You ain’t seen Juno anywheres round, have you!”
A subdued look flitted in the girl’s face. “She went off when I began to
beat the lounge. I saw her flying over the rocks—I had to beat it hard,
you know?”
“‘Twas kind o’ dusty, wa ’n’t it?” said Uncle William, looking at
it affectionately. “I’ve been meaning to do it myself—but when I was
thinkin’ and settin’ on it, I couldn’t do it and when I wa ’n’t settin’
on it, I wa ’n’t thinkin’ about it.” He moved toward the sink.
“I’ve put your washing-duds outside,” said Celia, “your wash-basin and
towel and soap and things—out by the door, you know.” She motioned him
off.
Uncle William stopped and looked at her. “That’s the way Harr’et has
’em,” he said. “How ’d you come to think of that, Celia?”
The girl bubbled a little laugh. “I didn’t think very hard—Is Mr. Bodet
coming?”
“He ’ll be right along,” said Uncle William. “He stopped to talk with
George Manning—about plans and so on. He ’ll be here pretty quick now.”
He went out of the door, and the room was very quiet. The girl stood
twisting a corner of her apron in her fingers and looking about the
shining room. There was a little dimple in her cheek that came and went.
“What you thinking about, Celia?” asked Uncle William, coming in. His
face glowed from its washing and the tofts of hair stood up straight.
The girl started a little. “I wasn’t thinking about anything—I guess.”
She looked at the stove—“They ’ll cook all to pieces if he doesn’t come
pretty quick,” she said.
“He’s coming.” Uncle William went to the window. “He’s right up the road
a piece—You ain’t had time to get homesick, have you, Celia?” He was
standing with his back to her.
“No, sir—Is that man coming, too?”
“That man—?” Uncle William wheeled about.... “Oh, George? You mean
George Manning, I guess.”
“That’s his name—the one that was up there this morning—fussing around.”
Uncle William nodded, his shrewd eyes on the little curls that were
bending over the sink. “That’s George Manning—He’s a nice boy,” he
added, seating himself on the lounge. “He’s a putty good boy—George is.”
Her interest was absorbed in something in the kettle on the stove—that
steamed and swirled about her. She took a fork and tested it tenderly.
Then she glanced at the window. “He’s coming—Mr. Bodet—You go show him
where to wash—while I take up the dumplings—” She lifted the kettle, and
Uncle William went meekly to the door. “You wash up out here, Benjy,”
said Uncle William. He waved his hand at the toilet articles ranged on
the bench by the door—“It’s a nice place, you see—soap, and there’s your
towel.... She ’ll let us come in rainy days and cold days, maybe,” he
said thoughtfully.
Bodet gave a dry chuckle. “Suits me,” he said.
Uncle William’s face lightened. “I don’t mind a mite myself—” he
explained, “but I was kind o’ ’fraid you ’d want to be inside—where
folks can’t see you doing things so.”
“Never!” said Bodet, “—with the sky for a ceiling and the clouds for
frescoes—what more could a man want?” He waved his towel briskly at the
landscape.
Uncle William tiptoed back to the house. “He likes it—out there,” he
said.
Her face twinkled and she set the dumplings on the table with a brisk
movement. “He’s a nice man,” she said.
“You comin’, Benjy?” called Uncle William.
While they ate, the handmaiden flitted in and out. She looked out for
their wants and washed pots and kettles on the bench by the door and
hummed bits of song—and once a little whistle was wafted in the door—but
it stopped suddenly, as if quick fingers had cut it off.
Uncle William looked at Benjy and chuckled. “Some like having a canary
around, ain’t it? Kind o’ bubbles and goes along by itself!—She likes
doin’ ’em,” he added. “The’s a lot of comfort having folks around you
that like doin’ things.... Now, Harr’et—you ain’t ever seen the way
Harr’et does ’em, hev you?”
Bodet shook his head.
Uncle William smiled, looking at something in his mind. “Harr’et don’t
really like doin’ ’em,” he said confidingly, “I’ve seen her look at the
bottom of a pan as if she hated it, kind of.... She gets ’em clean, you
know, but she don’t really enjoy her cleanness—not really.... If you’re
down there a spell, watchin’ her and kind o’ settin’ round—you get to
feelin’ ’s if nobody ’d o’t to live—men-folks, special.... I do’
’no’ what it is about her,” said Uncle William reflectively—“about
Harr’et.... She’s kind o’ straight in the back and her shoulders don’t
bend much.... Seems’s if the’ was suthin’ wrong about a woman—an old
woman like Harr’et—if her shoulders don’t give a little.” He sat looking
before him.... “The’s suthin’ about ’em, I do’ ’no’ what it is—about
women—when their shoulders get a little mite bent, that makes me feel
happy inside—Seems ’s if the Lord had made ’em that way a-purpose—kind
o’ gentle-like, you know—so ’s ’t they could bend easy—and stay kind o’
curved over, and not mind. I’ve set and watched ’em in meetin’, a good
many times, when they didn’t know I was looking—and I’ve took a sight o’
comfort with ’em.”
Bodet looked at him critically. “I don’t see that you bend very much,
William.” Uncle William’s broad shoulders spread themselves and he drew
a deep breath. “That’s different, Benjy.... Men hadn’t o’t to bend—not
without they have rheumatism or cramps and things.”
Celia whisked in at the door and out. Benjy’s eye followed her and
returned to William.
“I know what you’re thinkin’, Benjy,” said Uncle William. “She’s
straight as one o’ them rushes, up ’t the pond—and she ought to
be.... She won’t bend for a spell yet—she’s got to know things
first—Hello!—There’s George!”
They pushed back from the table and went outside.
XIII
THE three men looked across the harbor—far in the distance something
troubled the surface of the water—as if a bit of the dusk had fallen on
it and traveled with little restless waves.
Uncle William’s eye grew round.... “Mackerel!” he said solemnly.
“Been schooling all day,” answered Manning. His teeth closed on the bit
of grass between them and held it hard.
Uncle William looked at him sympathetically. “Any luck?” he asked.
“Bergen seven barrel—and Thompson about three, I guess. He set for a big
school, but they got away—all but the tail end.... They’re running shy.”
“They’ve been bothered down below,” said Uncle William. “That’s why
they’re here so early, like enough—It’s much as your life is worth—being
a mackerel these days—Steve get any?”
Manning shook his head. “He started out—soon as Uncle Noah give
the word—Uncle Noah ’d been up on the cliffs since daylight, you
know—smelled ’em comin’, I guess.” Manning smiled.
Uncle William nodded. “He’s part mackerel, anyway, Noah is—Went out, I
suppose?”
“Everybody went—except me.” The young man’s eye was gloomy. “That’s a
big school.” His hand moved toward the harbor and the reddish bit of
dusk glinting on it.
“Too late tonight,” said Uncle William. He felt in his pockets—“Now,
where ’d I put that paper—must ’a’ left it inside—You go look, George—a
kind o’ crumpled up paper—with figgers on it.” He felt again in his
pocket and the young man went obediently toward the door.
Uncle William’s eye sought Benjy’s. “It ’ll take him quite a few minutes
to find it, I reckon,” he said placidly.
“Isn’t it there?”
“Well—it’s there if it’s anywheres, I guess—” His eye returned to the
water. “It’s a dretful pity George can’t go—He’s just aching to—You can
see that plain enough—”
“He ’ll make more money,” said Bodet decisively, “—working on my house.”
“Well—I do’ ’no’ ’bout that—He ’d make a good many hunderd out there—”
Uncle William motioned to the harbor, “a good many hunderd—if he had
luck—”
“He ’ll make a good many hundred on the house. It’s steady work—and sure
pay,” said Bodet.
Uncle William smiled. “I reckon that’s what’s the matter with it—The ’s
suthin’ dretful unsatisfyin’ about sure pay.” Bodet smiled skeptically.
“You don’t understand about mackerel, Benjy, I guess—the mackerel
feelin’.” Uncle William’s eye rested affectionately on the water....
“The’s suthin’ about it—out there—” He waved his hand—“Suthin’ ’t keeps
sayin’, ’Come and find me—Come and find me—’ kind o’ low like. Why,
some days I go out and sail around—just sail around. Don’t ketch
anything—don’t try to, you know—just sail right out.... You ain’t ever
felt it, I guess?”
Benjy shook his head.
“I kind o’ knew you hadn’t.... You’ve al’ays had things—had ’em done for
ye—on dry land—It’s all right... and you’ve got things—” Uncle William
looked at him admiringly, “Things ’t George and me won’t ever get, like
enough.” He smiled on him affectionately, “But we wouldn’t swap with ye,
Benjy.”
“Wouldn’t swap what?” asked Bodet. His little laugh teased the
words—“You haven’t got anything—as far as I see—to swap—just a sense
that there’s something you won’t ever get.”
Uncle William nodded. “That’s it, Benjy! You see it—don’t you?—Suthin’
’t I can’t get—can’t ever get,” he looked far out over the water... “and
some day I’ll sail out there and ketch—twenty barrel, like enough—and
bring ’em in, and it’s all hurrah-boys down ’t the dock—and sayin’ ’How
many ’d you get?’ and ’How ’d you do it?’ and runnin’ and fussin’—and
then, come along toward night, and it ’ll get kind o’ big and dark out
there... and I’ll forget all about the twenty barrel and about gettin’
money for ’em sensible—I’ll just want to heave ’em out and go again.”
Uncle William paused—drawing a big sigh from some deep place.... “That’s
the way George feels, I reckon.... If he stays and works on your house,
Benjy—’twon’t be because he wants money.”
The young man appeared in the door—“I can’t find any paper in here,” he
said. There was a little note of defiance in the words and the color in
his face was dear scarlet.
Uncle William looked at him quizzically. “Maybe you didn’t look in the
right place, Georgie,” he said. “We’re coming right in, anyway.”
In the clear, soft dusk of the room Celia’s face had a dancing look.
She stood by the sink, her dish towel caught across her arm and her chin
lifted a little as if she were listening to something pleasant—that no
one had said. She turned away—hanging up the towel and brushing off the
top of the stove with emphatic little movements and a far-away face.
“Now, maybe I left that figgering up to Benjy’s.” Uncle William glanced
casually about him. “You sit down, George, and I’ll look around a little
for it.” He fumbled with some papers by the window and went into the
bedroom and came out, humming gently to himself. He glanced at the two
men who sat on the red lounge—The younger one had drawn some lines on a
scrap of paper and was leaning forward talking earnestly—his hat on the
floor beside him and his hair pushed carelessly back. He had forgotten
the room—and Uncle William—and all the little movements that danced.
His fingers moved with the terse, short words, drawing new lines on the
paper and crossing them out and drawing new ones.
Uncle William’s placid face held no comment. “‘D you see a piece of
paper, Celia!” he asked, “—a kind of crumpled-up piece!”
She shook her head. Her eyes were on the two figures on the lounge and
on Juno, who rose and stretched herself, drawing her feet together and
yawning high and opening her pink-curved tongue. “I left some scraps for
her—on the plate by the sink,” said Celia in a low voice. She untied
her apron and hung it by the door. Then she put on her hat and a light
jacket and stood looking about her—as if there might be something in the
red room—something that would keep her a minute longer.
“Set down, Celia,” suggested Uncle William.
“I’ve got to go,” she said. She moved a little, toward the door.
Uncle William bustled about and knocked down the tongs and three or four
sticks of wood, and picked them up. He grumbled a little. Bodet looked
up, with a smile. “What’s the matter, William!”
Manning got to his feet, crowding the scrap of paper into his pocket,
“I’ll have to go,” he said. “It’s getting late.”
“Why, yes—’tis kind o’ late—” assented Uncle William: “Gets late dretful
early, these days.... If you’re going right along, George, you might’s
well walk along with Celia—so ’s ’t the’ won’t anything happen to her—”
“I don’t need anyone,” said the girl quickly, “I’ve got my lantern.” She
held it out.
The young man searched for his hat.
“I don’t need any company,” repeated the girl. She passed quickly from
the open door and vanished.
George stood up, gazing after her light flickering on the path. He had
found his hat and was twirling it in stiff slow fingers.
“Run along, George,” said Uncle William kindly. “You can ketch her,
easy.”
“I don’t run after any girl,” said George. There was a deep glint in his
eye.
Uncle William looked at it and then at the lantern, flicking and dancing
on the path. He stepped to the door. “O-ho! Celia!” he called sternly.
The light wavered a little and paused and danced.... Then it went on.
Uncle William stepped out into the night. “Cel-i-a!” he called and his
big voice boomed over the rocks. The lantern stopped. It came back—with
little wavering steps and halted before him.
“What ’d you go running off like that for?”
Her face, above the lantern, was demure. “I didn’t run,” she said.
“Well, you might jest as well ’a’ run—I wanted you to take suthin’ for
me.” Uncle William was feeling about in the darkness by the door.
“Oh—I didn’t know—” Her voice was very contrite now, and meek.
“I didn’t suppose you knew—but you could ’a’ waited.... Here they be!”
He dragged forward a heavy sack of potatoes and untied the neck—“I told
Harr’et I’d send her down a mess of new potatoes for breakfast,” he
said. He dipped into the sack with generous hand—filling a basket that
stood by the door.
The girl looked at it with round eyes.
“You ’d just as lives carry it along, wouldn’t you, Celia?”
She reached out her hand and lifted it a little. Then she looked at him.
“Like enough you need a little help with it,” said Uncle William
wickedly. “Oh—George—” he stepped to the door. “You just give Celia a
lift with this basket, won’t you!—It’s a little mite heavy for her.”
The young man appeared in the door. He lifted the basket with decisive
hand and held out the other—“I’ll take that lantern,” he said.
She hesitated an instant—holding it a little behind her. Then she gave
it up. “I can carry lanterns well enough.”
“I’ll take it,” replied George. He strode away over the rocks and she
followed with little tripping steps that half ran to keep up.
Uncle William, standing by the open door, followed the flicker of the
lantern with benignant eye—Then he went into the house. “Sent Harr’et
quite a mess of potatoes,” he said comfortably.
Benjy looked at him. “—Not the new ones,” he said quickly.
Uncle William nodded. “I kind o’ felt as if suthin’ had to be sent to
Harr’et, and that bag of potatoes was the fust thing I laid hold of.”
He chuckled a little. “She ’ll be some s’prised, I guess—s’prised and
pleased—Harr’et will—to get a new mess of potatoes and all—and not
having to pay for ’em, or anything,” said Uncle William thoughtfully.
XIV
HERE you be, Juno!” Uncle William set the plate of scraps on the floor,
and Juno walked across with leisurely gait.
He watched her a moment, smiling—then he reached for his lantern. “Guess
I’d better go see ’t everything’s all right,” he said. “I’ve got to make
a putty early start.”
Bodet looked at him inquiringly. “Where are you going?”
“Now?—Down to see t’ the Jennie.”
“You’re not going out?”
Uncle William laughed. “Not tonight, Benjy—I jest want to get a start,
you know—have things ready.” He lighted the lantern and threw the match
on the floor.
Benjy watched him soberly. “You ’ll be gone a week, I suppose.”
“Well, I do’ ’no’.” Uncle William put his lantern on the floor and sat
down. “I come in every day—Soon’s I get a catch.”
Bodet scowled at his cigarette—and threw it aside. “It’s the last I’ll
see of you—this season.”
Uncle William crossed his legs. “Won’t run more ’n a day or two, mebbe,”
he said consolingly. “You can’t tell about mackerel. You look out and
see little patches of ’em wrinkling around and the next day you won’t
see a wrinkle.” His hand felt for its lantern.
Bodet’s eye was on the clock. Suddenly he got up and crossed over to
it and took down something, almost tucked in around behind the dock.
He glared at it a minute and threw it on the table. “It’s a letter!” he
said.
“Why, so ’tis!” Uncle William leaned forward with a pleased look of
interest. “Celia didn’t tell us about it, did she?” He looked at Benjy
for sympathy. But there was no sympathy in Benjy’s eye.-He lifted the
letter and tore it open—“It might have lain there a week,” he said
sternly.
“Like enough ’t would—if you hadn’t seen it. You’ve got terrible good
eyes, Benjy.” Uncle William all but patted him on the back.
Benjy shrugged his shoulders. His eyes ran over the letter—“It’s from
the children. You want to read it—now?” He was holding it out.
Uncle William looked down at his lantern. He took it up.... Then he
looked at the letter. “I kind o’ hate to have you read it first—without
me.”
“I’ll wait,” said Bodet obligingly.
Uncle William shook his head. “I do’ ’no ’s we ’d better wait.” He blew
gently into his lantern and set it down. “Might as well have it whilst
we can....I’ve come to think that’s the best way, mebbe. The’s two-three
things I didn’t take when I could ’a’ got ’em—easy. They’ve been always
tagging me around since.” He settled a little more comfortably in his
chair and stretched his big legs. “Go ahead, Benjy,” he said.
Bodet fixed his glasses on his nose and cleared his throat. Juno jumped
on Uncle William’s knee, and his hand traveled thoughtfully up and down
the grey back while the letter was being read.
A pleased, puzzled look held his face—“Goin’ right to Russia, be they? I
can’t seem to understand that, Benjy—What was it she said?”
Bodet turned back and found the place.
“We have decided to go straight to St. Petersburg and then to Vilna,
taking a house and spending the winter. Captain Spaulding will take
the boat around to Yokohama and we shall join him in the spring—going
overland.”
Uncle William’s face still held its puzzled look—“They won’t touch
Iceland... nor Norway ’n’ Sweden?” He shook his head. “Jumped the whole
thing—far as I see—Europe, Asia ’n’ Africa, and the Pacific Isles....
Now, what do you suppose they’re up to, doin’ that, Benjy?” He looked at
him anxiously.
Bodet folded the letter in his slim fingers and creased it a little.
“Perhaps she was homesick—thought how good it would seem to have a home
for a little while again.”
“Mebbe she did...” Uncle William lighted the lantern, peering at it with
shrewd, wrinkled eyes. “Don’t you set up for me, Benjy.” He looked at
him kindly. “The ’ll be a moon, byme-by, you know—Like as not I’ll be
putterin’ round quite a spell. You go to bed.”
“Well—I’ll see.” Bodet had taken up the newspaper and was scanning the
lines—his glasses perched high. Juno, on the floor beside him, looked up
as if she would like to be invited.
Uncle William looked at them both affectionately. Then he stepped out
into the night, closing the door with gentle touch.
The night was softly dark, with high stars, and a little breeze blew
up from the water.... His lantern swung down the path—his great legs
keeping shadowy time to it. Now and then he paused, listening to the
little waves that splashed up below, and drawing deep, full breaths of
the darkness. He looked up to the stars and his face cleared. The
little puzzled look that had come into it with the reading of the letter
disappeared. He hummed to himself, as he went, little booming songs that
began, and broke off, and ended nowhere—traveling along ahead....
On the beach he disappeared into the little black fish-house and came
out bearing a great net that he stowed away in the dory, folding it down
in under with watchful eye. He swung his lantern over the mound of
net and gave a little running push and leaped in.... The oars in the
thole-pins creaked and chugged, as he faded out in the night, and little
phosphorescent gleams waked up along the water and ran in flocks behind
him.
He rowed steadily out, his eyes on the stars. The night held a
stillness—somewhere, through it, a voice might come. He held the boat,
dipping the oars lightly and bending his head. He often waited—in the
darkness or off on the moor.... Little sounds came—vague stirrings of
quiet—and off a little way, the lights on the fishing boats bobbed at
anchor. He dipped his oars and rowed again—long, restful pulls that drew
on the strength of the night.... Alongside, in a minute, the stem of the
Jennie loomed mistily and Uncle William scrambled aboard, fastening the
dory and hanging his lantern to the mast—It threw its swaying light on
the big figure as it moved about the boat. Over the eastern rim of hill
the sky grew mysteriously thin and glowed—and a flood of light dropped
on the harbor. The water darkened and the distant boats grew to shapes
as the moon rose high, filling herself with light. Uncle William looked
up. He put down the coil of rope he was stowing away and leaned back,
looking at the clear, yellow ball riding over the hill. His eye traveled
to the water and to the dim boats shaping themselves out of the dusk....
A contented smile held the big face.... He had been thinking of Sergia
and Alan and his thoughts traveled again—following the track of the
moon, out over the water, across the ocean—stretching to Russia and
the far east.... Slowly the look grew in his face—a little wonder and a
laugh. Then he sat up, looking about him. The filtering moonshine played
on his face and he laughed—with low, quiet chuckles—and fell to work,
giving the last touches to the boat—making things fast. He rowed back
in slow silence. Along the beach, as he came near, little black shapes
stood up and greeted him—lobster traps and barrels piled high, ends of
dories, and boxes washed by the tide, and fantastic sprawls of net and
seaweed. Uncle William stepped among them, with long, high step, and
the smile still played on his face. Up on the cliff he could see the red
glow of the window. Benjy might be up—might be awake.... Uncle William
quickened his steps—
The man looked up with a satisfied, drowsy smile. The paper had dropped
from his hand and his head was bent a little toward it. Uncle William
nodded to him and hung up the lantern. “I’ve thought of something.”
“Have you?” Bodet sat up, yawning a light breath and feeling for his
glasses. He put them on his nose and looked at William. “You were gone
long enough to think,” he said.
“Yes—I was gone—quite a spell. I got to looking round,” said Uncle
William. “Time gets away putty fast when you’re looking round and kind
o’ thinkin’.” He chuckled again, with the big, kind smile that flooded
his face. “What do you reckon made them want to go straight to Russia,
Benjy?” He was looking at him shrewdly.
Bodet shook his head. “I told you I didn’t know—just a whim, perhaps—”
“Something nicer ’n a whim.... You ’d kind o’ like to think of
it yourself—It makes things big somehow—big and kind o’ goin’ on
forever-like—” His face was full of the glow now and the eyes behind
the spectacles had a misty look—like the blue of the sea when the fog is
traveling in.
Bodet got up and came across to him. “What is it, William!” he said
gently.
“Just more folks on-the Island—” said Uncle William. “Little ones, you
know—travelin’ round...; The’s suthin’ about it—I do’ ’no’ what ’t is,
Benjy—but it makes you all kind o’ happy inside—thinking there’s goin’
to be more folks always, when you’re gone—living along in the same
places and doin’ things.... I can kind o’ see ’em,” said Uncle William
slowly, “—everywheres I go—there they be—plain as if I touched ’em. some
of ’em—getting up in the morning and havin’ breakfast and goin’ out and
looking at the sun and the rocks and the water and being happy—same
as me—unhappy, too, some of the time—thinkin’ things ought to be
different.... It makes it all seem big, don’t it, Benjy?” He reached out
a hand.
The tall man took it. “So you think—?”