harbor—Sergia and Alan—and there ’ll be a little one traveling with ’em.
It’s al’ays the little ones,—Benjy—I do’ ’no’ what the Lord made ’em
that way for... they’re so kind o’ queer and little... but I don’t ever
see one of ’em runnin’ down the beach—arms goin’ that kind o’ way they
have, and hair flyin’—I don’t ever see ’em without feelin’ real good
somewheres inside. Everything breaks out all new—lights up, you know—’s
if the fog had blown off suddenlike and you looked way out where the sun
is.” Uncle William’s face held the glory of it all, but his voice had
dropped a little.... He got up and went to the door and stepped into
the night. Presently he reappeared and crossed over to the wood-box and
looked in. “Guess I’ll bring in an armful of wood,” he said. “It might
rain before morning.”
Benjy’s smile was very gentle as it followed him. “It can’t rain—a night
like this, William.”
Uncle William returned to the door and Bodet followed him.... The moor
was flooded with light—a magic world, hushed and waiting under its
veil.... Uncle William’s eyes dwelt on it fondly. “I reckon I’ll bring
in the wood,” he said. “Mebbe it won’t rain. But I kind o’ like to
bring in wood when I’ve been thinkin’.” The great figure passed into the
transparent night.
XV
C ELIA looked up from her work. “Did you have good luck?”
“Putty good,” said Uncle William, “Six-seven barrel, I should think.”
He stood in the doorway and cast an eye back at the beach. “I picked out
some good ones for dinner,” he said regretfully, “I must ’a’ left ’em
down there in the fish-house, or somewheres.”
Celia’s look was mild. “I’ll go down for them myself pretty quick. I’m
about through, anyway.” She swirled a little clean water into the sink
and took down a pan from its nail. “I sha ’n’t be gone long,” she said
kindly as she passed him in the doorway.
“No, the’ ain’t anybody interesting down there,” assented Uncle William.
The look in her face dimpled a little, but she made no reply.
Uncle William looked after her as she flitted down the path, the wind
blowing the little curls about her face, and the pan on her arm glinting
in the sun. He turned and went into the house, a contented look in his
face. “Seems’s if we had most everything,” he said comfortably. Juno
came across and rubbed against him and he stooped to pet her. Then he
went into the bedroom and came out with a plan of the new house. He
spread it on the table and sat down, studying it with pleased, shrewd
smile. The clock ticked and Juno purred into the stillness and a little
breeze came in the window, clean and fresh. By and by Uncle William
pushed up his spectacles and looked at the clock. His mouth remained
open a little and he went to the door, looking down the path. “Seems’s
if she o’t to be back by now—” He stared a little and reached for his
glasses and adjusted them, and took a long look.
A man was coming up the rocky path from the beach. He was a large man,
with a full paunch and light, soft steps. “He comes up there putty
good,” said Uncle William, watching him thoughtfully. “You can’t hurry
on them rocks.” The man had come to the top and paused to take breath,
looking back. “Holds himself kind o’ keerful on his toes,” said Uncle
William, “some ’s if he was afraid he ’d tip over and spill suthin’....
I do ’no’ who he is.”
The man turned and came toward the house. He had taken off his hat, and
his bald head shone in the sun.
Uncle William stood in the doorway, looking him over with keen,
benignant eye.
“Good morning,” said the man, “Mr. Benslow, I believe?” He held out a
round hand. “My name is Carter—Milton Carter from Ipswich.”
Uncle William took the hand, and looked down at the stout man. “I don’t
seem to remember your being here before?” he said.
“No—It’s my first visit to this region. I’m only here for a day or two.”
He turned, on the doorstep, and looked over the moor and rocks. “You
have a pleasant place here.” He had a smooth, flatted-out voice that
gave the words no color.
Uncle William nodded. “It’s a putty good place—Will you walk in, sir?”
The man stepped over the sill. “I didn’t expect to go quite so far when
I started. It’s quite a walk—” He wiped his forehead.
“You come from Andy’s?” asked Uncle William.
“From Halloran’s—yes, Andrew Halloran’s—You know him?”
“I know Andy,” said Uncle William. “Set down, sir.”
They sat down and looked at each other. “I was going through—” said
the man, “up the Lakes and I thought I’d stop off and look around—It’s
pleasant country about here.”
“Yes, it’s pleasant,” said Uncle William.
“Not much business doing, I suppose,” said the man.
“Fishing,” said Uncle William, “—mostly.”
“There’s some kind of building going on, I see—further up.” He moved the
round hand.
“That’s my friend—Benjamin Bodet,” said Uncle William. His head gave
a little lift. “He’s going to have nineteen rooms—not countin’ the
gal’ry.” He laid his hand affectionately on the blueprint spread on the
table beside him.
The man’s eyes narrowed. “I see—Seems to be quite a house,” he said
affably, “I was talking with the contractor this morning—a man by the
name of Manning—a very intelligent man,” he added kindly.
“His name’s Manning,” assented Uncle William.
The man’s eye strayed to the window. “Your friend must have considerable
land with his place—I should think?” He spoke casually.
Uncle William sat up a little. “He’s got enough to set his house on,” he
said dryly.
The man’s eyes held no rebuff. They dwelt on Uncle William kindly. “I
am interested in the region—” he admitted, “I might buy a little—a small
piece—if I found something I liked.”
Uncle William looked him over. “I don’t believe you will,” he said,
“—not anything to suit you.... I’ve bought most of it myself,” he added.
The stranger looked at him—and then out of the window. “You don’t own
all of it—?” He gave a little wave of the round hand at the moor and sky
and rocks.
Uncle William nodded, with a pleased smile. “I bought it all—fo’-five
years ago,” he said.
The man’s mouth was very mild. “You bought it for investment, I suppose?
You put money into it—”
“Well,” said Uncle William, “suthin’ like that, perhaps. I put in all I
could scrape up. Some I had—and some I just wished I’d had.”
“I see—? What would you take for it?—How much did you say you owned?” He
bent toward the window.
“‘Bout a mile,” said Uncle William.
The head withdrew itself. “A mile—! You hoped it would rise, I suppose?”
“Well—I was more afraid someone ’d be coming along and setting on it,”
said Uncle William.
“You could sell the whole?”
Uncle William shook his head.
“I shouldn’t care—so much—for a part of it,” said the man thoughtfully,
“But I might make you an offer—”
“I wouldn’t advise you to,” said Uncle William, “I might just as well
tell ye, Mr. Carter—there ain’t money enough in this country—nor any
other—to buy that land!” Uncle William sat up.
The other man shook his head. “Land values are skittish things,” he
said. “It’s good judgment to look ahead a little.”
“That’s where I’m lookin’,” said Uncle William.
“This Bodet—” said the other smoothly, “whom did he buy of?”
Uncle William smiled. “I give him his piece—He’s a friend of mine.”
“I see.” The man got to his feet, adjusting his weight nicely.
“Well, think it over, Mr. Benslow. I may stop over on my way back from
the Lakes and—” His hand advanced a little.
Uncle William’s gaze did not take it in. He was moving toward the
door—and the man moved with him—his light, smooth steps hearing him
along. “Good day, sir,” said Uncle William.
“Good morning, Mr. Benslow. I may stop over—on my way back.” He moved
easily off up the road and Uncle William stood watching him.
“There’s Benjy now,” said Uncle William.
The two men stopped in the road and talked a few minutes. The fat man
moved his hand and Bodet nodded once or twice.
Uncle William watched them a little anxiously. Then he went in and
gathered up the plan. When he came ont Benjamin was approaching with
quick, long strides.
“I’m coming right along, Benjy,” said Uncle William, “I was most ready—a
man come along and hindered me a little—”
“Who is he?” said Bodet.
“His name is Carter—I reckon he’s real-estate,” said Uncle William.
“I ’reckon’ he is—Maiming told me and I came right down. What did he
offer you?”
“Well, he didn’t exactly offer—I kind o’ held him off. But I guess he ’d
’a’ gone high—” Uncle William’s mouth closed in a happy smile. “‘Tis a
nice island. I don’t wonder ’t folks want to come to it—But they can’t,”
he added gently, “The’ ain’t room.
“I ’most hope he won’t see Andy,” he added after a minute, “Andy’s got a
little piece—down to the east there—kind of out of sight, you know, that
I didn’t buy.”
“I bought that piece last week,” said Bodet.
“You did!—How ’d you come to get it, Benjy?”
“The same way you got yours, I guess. I offered him a little more than
he would stand.”
Uncle William smiled.... “And I suppose likely this man ’ll go higher ’n
you did?”
“I suppose he will.”
Uncle William chuckled. “Poor Andy!”
“He’s ready to buy anything in sight you know,” said Bodet restlessly.
“The’ ain’t very much in sight, is there?” said Uncle William, “—except
what I own.” He cast a proud eye over his acres.
“I’ve been thinking, William—”
Bodet looked at him keenly, “why don’t you turn it over to me—the
whole of it? I told you I’d give you twenty thousand,—I’ll give you
thirty—more if you say so—and you can live on it just the same?”
Uncle William shook his head. “I couldn’t do it, Benjy. I reckon the
Lord cal’lated I’d buy up a mile—so’s to keep it from being cut up in
little fiddling bits—and I guess I’ve got to hold on to it. I’d like
to have thirty thousand,” he said reflectively, “The’s two-three little
things I could do with thirty thousand—!”
Bodet smiled. “You ought to have it—whether you deed me the land or
not—I have just as much good of it as you do.”
“Yes, you enjoy it—some,” admitted William.
“Well—I’m going to hand over the interest to you—pay your living—if
you ’ll let me?” He looked at Uncle William curiously. There were new
regions in Uncle William, perhaps—at least the thirty-thousand-dollar
region was unexplored as yet.
Uncle William surveyed the offer with impartial eye. “You can pay my
livin’ if you want to, Benjy—I’ve gen ’lly paid it myself, but I’d just
as lives you did, if you want to—or I’d pay yours.”
XVI
ANDY was subdued after the real-estate man’s visit. “You and Benjy might
sell me back some,” he suggested. He was sitting in Uncle William’s
door, looking out over the moor. Uncle William was busy inside.
He came and stood in the doorway, his spectacles on his forehead, and
looked at the landscape. “What ’d you do with it, Andy—if we give it
back to you?” he asked.
“I’d sell it to that Carter man—quick as scat—’fore he changed his
mind.”
Uncle William looked down at him. Then he looked at the moor.
“It’s val’able property,” said Andy.
“I do’ ’no’ as I know what val’able property is.” Uncle William’s eyes
rested fondly on the moor, with its rocks and tufted growth and the
clear, free line of sky.
“Val’able property?” said Andy. He gazed about him a little. “Val’able
property’s suthin’ you’ve got that somebody else wants and ’ll pay money
for—right off—That’s what I call val’able property.”
The clouds were riding up the horizon—the breeze from the moor blew in
and the cloud shadows sailed across. Uncle William lifted his face a
little. “Seems to me anything’s val’able ’t you kind o’ love and take
comfort with,” he said slowly.
Andy grunted. “Guess I’ll go ’long up the road,” he said.
“Up to Benjy’s?” Uncle William looked at him wistfully. “I told Benjy I
was coming up,” he said, “But it’s kind o’ late—” He looked at the sun,
“and it’s warm, too.”
Andy made no reply.
“I reckon I’ll go ’long with you,” said Uncle William—“You wait a minute
whilst I get my plans.”
They went up the road together in the clear light, the sun shining
hot on their backs. The little breeze had died out and the clouds were
drifting toward the horizon. Uncle William glanced wistfully at a big
rock by the roadside. “We might set down a spell,” he suggested. He
moved toward the rock. “I’ve been stirring since daylight,” he said, “It
don’t seem quite right to keep goin’ every minute so. Benjy’s a pretty
active man—for his years,” he added. He seated himself on the rock and
stretched his great legs in the sun—He drew a long breath. “I do take a
sight o’ comfort—not doin’ things,” he said. “Set down, Andy.” He patted
the rock beside him.
Andy glanced at the sun. “We ’ll be late,” he said.
“Yes, we ’ll be late, like enough. Smells good up here, don’t it!” Uncle
William snuffed the salt air with relish. “I al’ays like to stop along
here somewheres. It makes a putty good half-way place.”
Andy sat down. “Benjy’s wastin’ time on that house of his,” he said
glumly.
“Yes, he’s wastin’ time.” Uncle William looked about him placidly.
“Benjy don’t mind time—nor wastin’ it. What he wants is a house that he
wants. I do’ ’no’s I blame him for that—I like a house that suits me,
too.” His eye traveled back to the little house perched comfortably on
its rocks.
Andy’s face held no comment.
Uncle William sighed a little. “You can’t help wantin’ things the way
you want ’em,” he said. “And Benjy ain’t ever been married—no more ’n
me. Now, you’ve been married—”
“Yes, I’ve been married—a good many year,” said Andy sombrely.
“That’s it! An’ you know what ’tis to want things—’t you can’t have!
But Benjy ’n’ me—” Uncle William looked around him—at the great rocks
on either side and the big, cloudless sky and the road running to the
horizon and dipping beyond—“Me and Benjy—we’ve missed it—somehow.”
Andy cast a scornful eye at him. But his face, set toward the horizon
line, was non-committal.
“I can see it in Benjy plainer ’n I can in me,” went on Uncle William,
“how it acts—wanting things jest so—and kind o’ dancing all round if you
can’t have ’em.... I reckon that’s what marryin ’s for—to kind o’ steady
ye like—ballast, you know. You can’t ride quite so high, maybe, but you
can steer better...”
“Somebody’.l steer,” said Andy.
Uncle William cast the flick of a smile at him. “Well, you wouldn’t want
two captains, Andy—not on the same boat, would ye? That’s what makes all
the trouble, I reckon—” he went on thoughtfully, “wantin’ to go two ways
to once. Seems ’f folks didn’t know what they got married for—some of
’em.”
“Well, I do ’no’,” said Andy without enthusiasm.
Uncle William looked at him with a quiet smile. “You wouldn’t want to
get a divorce, would you, Andy?”
“Lord, no!” said Andy.
Uncle William’s smile grew deeper. “I reckoned you ’d feel that
way—Seems ’f the rivets all kind o’ loosen up—when folks talk about
separatin’ and divorce and so on—things get kind o’ shackly-like and
wobble some.”
Andy grinned. “They don’t wobble down to our house. I’d like to see
Harriet wobblin’ a minute—for once.”
“No, Harr’et’s firm,” said Uncle William. “An’ I guess you really like
it better that way.” He spoke encouragingly.
“You have to settle down to it when you’re married,” went on Uncle
William, “settle down comfortable-like—find the easy spots and kind
o’ make for ’em. It’s like the weather, I reckon—you expect some
weather—rain and thunder and so on.” Uncle William’s gaze rested
contentedly on the cloudless, far-reaching sky.... “We ’d grumble
a little, I guess—any way you ’d fix it.... But we wouldn’t want
biling-hot sunshine all the time. Why, climates where they have that
kind o’ weather—” Uncle William sat up, looking about him, “It’s
terrible tryin’—dust and fleas and scorpions—and it’s dreadful dull
living, too.... I like a good deal of weather myself. It keeps things
movin’—suthin’ to pay attention to.”
“What’s that you’ve got in your pocket?” demanded Andy, peering towards
something blue that stuck up over the edge of William’s pocket.
Uncle William’s hand reached down to it—“That’s the plans,” he said,
“for Benjy’s house. It’s the plans—as far as he’s got,” he added
conscientiously.
Andy’s eye turned away—grudging.
Uncle William drew out the blue paper and looked at it fondly. “I’m
helping Benjy decide what he wants—from time to time.” He spread out the
paper on his knee.
Andy turned his back and looked out to sea—sideways.
“Want to see ’em, Andy?” asked Uncle William.
“I don’t care.”
“It’s a good place to see ’em.” Uncle William glanced at the flat rock.
He laid down the blue paper and smoothed the curly edges with big,
careful fingers.
“You get two-three stones, Andy—to anchor ’em down—”
Andy got up with an indifferent air and wandered off, gathering in a
handful of small rocks.
“That’s good—put one of ’em here—and one here—and here. That’s good!”
Uncle William leaned back and looked at it with simple delight.
Andy’s air was detached.
Uncle William glanced at him. His gaze softened. “This is Benjy’s room,”
he said. His finger followed a white dotted line on the paper.
Andy bent a little.
“An’ here the lib’ry—and the gallery—”
“The what?” Andy ducked a little toward the plan.
“That’s the gallery—didn’t I tell ye, Andy?”
“No.” Andy’s mouth was open at it.
“It’s for picters, you know, and marble things—kind o’ standing round.”
“Huh!” The mouth closed.
“It ’ll be quite nice, I reckon—when it’s done. I can see he sets store
by it—” Uncle William’s finger hovered dubiously about the spot. “An’
this part here—all this wing—is for Sergia and him—Alan—”
“They ain’t here,” said Andy.
“But they’re going to be here sometime,” said Uncle William cheerfully.
“It ’ll be quite a fam’ly then.” He gazed at the blue paper fondly. “I
do like a fam’ly—seems kind o’ foolish to build a house and not have a
fam’ly.”
Andy said nothing. His eye was studying a corner of the plan. “What’s
that?” he demanded.
Uncle William bent to it. He lifted his face, beaming. “‘W’s
room’—That’s my room,” he said.
Andy glared at it. “You going to live there—with him!”
“Why, no, Andy—not just live there—It’s a kind o’ place for me to stay
nights, you know—if I get caught up there—stormy weather?” Uncle William
looked at him a little anxiously.
Andy got up. “I’ve got to go ’long,” he said.
Uncle William’s face held him sympathetically. “I was goin’ to show you
the rest of the plans,” he said.
“I don’t care about ’em,” said Andy. He moved away.
Uncle William’s big fingers found a stub of pencil in his pocket and
brought it out. “I was thinking, Andy—” he said slowly.
Andy turned back—a little.
“I was wondering if you ’d mind havin’ the same room as me—up to
Benjy’s?”
“I don’t want no room,” said Andy.
“I couldn’t stay away nights.” He looked at the paper with gloomy eye.
Uncle William wet the pencil with careful tongue and bent over the
paper. His fingers traced a large, scrawling A. “There!” He leaned back,
looking at it with satisfied gaze. “‘A and W’s room’—looks good, don’t
it!” His face beamed on Andy.
The gloom relaxed a little. “It don’t mean nothing,” said Andy.
“Well, I do’ ’no’,” said Uncle William. “It sounds nice, and when
things sound nice, seems ’s if they must mean suthin’—down underneath
somewheres.”
“Huh!” said Andy.
XVII
THE real-estate man and Andy were out behind the barn. There was a
glimpse of the harbor in the distance, and behind them the moor rose to
the horizon.
The real-estate man’s little eyes scanned it. “You haven’t much land,”
he said casually.
“I own to the top—pretty near an acre,” said Andy. “And there’s the
house and barn—and the chicken-coop.” He cast an eye toward it.
A white fowl emerged and scurried across in front of them.
The man’s small eyes followed her, without interest. “I found a number
of houses down in the village,” he said smoothly, in his flat voice,
“and plenty of land—Almost any of them will sell, I fancy.”
“Yes, they ’ll sell.” Andy’s eye was gloomy. “‘Most anybody around here
’ll sell—except William,” he added thoughtfully.
The narrow eye turned on him. “How much did you say you sold to him?”
“‘Bout four hundred acre, I reckon,” said Andy.
“Five hundred dollars is what he paid you, I believe?” The man’s voice
was smooth, and patient.
Andy wriggled a little. “‘Twa ’n’t enough,” he said feebly.
“Well—I don’t know—” The man glanced about him, “I was looking at a
house down in the village this morning—eight rooms—good roof—ten acres
of land, and barn. I can have the whole thing for six hundred.”
“That’s Gruchy’s,” said Andy quickly, “He wants to move off the Island.”
“He said he wanted to move—that’s the name—Gruchy—I’d forgotten.” The
small eyes looked off at the distant glint of water. “In some ways I
like that place better than this,” he said thoughtfully. “It’s on the
shore—”
“I’ve got a right of way,” said Andy.
“To the shore!” The man’s eyes looked at him an instant, and a little
light flicked in them, and was gone.
“It’s down here,” said Andy. He moved over to the right. “Here’s my
entrance—and it runs from here straight across to the shore. We never
measured it off—I al’ays cut across anywheres I want to. But it’s in the
deed—and anybody ’t buys the land ’ll have it.” He looked at the other
shrewdly.
“I see—” The real estate man’s gaze followed the right of way across
Uncle William’s moor. “I see—Well, of course, that makes a difference—a
little difference. It would be foolish to buy on an island and not
have access to the shore—I presume you could buy the Gruchy place,” he
suggested.
“That’s what I was thinking of,” said Andy, “—unless William wanted to
give me a little piece.” His gloomy eyes rested, almost fondly, on the
big moor that stretched away under its piled-up clouds.
“Better for business down in the village, I should think,” said the man
briskly.
“Yes, it’s better for business,” admitted Andy. “Only I’ve got kind of
used to it up here.” His eye sought the house. “I was born in there, you
know—and my father lived there and my grandfather.”
The real-estate man’s hand reached to his pocket and found something and
drew it out, slowly.
Andy’s eyes rested on it, fascinated.
The man seemed to hesitate. He looked down at the roll in his hand, and
half returned it to his pocket. Then he looked again, doubtfully, at the
house and barn and chicken-coop. He had turned his back on the right
of way and the horizon line above them. “I’ll tell you how it is, Mr.
Halloran—” His voice was frankly confidential—“I have taken a liking to
your place and I’d be willing to pay a little more for it than for some
place I didn’t fancy. I’m made like that.” He expanded a little. “Now,
value for value, Gruchy’s place is worth twice what yours is—and I know
it.” He looked at him narrowly. “But I’m going to offer you a thousand
dollars—five hundred down and five hundred the first of the month—if you
want to close now.” He fingered the bills a little.
Andy’s eyes grew round. “I’ll have to ask Harr’et,” he said. “She ain’t
very well.” He glanced toward a darkened window at the rear of the
house—“She’s havin’ neuralgia—off and on—I wouldn’t want to ask her when
she has it. She has a bad spell today.” He shook his head.
The other looked at him sympathetically. “I have to go to-night—and I
couldn’t be sure I’d want to offer a thousand in the morning—even if I
stayed—not if I came across something I like better.” He returned the
bills decisively to his pocket.
Andy’s glance followed them. “I don’t really need to ask her.” His
glance flickered. “She’s said, time and again, she ’d be glad if I’d
sell. She comes from northeast of Digby. I reckon she ’d like to go
back.”
“Digby’s a fine place,” said the man. “Well, good day, Mr. Halloran. I’m
glad to have met you.” He held out a round hand.
Andy took it without enthusiasm. “I do ’no’ but I might as well sell,”
he said feebly.
The other waved it away. “Don’t think of it—not without your wife’s
consent—not if you’re accustomed to doing what she tells you.”
“I ain’t,” said Andy indignantly.
“Of course not—I only meant that you ’d be better satisfied—”
“I’m satisfied now,” said Andy. “You pay me the five hundred down, and
the place is yours.”
The man cast a cool glance at the house and barn and the white fowl
strutting before them. “Well—if you really want to sell—” He drew the
roll from his pocket and counted out the bills slowly, handing them to
Andy with careless gesture.
Andy’s hand closed about them spasmodically and he looked down at them
with half-open mouth and grinned a little.
“Now, if you ’ll sign the receipt—” The man drew a fountain pen from
his pocket and wrote a few lines rapidly. “There you are. Sign here,
please.”
Andy’s fingers found the place and rubbed it a little and traced his
name slowly. He looked at the crumpled bills, and a deep smile filled
his face. “Harr’et will be pleased!” he said.