we will draw up the papers, and you can look about you for a place. You
’ll find something to suit, and I sha ’n’t hurry you—Take your time.” He
moved off slowly, waving his hands in a kind of real-estate benediction,
and Andy stared after him, entranced.
“Oh, by the way—” The man came back. “I wouldn’t say anything about it
if I were you—not for a while. There are always people ready to make
trouble—and you ’ll be able to buy cheaper if they don’t know you’ve got
to buy.” He beamed on him. “Of course, if you have to tell your wife—?”
“I don’t have to,” blurted Andy.
“All the better—all the better. The fewer women know things, the
better.” The man smiled genially, and his light, smooth steps bore him
away—out of Andy’s sight.
When he had disappeared, Andy looked down at the bills. He drew out from
his coat a large rumpled handkerchief and tied the bills skillfully in
one corner and thrust it back into his pocket. Then he walked, with firm
step, past the darkened window, into the house.
XVIII
THERE was a gathering cloud in the air—brooding, like a storm. Uncle
William looked up to it, then he went on dragging his dory down the
beach to the water’s edge. A voice sailed through the air, and he paused
and looked up. Benjy, coming down the rocky path, was signalling to him
violently. Uncle William dropped the dory and stood up. He advanced up
the beach and the two men faced each other. Great clouds were rolling up
from the horizon, and down behind them the sea boomed.
“Have you heard what’s going on?” demanded Bodet. He was breathing a
little grimly.
“I kind o’ got it out of Andy this morning,” admitted Uncle William.
Bodet looked at him in silence.
“I do’ ’no’ why I didn’t get the idee sooner,” went on Uncle William.
“Their lumber must have been lying around here fo-five days, now. But
you’ve had such a lot of stuff clutterin’ up the dock, that I didn’t
take no notice. I do’ ’no’ ’s I’d ’a’ seen it this morning—only Andy
looked so kind o’ queer and meachin’ down ’t the dock—that I said plain
out to him, I said, ’What you been doing, Andy?’ An’ he had to tell me.
He hated to—like pizen. Uncle William smiled a little. I told him he ’d
been putty foolish,” he added slowly.
“Foolish!” Bodet fizzed. “It’s a crime! Building a hotel!—up there!” He
waved his hand up over the great cliffs.
Uncle William looked up to them with kindly eye. “‘Tain’t a
hotel—exactly—”
“Seventy-five rooms,” said Bodet.
“‘Tis a good many,” said Uncle William.
“Traipsing all over the place—I’ll shoot ’em,” said Bodet savagely.
“Shootin’ won’t do any good, Benjy.” Uncle William was mild. “I thought
about shootin’ ’em myself—whilst I was bein’ mad this mornin’.”
“They sha ’n’t step on my land—nor yours,” said Bodet. “Do you think I’d
have come up here—to the ends of the earth—to be tramped on?”
“Why, no, Benjy—an’ you ain’t goin’ to be tramped on.” Uncle William’s
voice was soothing. “But, you see—they’ve got a right to go acrost your
land, and across mine.”
Bodet looked at him. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead
and put the handkerchief back. “What do you mean William?” he said.
“Set down, Benjy.” Uncle William found a convenient rock. “It’s in the
deed. You see, Andy, he wanted it that way and I never thought much
about it, one way or the other—I reckon he wouldn’t ever ’a’ sold it
without,” Uncle William added slowly. “Anyway I give it to him, and
it runs right by your place—near as I can make out. I’ve been kind o’
thinking about it since I found out.”
Benjy groaned a little.
“I know jest how you feel, Benjy.” Uncle William’s voice held a deep
note in in it, “—about rusticators, and havin’ ’em go by your windows,
all hours, day and night, a-gabbling and so kind o’ cheerful-like. I do’
’no’ ’s I could stand it myself.”
“I’m not going to stand it,” said Bodet, “I’ll sell out—leave the
Island.”
“Mebbe that’s what he wants—what he’s countin’ on,” said William slowly.
Benjy glared at him.
“Don’t you worry, Benjy.” Uncle William looked out to sea where the big
waves tumbled under the wind and the whitecaps gathered and bobbed and
rode high—“Don’t you holler ’fore you’re hurt. The’ ain’t anybody gone
past your windows yet.... I’m figgerin’ on it,” went on Uncle William,
“an’ I can’t stan’ it, no more ’n you can—to have ’em a-settin’ on the
beach here—” Uncle William’s gaze dwelt on it fondly. “‘Twouldn’t be the
same place—if I’d got to look up, any minute, and see two-three of
’em settin’, or kind o’ gettin’ into the boats, and squealin’.... It’s
partly the clo’es, I reckon,” said Uncle William after a minute, “—the
women’s things like men’s—and the men’s like women’s. Can’t tell which
from ’tother, half the time. Look up, and see a hat and coat and shoes,
mebbe, and think it’s a man and get your mind all fixed for a man—and
it turns into a woman.... There was a young man over to Pie Beach one
summer,” said Uncle William slowly, “that had a green veil onto his hat.
I’d hate to have a young man with a green veil a-settin’ on my beach.”
Bodet snorted.
Uncle William cast a mild eye at him. “They’re nice folks, too—some of
’em,” he said conscientiously, “and they’re always polite. They talk to
me real kind—and encouraging.” His eyes rested on the dark horizon line
beyond the tumbling waves. “But the’s suthin’ queer about the way I feel
when I’m talking with ’em. They’re polite and I’m polite—real polite,
for me. But sometimes, when we’re a-settin’ here—as close as you be—and
talkin’ real comfortable, I get to feelin’ ’s if I was alongside a
chasm—kind of a big, deep place like—and standin’ on tiptoe, shouting
to ’em.” Uncle William wiped his forehead. “I gen’ally go out and sail a
spell after I’ve talked to ’em,” he added. Bodet laughed ont.
Uncle William smiled. “Now, don’t you mind, Benjy. I’m figgerin’ on it.
I reckon we ’ll manage to live along—somehow.”
“The place is his,” said Bodet, “bought and paid for—”
“A thousand dollars,” said Uncle William.
Bodet looked at him—then he groaned softly. “And he ’ll use your land,
and mine, for a door-yard—and the beach for a sand-pile. All he needs is
land enough to build his hotel on—and he’s got it.”
“Yes, he’s got it,” admitted William, “and they must have quite a piece
of building done, by this time—They’re adding on and raising up, Andy
said.” Uncle William got to his feet. “I reckon I’ll go take a look at
it.” He glanced at the harbor. “No kind o’ day to fish—George Manning
working?” he asked casually.
“Yes—he’s working.” Bodet’s tone was a little stiff.
“Um-m—” Uncle William moved off a little distance. He drew his dory up
the beach, and pottered about a little. “I was just going out to see to
the Jennie,” he said. “But she’s all right—and mebbe it ’ll blow over.”
He looked up at the sky. “I o’t to get some things down ’t the store—”
He felt in his pockets. “You got any money, Benjy?”
Benjy shook his head. “I can give you a cheque if you want it.” There
was a little, quizzical smile with the words.
Uncle William paused, his hand half drawn from his pocket—a light
filled his face, and a little laugh. “That ’ll do, Benjy—that ’ll do
fust-rate,” he said.
Bodet drew out his cheque book and opened it. “How much do you want!” he
asked.
Uncle William paused. He looked at the cliffs, and at the sky—“I might
want a considabul,” he said slowly—“Couldn’t you just sign your name
down there, Benjy, the way you do, and let me get what I need?”
Bodet looked at him a minute. Then he signed the cheque and handed it to
him—a little smile in his eyes. “Tell me what you make it,” he said.
“Oh, I’ll tell you,” said Uncle William cordially. “I’d tell you
now—only I don’t know how much it ’ll cost—what I’m going to buy.” He
moved off up the beach.
At the foot of the cliff he paused and looked back. “Mebbe I’ll see
Harriet,” he said. “Her temper ain’t good. But she’s firm, and she’s got
sense.”
Bodet shook his head. “The thing is tied tight, William. I looked into
it before I came down.”
“‘D you see Moseley?” said William. “He could tell ye. He knows the
Island—and everybody on it.”
“Yes, I saw him. He said the papers were drawn and signed—two weeks
ago—in his office. You’re not dealing with Andy—this time, William.”
“I guess I’ll go see Harr’et,” said Uncle William cheerfully. “And don’t
you worry, Benjy. The’ ain’t nobody going to set on your land without
you want ’em to—it ain’t right—and it ain’t goin’ to be.”
Uncle William smiled—a great, reassuring smile—and mounted the zigzag
path to the cliff. For a minute his figure loomed against the sky at the
top. Then it disappeared over the edge, headed toward Andy’s house.
XIX
THE large man came softly along the beach, treading with light, smooth
steps.
Uncle William, mending his net, did not look up.
The man paused beside him, and looked about—with pleased, expansive eye.
Uncle William’s glance rested on him.
The man looked down. “Good morning, Mr. Benslow—I’ve come back, you
see.”
“I see ye,” said Uncle William.
The man filled his chest. “I’ve come to see how they’re getting on—over
at my place. I bought a small piece, of Halloran, you know—You heard
about it, I presume?”
“Andy said suthin’ about your wantin’ to buy of him,” said Uncle William
discreetly.
“Yes, I bought his house and what land goes with it. It’s small—but
there didn’t seem to be much land for sale around here—” He dropped a
casual eye in Uncle William’s direction.
Uncle William’s face was placid.
“I’m building a little,” said the man.
“So I heard tell,” said Uncle William.
“It’s a great place,” said the man. His chest expanded a little more.
“I shall advertise, of course, and I expect a good class of patrons for
this place.” He balanced himself on his toes and looked down on Uncle
William benignantly.
Uncle William went on mending his net. His blue eyes squinted at the
meshes and his big arms moved hack and forth in even rhythm.
The man looked down at him doubtfully. Then he found a nail keg—a stout
one—and sat down. “I want to be on good terms with my neighbors, Mr.
Benslow,” he said genially. He was leaning forward a little, toward
Uncle William, one arm resting on his knee and the hand spread out
toward him.
Uncle William looked at it a minute. Then he pushed up his spectacles
and looked out to sea. “The’ ain’t many neighbors round here,” he said,
“—jest me and Benjy—and Andy.”
“That’s what I meant,” said the man, “only I’m the neighbor now instead
of—Hallo!—There’s Halloran himself. I want to speak to him,” He rose
cautiously from his keg and motioned to Andy who was disappearing behind
a pile of lumber down on the dock.
Andy came out, a little grudgingly, it seemed, and the man moved forward
to meet him.
Uncle William went on mending his net.
When the man returned his face had a reddish look and his voice was a
little controlled and stiff. “Halloran tells me you’ve put an injunction
on my work up there?” He moved his hand toward the cliff.
Uncle William held up his net and squinted at it. “We-l-l,” he said
slowly, “we told ’em they better not do any more building—not till you
come.” He looked at him mildly.
There was silence on the beach. The galls sailed overhead and the waves
lapped softly, rippling up and back, with little salt washes. Uncle
William looked about him with contented gaze. “We don’t really need a
hotel on the Island, Mr. Carter—not really,” he said slowly.
The man looked at him a moment. Then he sat down on the keg, adjusting
his weight nicely. “I understand your feeling, Mr. Benslow, I understand
it perfectly—and it’s natural. But you don’t foresee, as I do, what a
hotel will do for this Island. I’ve had experience in these matters, and
I can tell you that in three years—” he looked about him proudly, “you
wouldn’t know the place!”
Uncle William cast a quick glance at the cliff—“I don’t suppose I
should,” he said hastily.
“And as for values—” The man’s hand swept the horizon. “You could sell
at your own price. I’m really doing you a favor, Mr. Benslow—” he leaned
toward him, “if you had foresight.”
“Yes, I reckon it takes foresight,” said Uncle William. He looked at
him mildly. “I might just as well tell ye, Mr. Carter—you can’t build no
hotel—not up here. You can build down ’t the village, if you want to,”
he added.
“In that hole—?” The man looked at him cynically. “Do you think anybody
would board in that hole?”
“I shouldn’t want to myself,” admitted William, “but folks are
different—some folks are different.”
The man rose to his feet. “I shall be sorry to have any ill feeling
with you, Mr. Benslow. But you can’t expect me to sacrifice my plans—not
unless you are willing to buy the place yourself.” He dropped a narrow
eye on him for a minute.
“That’s what I was thinking,” said Uncle William cordially.
The man smiled a little. “What would you consider it worth?” he asked
pleasantly.
“Well—” Uncle William considered, “I do’ ’no’ just what ’tis worth. We
paid Andy two thousand for it.”
The man’s mouth looked at him for a minute, then it closed, in a little
smile. “You mean you would pay that,” he suggested.
“I mean we did pay it,” said Uncle William stoutly, “—last week. An’
then I told ’em not to drive another nail, or I’d sue ’em!” He was
sitting erect now and there was a little glint in the blue eyes. “Set
down, Mr. Carter.” He motioned to the nail keg. “I might jest as well
tell ye—plain out—so ’s ’t you can understand. Andy didn’t own that
place. He ain’t owned it for years. He don’t own stock nor stone on the
Island—Don’t own his own boat out there—” Uncle William nodded to
the dark boat, rocking beside the Jennie. Andy, on the deck, was busy
hauling up the sail and making ready to cast off. Uncle William’s eye
rested on him, with a little humorous gleam. “You see, Andy, he got
scared, fo-five years ago, ’bout his property. He’s a kind o’ near man,
Andy is, and he got the idee he ’d make everything over to Harr’et—to
have it safe. So that’s what he done. He give her a paper saying he ’d
made it all over to her—everything. Nobody knew it, I guess—except me.
And I wouldn’t ’a’ known it if it hadn’t been for one day, when we was
out sailin’—We got to talking about one thing and another—and fust thing
he knew, he ’d told me. He made me promise not to tell, and I ain’t
told—not a soul—not till now.” Uncle William beamed on him. “I reckon
’twon’t do any harm now.”
The man’s gaze was fixed on him. “I shall see what the law has to say
about it,” he said quietly.
“Well, I would if I was you,” said Uncle William cordially, “I did, when
I bought my piece. I see a lawyer—a good one—and he said my deed wa ’n’t
wuth the paper ’twas writ on if Harr’et didn’t give a quit-claim deed—So
she give it.”
The man’s gaze was looking out to sea.
Uncle William looked at him benevolently. “It ain’t a just law—anybody
can see it ain’t just! How was you going to know ’t Harr’et owns Andy?
I wouldn’t ’a’ known it if we hadn’t been sailing that way. And
you couldn’t ’a’ known it—You didn’t know,” said Uncle William with
conviction.
The narrow eyes turned on him for a minute. “There’s such a thing as
law,” he repeated.
“Law’s ticklish,” said Uncle William. “Far as I make out, the man that’s
got the most money, beats—after a spell.”
There was silence again. “I suppose you know I paid Halloran five
hundred down,” said the man.
“Yes, Andy told me about the five hundred down—and five hundred the
first of the month.” Uncle William’s hand sought his pocket. “Andy give
that five hundred to me. I reckon he kind o’ hated to hand it to ye.”
Uncle William’s eye sought the dark boat that had lifted sail and was
creeping out of the harbor. “I told him I’d just as lives give it to you
as not—I’d be real glad.” He held out the roll of bills.
The man took them, in thick fingers, and counted them.
Uncle William watched him, with deep, detached eye—“I’ll tell you how it
is, Mr. Carter—You wouldn’t ever ’a’ been happy here on the Island—not
really happy. You see, here on the Island, we gen’ally fish, or cut
bait, or go ashore. You ’d like it better to go ashore.”
The man moved away a few steps. “To tell you the truth, I am glad to be
out of it,” he said, “I was making your land altogether too valuable—and
nothing in it for me.”
“That’s the way I felt,” said Uncle William cordially. “I don’t like
things ’t I own to get too val’able. It makes a lot of bother owning
’em.... You ’ll just about get the boat—if you was thinkin’ of going
today,” he suggested.
The man looked at him—then he smiled and held out his hand. “Good-by,
Mr. Benslow. I think I know a gentleman—when I meet him.”
Uncle William rubbed his hand down his trouser leg and took the one that
was held out. “Good-by, Mr. Carter. I don’t suppose I’ll see you again.
You won’t be comin’ back to the Island, I suppose. But we ’ll buy your
lumber—we can work it in somehow, I reckon.”
The man moved away, and Uncle William returned to his net. Now and then
his eyes sought the little dark boat that sailed back and forth against
the misty horizon—and a smile crept up to the eyes and lingered
in them—a little smile of humor and gentleness and kindly pity and
strength.
XX
I'd. let him go, Benjy, if I was you.” Two weeks had gone by and the
mackerel continued to run. George Manning had stayed by the house,
driving nails with big, fierce strokes and looking out over the harbor
with his set face.... The house had come on rapidly—the shingling was
done and most of the inside woodwork was up. A new set of men had been
put on, to replace the mackerel men, and Manning drove them hard. It had
not been easy to get men, or to keep them—with the mackerel schooling
red out there in the harbor. But something in Manning’s eye held them to
their work.
“I’d let him go, Benjy,” said Uncle
William. The two men stood in front of the new house, looking toward it.
“He’s got her closed in tight—” went on Uncle William, “Windows all in.
The’ can’t anything happen to her now.... He’s stood by ye putty well,”
he suggested craftily—“better ’n I’d ’a’ done—with all that goin’ on out
there!” He waved his hand at the water.
Bodet’s eye followed the motion. “I want him for the inside work,” he
said.
Uncle William looked at him benevolently. “I know you want him, Benjy.
But here on the Island we al’ays kind o’ give and take—Ain’t you been
taking quite a spell?” he added gently.
Bodet turned a little. “A contract’s a contract,” he said uneasily.
“Well, mebbe,” said Uncle William, “I reckon that’s why we ain’t ever
had many contracks here on the Island—We’ve al’ays liked to live along
kind o’ humanlike.”
Bodet smiled a little. “I’ll let him off,” he said, “—if he ’ll get
things along so we can paint—I can look after the painting for him
myself—” his chest expanded a little.
Uncle William’s eye was mild. “I reckoned you ’d come around to doin’
it, Benjy. We wouldn’t ever ’a’ felt comfortable, sitting in your
house—when ’twas all done,” Uncle William looked at it approvingly—“We
wouldn’t ’a’ wanted to set there and look at it and remember how George
Manning didn’t get a chance to put down a net all this season.... I
reckon I’d al’ays kind o’ remember his face—when I was settin’ there—the
way he looks in there, and the mackerel ripplin’ round out there in the
water—and him hammerin’.”
Bodet grunted a little. “All right—I’ll let him off—tomorrow.”
Uncle William beamed on him. “You ’ll feel a good deal better, Benjy—now
’t you’ve done it. I see it was kind o’ making you bother?”
“I could have stood it—quite a while yet—if you could have,” said Bodet
dryly.
Uncle William chuckled and looked toward the house—“There’s George in
there now—You go tell him—why don’t you, Benjy.”
He moved away and Bodet stepped toward the house. He disappeared inside
and Uncle William seated himself on a rock and studied the boats that
dotted the harbor. Only two were at anchor—the new Jennie, riding in
proud, fresh paint, near by, and George Manning’s great boat—dark green,
with crimson lines and gleams of gold along the prow. She was a handsome
boat, large and finely built, and Maiming had refused more than one
offer for her for the mackerel season....
He would take her out himself—or she should ride the season at anchor.
Uncle William turned toward the house—The young man was coming from the
door. “Hello, George—I hear you’re going out!”
The sombre face smiled a little. “‘Bout time!” His eye dropped to the
big boat and lingered on it. “She’s all ready—and I’ve got my pick of
men.” He gathered a stem of grass from the cliff and took it in his
teeth. “I don’t believe I was going to hold out much longer,” he said.
“Oh, yes—you ’d ’a’ held out. I wa ’n’t a mite afraid of your not
holdin’ out,” said Uncle William. “All I was afraid of was that Benjy ’d
hold out—I kind o’ thought he ’d be ’shamed byme-by—when he come to see
how ’twas on the Island.... It’s different, living on an island, George.
We can’t expect everybody to see what we do—right off, I guess. There’s
something about living on an island, perhaps. You just get little handy
samples o’ things and see how ’tis—right off. Bein’ born on an island’s
a dretful good thing—saves you hurryin’ and repentin’.” Uncle William
gazed at the horizon. “Benjy don’t like repentin’ any more ’n you do. He
’ll be real glad ’bout your going—byme-by.”
“I’m going down to fix things up a little—I’ll be back along towards
night.”
“Oh—George—?” Uncle William’s fingers fumbled in his pocket.
The young man held his step.
“I’ve got it here—somewheres—” murmured Uncle William. “Yes—here
’tis.... You just give this to Celia, will you?” He held out a torn
envelope. “You tell her to put it behind the clock for me.” Uncle
William’s face was impassive.
The young man eyed it a minute....
“All right.” He held out his hand. “I wasn’t expecting to go by your
place. But I can—if you want me to.” He tucked the note in his pocket
and moved off.
Uncle William looked after him with a kindly smile—“Just hates to do
it—worst way,” he murmured.... “Don’t none of us know what’s good for
us, I reckon—no more ’n he does.”
Celia, moving about the room like a bird, paused a moment and listened.
Then she went cautiously to the window and pushed back the red curtain
and looked out... her eyes followed the line of road, with eager,
glancing look—little smiles in them and bubbles of laughter. She dropped
the curtain and went back to her work, shaking out pillows and dusting
the quaint room, with intent, peering looks that darted at the dust and
shook it out and rebuked it as it flew.
A shadow blocked the door, but she did not look up. She held a pillow
in her hand, looking severely at a rip in the side and Uncle William’s
feathers fluffing out.... The young man scraped his feet a little on the
stone step.
She looked up then—the severe look still in her face. “Mr. Benslow is
not here,” she said.
“I know he is not here.” He stepped over the sill. “He asked me to give
you this.” He fetched the foolish paper out of his pocket grimly and
looked at it and handed it to her.
She took it gravely. “What is it for?” she asked.
“He said you were to put it behind the clock—I don’t know what it’s
for—” he said a little gruffly.
Her laugh scanned the bit of paper. “I can put it behind the clock—if he
wants it there—” She walked over and tucked it away. “But I think it’s a
funny idea,” she said.
“So do I,” said George.
“Will you sit down?” She motioned to the disorderly room.
“I’ve got to go,” he replied. He looked about him—sitting down.
A little smile played through Celia’s face and ran away. “I didn’t thank
you for carrying the potatoes for me—that night—” she said politely.
“You went off so quick I didn’t get a chance.”
“I’m going mackereling tomorrow,” responded George.
“You are!” Her eyes opened. “Did Mr. Bodet say you could?”
His face darkened. “I’d have gone before—so far as he is concerned.” He
straightened himself a little.
“Oh—I—thought—he didn’t want you to go.”
“He didn’t—but that isn’t what kept me.”
“What was it—kept you, then?” She had seated herself and her hands,
holding the dust-cloth, were crossed demurely in her lap.
George looked at them. “I stayed because I thought I ought to,” he said.
“I’d have gone.” She gave a little flit to the dust-cloth and folded it
down.
He turned his eyes away. “Likely enough you would—” he said, “you’re a
woman—”
“I don’t know what you mean by that!” She had got to her feet and was
looking at him.
“I don’t know just what I mean myself,” said George. “But I guess I
didn’t mean any harm—women are just different, you know.... I’ve got to
go now—” he said, crossing his legs.
“You’ve got a nice boat,” said Celia. The teasing look had left her
face.