” he said. “You poor little girl!”
She looked up again—a little puzzled line between her eyes, “He wasn’t
so much—to lose—” she said slowly.
“When was it he died?” asked Uncle William.
She stared at him. Then she laughed and threw out her hands in a quick
gesture. “You thought he died!” she said.
“Didn’t you say so?” demanded Uncle William.
“I didn’t mean that—” She returned, a little guiltily, to her potatoes.
Uncle William looked at her.
“I just meant I wasn’t going to marry him—nor anybody!” She lifted her
head with a little defiant movement.
Uncle William’s gaze was sober. “You don’t mean you promised him and
then wouldn’t—?” He was looking at her over his spectacles.
She nodded her head over the potatoes, biting her lip a little. “I only
loved his hair anyway,” she said. There was silence in the room, and the
faint sound of voices came from the beach.
“He had curly hair,” she said, “and it was yellow—like gold—and all the
other girls wanted him—”
“George’s hair is black,” said Uncle William hopefully, “—most black.”
She looked at him—and the eyes danced a little behind their mistiness,
“I wouldn’t marry a man—not if his hair was coal-black, nor if ’twas
yellow, nor brown, nor any color—I’ve got you to take care of and that’s
enough!” She glanced at him, almost tenderly, and carried the potatoes
to the sink. “It makes you feel foolish,” she said, splashing the water
into the pan and moving the potatoes about—“It’s foolish caring about
folks and thinking they’re beautiful—and then finding out that they’re
selfish—and stupid and lazy—!”
Uncle William looked out at the sun. “It’s getting late,” he said.
He moved toward the door and stood with his back to her. “I like to have
folks get married, Celia—” he said slowly, “I like to think about homes
and buildin’ ’em on the Island—and little ones coming—Don’t you like to
think about it that way?”
Her hands dabbled in the water thoughtfully. “I don’t know’s I do,” she
said. “I’ve got a home now—with you—”
“It ain’t real—not a real home,” said Uncle William quickly.
“It’s the nicest one I ever had,” she said. A little laugh lighted her
face—“and it will be the nicest one that ever was when I’ve cleaned up a
little.” She dried her hands on the towel, looking down at them. “I know
what you mean, Mr. Benslow—about ’little ones’—I guess every woman knows
about that—and wants ’em,” she added, under her breath, to the towel.
“But there’s some things we can’t have!” She took down the broom from
the wall. “Now, if you’re going out, I’ll sweep up a little.”
Uncle William did not look back. “Andy’s coming,” he said, “I guess we
’ll go see how Benjy’s getting on—Don’t you mind anything I said, Celia.
I’m kind o’ old and foolish, like enough.” The girl did not reply. But
when he had gone, she came to the door and stood looking after him—and
the dancing look in her eyes grew wistful and sweet.
VIII
WE used to meet on this rock when we was boys,” said Uncle William,
sitting down, “—You remember them times, Andy?”
“I don’t remember nothin’,” said Andy. Uncle William looked at him. “I
do’ ’no’ how you forget so easy.... I can see it all, just as plain as
you be—settin’ there—you and me and Benjy, racing to get to this rock
first—and planning suthin’—suthin’ ’t we hadn’t o’t to.... Seems kind o’
good to have Benjy back—just ’s if he ’d never been off the island?”
“He’s changed some,” said Andy. “Well—outside he’s peaked up a
little—but inside, I can’t see a mite o’ difference. He gets mad just
about ’s easy ’s ever,” said Uncle William contentedly.... “Now, this
morning—” Uncle William moved his hand toward the horizon, “He’s gone
over to his place, all kind o’ boilin’-like. He stopped and gazed at
a figure that loomed on the horizon at the end of the long road. They
watched the light, high-stepping figure come swiftly down the road.
“He’s got something on his mind,” said Uncle William, “I can see by
the way his elbows act—kind o’ stiff so. I reckon that contractor does
bother him—a good deal,” he added thoughtfully.
The man came on quickly, lessening his gait a little as he neared the
rock, and taking off his hat to the breeze. “Feels good,” he said,
nodding. He seated himself on the big rock. “Well—I’ve done it.” He
turned his head slowly, taking in great whiffs of the fresh, bracing
air. “I’ve fired him,” he said.
“You hev!” Uncle William’s face beamed. “That’s good—He’s fired him,
Andy—”
“When’s he going to leave?” asked Andy.
“He’s going to leave just as soon as he can pack,” said Bodet with
satisfaction, “He’s stood all he can—and so have I.” He threw out his
thin legs and looked at them. “I don’t think I ever knew a man that
irritated me the way he did,” he said reflectively.
“I see he kind o’ did,” said Uncle William.
Andy looked out to sea. “Harr’et was boardin’ him,” he said, “She was
cal’-lating on the board money—right along.” His eye dropped to Bodet.
The man threw out an impatient leg.
“Now, don’t you mind about that,” said Uncle William hastily, “Benjy ’ll
fix it up all right—He’s got to have somebody to build his house, and
it’s got to be somebody that ’ll eat—somebody with a stomach.”
The thin man sat up, smiling a little.
“I wish to the Lord I knew whose stomach it was!” he said, “It’s like
trying to build a house in heaven—having to import contractors and
masons and plumbers—”
Uncle William chuckled—— “We gen’ally use the home-folks, round here,”
he said after a pause.
Bodet looked at him a little. “You wouldn’t build a twenty-thousand
dollar house just with the home-folks, would you!”
“I do’ ’no’ why not,” said Uncle William, “It ain’t so much different
from any other house, fur as I see—just more of it—more spread. There’s
George Manning,” he suggested.
“The carpenter?” Bodet’s lip smiled.
“Well—he ain’t exactly a carpenter—not exactly,” said Uncle William.
“He’s a fisherman too—first-class—and he can steer any kind of a craft
you want to rig up. He was captain on the Halifax Line one spell.” Uncle
William’s eye followed the boats passing across the harbor. “An’ he’s a
kind o’ mason, and a first-rate painter—I do’ ’no’s you could git a man
knows more ’n George Manning does.... I never see the thing yet George
wa ’n’t willing to tackle. Seems’s if he kind o’ liked to try his hand
at things folks said couldn’t be done. I’ve seen him sit up night after
night figgering on things—”
“He ’ll have to figure some on this,” said Bodet. He drew the plans from
his pocket. “This is what we’ve just split on—Ordway and I—” He spread
out the paper, holding it between his hands. Uncle William moved over a
little toward it. Andy dropped an eye from above.... “This is it,” said
Bodet. “You see how that roof-line comes down, don’t you?”
“Uh-huh,” Uncle William looked at it with pleased smile—“Comfy, ain’t
it—Sort o’ makes a house look like an old hen with her chickens.”
“That’s it,” said Bodet quickly, “It’s the very thing I want—a house
that settles down among the rocks as if it belonged there—The architect
got the idea all right—from photographs. But he hadn’t been here and we
hadn’t allowed for that dip to the south—You know it?”
Uncle William nodded. “Drops fo’-five feet, I should think?”
“Six—: a little over six,” replied Bodet, “and this is the kind of thing
he wanted—Ordway wanted!” He took out a rough pencil sketch and held it
at arm’s length. “He wants to run it out here in the air, this way, and
put a lattice-work underneath.... paint it green, I suppose.” He snorted
a little.
“Does look kind o’ funny—don’t it, Andy?” said Uncle William.
“Looks good enough—far as I see,” said Andy, “I’ve seen a lot of houses
built that way.”
“—So have I,” broke in Bodet. He crushed the paper in his hand. “It’s a
seaside cottage,” he said, “—a regular seaside cottage!”
“I do’ ’no’ what you feel that way about it for,” said Andy, “if ’tis a
cottage and ’tis built on the sea—right along side—”
Bodet got impatiently to his feet—“Ordway couldn’t see, either. That’s
why I fired him—’seaside cottage!’—” He fizzed a little and straightened
his garments and shook his legs.
“There, there, Benjy,—don’t you mind. I’m a-thinkin’ about it,” said
Uncle William soothingly.
Benjy smiled—the thin, sweet smile that seemed to come of itself from
somewhere behind the high, nervous features, when Uncle William’s voice
spoke to it, “All right, William, I won’t mind—now I’ve got Ordway off
my hands. I thought one time he would drive me crazy—”
“I didn’t know but he would, too,” said Uncle William, “You acted kind
o’ queer.”
“Well, I felt kind o’ queer,” responded Bodet dryly. “Now, about
Manning—We ’ll go talk things over with him.... He might do—with a
little watching.”
IX
BENJY thought mebbe you ’d do the whole thing, George!”
The three men stood on the site of the new house. Across the rocks and
moor Uncle William’s chimney showed against the sky, and below them the
water of the harbor dimpled in little waves of light.
Benjamin Bodet stood looking across it, a kind of quiet satisfaction in
his face.
“He’s been a good deal bothered,” said Uncle William to the younger man.
They moved a little aside and looked at him. “What he wants,” said
Uncle William, “is somebody that ’ll take everything off him—do all the
figgerin’ and plannin’ that comes up and trot round and get things—men,
you know—and things you run out of and can’t get on the Island. It’s
kind o’ hard building out at sea,” he said tentatively, “But you could
do it?” He turned to him.
“Yes, I could do it—if he wants me to,” said Manning. He held the stalk
of grass between his teeth and it turned slowly as he talked, “I’d like
to build a house like this one—such as he’s planning for.... There must
be a good many things come up, you won’t know how to do.” He moved his
hand toward the circumference about them, with a half gesture.
“That’s it,” said Uncle William, “That’s just what I told Benjy....
You take the whole thing over—tell him how much ’twill cost, and so
on—figger it out?”
“Beforehand!” said the man with a slow look.
Uncle William nodded. “He wants to know before he begins. I told him
mebbe you couldn’t do it—but he’s kind o’ set on it.” He looked at the
other a little anxiously. The man chewed the bit of grass in silence.
“Ordway ’d done it,” said Uncle William simply.
Manning turned a slow eye on him. “How ’d he know he could get men—here
on the Island—and keep ’em!” he demanded.
“Well, he didn’t know it, George.” Uncle William chuckled a little. “I
reckon he ’d ’a’ learned quite a few things about the Island—if he ’d
’a’ kep’ on it.”
“I reckon he would,” said the man with a slow smile. “I can’t tell
Bodet what it ’ll cost—What if a barge-load of lumber should be held up,
getting here?—Might have to wait weeks—Suppose I can’t get anybody to
board ’em—”
“Andy ’ll board ’em,” said Uncle William.
“Umph,” said the man.
“An’ Andy’s wife—you want to put her in. She might up an’ say she
wouldn’t, any day?”
Manning shook his head. “I can’t sign any contract, and I can’t tell him
what it will cost—not within a good many dollars—a house like that—but
if he wants me to build it, I’ll take it and do my best for him.”
“The’s a good many things might happen,” allowed Uncle William, turning
it slowly in his mind. “The Widow Deman’s well might go dry and then
where ’d you be, with your mortar and plaster and cement, if that well
run dry?”
The man looked at him.
“You ’d want to put the well in,” Uncle William suggested, “if you
should make the contract—”
“You can’t clutter up a contract that way. I’m not going to make any
contract to build a house on this Island.”
“He ’ll want to do what’s fair,” said Uncle William. “S’pose you go see
about the well whilst I talk with him,” he added diplomatically.
The man moved in the direction of a little house a few rods away and
Uncle William turned toward the tall figure pacing back and forth on the
short-cropped turf.
Bodet turned as he came up. “Who cares about building a house!” he said.
“Look at that sky and water and all this—!” His gesture took in the
rocks and turf and the flock of sheep feeding their way up the hill to
the horizon.
Uncle William’s eye followed it all placidly. “You do get over being in
a hurry—up here,” he said slowly, “I reckon it’s because the Lord’s done
so well by it—got a chance to finish things up—without folks meddling
too much—it seems kind o’ foolish to hurry ’bout things.... Well, George
’ll do your house for you—if you want him to.”
“I’m willing to try him,” said the man with a little note of
condescension. “Where’s he gone!”
“He’s just stepped over to the Widow Deman’s well,” said Uncle William.
“He ’ll sign the contract, of course!”
“Well—” Uncle William hesitated. “He ’ll sign one, I guess, if you say
so—If I was buildin’ a house, I’d just go ahead and build—if I could get
George Manning.”
The tall man fidgeted a little. “Suppose he takes a notion—feathers his
own nest while he’s building my house,” he said at last.
Uncle William’s eyes grew large—then they laughed. “George Manning ain’t
a bird of the air, Benjy—and he’s pretty well past feathers now....
Curious, I didn’t understand about that contract,” he said after a
little pause. “It never come over me that you thought George wouldn’t
do the square thing by you... and I guess he wouldn’t ’a’ got it through
his head all summer—that you thought he was going to cheat you—! Lucky
I didn’t think of it,” he added, “I’d ’a’ made a muss of it somehow and
you wouldn’t ’a’ got your house built—not this year, anyhow.” He looked
at him sympathetically.
Bodet smiled. “I didn’t suppose there was a man left, you could trust
like that,” he said.
“Well, George ain’t left exactly. He’s just here with the rest of us,”
said Uncle William—“Folks mean to do ’bout what’s right up here, I
guess. And I do’ ’no’ but that’s about as easy way as any. I’ve tried
both kinds of places—honest and say nothin’—and places where they cheats
and signs papers, and I do’ ’no’ ’s it’s any better ’n our way—just
going along and doing as well as you can and expectin’ other folks
to.... He’s coming back,” said Uncle William. They watched the young
man move across the rocks toward them—thin and spare-built and firm. His
face, tempered fine like a piece of old bronze, held a thoughtful look,
and the stalk of grass between his teeth turned with gentle motion as he
came.