don’t want anything better than this—except to have the children back,”
he added after a minute.
“They ’ll be’long byme-by, Benjy.” Uncle William’s gaze was on the
blackened water. “They ’ll be’long—and the little one with ’em.... You
ought to have somebody to keep house for you, Benjy—till they come—”
He turned and looked at him—“Want me to lend you Celia awhile?” he said
craftily, “—just whilst you’re finishing up? She likes it out there—”
he nodded to the kitchen. “She likes it fust-rate out there and I don’t
mind letting you have her—you can have her just as well as not.” He
studied the keen face opposite him.
The man shook his head. “I don’t need her, William—I’ve sent for some
one—a Jap that I knew years ago. He took care of me over there when
I was with the Embassy. He said he ’d come to me any time I sent for
him—so I sent.”
Uncle William beamed. “Now, ain’t that good! And it’s good his bein’ a
man!” he added thoughtfully. “I like women. I do’ ’no’ anybody’t I like
better ’n I do women—but sometimes they’re kind o’ trying.” His ear
listened to the clink of dishes from the kitchen.
Bodet laughed—“Well, he’s a man—Jimmu Yoshitomo’s a man—though you don’t
think about it—either way.”
Uncle William nodded. “I know what you mean, Benjy—they’ve got way past
that—Japs have—past being men and women—they’re just old, and kind o’
human—and not just human either,” he added slowly, “I do’ ’no’ what
it is... but I feel different when they’re round—kind o’ sleepy,
somehow—the way I feel on the Island, still days—when the sun shines?”
He looked at him inquiringly.
“That’s it. I’ve always meant to have a Jap when I had a home, and now I
have the home.” He looked about the big room contentedly.
Celia came to the door and looked in. “I’m going to set the table in
here,” she announced, “—by the fire.”
She set the table and called the men and returned to her kitchen. Uncle
William followed her with inquiring step—“You come and eat your dinner
out here with the rest of us, Celia, whilst it’s hot,” he commanded.
“I’ve got things to do—I can’t be bothered to eat now.” She shut the
door on him.
Uncle William returned to the living-room with subdued face, but when he
saw the group at table and the leaping fire and the plates and piles of
steaming food, his face grew round again and he smiled. “Does seem good,
don’t it?” He sat down, helping himself to potato and salt and butter.
“The’s suthin’ about eatin’—that’s different,” he said. “—You can’t have
a home without you eat in it.... I’ve seen folks try it—eatin’ one place
and livin’ another, and ’twa ’n’t home. They seemed kind o’ stayin’
round—not livin’ anywheres. If I was a young man, the fust thing I’d do
’d be to have a home.” His eyes looked over Manning’s head, into space,
and he chewed slowly.
Manning ignored it. “Mr. Bodet says he’s going to have a Jap keep house
for him,” he said to the table in general. Andy looked up quickly. “I
wouldn’t have one of them things around.”
“I do’ ’no’ why,” said Uncle William, “They’re nice little folks.”
“They’re different,” said Andy.
“Some places you couldn’t send for one that way,” said Manning. “They
’d call it ’contract labor’ and send him back pretty quick where he came
from.”
“That’s what I’d do—’pretty quick.’.rdquo; said Andy.
“Now, what makes you talk like that, Andy,” said Uncle William. “You
ain’t ever see one.”
“They ’ll work for nothing—and live on dirt,” said Andy glibly.
“I guess you didn’t ever see how they live, did you, Andy?” said Uncle
William. His eyes were on something now and they smiled to it. “I do’
’no’s I could just make you see it—if you wa ’n’t ever there—But they’re
about the nicest little houses you ever see—and clean—You feel kind o’
’fraid to step in ’em, they’re so clean and fixed-up.... I do’ ’no’ ’s I
ever feel so big and clutterin’ as I do times ’t I’m in Japan,” he said
reflectively. “Seem’s if there ’d have to be a lot done to me ’fore
I was pared down fit to live in Japan.... Nice ways, too—bowin’ and
ridiculous, like monkeys, maybe,—but doin’ things quicker ’n Jack
Ro’binson.”
“They ’ll work for nothin’,” muttered Andy.
Uncle William turned and regarded him over his spectacles—“If anybody
wants to do my work for nothin’, I do’ ’no’ why I should hinder ’em,”
he said kindly. “They can come on to the Island and do my gardenin’
all they want to. It don’t hurt my feelin’s any to see ’em digging.” He
waved his hand out to where the storm drove—“Why we should shove ’em off
the edge when they’re just aching to do our work for us, is what I
can’t see. I never see the time yet when the’ wa ’n’t work enough to go
round.”
Andy shifted uneasily in his chair.
“—The’s too much!” said Uncle William with conviction.
“I guess we ’d better be doing a little of it,” laughed Manning. He got
up from the table and went toward the other room... and Uncle William’s
eye came back from Japan and followed him hopefully.
But the young man passed the kitchen door without a glance. Uncle
William sighed and got up from the table. “You make yourself ridiculous
talking about foreign folks, Andy—folks ’t you ain’t ever seen,” he
said severely. The sound of the hammers came through the open door and
Celia’s voice, singing gently to itself.... Outside, the rain roared
hoarse, running across the moor and blotting out the sky and the boats
tugging at anchor below.
XXVII
IN March Jimmu Yoshitomo arrived and, soon after him, a cablegram from
Alan and Sergia. “Hurray!” Uncle William leaned out of the window,
waving it, “It’s come, Benjy—Didn’t I tell you it ’d come!” Bodet
hurried up and took it from him, reading it aloud, Uncle William leaning
over him—
“Wilhelmina Bodet Woodworth and Mother both doing well.”
Uncle William leaned out further, reading it over his shoulder.
“Wilhelmina Bodet—Kind o’ queer, ain’t it, Benjy?”
“It’s a girl—and she’s named for you,” said Bodet proudly.
“Why, so ’t is—Willie-Meeny.” Uncle William regarded the paper fondly.
“—and it’s a girl, you think, do you, Benjy?... I’m glad it’s a girl. I
al’ays like little girls—they have ways with ’em.” He took the paper and
handled it tenderly—turning it over and looking at it as if something
further might crop up. “Jest think how it come to us, Benjy—scootin’
round the world—’Twa ’n’t twenty-four hours old and here ’tis—and we
knowin’ all about it—and seeing her lying there, all kind o’ quiet, and
the little one—and folks steppin’ around soft and doin’ things.... I
reckon that’s what the Lord made ’em for—” He held off the telegram and
looked at it—“so ’s ’t we could be happy everywheres—seeing folks all
in a minute—Seems like all one fam’ly. You don’t need to travel—just sit
still and look.”
“There’s considerable travel going on still—” said Bodet smiling. He
was looking out across the harbor, to the world of steamboat lines and
railroads and automobiles threading the earth off there. “People don’t
sit still a great deal,” he said. “There’s quite a lot of machinery
humming.” His hand motioned from the top of the world where they stood,
off to the sun-lit space below.
Uncle William nodded, looking at it thoughtfully. “I’ve thought about
’em—when I’ve been sailin’—all them machines. I reckon they’re made for
folks that can’t travel in their minds—don’t know how—it kind o’ makes
feet and legs for ’em so ’s ’t they can get around faster. They feel
sort o’ empty in their minds, and lonesome, like enough, and then they
take a train and go somewheres—or a toboggan slide, or suthin’, and they
feel better—Don’t you reckon that’s the way ’tis, Benjy?” He looked at
him hopefully.
“I shouldn’t wonder at all,” said Bodet—“There ought to be some excuse
for clatter.”... The Japanese servant appeared around the corner of the
house, moving a mysterious, respectful hand and Bodet joined him.
Uncle William looked at them a minute. Then he tucked the telegram in
his pocket. “Guess I’ll go tell folks about it,” he said.
Jimmu Yoshitomo took possession of Bodet and his belongings as
thoroughly as Celia had taken possession of Uncle William—though with
possibly a little less flurry. He made a little garden for him out
by the house, and raised flowers and vegetables and planted flowers
alongside the house and among the rocks—and found a sheltered corner
where wisteria would live through the winter—if carefully protected.
By September the wisteria had sent great shoots against the house, and
the flowers among the rocks were a brilliant mass of bloom. The Japanese
moved among them like a dusky blossom in white coat and trousers—his
century-old face turned always toward Bodet and his needs.
Andy, coming up the road, regarded him with disfavor—“Monkey man and
monkey clo’es,” he said scornfully.
“Benjy takes a sight o’ comfort with him,” responded William.
They made their way toward the house, and Jimmu Yoshitomo approached
from the garden, bowing low.
Uncle William bowed low in return. Andy remained stiffly erect, detached
from all these things.
“Don’t you stop workin’, Jimmie Yosh,” said Uncle William kindly—“We’re
just goin’ to set ’round a spell.” They went on toward the house and
Jimmu Yoshitomo returned to his flowers.
Inside, the house was a bit of tropic-land that had floated over seas,
and lighted on the Island. Colors in the old rugs glowed dully, and
little gleams of metal and glass caught the light and played with it.
The tiny kitchen was a white-set gem, and through the long vista of the
living-room doors there were hints of the art gallery and a scattered
horde of pictures.
“Like enough he’s in there,” said William.
The gallery was the only room in the house that had not been put in
order. Even Sergia’s and Alan’s rooms were ready—the beds made and
a little basket cradle swinging in the apple-wood frame that George
Manning had made for it—in his off hours.
Uncle William could never pass the door without looking in. He peeked in
now, on tiptoe, and withdrew.
“Looks nice, don’t it?” he confided to Andy.
“Kind o’ odd,” admitted Andy.
They stood in the door of the gallery and looked in on its emptiness.
Pictures stood on the floor and on boxes and chairs. Some of the boxes
were still unopened—and only a small part of the pictures taken out had
been hung up.
Uncle William looked around him with pleased eyes. “He’s got some new
ones out, Andy.”
“Uh-huh.” Andy bent over and peered at one—a little behind the others.
He straightened himself quickly and shut his eyes. “They ain’t fit to
look at,” he said.
Uncle William bent over and drew the picture out and regarded it with
interest. He set it against a box and stood off and looked at it, and
looked at it again. “She’s dreadful pretty, ain’t she, Andy?”
Andy opened his eye a crack and withdrew it. “She ain’t decent,” he said
firmly.
“You can set with your back to it, Andy,” said Uncle William kindly.
“You don’t need to go stun-blind—not to see it.”
“They won’t let him have it on the Island,” said Andy. He sat down and
glared at the picture of an innocent cow—of the Dutch school.
“Well, I do’ ’no’, Andy.” Uncle William studied the picture with lenient
eyes. “She’s kind o’ young and pretty—The’ ain’t much about this climate
in it—” He glanced casually up at the glass roof above them. “Come along
winter, now—when the winds get to shrieking and blowing up there—it ’ll
seem kind o’ queer to see her standin’ on a hank—like that—all ready to
jump in so, won’t it?”
Andy turned his head a little and craned his neck.
“I’ve been in countries,” went on Uncle William, “where that ’d seem
putty good—Italy, now—best kind of place—warm and summery always—year
’round. Seems ’s if in this climate we ’d ought to paint furs and woolen
goods more. I don’t suppose Benjy knew where he was going to hang his
pictures when he bought ’em—just gathered ’em up most anywheres—without
thinkin’ how they ’d look hung up.”
“He’s coming,” said Andy. He wheeled about on his box.
The man stood in the doorway, looking at them with pleased eyes. “I
thought I should find you here.” The glasses dangled from their long
chain and he swung them a little, smiling.... “What do you think is down
in the harbor?” he said quietly—
Uncle William got to his feet—“Hev they come, Benjy?”
“Looks like it,” said the man. “If I know my own yacht—she’s just
dropped anchor off the Island.”
Uncle William cast a quick glance at the glass roof overhead.
“You can’t see anything there,” said Bodet smiling. “Come on out.”
They went quickly from the house—out to the edge of the cliff. Beneath
the cliff, close to the Jennie, a big white boat swung at anchor, and on
the deck a man and woman stood looking up to the Island.
“She’s got it with her, Benjy!” said Uncle William. He leaned over the
cliff. Little white garments in the woman’s arms fluttered softly.
The woman looked up and saw them and raised the child high in her arms,
lifting it to them in the shining harbor light.
XXVIII
THEY were sitting about the fire-place in the big living-room, and a
fire burned briskly for the cool September morning. In front of the
fire, on a great rug, Wilhelmina Bodet Woodworth, fresh from her bath,
gurgled and reached out cooing hands to the fire. Her language could not
be understood—not even by the dusky Jimmu Yoshitomo, who came and stood
in the doorway and looked in with unfathomable eyes. But the words were
very pointed and sweet and quick and had little laughs and chuckles
behind them—all about things she used to know.... By and by—when she
had learned proper ones, she would forget the things she used to know—or
remember them only in her dreams, or some day when she met a stranger
in the street—and half stopped and went on—listening to the little bells
that were ringing somewhere—far off.... She lunged toward the fire and
fell afoul of her toes and laughed and seized them and gazed at them
intently.
Uncle William, a hand on either knee—gazed in rapt content. “She’s about
the littlest and the nicest—” he said, “I didn’t reckon she ’d be like
that.”
He looked at Bodet for sympathy. Benjy smiled and swung the long glasses
playfully toward the rug.... The person on the rug regarded them a
minute—then she adjusted her muscles and made a little hitching motion
toward the glasses—they were round and they glittered and went back and
forth—and ought to be stopped.... She reached up a hand and laughed and
toppled over—and looked up and saw Andy’s grin somewhere.... For a long
minute she gazed back at it—then she went on hands and knees across the
rug—flying from fate.
Sergia reached down and gathered her up, smoothing the white dress. “I
put her into short clothes a week ago,” she said proudly....
“She couldn’t stan’ up a little now, Sergia, could she!” suggested Uncle
William.
“Never!” Sergia looked at him and patted the round legs. “She won’t walk
for ten weeks probably,” she said kindly.
Uncle William’s face had fallen a little. “She ’ll be quite a spell
gettin’ down to my house,” he said wistfully.
“I’ll bring her tomorrow.” The baby gurgled and reached out fat hands
and Uncle William bent forward.
“Kind o’ takes to me!” he said. He held out tentative hands, waggling
the fingers, and the child looked at them gravely, and leaned forward
a little, and broke into glee as Uncle William seized her and swung her
toward the ceiling.
“She’s not afraid of you,” said Sergia proudly.
“Afraid of me!... I reckon she couldn’t be afraid of Uncle William—!”
There was something a little misty behind the big spectacles... the blue
eyes looked out at the child from forgotten seas. She grasped the tufts
of beard and tugged at them, rocking hard, and making remarks to them.
Uncle William smiled in triumph and seized the hand. “I reckon I might
as well take her down to my house,” he said. “She’s got to learn the way
sometime.”
Sergia’s face was a little alarmed—“You couldn’t take care of her.”
“I don’t know why,” said Uncle William, “I reckon I can take all the
care she needs—She don’t need any entertainin’.” He gazed at her fondly
and chucked her a little.
“She has to be fed,” said Sergia.
“I’ll tend to feedin’ her myself,” said Uncle William, “Nobody ever
starved—to my house. You got a little bunnet for her somewheres?” He put
his big hand on the shining head.
Sergia looked at them reflectively. “She has to have special milk, you
know—?”
“I get mine to Andy’s,” said Uncle William. “It’s just as special as
any, ain’t it—Andy’s milk?”
Sergia smiled a little. “It isn’t that—It has to be prepared—sterilized,
you know.”
Uncle William looked at her sympathetically—“Now, that’s too bad—and she
looks so healthy, too!” He held her off, and looked at her, and
danced her a little as an experiment—and broke her all up into little
laughs.... He chuckled softly. “I reckon I’ll hev to take her,” he said.
“We-l-l—” Sergia went slowly toward the kitchen and returned with
a bottle in each hand. “I’m going to let you take her,” she said
magnanimously. She laid the bottles on the table and brought the little
bonnet and put it on, patting it and talking little, foolish words to
it—“There!” She stood off and looked at them, doubtfully. “You must feed
her as soon as you get there, and then again in three hours.” She held
out the bottles.
“Yes’m.” Uncle William stored a bottle in either pocket—where they would
balance—and started toward the door.
“You must bring her back before dinner, you know.” She was following
them protectingly, “—and I think I’ll come down by and by,” she added.
Uncle William turned and laid a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t you worry a
mite, Sergia—There’s me and Celia to take care of her and we’re goin’
to hev the best time ’t ever was—The’ can’t anything happen to her—not
whilst I’m round.”
He strode proudly out of the door and over the rocks, the little figure
riding on his arm. The wind blowing softly across the Island touched the
small figure, and Uncle William snuggled it down in his arm, covering it
with a great hand. The head nestled to him and drowsed a little and fell
asleep.
Uncle William came in the door with hushed step.... “Sh-h—?” he said. He
held up a warning finger.
Celia stopped singing and came over and peeked at it. “Isn’t she a
dear!” She held out inviting arms.
But Uncle William, proud in possession, marched across to the red lounge
and sat down.
“Aren’t you going to put her down?” whispered Celia.
Uncle William shook his head. “Not yet.” He sat very quiet and the fire
crackled in the stove—with the kettle humming a little—and leaving
off and beginning again.... Juno came across and leaped up. She rubbed
against him and waited a minute—then she purred towards his knee. Uncle
William watched her benignantly, holding very still.
She purred softly, kneading her claws and talking.... Presently she
paused, with fixed gaze—her tail switched a question and was still.
She leaped down and went across and sat down, her back to the room, and
communed with space.
Uncle William’s chuckle was very gentle.... “Juno’s makin’ up her mind,”
he said.
Celia turned and looked at the grey back and laughed—“She’s jealous!”
she said in surprise.
Uncle William nodded. “Women-folks.”
She made no response and the room was still again. The baby stirred
and stretched an arm and saw Uncle William’s face bending over her—and
laughed.
Celia came across and held out her arms—“Give her to me!” she said.
She gathered in the child, with little inarticulate words, and Uncle
William watched her gravely. “You ain’t treated him right, Celia,” he
said gently.
She looked at him over the baby’s frock—and her eyes had little stars in
them.
“You ’d ought to go tell him, Celia, ’t you didn’t mean anything,” said
Uncle William, “—actin’ that way. He’s a good deal cut up—the way you’ve
been.
“I don’t know where he is,” said Celia. She was smoothing the white
frock and smiling to Wilhelmina and whistling little tunes.
“He’s down to the beach,” said Uncle William. “He come along down when
I did—You ain’t treated him right,” he said slowly.... “I like fam’lies,
and I like folks to have houses and fam’lies of their own—not be livin’
round, Celia.” He looked at her kindly.... “She ’ll be kind of a fam’ly
to me—” He nodded to the little figure in her arms, “You needn’t worry a
mite about me, Celia.... You just wait till I get her suthin’ to eat and
then you can go.... George said he was going out sailing,” he added.
He drew the bottle from his pocket and looked at it critically.
“You ought to heat it,” said the girl quickly.
“‘D you think so?” Uncle William held it out, “—Feels kind o’ warm,
don’t it—bein’ in my pocket sot Guess I’ll keep the other one there till
it’s time.”
He seated himself and reached up for the baby.... Celia
hesitated—looking out at the shining water and the clear sun and the big
boat down below—“I don’t like to leave you alone,” she said.
“I ain’t alone,” said Uncle William, “—and like enough Sergia ’ll be
here byme-by. She said suthin’ about it—You run along now, Celia. You
remember he kind o’ hinted he wanted to take you out today. You tell
him you ’ll go—tell him right off—fust thing—’fore anything has time to
happen—” he said severely.
“Yes, sir.” She flitted from the door and he looked after her, a little
dubiously.... “I ’most ought to go with her,” he said.
Then his eye fell on the gurgling face and he laughed.
He sat looking about the room with contented gaze.... “Seems ’s if I had
most everything,” he said.... “Juno—”
He called the name softly, but there was no response.... “Juno!” The
grey tail switched once on the floor and was still. “You come here to
me, Juno!”... Presently she got up and came over to him and jumped up
beside him. Uncle William put out a hand and stroked her. She settled
down with her gloomy green eyes.... The baby dozed tranquilly over her
bottle and finished it and sat up.... Juno’s back tightened—ready to
spring. “You lie still, Juno,” said Uncle William.... “Nice kitty!”
He smiled to the child and stroked the soft fur.... She reached out
a willing hand and drew it back—there was a sound as if there were a
small, muffled tornado in the room. Uncle William stroked the great back
steadily. “You behave, Juno,” he said sternly. The child reached out the
wavering hand again—and drew it back—and cooed softly.... There was a
moment’s breath—then the green-eyed Juno bowed her head, closing her
eyes, and allowed the small hand to travel down her grey back—and down
again—and again—and the red room was filled with little, happy laughs.
THE END