weather,” he said cheerfully, “and this ’ll give ’em a chance to rest up
a little and overhaul their tackle....’.is too bad about George—I
kind o’ reckoned he ’d ketch suthin’ today.” He got up and came to the
window. A great blanket of white was moving toward them, over the water.
All the little distant boats were hidden behind it.... “They ’ll hev to
come in keerful,” said Uncle William. “I reckon I won’t paint any more
today.” He laid his brush carefully along the top of the pail.
Andy looked at him and looked at his panel and hesitated. “You better
stay here, Andy,” said Uncle William encouragingly. “You ’ll get quite a
lot done if you stay.”
He went cheerfully out, and Benjamin, watching from the window, saw him
enter the blanket of fog and disappear.
XXIV
UNDER its white garment, the Island lay muffled and still. Tiny specks
moved about on it—under some great canopy of space—they emerged and
drifted and ran—calling into the fog. Out at sea the bell sounded its
note, swinging to and fro with a deep, sharp clang. Men on the shore
listened to it and peered into the fog.... The boats had come creeping
in, one by one—some of them loaded to the rail—some grumbling at fog,
and riding high. Only two were out now, and the day had come on to
dusk—the dusk of the fog and of the night sliding silently in together.
The whole Island had gathered on the beach, looking into the fog—peering
for glimpses of water, and the darker shapes of the boats out there....
George Manning had not come in—and about noon Uncle William had lifted
anchor and drifted out, looking for absent boats—“Sometimes I kind o’
sense where they be without seein’ ’em,” he had said.... The boats
were all in now, swinging at their moorings under the soft dusk—all but
Manning’s and Uncle William. The last boats in had had glimpses of the
Jennie and had heard Uncle William’s voice booming through the fog. “He
was off the Point, last I heard,” said a voice on the beach.... “He was
drifting along, sort o’ looking out—told us how things was ahead—then
the fog drove in and shut him off—then we heard him quite a spell after
we couldn’t see him”... the voice ran along the beach and ceased.
Someone had lighted a bonfire, and the children went fitfully back and
forth in the glow.... The night was coming down.... “I don’t mind a
blow,” said a complaining voice, “I don’t care how hard a gale it blows,
but I can’t, stan’ fog.... I wish they was in.”
Up in the little house on the cliff, the ship’s lantern was lighted—and
a dull eye glowed at the night.... In the room, the girl moved with
light feet, stopping now and then and bending her head for steps on the
path or for some sound of the sea. She crossed once to the window and
put her hands about her face and looked out into the grayness. She drew
back with a little quick breath, and went again to her work.
On the beach, men strained their ears to listen... oar-locks creaked
faintly, marking the fog. The beach listened and drew to its edge....
“That’s William!”
“Uncle William’s come!”—The children rushed down the beach and stood
alert at the fog.
The oar-locks creaked leisurely in and the big form grew to them—over
the dory’s bow. Hands reached out and drew it up on the sand as the wave
receded. Uncle William stepped out, without hurry—“No, I didn’t find
him—He must ’a’ gone out considabul far—put in-shore, like enough.” He
drew a hand down his length of face and flicked the moisture from it.
“Putty thick,” he said cheerfully.
The children drifted off, with running shouts. Someone threw fresh
staves on the fire and the flames leaped up, playing against the great
curtain of fog and showing strange shapes. The faces took on mystery,
and moved in the leaping light—as if they were all a big play. The
calling tones deepened to the fog and the even-clanging bell rang its
note—and stopped—and rang again.
Men went home to eat, and came back to the beach, and Uncle William
climbed to the house on the cliff. “It’s been a putty good day,” he said
placidly. “They’ve had quite a run o’ luck—forty-fifty barrel, all told,
I should think.”
“Are they all in?” said the girl. She had placed the plate of fried fish
before him, and stood beside him, waiting—a wistful look in her face.
“Where’s Benjy?” asked Uncle William, helping himself to fish with
leisurely hand.
“Down to the beach—hours ago,” said the girl.
“Um-m—I didn’t see him.... Yes, they’re all in now—except George. He ’ll
be along pretty quick, I guess.” He chewed with easy relish, reaching
down a hand to Juno as she rubbed alongside. “She had her supper?” he
asked.
“No, sir—I was waiting for you—I guess I kind of forgot her, too,” said
the girl with a little laugh. “Here, Juno—!” Juno walked across with
stately mien to the plate of scraps.
The girl lifted a sober face. “You going back down to the beach, Uncle
William!”
“Well—mebbe I’ll go down a little while, byme-by. I didn’t leave the
Jennie all snug—You want some wood!” He peered into the box.
“I brought some in—while I was waiting.”
“You hadn’t ought to ’a’ done that, Celia—”
“I hadn’t anything else to do,” said the girl, “and I was
tired—waiting.” She bent over the sink, scrubbing vigorously at the
kettle.
Uncle William glanced at her. “If I was you, I wouldn’t do any more
tonight, Celia. I gen’ally chucked ’em under the sink—nights like this—”
His gaze sought the window. “You ought to be getting back to Andy’s
pretty quick—’fore it gets any darker. The fog’s coming in thick.”
“I’m going—by and by. You through your supper?” She glanced at his
plate.
“Yes, I’m through.” He looked at the plate a little guiltily. “It was
cooked nice,” he said.
She smiled at him. “You didn’t eat much.” She carried the plate to the
sink.
Uncle William took up his hat. “I’ll be going down, I guess.” He went to
the door—her glance followed him—
“Uncle William—?”
“Yes, Celia.”
She was looking down at her hands.
Uncle William came back. He reached out a hand and rested it on her
shoulder. “There ain’t any danger ’t the Lord can’t take care of,
Celia,” he said smiling. “I s’pose if I was takin’ care of him, I’d be
worried—a night like this.... But, you see, the Lord’s got him.”
“Yes, sir,” said Celia.
“You go right home—and you go to sleep,” said Uncle William.
“I’d rather stay here,” said the girl quickly, “this is home.”
“Why, so ’tis,” said Uncle William, “—and the’ ain’t any reason why
you can’t stay as well as not. You just lie down on the lounge here....
Juno’s good comp’ny and there’s the fire, and lights.... You won’t get
lonesome.” He patted the shoulder and was gone.
The girl finished the dishes and sat down in the big chair by the stove.
Juno came and jumped on her lap, and the girl gathered her up, hiding
her face in the thick fur.... Out in the harbor she could hear the
stroke of the fog-bell, and the voices from the beach, muffled and
vague. Something was in the air—her fingers tingled with it—the
electricity in Juno’s thick fur—or was it something out there with the
voices? She put down the cat and sat erect, gazing before her. Then
she got up and took a little shawl from its nail and flitted from the
room... down the steep path, stumbling and catching her breath—hurrying
on, her face toward the sea and the little shawl gathered closer about
her.
A great form loomed from the mist and came close to her—“That you,
Celia?” It was Uncle William’s voice, with a deep note in it, and she
turned to him, catching at something in her throat, “I couldn’t stay up
to the house—” It was a breathless cry—
“There—there—You come right here.” He gathered her hand, laying it on
his arm and patting it a little. “Now we ’ll run along,” he said, “and
see what’s doing.”
Down the beach they could hear the voices talking, calling—dying away.
The fire had flared up, and the faces danced in and out.... “I kind o’
sense suthin’ coming,” said Uncle William.
There was a long, gruff sound—a big whistle, like low thunder—and
silence... then the whistle—sharper, and seeking—and the muffled
chugging of big screws.... The faces, toward the sea, waited—intent.
“She’s off her course—“... The vague sounds came in nearer—and sheered
away.... Through the veiling fog they could see red lights—and green—of
the steamer. Then the whistle broke shrilly and moved off... the
churring waves followed her.... On the beach they had thrown fresh brush
on the fire, great armfuls that flared high—and the sound of the steamer
dwindled through the mist.
“Looks as if the moon might break through,” said Uncle William. The eyes
looked up to a luminous spot in the fog—and came back to the beach....
“He ’d ’a’ been in hours ago,” said Andy, “—if he was coming—”
“Put in-shore—like enough,” responded Uncle William.
The men gathered about the fire, squatting on the sand or sitting on
boxes and kegs.... The fire was dying down now, but no one rose to throw
on fuel.... The girl wandered to the water’s edge and stood listening.
The little waves touched her feet, but she did not draw back... Glances,
by the fire, sought her and looked away. A dense stillness had settled
on them—only the little moving waves broke it, as they ran up and ran
back.... A muffled creak out of the dark, like the whisper of a
sail turning, half-asleep—Then the rattle of cords, and a voice that
laughed—“A-hoy!” The mist was still again, and then the call, coming
through its blankness, “A-hoy! Ship ahoy!”
The mist parted and the boat came gliding through—her lights little
points in the night—Slowly the mists lifted—rolling up, like great
curtains into the darker night. A soft light that was not of moon or
stars grew about them—The fire had died out and only the gentle light
shone everywhere and through it the dark boat, seeming motionless, crept
softly in.
XXV
THE group on the beach went swiftly toward the dock, Uncle William’s
lantern leading the way and swinging toward the end. He leaned over
toward the boat in the mysterious light, “What ’d you ketch, Georgie?”
The young man looked up and a rope swirled through the
air—“Twenty-six-seven barrel,” he said easily.
A shout went up from the dock, broken sounds, bits of scoffing disbelief
that piled down into the boat and shouted back and made a marvel of the
catch.
Uncle William, with his big smile, moved back along the wharf—looking
for someone.... He went toward the beach, swinging his lantern—far in
the distance, towards Andy’s, something flitted, and paused, and went
on, and drifted past the horizon, out of sight. Uncle William’s eye
followed it, smiling. “Cur’us the way women is—running after ye, one
minute—till you’re most scared—and then.”... He waved his lantern at the
misty, moonlit hill, where the little figure flitted toward the sky.
He shook his head.... Out at the end of the wharf there was calling and
creaking, and the thumping of barrels and blocks of ice. Uncle William
watched them a minute—then he turned toward the cliff. “What he ’ll need
more ’n anything’s a good hot meal,” he said. He climbed to the little
house and opened the door cautiously. Bodet, across the room, glanced at
him. “He’s come,” he said.
“Yes, he’s come.” Uncle William bustled about, getting out the kettle.
“I thought mebbe you ’d be in bed.” He placed the kettle on the stove
and went over to the cupboard.
“In bed?” Bodet laughed—“I came up to get my coat. I don’t go to bed
tonight—not while things are stirring down there.”
Uncle William turned his head to listen—Sounds of thumping came up
faintly. “‘Tis interesting,” he said. “The’s times when it seems’s if
more things was happening on this island than anywheres in the world—big
things, you know.... Where do you s’pose Celia put that fish?” He peered
under a bowl and brought out a piece of pie and looked at it fondly and
set it on the table and went back.
“You might look down cellar,” suggested Bodet.
With a sigh, Uncle William took up his lantern, and lifted a trap door
in the floor. “I most hoped it wa ’n’t down cellar,” he said. He put
his foot on the steep ladder and disappeared in inches.... He emerged
triumphant. “The’s quite a lot o’ things down there—I didn’t know where
she kep’ ’em.”
“Just as lief you didn’t,” said Bodet.
Uncle William chuckled. “She looks after me putty well. I don’t believe
I’ve over e’t once since she come!” He surveyed the table.
“You going to make coffee?” asked Bodet.
Uncle William looked at him. “You ’d like some, wouldn’t you, Benjy?”
“I shouldn’t object,” said Bodet, “—if you’re making it.”
“Well, I might’s well make some—’twon’t take long—if you ’ll go fetch a
pail of water.”
Benjy laughed and took up the pail. Uncle William watched him
benignantly. “—And you might kind o’ holler to George—tell him to come
up when he’s done.”
“All right.” Bodet departed with his pail and Uncle William pottered
about, singing a little, a kind of rolling chant, and grinding
coffee—measuring it with careful eye.... “She couldn’t ’a’ run faster
if the ’d been snakes after her.” He chuckled into the coffee pot and
looked up—Benjy had come in. “He says he ’ll be right up,” he said,
finding a place for his pail on the sink.
“I’d better hurry,” said Uncle William. He made coffee and cut bread and
served the fish, with accustomed hand. “The’s suthin’ about cooking your
own things,” he said, “I do’ ’no’ what ’t is—Hallo, George!” he looked
up. “Come right in. We’re all ready for ye.”
They drew up to the table and Uncle William beamed on them. “Seems like
old times, don’t it!—Help yourself, George—You made a putty big catch—!”
“Pretty fair,” said the young man with a twinkle.
“What ’ll they figger up?” asked Uncle William.
“Twenty-nine barrel—on ice—” responded Manning.
Uncle William’s eye sought Bodet. “That ’ll give you two thousand
dollar—putty near—?”
“I’m counting on twenty-three hundred—if I take them over myself.”
“When are you coming back?” asked Bodet quickly.
The young man turned to him—“Back here?”
“Back to my house?”
“You can’t have him yet awhile,” said William.
Bodet shrugged his shoulders. “Gunnion’s a fool!” he said.
“Well—I do’ ’no’ ’s I’d say that.” Uncle William considered—“He’s
colorblind, mebbe, but he’s got sense.”
Benjy looked at him—“Do you mean to tell me that man can’t tell color?”
he said sternly.
“He can tell some colors,” said Uncle William, “I forget just which they
be—but if you happen to strike ’em, he can tell ’em—good as anybody.”
“I didn’t happen to strike them,” said Bodet dryly—“I want you,” he
said. He was looking at George.
Uncle William leaned back in his chair. “You comin’ back, Georgie?” he
asked.
“Give me three more days and I’m with you,” said the young man. He
rose and took up his hat. “I’m off now—Thank you for the supper, Uncle
William.” He was gone and they heard his leaping feet on the rocky path.
Uncle William looked at Bodet. “I reckon you better let him go, Benjy?”
“I don’t see that I have any choice in the matter,” said Bodet. He
had pushed back from the table and was looking about him, a little
fretfully. “We sha ’n’t get done by Christmas—the rate we’re going now,”
he added.
Uncle William looked at him. “What makes you in such a hurry, Benjy—?”
“Hurry!—Christmas—!” said Benjy. There was a little sniff in the air.
“What you going to do with your house when you get it done!” asked Uncle
William casually.
Benjy stared at him. “I’m going to live in it,” he said with emphasis.
“—Providence permitting.”
“I’ve been kind o’ thinking about that,” said Uncle William slowly,
“—whilst you’ve been hurrying—Seems to me maybe ’twon’t be near so
much fun living in your house as ’tis building.... I’ve got a sight of
comfort out of building your house,” he added gently.
Bodet looked at him. “You ’d get comfort out of an earthquake, William.”
“They’re interesting,” admitted Uncle William, “I’ve been in ’em—three
of ’em—little ones, you know.” He gazed before him.
“I’d rather be in three quakes—three big ones—than build on this
Island,” said Bodet firmly.
Uncle William’s gaze broke. He pushed up his spectacles and leaned
forward. “That’s just where ’tis, Benjy. It’s different—on the Island.
When you’ve lived here a spell, you don’t want to finish things up
lickety-cut, and then set down and look at the water.... You kind o’
spin ’em out and talk about ’em—paint one end, mebbe, and go out fishin’
or suthin’—not paint the other for fo-five months, like enough—not ever
paint it.” He beamed on him.
Bodet moved restlessly. “Did you ever do any painting with Gunnion!” he
demanded.
Uncle William’s smile deepened. “I’ve painted with him—yes... ’tis kind
o’ fiddlin’ work, painting with Jim Gunnion.” He pushed back the dishes
and rested his arms on the table—“This is the way I see it, Benjy.... I
woke up the other night—along in the night—and got to thinkin’ about it.
We ’d have a real good time buildin’ your house if you wa ’n’t so
kind o’ pestered in your mind. You see—the’s you and me and George
and Gunnion—and Andy some days—and we could visit along whilst we was
working—have real good times.... Like enough the boys ’d sing some—they
most al’ays do sing when they’re building on the Island—Sounds nice,
when you’re out on the water to hear ’em—two or three hammers goin’,
and singin’... I don’t believe they’ve done much singin’ on your house,
Benjy?” He looked at him inquiringly.
“I don’t believe they have,” said Bodet.
His face was thoughtful. “They might have got along faster if they had
sung,” he added. He looked up with a little smile.
Uncle William nodded. “I do’ ’no’s they ’d ’a’ got along any faster—but
you ’d ’a’ liked buildin’ better. The’s suthin’ about it—” Uncle William
gazed about the little red room—“suthin’ about the Island—when you’re
settin’ up nights and the wind’s a-screeching and howling and the waves
poundin’, down on the beach.... You get to thinking about how snug the
boys made her, and you kind o’ remember ’em, up on the roof, and how the
sun kept shining and the sou’-west wind blowing and the boys singing....
It all seems different, somehow.” Uncle William’s gaze dwelt on it.
Bodet took up his hat. “I think I’ll go down to the beach,” he said
soberly.
Uncle William’s eye followed him.
“You don’t think I’m scoldin’ ye, Benjy, do you?”
Bodet paused beside him and laid a hand on the great shoulder. “I’d
rather have you scold me, William, than have any other man I know praise
me.”
Uncle William’s mouth remained open a little and the smile played about
it. “I do’ ’no’ why you say that, Benjy. I ain’t any different from
anybody—’cept’t I’m fond of ye,” he added.
“You’re fond of everybody,” declared Bodet laughing.
Uncle William’s face grew guilty. “There’s Harr’et,” he said slowly.
“Some days I can’t even abide Harr’et!”
XXVI
BODET had taken largely to sitting about on nail-kegs, listening to the
men talk and joining in now and then.... The little fretted look had
left his eyes, and his voice when he spoke had a quiet note.
“You’re doin’ fine, Benjy!” Uncle William confided to him one morning.
It was the week before Christmas. A fire had been built in the big
living-room and the men had gathered about it, talking and laughing
and thawing out. A fierce wind from the east was blowing and fine sleet
drove against the windows. The room had a homelike sense—shut in from
the storm.
“It’s a great thing to have building goin’ on, a day like this—when
the’s a big storm from the east,” said Uncle William cheerfully. “If
’tw’an’t for the building, you might not have a soul in to see you all
day.” He glanced complacently at the group about the fire.
“Costs me twelve-fifty a day,” said Bodet dryly.
“Wuth it, ain’t it?” said Uncle William, “I do’ ’no’ what money’s for
if ye can’t be happy with it....” He glanced affectionately at the quiet
face opposite him. “You’re getting happy every day, Benjy.... I do’
’no’s I ever see anybody get along as fast as you do—gettin’ happy.”
The tall man laughed out. “It’s a choice between that and everlasting
misery—on your old Island,” he said.
“Yes, I guess ’tis.” Uncle William’s voice was contented.
The group about the fire broke up and moved off. Uncle William’s eye
followed them—“They’re going to work now. You ’ll get quite a piece done
today—” He came back to the fire. “I was thinking—how ’d it do to have
dinner up here!” He was looking about the room.
Bodet’s glance followed his—“Who ’ll cook it?” he said.
“We could send for Celia,” said Uncle William. “Gunnion’s team’s out in
the shed—he didn’t unhitch. We could send down, easy enough, and fetch
her up—dinner and all—and she could cook it out in your kitchen—” Uncle
William beamed. “You ’d like that, wouldn’t ye?”
“It’s not a bad idea—I’ll tell Gunnion to drive down and get her.”
Uncle William laid a hand on his arm. “I reckon you ’d better let George
fetch her up,” he said.
“I can’t spare him,” said Bodet decisively. “Gunnion can drive back and
forth all day if he wants to—” Uncle William got in his way, “I guess
you better let George go, Benjy—he won’t be no time driving down there
and back.”
With a little smile, Bodet yielded the point and Uncle William rolled
off to find George Manning and send him out into the storm.
“You tell her to wrap up good,” he called into the sleet... “and you
see she’s tucked in, George, and tell her to bring plenty of salt and
pep-p-er.” The last word was whirled apart by wind, and Uncle William
retired into the house, a deep smile on his face.
Within an hour Celia was there, little beading moisture on the bobbing
curls, and the pink in her cheeks like a rose—the kind that grows wild
and red among the rocks. Uncle William looked at her approvingly. “Did
you good to get out a spell, didn’t it?” he said kindly.
“I didn’t know you were worrying about my health—” She shook the little
curls. “I thought you were hungry.”
“Well, I wa ’n’t—not altogether,” Uncle William’s face was placid,
“—but I wouldn’t ’a’ wanted you to get cold—I guess George tucked you in
pretty good—”
“I tucked myself in,” she said. “Have you got a fire made for me?”
“Everything’s all ready, Celia.” Uncle William led her out to the tiny
kitchen, tiled in white and fitted with all the contrivances for skill
and swiftness. She stood looking about her—the little color in her face.
“Well, this is a kitchen!” she said. She drew a deep breath.
Uncle William chuckled. “I knew you ’d like it. You see you can stand
right here in the middle and throw things. ’Twouldn’t suit me so well—”
he said reflectively. “I like to roll around more—but this is about
right for you, Celia.” He looked at her.
“Just right,” she said emphatically—“But there isn’t room for two—is
there?” She looked at him and he retired, chuckling, while she examined
the range, taking off lids and peeking into the oven.... George Manning
appeared in the doorway. “Uncle William told me to ask you if there’s
anything you want?” he said, looking about the shining little room.
Celia whisked her apron from the basket and put it on. “You can tell him
there isn’t a thing I need—except to be left alone,” she added severely,
“and I just told him that.”
The young man withdrew—a heavy color rising in his face.
“She didn’t want anything, did she?” said Uncle William casually.
“No.” Manning took up his plane and attacked a piece of board screwed to
the bench. Uncle William watched the long, even lunge of the plane and
the set of the square shoulders. He moved discreetly away.
In her kitchen, Celia spread the contents of the basket on the white
shelf, and settled to her work—like a bird to its nest.... Out in
the rooms beyond—amid the swirl of planes and the smell of paint and
shavings and clean, fresh wood, they heard a voice singing softly to
itself... and against the windows the sleet dashed itself and broke, and
the great storm from the east gathered. By and by Uncle William looked
into the kitchen. “You couldn’t just go out in the other room, Celia,
and fetch me my coat, could ye?” He was standing in his shirt sleeves,
looking at her kindly.
She glanced up from her work and paused, “No, Mr. Benslow,
I couldn’t—and I do wish you ’d stop acting so.... You’re
just—ridiculous!” She lifted a pie and whisked it into the oven and
Uncle William retired.
He went for his coat himself and put it on, shrugging his great
shoulders comfortably down into it—“If they want to act like that, they
’ll have to get along best way they can,” he muttered to himself.
His face resumed its calm and he strolled from room to room, giving
advice and enjoying life. “I do like a big, comfortable storm like
this,” he said, standing at the window and looking out across the
black-stretched harbor. “Everything snug down there,” he waved his
hand to the bleakness, “—and everything going all right up here to your
house—going along putty good, that is,” he added conscientiously.