He looked up. “It’s all right—fourteen feet of water, I guess.” He drew
a slip of paper from his pocket and turned to Bodet—“I’ve been running
it over in my mind a little,” he said slowly “and if that’s any use to
you, I’m willing to sign it.”
Bodet took the paper in his thin fingers and swung his glasses to his
nose. Uncle William looked at him with pleased smile.
The glasses swung down from the long nose. “What has the Widow Deman’s
well got to do with my house!” he said expressively?
Uncle William leaned forward. “That’s my idee, Benjy.” He looked over
the high shoulder—
“I will build your house for $25,000, provided and allowed the Widow
Deman’s well holds out.
“(Signed) George Manning.”
“That’s right, George—that’s fust-rate,” said Uncle William, “You’ve put
it high enough to cover you—and Benjy, too.”
“It would seem so,” said Bodet. “Ordway had figured twenty thousand—and
he’s not cheap.”
“I told George to make it high—more ’n it could possibly figger up to,”
said Uncle William with satisfaction, “so ’s ’t you ’d get something
back—’stead o’ having to pay out more ’n you expected to. I thought that
was what you wanted the contract for,” he added significantly.
“I see—Well, it’s a bargain—and without any pieces of paper.” He
tore what was in his hands through, and handed it back with a little
courteous gesture of decision—“If I’m going to build on the Island, I’ll
build as the Island builds.”
“That’s right, Benjy. Now, let’s have a look at them plans.” Uncle
William found a rock and sat down. The other two men moved from point
to point, driving in stakes, and pulling them out, measuring lines and
putting down new ones. While they were doing it, a big wind blew in
around and proceeded to pile up clouds and roll them up the hill behind
them. Uncle William watched the clouds and George Manning and Bodet,
moving to and fro before them.
“Manning says it can’t be done,” said Bodet, walking over to him. Two
straight wrinkles stood between his eyes.
“I don’t see how it can be—not yet,” said the man. He held out the plan.
“He wants his chimney—”
Uncle William nodded. “I know—where the old one was.”
“But that chimney isn’t any good. You’ve got to build from the ground
up—You can’t use the old foundation—?”
“Well, not exactly use it, mebbe.” Uncle William looked at him
thoughtfully. “I do’ ’no’s I can tell you, George, what he wants it
that way for—You see he set by that chimney when he was a boy—and the’s
something about it—about the idee, you know?”
The carpenter looked at him with slow, smiling eyes. “‘Tain’t the
chimney, then—He kind o’ likes the idea of a chimney—does he?... He
didn’t say anything about the idea,” he added, “He just kind o’ fussed
around when I tried to shift her—” He looked at the paper in his hand.
“Well—I can’t tell—yet. I’ve got to figure on it—I’ll go down now and
order my lumber, I guess.” He moved away toward the road and Uncle
William got up.
He crossed over to the old chimney and stood looking toward the hill
that mounted above it. The sun had disappeared and the dark turf was
soft.... Long reaches of turf and the cropping sheep that moved across
it in slow shapes. Uncle William drew a deep breath and turned to the
man who stood silent beside him—his eyes on the hill. “Does seem like
home, don’t it, Benjy?” he said quietly, in the big, deep voice that
boomed underneath like the sea.
X
THE young carpenter approached Bodet cautiously with his solution of the
roof-line. They had talked it over a dozen times and Bodet had become
restlessly impatient.... Ordway might be right, after all.... He looked
at different forms of lattice-work and stone foundations and swore
softly at a terrace—Ordway’s idea—with morning glories alongside....
Uncle William, any day, at any time of day, was in favor of a new plan
altogether. He stood ready to furnish details—like his own house, mebbe,
only bigger.... After this suggestion, every time it came up, he went
out and sat on the rocks a long while and looked at the water. Andy
coming by hailed him. “What you doing?” he called.
“Just a-settin’ here a little,” replied Uncle William.
“Ain’t Benjy to home?” demanded Andy.
“Yes, he’s to home,” admitted William.
Andy looked toward the house.
“I wouldn’t go in, if I was you,” said William, “He’s kind o’ tending to
things—in his mind.”
But if Bodet fretted at delays and slow decisions and failure of
material to arrive, he caught the spirit of the place, after a little,
and settled down to it and held up work—a week at a time—while he
changed details or pottered over new ones. Uncle William—in his
element—went back and forth between the old chimney-place and his house,
carrying ideas and bricks with impartial hand. George Manning, with one
eye on his plans and the other on his men, pushed the work or held it
back, as the wind blew. When the men grumbled over a foundation wall
torn out and put in again, with a hair’s breadth of difference, he
looked at them with slow, sympathetic eye and admitted that it wasn’t so
very much different, maybe—just enough to look different, somehow.
It was when he had studied on the roofline a week or more, that he came
in one morning—a look of cautious elation in his face.
Bodet sat before the fire reading day-before-yesterday’s paper. Uncle
William was pottering about, finishing the last of the dishes, and Celia
was down at, Andy’s helping Harriet who was ill.
Bodet looked up as the young man came in, and laid down his paper. “How
is it coming on?” he said. The tone was mild. He had had a good night’s
rest, and he had come somehow to share Uncle William’s belief that
Manning would find a way out—“only give him time enough and suthin’ to
figger on.”
The young man seated himself on the red lounge, his hat between his
knees. “I don’t suppose you ’d like going up and down stairs?” he said.
Bodet looked at him a little quizzically and swung his glasses to his
nose. “That depends,” he replied.
“It won’t be stairs exactly,” said Manning, “just steps, maybe. You drop
the floor of the south room to get your level and then put some steps
here—” He came over with the paper.
Bodet took it in cautious fingers.
Manning bent over him. “There’s the living-room and the fire-place,” He
indicated the rough lines, “—just where you want them—You kind of look
down into the room, you see, when the door’s open—instead of all on a
level—?”
“I see.” Bodet studied it with lifting face.
Uncle William came over and stood by them, his dish towel on his arm and
his glasses alert—“The house sort o’ climbs down the rocks, don’t it?”
he suggested. “I’ve seen them that way—foreign parts—a lot.” The glow in
his face swept the room. “I do’ ’no’ how we didn’t come to think of it,
fust thing—easy as settin’.”
“Just about,” said Bodet. “How did you get it?” He looked at the young
man. “You never saw a room like that, did you?”
“No, I never saw one,” he replied slowly—“but something ’d got to give
way somewheres. You wouldn’t let the roof-line be touched, nor the
ground, and there wasn’t anything left to give way—but the floor. I
guess it kind of dropped down by itself—while I was figuring on it.” He
looked at it fondly.
“It improves the thing fifty per cent,” said Bodet. He held off the
paper, scanning it with happy vision, “We ’ll have a little railing
here, with carving on it, and something leading up to it—It’s the
feature of the place.” He handed it back. “Go ahead with it. There isn’t
anything else to decide, is there?”
“No. Things are coming on.” He took the paper, tucking it in his pocket.
“The ’Happy Thought’ got in last night with her lumber and the new
masons came this morning. I was kind of bothered about their not getting
here, and the Widow Deman’s well going dryer and dryer all the while,
and no brickwork getting done. I’ll go set ’em to work.” He nodded and
was gone.
Uncle William looked after him with smiling face. “He’s a nice boy,” he
said, “You just can’t find a thing George can’t figger out.”
“He’s a genius,” said Bodet thoughtfully, “He ought to be somewhere
besides on this island—somewhere he ’d have a chance.”
“Chance for what?” asked Uncle William, with simple interest.
“A chance to rise,” said Bodet with emphasis. “It’s all right for you
and me, William—old men—with our work done—”
“Mine ain’t quite done,” said William, “—your bed and two-three things,”
and he flaxed around softly as if he were doing something.
Bodet smiled at him. “Now what do you think you are doing, William?” he
said. “We’re out of it. We’ve had our day—we’ve worked and fought and
suffered—”
“That’s it, Benjy.” Uncle William nodded, “We hev had a good time, ain’t
we? But I do’ ’no’s I ever had a better one ’n I’m having right here on
the Island—specially since you come,” he added.
The other shook his head. “It won’t do, William. A young man must go out
into the world—and do things.”
Uncle William hung his dish towel on the line. The big face in its tufts
of beard glowed at Benjy over the top—“I suppose folks ’d say there’s
bigger things I could be doin’—than wash dishes—but I do’ ’no’ what they
be,” he said thoughtfully. “There’s things I’d like better—it’s terrible
fussy—getting ’em clean and keepin’ ahead, so ’s ’t you ’ll have enough
for a meal—and I’m putty glad Celia’s coming back.... I’ve thought about
it, Benjy—a good many times—” He came over and sat down, “—’bout living
here on the Island. We don’t hurry much, but seems to me we get about as
much—about as much living as other folks do.” He looked at him over his
glasses. “We’ve got enough to eat, and beds—putty good beds—and things
to wear.... I keep a-thinking and a-thinking about it,” he went on, “and
I don’t see just what ’tis we o’t to scratch around so for.”
“There’s education,” said the other, swinging his long glasses on their
slender chain.
“Yes, you’ve got eddication, Benjy. I can see it—kind o’ the way you set
in a chair—different from my way.” Uncle William regarded his great legs
with kindly eye. “But I do’ ’no’ ’s you’re any happier—or your legs any
happier?” he said slowly.
“You know I’m not happier.” The man turned with a quick smile, “There
are not many men happier than you are, William.”
“No, I suppose the’ ain’t. Sometimes I wake up in the night and think
how happy I be—Seems kind o’ shiftless,” he added thoughtfully, “Like
enough, I ought to be out hustling for suthin’—But I do’ ’no’ what it ’d
be?”
“Manning ought to get out into the world—and he’s going to—when he’s
finished my house.... It’s all right for you, William. You’ve earned a
rest.”
Uncle William smiled. “I don’t want any rest, Benjy—no more ’n George
Manning—I like to keep a-doing—kind o’ gradual-like—al’ays did.... I
can’t see ’s the Lord hurries much,” he added, with a glance at the
little window.
“You’re not the Lord, William,” said Benjy.
William smiled at him—his broad, kind smile, “‘Twas a kind o’ funny
idea—my saying that—wa ’n’t it? I do’ ’no’ why I get to thinking about
things—and about me and the Lord.... I reckon it’s because I’m out in a
boat so much—kind o’ sailin’ around and watching how he does things—and
kind o’ enjoying his ways,” he added softly.... “The’s suthin’-about
it—suthin’ about the way the tides come in and the sun goes down and
the stars come out—that makes you feel glad. I’ve seen George Manning,
a good many times—when we was out, and had a ketch, and was coming along
in, towards dark—I’ve seen him set and look... and I knew he wa ’n’t
thinkin’ ’bout how many fish we ’d got—any more ’n. I was. You can’t
think how many fish you’ve got—more ’n about so long—” said Uncle
William thoughtfully.
He glanced down the road. “There’s Celia comin’,” he said happily.
He went over and watched her come—“Don’t she kind o’ skim along good,
Benjy!” The smile on his big face kindled and deepened. “It’s most
too bad George ain’t here.” He looked back into the room with a shrewd
glance. “He never see anybody just like her—I reckon.”
Bodet shook his head. “You better let well enough alone, William.”
“Well, mebbe I will,” said Uncle William. “‘Twon’t hurt none for him to
see her—will it?... You got back pretty quick, Celia.”—He looked kindly
at her glowing cheeks, “How’s Harr’et?”
“She’s feeling better,” said the girl. She glanced about the room, “You
did the dishes!—I didn’t mean you to do the dishes.”
“I didn’t do ’em so very well,” said Uncle William. “We had company
whilst you was gone,” he added craftily.
She looked at him—“That young fellow that’s building his house for him?”
She nodded at Bodet, who had taken his hat and gone outside.
Uncle William nodded back—“That’s the one, Celia—You ain’t ever seen
him, have you?”
“I’ve seen him out of the window,” she said shortly, “That’s near enough
for me—seeing him go by.”
Uncle William’s face fell a little. “I guess I’ll go ’long up with
Benjy,” he said.
XI
GEORGE MANNING looked about him with satisfaction. The walls of the
new house were up and boarded in—so much was safe. He knew Bodet might
appear any minute with a completely new plan—unless it could be staved
off—but he reflected comfortably, as he looked up at the great broadside
of boards before him, that he probably would not tear down the whole
thing any more.... The sound of saws and hammers came with a cheerful
falling rhythm—now together, and now in hurried broken notes—and the men
on the roof were singing—a great blond Swede leading them.
Manning stepped into the living-room and stopped and gave a few
directions to the masons and then moved over to the window and looked
out. Far below him, the harbor reflected the dear sun and he squinted
across it, scanning the horizon for the little black steamer that was to
bring Portland cement and a consignment of windows. The windows had been
due three weeks now—and the work would be handicapped if they did not
come soon. He turned away and attacked his work, whistling softly.
“Morning, George.” It was Uncle William—big and happy—in the doorway,
beaming down upon him.
“Morning, Uncle—Mr. Bodet come up with you?”
“He’s outside somewheres. He’s got a new idee—about the well.”
Manning smiled a little—a shrewd, dry smile—and drew the plane toward
him, “I don’t mind his having new plans for wells,” he said.
Uncle William sat down on a nail-keg and picked up a bit of pine,
feeling in his pocket for his knife. He drew it out, and squinted across
it, and opened the smaller blade, running it casually along his thumb.
George Manning’s plane followed a curling shaving down the length of the
board and withdrew. There was a clean smell of pine mingling with the
salt air.
Uncle William whittled a few minutes in silence. Then he looked
through the great window-space, to the harbor. “I feel queer,” he said
thoughtfully—“I feel dretful queer.”
The plane skirled its shaving off and Manning stopped—looking at
him—“Anything wrong, Uncle William?” he asked.
William shook his head. “I don’t mind so much having things wrong....
I’m kind o’ used to it—having to fuss and fiddle some. It’s when things
are comfortable-like—what most folks call comfortable—that I get grumpy,
I guess.... We’ve got a new girl down to the house,” he added kindly.
“Yes—I heard about her.” Manning’s eyes laughed. “Puts you out, don’t
it?”
Uncle William nodded. “I’m a good deal surprised to see how I feel. I
cal’lated I’d come along up here—like a colt turned out to grass. Just
set around and watch things—same as ever—feeling kind o’ light in my
mind.... I don’t feel a mite light.” He sighed and returned to his
whittling.
“You ’ll get used to it,” said Manning consolingly.
“I do’ ’no’ whether I shall or not. It’s been quite a spell now—” Uncle
William held off his pine stick and looked at it. “I’m kind o’ wondering
if I didn’t like to have them dishes—”
“To wash—?”
“Well—not to wash exactly—but to leave around behind—suthin’ I’d o’t
to, and didn’t.... All the way up the road I keep kind o’ missing
’em—wishing I’d find ’em under the sink, mebbe, when I get back.... I
wouldn’t want to do ’em exactly, when I got there, I suppose. But I do
miss ’em.” He shook his head.
Manning pushed a heap of shavings aside with his foot and bent to his
plane again. “I can find things enough, most any day—things I ought to
do—and don’t—easy job, Uncle William.”
Uncle William looked at him. “You ought to be considerable happy,
George,” he said slowly.
“Well—I am happy—as happy as most folks, I guess.” His shrewd, thin face
followed the plane with even look. “I’ve got enough to do—if that’s what
you mean.” He unscrewed his board from the bench and carried it across
the room.
Uncle William’s eye followed him. “I suppose you never thought of
getting married, George?” he said casually.
The young man shook his head at the board he was trying to fit in place.
“Never was tempted,” he said. He measured a length on the board and took
up his saw.
Uncle William retired into his mind. Benjamin Bodet came and stood
in the door and looked at the two, and disappeared. The sound of the
hammers trooped in and out through the silence.
Uncle William stood up, snapping his knife together. “I guess I’ll go
find Benjy,” he said. He wandered out and sat down on a rock near by.
Over the top of a scattered pile of lumber he could see Benjy’s head
moving back and forth.
“Best kind of weather,” murmured Uncle William. He sat down.
By and by Benjy appeared around the corner of the lumber.
“We’re going to have dinner up here,” announced Uncle William. “Celia
sent word by Gunnion’s boy she ’d have it here by twelve, sharp.” Uncle
William’s face was guileless.
Benjy sat down. “I can’t get it through Marshall’s head—what I want
about that well,” he said testily. “I’ll have to see Manning about it.”
“George ’ll fix it for ye all right,” said Uncle William.
“Have the windows come?” asked Bodet.
“Not yet, I reckon—He didn’t say—You’re going to have a nice house,
Benjy!” His eyes rested on the rough frame, “It’s getting to look like I
thought ’twould—nice and low—kind o’ like an old hen, you know—spreading
her wings and settling down.”
Bodet’s face followed his look. “It’s coming out all right. Your George
Manning knows his business—knows what he’s about.”
“He’s a nice boy,” said Uncle William. “The’s things about him might be
different—might be a little different,” he added cautiously.
“I don’t know what they are. But I shall have a chance to find out, I
suppose—before we’re through.”
“Oh, he ’ll do this all right.”
Bodet stared at him a little. “He’s not likely to have a much bigger job
on hand—is he?”
“Mebbe not,” said Uncle William hastily, “I do’ ’no’ what I mean, like
enough. I just had a feeling—kind of a feeling, that George wa ’n’t
perfect.”
Bodet laughed out. “I should hope not—if I’m to have dealings with him.
Come on in and talk with him about the well.”
They went toward the house. Through the window they could see the young
man across the room, measuring a space on the wall. He stood back and
looked at it thoughtfully—then he turned and saw them. “I was thinking
about the width here,” he said, “If your picture you’re going to put
here is five by nine—I’ll have to get the space on this side—somehow.”
“We’re coming in,” said Bodet, “I wanted to talk to you—Marshall’s all
at sea with that well of his.”
“I told him—” said Uncle William. His mouth closed on the word, and a
little smile crept up to it. “Why, Celia—I didn’t think you ’d be along
yet—not quite a while yet.”
“It’s dinner time,” she said. She stood in the doorway, looking in. She
wore no hat, and her hair was blown in little curls by the wind. “You
going to have your dinner in here?” she asked.
“Why, yes—I guess we might as well—have it here—right here on the
bench—can’t we, George?”
“For anything I care,” said the young roan, “I’ve got to go—” He turned
toward the door.
“Oh—George—” Uncle William stopped him. “I want you to see Celia. This
is our new girl—Celia.”
The young man stood very straight and stiff, regarding her. “How do you
do,” he said.
“Oh, I’m pretty well, thank you.” A little laugh nodded in the words and
whisked them away. “I’m very glad to see you,” she said. She looked down
at her hands. Then she held out one of them.
The young man marched across and took it—he shook it a little and laid
it down. “It’s a nice day,” he said briefly.
She smiled at him—straight and quick. Then she lifted the basket and
set it on the table. “I couldn’t ’a’ got it here, ever, if Jim Gunnion’s
team hadn’t come along,” she said. She opened the basket. “There’s
your pickles—and biscuit—and pie—and cheese—” She set the things on the
table, at one side—“and here’s your tablecloth.” She blew the bits of
shavings from the bench and spread a red cloth across its width.
Uncle William’s eyes followed her, with a little twinkle—somewhere below
them.
“It’s nice not to have to come home to dinner,” said Bodet impersonally.
“Yes, sir—I couldn’t have you all down there to-day. I’m too busy.”
She stood back, looking at the table. “That’s all you need—Here’s the
salt—and the pepper—and the stew is nice and hot.” She took the lid from
the smoking pail and peered in. “I put coals under the pail,” she said.
“You want to look out and not set things afire.... I’m going now. You
can bring the dishes tonight when you come—” She stood in the door—and
was gone.
Uncle William laughed out—and looked at Manning. The young man was
regarding him soberly.
“Draw up, George,” said Uncle William, “It looks to me as if the’ was
enough for three—easy.”
“I’ve got mine—outside,” said the young man. He lingered a little,
apparently examining the bricks in the fireplace.
Uncle William looked at him and then drew up to the table. “Celia’s a
dretful good cook,” he said. He helped himself to the stew.
The young man went slowly toward the door. “I guess I’ll go see
Marshall—about the well.”
Uncle William looked over his shoulder. “Oh—and—George—?”
“Yes, sir?”
“If you happen to be goin’ by this evening, you know, along after dark,
you might stop in. I’ve got suthin’ to tell you—kind of an idee—’bout
the well.”
“You might tell me now—before I see Marshall—?” suggested Manning.
Uncle William shook his head. “I can’t tell ye—not yet. It’s suthin’
about the old well—and pipes and things. I’m kind o’ thinkin’ it out—”
“All right. I’ll be in—along after supper.”
“Yes, that’s a good time. I’ll have it thought up—by that time, like
enough.” The young man went out and Uncle William continued to chew
slowly, his eyes on the red table cloth. Presently he looked up and his
eye met Bodet’s—He shook his head.
“I do’ ’no’ what I’ll tell him about that well,” he said.
“Tell him the idea you had just now—the one you spoke of. It will come
back to you by that time, maybe.”
Uncle William shook his head again—slowly. “That idee can’t come back to
me, Benjy—I ain’t ever had it.”
Bodet stared at him. “You told him—”
“I know I told him, Benjy.” Uncle William was a little testy. “I do’
’no’ what I lie so easy for.... Seems ’s if sometimes there was lies all
round in the air—just waiting to slip in.... I never had no idee ’bout
that well—I’ll have to have one.”
Bodet’s eye rested on him reflectively. “You must have had some reason—”
Uncle William looked up hastily, “I don’t believe I did, Benjy. I say
things like that sometimes—things that don’t mean a thing—things that
ain’t so. It makes me a lot of trouble.”
He got up and went to the window. “There’s your Portland cement, out
there, and your windows. I thought the sky was gettin’ kind o’ smudgy.”
Bodet followed him and they stood together, looking down at the big
harbor where the sails went to and fro and the little black steamer was
coming in.
XII
THE little room was shining-clean. The window shone, the stove shone,
and the boards of the floor were sand-white. Uncle William, standing in
the door, looked at them cautiously. Then he looked down at his feet and
wiped them on a piece of sacking spread on the step. “Clean enough to
eat off of,” he said, stepping carefully on to the white floor.
The girl at the sink nodded, the little curls bobbing about her face.
“I’ve been scrubbing,” she said.
“I should say you had!”—He stepped forward gingerly. “You’ve done a lot
to it.”—He was looking about vaguely, as if to find a place to put his
feet down.
The girl’s look relaxed subtly. “I thought you ’d like to have it
clean—I wanted to do it the way you like?” She was looking at him a
little wistfully—“You do like it, don’t you?”