window.
“Uncle William says she’s the best boat on the harbor,” said Celia.
“Well—I guess she is.... He’s got a good one, too—mine’s bigger,” said
George.
“It’s a beautiful boat, I think,” said the girl. She had gone to the
window and was looking down. The wind came in and blew past her curls a
little and ruffled around through the room.
“I’d like to take you out in her some day,” said George.
“Would you!” She turned to him, with a quick little flutter of curls and
the color dabbing her cheeks. “I’d love to go!”
“All right.” He got up. He went toward the door slowly—as if fingers
held him.
The girl did not stir....
He turned at the door and looked at her—“Good-bye,” he said—
“Good-bye.” She moved a step, “Oh—I—”
He paused a minute—waiting.
“I thank you for bringing the paper,” said Celia.
“That’s all right.” He moved away down the path.
She stood where he had left her—the dust-cloth in her hand, the little
clear color in her cheeks. Slowly the look changed. By and by she went
to the window and looked out. Down below, a young man had drawn a dory
to the water’s edge and was shoving off. She watched him seat himself
and pull out with long, easy strokes.
Presently he looked up. He crossed the clumsy oars in one hand and
lifted his hat.
The dust-cloth fluttered a moment and was gone.
With a smile the young man replaced his hat and resumed the oars. The
dory moved through the water with long, even motion—and overhead a gull
followed the dory, hanging on moveless, outspread wings.
XXI
THE day was alive—pink dawn, moving waves, little tingling breaths of
salt, and fresh, crisp winds. Celia, up in the little house, was singing
bits of song, peering into closets and out, brushing and scrubbing and
smiling, and running to and fro.... Uncle William, out on the big rock
near the house, turned his head and listened to the flurry going on
inside.... There was a pause and a quick exclamation—and silence.
Through the open door he could see the curly head bent over an old
plate. She was standing on a chair and had reached the plate down from
the top shelf. Uncle William’s face fell a little. She jumped down from
the chair and came toward the door, holding it at arm’s length. “Look at
that!” she said.
Uncle William looked. “That’s my boot-grease,” he said a little
wistfully. “I put it up there—kind o’ out of your way, Celia.”
She set it down hard on the rock. “I’ll make you some fresh—when I get
to it.” She disappeared in the door, and Uncle William looked at the
plate. He half got up and reached out to it—“The’s suthin’ about real
old grease—” he murmured softly. He took up the plate and looked at
it—and looked around him—at the sky and moor and sea.... “I do’ ’no’
where I’d put it ’t she wouldn’t find it,” he said regretfully. He set
the plate down on the rock and returned to his harbor. A light wind
touched the water and the little boats skimmed and shook out sail. Down
on the beach George Manning was bending over his dory, stowing away
nets. The other men on the beach went to and fro, and scraps of talk and
laughter floated up. Uncle William leaned over, scanning the scene with
happy eye—“When you goin’ out, Georgie?” he called down.
The young man lifted his head and made a hollow of his hands—“Waiting
for Steve,” he called up.
“He goin’ out with ye?”
The young man nodded and pointed to a figure loping down over the rocks.
The figure joined him and stood by him. The two men were talking and
scanning the sky. Uncle William gazed over their heads—out to the clear
horizon.... “Best kind o’ weather,” he murmured. He looked a little
wistfully at the Jennie rocking below.
Celia came to the door, “You going out today, Mr. Benslow?”
Uncle William shook his head and looked at the sky.
“It’s a good day,” said Celia.
“Best kind o’ day—” assented Uncle William. He looked again at the
heavens. Little scallops—rays of clouds, shot athwart it.
“I’d go if I was you,” said Celia.
“I thought mebbe I’d stay and help Benjy—byme-by. George Manning’s going
out.” The corner of his eye sought her face.
It dimpled a little. “He told me he was going out—when he brought the
paper yesterday,” she said. “It’s behind the clock—when you want it,”
she added.
“I don’t want it—not now,” said Uncle William absently.
Celia returned to her work and Uncle William was left in the clear,
open peace of the morning. Along the horizon the boats crawled back and
forth, and down on the beach the clutter and hurry of men and oars came
up, fresh. He bent forward and watched it all—his big, round face full
of sympathy and happy comment....
“Much as ever George ’ll make out to set this morning,” he said. His
eye scanned the distant boats that crept along the horizon with cautious
tread. “He ought to ’a’ known Steve Burton ’d be late. Steve ’d miss his
own funeral—if they ’d let him.” Uncle William chuckled..... The great,
dark boat had lifted sail and was moving a little, feeling her way to
meet the mysterious power that waited somewhere out in the open—Uncle
William watched her swing to the wind and lift her wings....
He stepped to the door—“Oh, Celia—Want to see suthin’ pretty?”
The girl went to the window and looked out. She gazed at the sky, and
swept the horizon with a look. “Anything different from usual?” she
said. Her eye kept away from the harbor.
Uncle William came and stood behind her, looking down. “Just look down
there a minute, Celia.” He took the curly head in his hands and bent it
gently.
She gazed at the boat—pacing slowly with the deepening wind—and her eyes
glinted a little.
“Looks nice, don’t it?” said Uncle William.
She nodded, her fingers on her apron traveling with absent, futile
touch. “I always like to see boats start off,” she said happily....
“Look, how she takes the wind—!” She leaned forward, her eyes glowing,
her face lighted with the same quick, inner light that touched the
breeze and the sails.
Uncle William, behind her, smiled benignantly.
“He’s a good sailor,” he said contentedly, “I taught George how to sail
a boat myself.”
He leaned forward beside her. The boat had come opposite them—gathering
herself for flight. The full sails tightened to the breeze, and the bow
rose and dipped in even rhythm.... The girl’s eyes followed it happily.
Uncle William’s hands made a trumpet about his words—“Oh-o—George!
Oh-lo-ho!—Ship ahoy!” he bellowed.
The young man looked up. He took off his hat and swung it about his
head. The boat was moving faster and the wind blew the hair from his
forehead.
“Give him a kind of send-off, Celia!” said Uncle William. He untied the
little starched bow of her apron. “Wave it to him,” he said. “It ’ll
bring him good luck, mebbe—!”
She pulled at the apron and flung it wide—shaking it up and down with
quick little movements that danced.
“That’s the way,” said Uncle William, “That’s right.”
The young man looked up with eager eyes. He leaped on the rail and ran
along with quick, light step, waving back. Then he sprang to the stem
seat and took the tiller. He was off to the mackerel fleet—with the sun
shining overhead—and up on the cliff the girl stood with eager eyes and
little freshening curls that blew in the wind.
She tied on the apron soberly and went back to her work.
Uncle William, standing up over the sink, was looking for something.
“What is it you want?” she asked.
Uncle William dimbed down and peered under the sink. “I used to have a
paintbrush,” he said. He looked about the room vaguely and helplessly—
“Covered with red paint?” asked Celia.
“—Mebbe ’twas red,” said Uncle William thoughtfully, “I do’ ’no’ when
I used that paint-brash—But it’s a good brush and Benjy said they was
short of brushes. I thought mebbe—”
“It’s out behind the woodpile,” she said crisply, “I put it there
yesterday—fifty old rags with it—I was going to burn them up,” she
added, “but I didn’t get to it.” Her eyes danced.
“They’re perfectly good paint rags, Celia.” Uncle William looked at her
reproachfully. “I was tellin’ Benjy this morning I’d got a nice lot of
rags for him. I do’ ’no’ what I’d ’a’ done if you ’d burned them up.”
“There are plenty more around,” said the girl. She looked meaningly at a
bit of wristband that showed below his sleeve.
Uncle William tucked it hastily out of sight. “I gen’ally trim ’em off,”
he said. “But I couldn’t find my scissors this morning—I thought the
knife had cut it putty good?” He peered down at it distrustfully.
“Knife!” The word was scornful—but the little look that followed him
from the door held only gentleness and affection.
Uncle William, outside the door, looked at the sky and the harbor, with
the mackerel fleet sailing on it—and at the Jennie rocking below. Then
his eye traveled, half guiltily, over the moor toward Benjy’s, and
back.... “Best kind o’ weather,” he murmured. “No kind o’ day to—” He
took a step toward Benjy’s house—another, and another, and moved briskly
off up the road. Suddenly he turned, as if a hand had been laid on his
shoulder, and strode toward the rocky path that led to the beach. A big
smile held his face. “—No kind o’ day to paint,” he said softly as he
dragged the dory to the water’s edge and shoved off. Five minutes later
the Jennie had hoisted anchor and was off to the fleet. Benjy, painting
with Gunnion up in the new house, looked out now and then from the
window as if hoping to see a big figure rolling toward him along the
white road.
Celia, in the little house on the cliff, brought a roll of cloth from
the shelf over the sink and undid it slowly. Inside was a large pair
of scissors. She smiled a little as she took them up and spread out
the cloth. It was a great garment, the size and shape of Uncle William.
Sitting by the window, where the breeze blew in from the water, her
thimble flew in the light. Now and then she glanced far out where the
boats sailed. Then her eyes returned to her needle and she sewed with
swift stitches... a little smile came and went on her face as the breeze
came and went on the water outside.
XXII
IN the clear morning light the mackerel fleet stood out against the
horizon. Only one boat had not gone out—a dark one, green with crimson
lines and gold along her prow. The girl on the beach looked at it
curiously as she selected her fish from the dory, transferring them to
the pan held high in the hollow of her arm. The silver scales gleamed in
the sun—lavender, green and blue, and violet-black, as she lifted them,
in running lines of light. The salt tang in the air and the little wind
that rippled the water touched her face. She lifted it with a quick
breath and looked out to the mackerel fleet upon the sea.... Uncle
William had promised to take her—some day. She returned again to her
fish, selecting them with quick, scrutinizing glance.... A shadow
fell across the pan and she looked up. The young man had paused by the
dory—and was regarding her with sombre eyes.
The little curls shook themselves and she stood up. “Aren’t you going
out?”
The sombre eyes transferred themselves to the sky. “By and by—maybe—no
hurry.” He smiled down at her, and the blood in her cheeks quickened.
“Everybody else has gone—” She waved an impatient hand at the distant
fleet that sailed the horizon.
“I haven’t gone,” he said. He continued to study the sky with serene
gaze.
“Why don’t you?” she asked severely.
He looked at her again, the little, dark smile touching his lip, “I’m
waiting for luck,” he said.
“You won’t find it here—” Her eye swept the beach—with its tumbling
fishhouses and the litter of dories and trawls.
“Maybe I shall,” he said. He looked down at the dory. “There are more
fish right there than I’ve caught in three days,” he said quietly.
Her wide eyes regarded him—with a little laugh in them somewhere. “They
call you ’King of the Fleet,’ don’t they?” she said demurely.
“That’s what they call me,” he replied. He moved a little away from her
toward a dory at the water’s edge. “Want to go out?” he said carelessly.
Her eyes danced, and she looked down at the fish in her pan and up to
the sky, and ran lightly to the fish-house and pushed the pan far inside
and shut the door. “I ought to be getting dinner,” she said, coming
back, with a quick smile.
“Never mind dinner.” He held out his hand and she scrambled into the
dory, her eyes shining and the little curls bobbing about her face. She
was like a child—made happy.
He pulled out with long strokes, looking contentedly at her as she sat
huddled in the end of the boat. “I am taking you along for luck, you
know.”
“I’ll never bring anybody luck,” she replied. Her eyes followed the
great gulls overhead. “I’m like the birds, I guess,” she lifted her
hand, “I just keep around where luck is.”
“That’s good enough for me,” he replied. He helped her into the boat
and lifted anchor, running up the sails and casting off. The breeze
freshened and caught the sail and filled it and the great boat crept
from the harbor and rounded the point.... Out in the open, it was
blowing stiff and the boat ran fast before it, little dashes of spray
striking the bow and flying high. The girl’s laugh sounded in the
splashing water, and the salt spray was on her arms and cheeks and hair.
The young man looked at her and smiled and turned the bow—ever so
little—to take the wave and send it splashing about her, and her laugh
came to him through the swash of the spray. It was a game—old as the
world... pursuit and laughter and flight and soft, shining color and the
big sun overhead, pulling the whole game steadily through space—holding
the eggshell boats on the waves and these two, riding out to sea.
He turned the bow again and the splashing of the water ceased. She
was looking at him with beseeching, shining eyes, and he bent a little
forward, a tremulous smile of power on his lip. He was drinking life—and
sky and sea were blotted out. The boat ran heedless on her way... and
he talked foolish nothings that sounded important and strange in his
unstopped ears.... The girl nodded shyly and spoke now and then—but only
to the sky and sea....
The sky had darkened and the distant fleet bore toward home—casting
curious glances toward the dark boat that moved with random hand....
George Manning could be trusted in any blow, but he was up to something
queer off there—with a sky like that. They drew in sail and ran close,
making for harbor....
The young man looked up and blinked a little and sprang to his feet. He
had pushed the tiller as he sprang, and one leg held it firm while he
reached to the guy rope and loosed it. “Get down,” he said harshly.
Her quick eyes questioned him and the little head lifted itself...With a
half-muttered word he had seized her, crowding her to the bottom of the
boat and ducking his head as the great boom swung past.
She gazed at him in swift anger, pulling herself free. But her wrath
spoke only to the winds—He had run forward, dragging down the foresail,
and was back to the tiller—his dark face set sternly, his eyes on the
horizon.
When she tried to get up, he did not look at her—“Stay where you are,”
he said roughly.
She hesitated a minute and sank back, biting her lip close. The line of
gunwale that rose with heavy sweep to the sky and fell through space,
cut her off. There was only the creaking of the boat, straining against
the sea, and the figure of the man, above her, who had thrust her
down—the great figure of the man and the blackened sky. By and by the
rain fell and drenched her and the wind blew fiercely past the boat,
driving them on. She could see the great hand on the tiller tighten
itself to the wind, and force its will upon it, and the figure of the
man grow tense. One leg thrust itself quickly and struck against her and
pushed her hard—but she would not cry out—She hated him and his boat and
the great sea pounding about them.... She wanted to get her pan of fish
and go home to Uncle William and cook the dinner. The tears were on her
face, mingling with the rain and the salt water that drenched it.
By and by the pounding waves grew less and the boat ceased to strain and
creak and the great hand on the tiller relaxed its hold a little.
“You ’d better get up now,” he said—his voice sounded rough and
indifferent and she lifted indignant eyes, but he did not see her. His
gaze was still on the horizon, holding it with intent look.
She got up and gathered the little loose curls in her hands, wringing
the water from them and shaking them apart.
Then she got to her knees and crawled to the seat, shivering a little.
Off to the left, the woods of the Point shut off the main force of the
wind, but the breeze was still fresh. He took off his coat and tossed it
to her. “Put that on,” he said briefly.
It fell on the seat beside her, but she did not touch it or look at it.
Her little face had a firm look.
His gaze left the horizon, for a flash, and came back. “You put on that
coat,” he said.
“I don’t want it—” The words trailed away in a sob.
He did not look at her again. “You ’ll do as I tell you,” he said
quietly—“or I shall make you.”
She reached out for the coat and put it on, drawing it miserably about
her chin—“I think you are horrid.” She was wiping away the tears that
ran quickly down.
“I don’t care what you think—You might have been killed,” he added after
a pause.
“I’d rather—have been—killed.” The breath she drew was a quick sob.
He looked at her a minute. Then he looked away to the horizon. “There
can’t be two captains on a boat,” he said dryly—“I didn’t mean to hurt
you—I had to speak quick.”
She did not reply. She did not look at him again—not even when he helped
her into the dory and rowed her ashore.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he repeated, as he held up his hand to help
her from the boat. She leaped to the beach. “I wish I’d never gone
with you.” She stamped her little foot on the sand. “I’ll never go
again—never, never—not as long as I live!” She turned her back on him
and walked toward the fish-house.
He looked after her, a curious glint in his eye. Then he looked at
his boat, riding at anchor, and the look changed subtly, “You needn’t
worry,” he said softly—but not too softly to reach the pink ears—“You
needn’t worry, Miss Celia—there will never be but one captain on a
boat.”
She opened the door into the fish-house and took her pan and went up the
rocky path without a look behind her.
XXIII
A NDY stepped up the road, a sombre look in his face. Now and then he
cast an eye at the mouth of the harbor where the mackerel fleet sailed.
Then he strode on with stately step. He had been fishing for a week
and had caught nothing—twice his net had been hung up on the rocks and
yesterday the dog-fish had run it through—and Harr’et’s temper was worn
thin.... He looked his grievance at the horizon.
Harriet had been firm. If he could not fish, he should paint, and
Bodet was offering three-fifty a day. She had rented the boat, over his
head—his boat—and she had talked about Jonah, and had sent him out of
the house—with his paint brushes!
Andy fizzed a little and stepped higher and looked ahead up the road.
A figure, seated in the sunshine, was making strange pantomimic gestures
with a paint brush. Andy stopped a minute to look at it—then he came
steadily on.
Uncle William looked up and nodded. “Hello, Andy—goin’ to help?”
“Guess so,” said Andy. He glared at the harbor.
Uncle William spatted his brush along the rock and dipped it again in
the tin can beside him.
“What you doin’.” asked Andy.
Uncle William squinted at the brush and rubbed it thoughtfully back and
forth—a deep red smudge followed it. “Kind o’ getting my brush ready,”
he said.
Andy sniffed. “Bodet inside?”
“Why, yes—he’s there—” Uncle William hesitated—“Yes—he’s there—”
He drew a long flourish of red on the rock and looked at it approvingly.
“It ’ll take you an hour to get that brush clean,” said Andy.
“Do ye think so?” Uncle William beamed. “That’s just about what I
cal’-lated—an hour.”
“I’m going to work,” said Andy virtuously. He moved toward the house.
Uncle William cast an eye at him. “I do’ ’no’s I’d go in, Andy, if I was
you—not just yet.”
“Why not?” He wheeled about.
“Well—” Uncle William hesitated a second—and looked at the little clouds
and the big moor, “I don’t think Benjy’s ready,” he said, “not just
ready.”
“What’s he doing?” asked Andy.
“Kind o’ stewin’,” said Uncle William, “He’s got suthin’ on his
mind—about paint.”
“Come—ain’t it!” Andy’s eye was curious.
“Yes—it’s come—loads of it has come—” Uncle William drew the brush
thoughtfully back and forth, making little red dabs along the rock.
“The’s a good many kinds—and colors—and sizes—piled up in there—but the’
ain’t any of ’em what Benjy wants.” He lifted his brush with a flourish.
“What does he want, then!”
“I do’ ’no ’s I can tell ye—exactly, Andy.” Uncle William gazed at the
harbor. “Benjy knows—somewheres in his mind—but he can’t seem to find
it on dry land.” Uncle William chuckled.... “Gunnion’s mixin’ ’em, you
know.”
Andy nodded.
“An’ he’s got a green mixed up in there—that’s along kind o’ east by
no’-east, I should think.... An’ what Benjy wants, far’s I make out,
is a green that’s kind o’ no’-east by east.” Uncle William chuckled
again.... “Jim puts in the color, you know, and daubs some of it on
a stick they’ve got there—and Benjy looks at it and says, no—’twon’t
do—needs more yellow or suthin’—and Jim chucks in a little yellow and
then they both look at it and Benjy kind o’ hops around—swears some. I
thought I’d come out and do my brushes.”
“Gunnion’s a good painter,” said Andy.
“Well—yes—he can lay it on putty good.... But they ain’t got to layin’
on yet. I do’ ’no’s they ever will get to it,” said Uncle William
thoughtfully—“It ’d be easier if Benjy knew a little how the colors are
liable to act together, I guess—when you put ’em in.” Uncle William’s
eye was reflective. “I reckon that’s what makes him lose his head so,”
he said, “—he ain’t prepared in his mind for how Jim ’ll make them
colors act together. You see, Jim—he puts in the yellow and Benjy peeks
in the pail, expecting to see suthin’ kind o’ yellow and,’.tead o’ that,
the thing’s turned blue—sort o’.”
“Like enough,” said Andy carelessly—“He ’d ought to know yellow and
blue will run towards green,” he said contemptuously, “—anybody ’d know
that.”
“Benjy don’t know it,” said Uncle William, with an accent of decision.
“You can tell by the way he acts—lookin’ in the pail. You see he’s after
a green that’s a little mite more on the yellow—so he says, proud as
Punch, ’Put in more yellow,’ he says, and then—when he sees it—he says
things.”
A voice sounded from the window and they turned around. Bodet stood in
it, beaming at them and at the landscape. “Come on in and see the color
we’ve got,” he said triumphantly.
Uncle William gathered up his brush and turpentine and they moved slowly
toward the house.
Benjy waved them toward the stairs. “Go up and look,” he said.
Jim Gunnion, on the floor, was stirring a pot of paint with a stick.
There was a set look in his face as he stirred.
Uncle William looked at him and winked. The look in Jim’s face moved a
little.
“There’s a color for you!” said Bodet. He moved his hand proudly toward
the door panel.
Uncle William put on his glasses and inspected it—“’.is a good color,
Benjy,” he said cordially, “I’m glad ye held out—both of ye.”
Bodet, with his head thrown back, stared at the streak of old-fashioned
green on the panel. The man on the floor stirred the pot of paint. Uncle
William looked at them both with benignant eye.... “I reckon I’m all
ready to begin.” He drew the paint brush down the leg of his trousers
and looked at it inquiringly—“Putty clean,” he said with satisfaction.
“Now, where ’ll you have me?”
The man on the floor handed him a pot of paint in silence and pointed to
the mop-board. Uncle William sighed a little and let himself down. Andy,
seizing another pail, attacked the unfinished panel. The painter went on
mixing color. Benjy, over by the window, studied the harbor.
Presently he looked back into the room. “Fog’s setting in,” he said.
Andy came across and looked out.
“Uh-huh,” he said.