V
UNCLE WILLIAM was wondering whether he could leave the frying-pan another day. He had promised Benjy he would come up... the sun was shining and Benjy needed him. He went to the door, with the pan in his hand, and looked out. He took in great sniffs of salt air, looking over his spectacles at the moor and the sky light on the rocks and the stretch of his face was mild and happy, and his look rested casually on a figure that had left the beach and was coming up the rocky path. Presently he leaned forward, waving the frying-pan back and forth. “‘Morning, George,” he called.
The young man came on, with even, swift steps that did not hurry. He held an envelope in his hand. “Letter for you, Uncle,” he said.
Uncle William laid down the frying-pan and held out his hand. A mild and benevolent curiosity held the big face. His look welcomed the whole world shut up in the bit of envelope. He took it and studied the inscription and pushed up his spectacles, looking at the young man with satisfaction. “Set down, Georgie,” he said—“It’s from Celia.”
“Who’s Celia?” asked the young man. He seated himself on a rock and plucked a stem of grass, taking it in his teeth.
Uncle William looked at him again and settled slowly into the doorway—filling it, with the big, checked apron about him—“You ain’t ever seen Celia, I reckon?” he said.
“Don’t believe I have,” responded
George. He was looking across the harbor, turning the bit of grass between his teeth. His glance sought the envelope again, “Come from around here?” he asked.
Uncle William opened it with slow, careful fingers. “Well, not exactly round here.” He drew out the sheet and smoothed it on his knee and rubbed his fingers on his apron, and took up the paper, holding it arm’s length. “It’s somebody ’t ’s coming to live with us,” he explained kindly.
“Oh—?”
Uncle William read on. He laid down the paper and took off his glasses, waving them at the landscape. “Some like a woman!” he said.
George turned and looked behind him.
“I don’t mean off there,” said Uncle William, “I mean here—what she says,” He took up the letter, “She says she can’t come yet—not just yet.” He mumbled to the words kindly.... “It’s her clothes,” he volunteered, “She’s got to get some new ones or fix her old ones, or suthin—I don’t just understand what ’tis she’s doin’.”
“Don’t need to, do you!” said the young man. His tone was even, and a little contemptuous.
Uncle William eyed him a minute. “You wa ’n’t ever much acquainted with women, was ye, George?”
“I don’t know as I was,” said the young man. “Too busy, I guess.”
“Yes—you al’ays keep a-doin’—same as I do,” said Uncle William. “But I’ve kind o’ watched ’em—between times—women. They’re interestin’,” he added, “—a leetle more interesting ’n men be, I reckon.”
A little smile held the face opposite him. “Men are good enough for me,” he said.
“You can talk to men—sensible—know what they mean.”
“That’s it,” said Uncle William, “I reckon that’s what I like about women—you can’t tell what they mean—it keeps you guessing, kind of—makes you feel lively in your mind.”
“My mind’s lively enough without that,” said George carelessly. His eye was on the dark water and the little white-caps that rode on it.
“Well, I do’ ’no’. I like to have a good many things to think about—when I’m settin’,” said Uncle William, “and when I’m sailin’. I keep quite a lot of ’em tucked away in my mind somewheres—and fetch ’em out when I have a minute or two, quiet-like, to myself.” He touched the letter in his hand, almost reverently, “The’s suthin about women ’t I can’t make out—” he said, “If it’s a wedding or a funeral or going away, or whatever ’tis—most the first thing they think about is their clothes—like Celia here—” he touched the letter again.... “Now, that’s interestin’—’bout their clothes, ain’t it!” He beamed on him.
The young man returned the look tolerantly. “Foolishness,” he said.
Uncle William nodded. “I know—foolishness for you and me and Andy—and for Benjy, mebbe. But ’tain’t foolishness for women. You can see that, the way they do it. It’s kind o’ like goin’ to church to ’em and they don’t really feel right without they’re doing it.... It’s kind o’ pretty to see ’em—al’ays a-makin’ and plannin’—and makin’ ’em for the little ones ’fore they come—turning ’em over, and showin’ ’em to other women, like enough—not sayin’ much—just lookin’ at ’em.”
The young man on the rock stirred uneasily.
Uncle William went on hastily. “I reckon it ain’t wrong for Celia to think about getting her clothes ready.” He was smiling at the letter. “It’s when they stop thinkin’ about ’em that it’s wrong.... Why, it’s kind o’ awful!” he added severely.
The young man laughed out. Suddenly he stopped and looked at Uncle William. “—Like Andy’s wife’s!” he said.
“Like Harr’et,” assented Uncle William. “Harr’et ’ll wear anything—anything ’t covers her, that is. She ’d wear sailcloth, I reckon, if ’t wa ’n’t so hard to sew—old ones, you know, ’t was wore out for sailin’. Harr’et wouldn’t waste new sails on her.... And that kind o’ hard way she has of doin’ her hair—like a doughnut—only harder—” Uncle William rubbed the back of his head reflectively. “I do’ ’no’ what ’tis about Harr’et. I al’ays feel’s if the woman part of her was gone off somewheres.... It’s the woman part ’t makes ’em interestin’, I reckon. You al’ays kind o’ wonder—”
“Andy don’t wonder much,” said the young man. “He’s learned mostly.” He was regarding Uncle William curiously and his face had an alert look. “I never thought about women that way before,” he said, turning the bit of grass in his teeth. “You make ’em seem interesting, Uncle William—as interesting as a boat—or fishing—or doing arithmetic.” He laughed out.
“Celia’s letter reads to me ’s if she ’d kind o’ keep you guessing,” said Uncle William, taking it up.
“I’ve got to be going,” said George. He stood up.
“Now, don’t you go yet awhile, Georgie.” Uncle William got to his feet, looking about him, “The’s two-three little things I wanted to ask you about. The ketch to my cupboard door don’t work good.”
They went into the house and Uncle William tucked the letter behind the clock.
The young man examined the lock and took a file from his pocket and filed the catch a little, whistling softly. His face had a keen, happy look.
Uncle William filled the tea-kettle and put it on and came across and bent over the young man, a hand on either knee. “I al’ays like to watch ye doin’ things, George. You do ’em so kind o’ neat.”
The young man snapped the catch two or three times in the lock—“That ’ll work,” he said. He got to his feet, slipping the file into his pocket.
“Benjy needs somebody like you up to his place,” said Uncle William.
“I thought he ’d got a man from Boston.” The tone was non-committal and dry. The young man was looking at the window.
“Well, I guess he’s got somebody—He’s from Boston—yes. Benjy’s a good deal bothered,” added Uncle William hopefully.
George shook his head. “I don’t want to be building—as long as the fishing suits me.”
“Cod—so far,” said Uncle William.
“You can ’t tell what ’ll be along any day now,” said the young man. He moved toward the door.
“You think it over, George,” said Uncle William—he held up a benignant hand and cut off the answer—“You just think it over. Mebbe he won’t need you. But if he does—you ’ll hev to help him out, I guess. He’s livin’ on the Island now, you know, same as the rest of us.”
VI
UNCLE WILLIAM and Benjy had been away all day—up at the new house—and Andy’s wife had sent dinner to them.... They came home in the dusk, hungry and tired. “Harr’et’s cooking ’do ’t to be e’t hot,” said Uncle William. He looked up at his own house. “Hello! somebody’s visitin’ us.”
Benjy’s eye lighted. A glow from the red room shone in the dusk. “It’s the new girl,” he said. They quickened their pace a little.
Uncle William went ahead and opened the door. The little room was full of warm light and the pleasant smell of cooking. By the stove knelt a young girl, her hand on the oven door. She looked up as they came in and closed the door carefully. Then she got to her feet—a little smile on her face. “I’ve come, Mr. Benslow,” she said.
“We’re glad to see you,” said Uncle William heartily. He glanced at the table. “‘D you find dishes enough for a meal?”
A little dimple in her cheek came out, and ran away. “I washed a few,” she replied.
Uncle William’s eye ran along the shelf over the sink. “You’ve done ’em all!”
“Not quite—I put some of them outside by the door—pots and kettles and pans—”
“That’s what I fell over,” said Uncle William, “I gen’ally keep ’em under the sink—out o’ sight—kind of—?” He looked at her.
“I saw where you kept them.” She had dear, searching eyes and quick little movements that ran ahead of her and did things for her. “Supper is ready,” she said. “The biscuit are just right.” She took the biscuit from the oven and set chairs for them at the table and flitted about, with quick, soft steps. Juno, on her lounge, huddled herself a little and turned her halfshut eyes on the swish of skirts. By and by she got down and came over to Uncle William.
He fed her a bit of fish and she returned to her lounge, closing her eyes. “She knows suthin’ ’s happened,” said Uncle William, “Her mind’s going round and round.”
Bodet smiled. “She looks placid enough.”
“You can’t tell that way,” said Uncle William. “Women ain’t like men-folks—not just like ’em. They ’ll smile and look polite and fix their faces—and then, all of a sudden, things ’ll happen.”
A little laugh bubbled over from the sink.
Uncle William turned in his chair and looked at her. He adjusted his glasses and looked again. “‘D you say anything, Celia?”
“No, sir—I just thought it was kind of funny about women—”
“So ’tis,” said Uncle William, “It’s funny’s anything I know—the way women be. I take a sight o’ comfort thinkin’ about women and the way they be.”
“Yes, sir—would you like some more tea?”
Uncle William waved it away—“Not another mite. We’ve had a good supper.” He pushed back from the table. “Now, we ’ll help you clear up a little—” He looked about him.
“I don’t want anybody to touch my dishes,” she said promptly.
Uncle William looked at her over his glasses. “I was going to show you where things be,” he said.
“I know where everything is.’.rdquo; The little smile played about her lips. “And I don’t need any help.” She whisked the cloth from the table and bore it away.
Uncle William’s eye followed her.
“There’s a letter for you.” She took it from behind the dock and laid it on the table.
Uncle William took it up with slow fingers. “I gen’ally read my letters first thing,” he said reflectively.
“It’s better to have your supper first.” She disappeared out of the door and they heard a little rattle of pans. Uncle William chuckled. “Some like the sou’-west wind,” he said. “You read it, Benjy.”
Bodet held out his hand. “They’re in Greenland,” he said, glancing at the postmark.
“I reckoned they ’d be.” Uncle William reached down the map and they bent over the table, talking and tracing the line of travel and reading bits from the letter.
The girl, as she moved about the room, glanced at them contentedly now and then. When she had finished her work, she took off her apron and folded it up. “I’m going now,” she announced, “I’ll be up in the morning—along about six.” She moved toward the door.
Uncle William looked up, blinking. He had come from Labrador at a lively rate.... “Why—you can’t go—alone, Celia. You wait a minute whilst I see about getting ready to go with you.”
“I know the way,” she said promptly, “I came up.”
“The’s rocks,” said Uncle William. He was lighting a lantern.
“I know about the rocks—I’ll take the lantern—thank you, sir.” She went out of the door and the light of her lantern flitted along down the path over the cliff.
Uncle William’s eye followed it. He chuckled softly and looked at Benjy. “A good deal like the sou’-west wind,” he said, “a little west-by-sou’-west, mebbe—and blowin’ hard.”
“She’s a pretty girl,” said Bodet, watching the light out in the dark.
“She’s a good girl,” said Uncle William. He looked silently at the shining rows of dishes over the sink—He crossed the room and opened the cupboard door under the sink and looked in—“The’ ain’t a dish left,” he said solemnly, “She’s washed ’em all!”
VII
I’VE got a fire made, Celia. You come right along in,” said Uncle William. He regarded her kindly as she stood in the doorway, her curls freshened in the wind and her cheeks touched with clear pink—like the morning outside.
She cast a quick glance at the disordered room and came in.
Uncle William retreated a little. “I was cal’lating to clear it up ’fore you got here,” he said. He gathered in an armful of boots and shoes and slippers that had strayed away and looked about him a little helplessly—
A smile crept into her face and lingered in it. “You’ve got somebody to take care of you now,” she said. “You put those right down and bring me a pail of water and some wood—” she looked in the box, “—and a little fine stuff—to hurry with. Nobody could hurry with that—” She cast a scornful hand at the wood in the box.
“‘Tis kind o’ green,” admitted Uncle William. He took the water-pail and went outside, looking at the morning with slow content and moving in supreme restfulness toward the well. When he returned the room was in order, a smell of coffee filled the air, and the table by the window was set, in the sunshine, with plates for two.
“Benjy up?” asked Uncle William. He glanced toward the inner door as he set the pail on its shelf.
She nodded quickly. “I called him,” she said.
“I gen’ally let him sleep,” replied Uncle William.
“Better for him to be up.” She filled a dipper of water and carried it to the table, filling the glasses.
“Ain’t you going to have breakfast with us?” asked Uncle William, glancing at the table.
“I’ve had mine—I brought in the kindling-wood myself,” she added pointedly.
Uncle William’s face fell. “I did kind o’ forget—” The door opened and Benjy came out—yawning, but brisk. “Well, we’ve got a good start,” he said. He nodded to the girl and sat down.
Uncle William looked relieved. “I thought you ’d kind o’ mind getting up so early?” he said.
Bodet laughed out. “I don’t mind getting up—It’s waiting for breakfast that I mind.”
Uncle William looked out of the window. “I go kind o’ slow on breakfasts,” he admitted. He craned his neck a little—“Guess George is going out.” He glanced behind him. The girl had stepped outside the door a minute and Uncle William leaned forward with a confidential whisper, “She ’d make a dretful good wife for a young man, wouldn’t she!”
“You ’d better eat your breakfast, William—and be thankful,” said Bodet severely.
Uncle William made no reply. A look of deep craft was in his eye. When Bodet started off, he lingered behind.
“I’ll be’long byme-by, Benjy,” he said. He nodded to him kindly. “You go tell Ordway what you want and I’ll talk to him ’bout it when I come. I reckon he ’ll do it the way you want it,” he said hopefully.
Bodet disappeared up the road, and Uncle William pottered about the door. By and by he went in.
The girl glanced up quickly. “I thought you ’d gone.”
“No, I ain’t gone.” Uncle William’s tone was cheerful. “The’s two-three little things I want to tend to.” He strayed into the bedroom and when he came out she was seated by the window paring potatoes. “I’ll have to soak ’em an hour,” she said briskly, “You ought to buy some new ones.”
“They be kind o’ old,” said Uncle William. He glanced past her, out of the window. “Nice place to set,” he suggested.
She did not look up.
“Guess George Manning’s going out,” said Uncle William.
“Who’s George Manning?” said Celia. She finished another potato, with efficiency, and dropped it into the pan of water beside her.
“George Manning—He’s about the nicest young man on the Island, I guess,” said Uncle William innocently.
A little laugh flitted at the potatoes.
She glanced out of the window and returned to her work.
Uncle William’s look deepened. “He ’d make a dretful good husband for somebody.”
“I don’t believe much in husbands,” she replied. She held the knife in her hand, and she was looking at him with candid, laughing eyes.
Uncle William returned the look reproachfully. “You don’t have no call to say that, Celia!”
“I’ve been engaged,” she replied promptly. She took up another potato with a little glance of scorn at it.
Uncle William leaned forward. “When you goin’ to be married?” he asked happily, “I might ’a’ known you was engaged—nice as you be!”
She looked at him. “I’m not engaged any more,” she replied, “I just was.”
Uncle William’s face was full of sympathy. “I didn’t know ’t you ’d lost anybody,” he said. “You poor little girl!”
She looked up again—a little puzzled line between her eyes, “He wasn’t so much—to lose—” she said slowly.
“When was it he died?” asked Uncle William.
She stared at him. Then she laughed and threw out her hands in a quick gesture. “You thought he died!” she said.
“Didn’t you say so?” demanded Uncle William.
“I didn’t mean that—” She returned, a little guiltily, to her potatoes.
Uncle William looked at her.
“I just meant I wasn’t going to marry him—nor anybody!” She lifted her head with a little defiant movement.
Uncle William’s gaze was sober. “You don’t mean you promised him and then wouldn’t—?” He was looking at her over his spectacles.
She nodded her head over the potatoes, biting her lip a little. “I only loved his hair anyway,” she said. There was silence in the room, and the faint sound of voices came from the beach.
“He had curly hair,” she said, “and it was yellow—like gold—and all the other girls wanted him—”
“George’s hair is black,” said Uncle William hopefully, “—most black.”
She looked at him—and the eyes danced a little behind their mistiness, “I wouldn’t marry a man—not if his hair was coal-black, nor if ’twas yellow, nor brown, nor any color—I’ve got you to take care of and that’s enough!” She glanced at him, almost tenderly, and carried the potatoes to the sink. “It makes you feel foolish,” she said, splashing the water into the pan and moving the potatoes about—“It’s foolish caring about folks and thinking they’re beautiful—and then finding out that they’re selfish—and stupid and lazy—!”
Uncle William looked out at the sun. “It’s getting late,” he said.
He moved toward the door and stood with his back to her. “I like to have folks get married, Celia—” he said slowly, “I like to think about homes and buildin’ ’em on the Island—and little ones coming—Don’t you like to think about it that way?”
Her hands dabbled in the water thoughtfully. “I don’t know’s I do,” she said. “I’ve got a home now—with you—”
“It ain’t real—not a real home,” said Uncle William quickly.
“It’s the nicest one I ever had,” she said. A little laugh lighted her face—“and it will be the nicest one that ever was when I’ve cleaned up a little.” She dried her hands on the towel, looking down at them. “I know what you mean, Mr. Benslow—about ’little ones’—I guess every woman knows about that—and wants ’em,” she added, under her breath, to the towel. “But there’s some things we can’t have!” She took down the broom from the wall. “Now, if you’re going out, I’ll sweep up a little.”
Uncle William did not look back. “Andy’s coming,” he said, “I guess we ’ll go see how Benjy’s getting on—Don’t you mind anything I said, Celia. I’m kind o’ old and foolish, like enough.” The girl did not reply. But when he had gone, she came to the door and stood looking after him—and the dancing look in her eyes grew wistful and sweet.
VIII
WE used to meet on this rock when we was boys,” said Uncle William, sitting down, “—You remember them times, Andy?”
“I don’t remember nothin’,” said Andy. Uncle William looked at him. “I do’ ’no’ how you forget so easy.... I can see it all, just as plain as you be—settin’ there—you and me and Benjy, racing to get to this rock first—and planning suthin’—suthin’ ’t we hadn’t o’t to.... Seems kind o’ good to have Benjy back—just ’s if he ’d never been off the island?”
“He’s changed some,” said Andy. “Well—outside he’s peaked up a little—but inside, I can’t see a mite o’ difference. He gets mad just about ’s easy ’s ever,” said Uncle William contentedly.... “Now, this morning—” Uncle William moved his hand toward the horizon, “He’s gone over to his place, all kind o’ boilin’-like. He stopped and gazed at a figure that loomed on the horizon at the end of the long road. They watched the light, high-stepping figure come swiftly down the road.
“He’s got something on his mind,” said Uncle William, “I can see by the way his elbows act—kind o’ stiff so. I reckon that contractor does bother him—a good deal,” he added thoughtfully.
The man came on quickly, lessening his gait a little as he neared the rock, and taking off his hat to the breeze. “Feels good,” he said, nodding. He seated himself on the big rock. “Well—I’ve done it.” He turned his head slowly, taking in great whiffs of the fresh, bracing air. “I’ve fired him,” he said.
“You hev!” Uncle William’s face beamed. “That’s good—He’s fired him, Andy—”
“When’s he going to leave?” asked Andy.
“He’s going to leave just as soon as he can pack,” said Bodet with satisfaction, “He’s stood all he can—and so have I.” He threw out his thin legs and looked at them. “I don’t think I ever knew a man that irritated me the way he did,” he said reflectively.
“I see he kind o’ did,” said Uncle William.
Andy looked out to sea. “Harr’et was boardin’ him,” he said, “She was cal’-lating on the board money—right along.” His eye dropped to Bodet.
The man threw out an impatient leg.
“Now, don’t you mind about that,” said Uncle William hastily, “Benjy ’ll fix it up all right—He’s got to have somebody to build his house, and it’s got to be somebody that ’ll eat—somebody with a stomach.”
The thin man sat up, smiling a little.
“I wish to the Lord I knew whose stomach it was!” he said, “It’s like trying to build a house in heaven—having to import contractors and masons and plumbers—”
Uncle William chuckled—— “We gen’ally use the home-folks, round here,” he said after a pause.
Bodet looked at him a little. “You wouldn’t build a twenty-thousand dollar house just with the home-folks, would you!”
“I do’ ’no’ why not,” said Uncle William, “It ain’t so much different from any other house, fur as I see—just more of it—more spread. There’s George Manning,” he suggested.
“The carpenter?” Bodet’s lip smiled.
“Well—he ain’t exactly a carpenter—not exactly,” said Uncle William. “He’s a fisherman too—first-class—and he can steer any kind of a craft you want to rig up. He was captain on the Halifax Line one spell.” Uncle William’s eye followed the boats passing across the harbor. “An’ he’s a kind o’ mason, and a first-rate painter—I do’ ’no’s you could git a man knows more ’n George Manning does.... I never see the thing yet George wa ’n’t willing to tackle. Seems’s if he kind o’ liked to try his hand at things folks said couldn’t be done. I’ve seen him sit up night after night figgering on things—”
“He ’ll have to figure some on this,” said Bodet. He drew the plans from his pocket. “This is what we’ve just split on—Ordway and I—” He spread out the paper, holding it between his hands. Uncle William moved over a little toward it. Andy dropped an eye from above.... “This is it,” said Bodet. “You see how that roof-line comes down, don’t you?”
“Uh-huh,” Uncle William looked at it with pleased smile—“Comfy, ain’t it—Sort o’ makes a house look like an old hen with her chickens.”
“That’s it,” said Bodet quickly, “It’s the very thing I want—a house that settles down among the rocks as if it belonged there—The architect got the idea all right—from photographs. But he hadn’t been here and we hadn’t allowed for that dip to the south—You know it?”
Uncle William nodded. “Drops fo’-five feet, I should think?”
“Six—: a little over six,” replied Bodet, “and this is the kind of thing he wanted—Ordway wanted!” He took out a rough pencil sketch and held it at arm’s length. “He wants to run it out here in the air, this way, and put a lattice-work underneath.... paint it green, I suppose.” He snorted a little.
“Does look kind o’ funny—don’t it, Andy?” said Uncle William.
“Looks good enough—far as I see,” said Andy, “I’ve seen a lot of houses built that way.”
“—So have I,” broke in Bodet. He crushed the paper in his hand. “It’s a seaside cottage,” he said, “—a regular seaside cottage!”
“I do’ ’no’ what you feel that way about it for,” said Andy, “if ’tis a cottage and ’tis built on the sea—right along side—”
Bodet got impatiently to his feet—“Ordway couldn’t see, either. That’s why I fired him—’seaside cottage!’—” He fizzed a little and straightened his garments and shook his legs.
“There, there, Benjy,—don’t you mind. I’m a-thinkin’ about it,” said Uncle William soothingly.
Benjy smiled—the thin, sweet smile that seemed to come of itself from somewhere behind the high, nervous features, when Uncle William’s voice spoke to it, “All right, William, I won’t mind—now I’ve got Ordway off my hands. I thought one time he would drive me crazy—”
“I didn’t know but he would, too,” said Uncle William, “You acted kind o’ queer.”
“Well, I felt kind o’ queer,” responded Bodet dryly. “Now, about Manning—We ’ll go talk things over with him.... He might do—with a little watching.”
IX
BENJY thought mebbe you ’d do the whole thing, George!”
The three men stood on the site of the new house. Across the rocks and moor Uncle William’s chimney showed against the sky, and below them the water of the harbor dimpled in little waves of light.
Benjamin Bodet stood looking across it, a kind of quiet satisfaction in his face.
“He’s been a good deal bothered,” said Uncle William to the younger man. They moved a little aside and looked at him. “What he wants,” said Uncle William, “is somebody that ’ll take everything off him—do all the figgerin’ and plannin’ that comes up and trot round and get things—men, you know—and things you run out of and can’t get on the Island. It’s kind o’ hard building out at sea,” he said tentatively, “But you could do it?” He turned to him.
“Yes, I could do it—if he wants me to,” said Manning. He held the stalk of grass between his teeth and it turned slowly as he talked, “I’d like to build a house like this one—such as he’s planning for.... There must be a good many things come up, you won’t know how to do.” He moved his hand toward the circumference about them, with a half gesture.
“That’s it,” said Uncle William, “That’s just what I told Benjy.... You take the whole thing over—tell him how much ’twill cost, and so on—figger it out?”
“Beforehand!” said the man with a slow look.
Uncle William nodded. “He wants to know before he begins. I told him mebbe you couldn’t do it—but he’s kind o’ set on it.” He looked at the other a little anxiously. The man chewed the bit of grass in silence.
“Ordway ’d done it,” said Uncle William simply.
Manning turned a slow eye on him. “How ’d he know he could get men—here on the Island—and keep ’em!” he demanded.
“Well, he didn’t know it, George.” Uncle William chuckled a little. “I reckon he ’d ’a’ learned quite a few things about the Island—if he ’d ’a’ kep’ on it.”
“I reckon he would,” said the man with a slow smile. “I can’t tell Bodet what it ’ll cost—What if a barge-load of lumber should be held up, getting here?—Might have to wait weeks—Suppose I can’t get anybody to board ’em—”
“Andy ’ll board ’em,” said Uncle William.
“Umph,” said the man.
“An’ Andy’s wife—you want to put her in. She might up an’ say she wouldn’t, any day?”
Manning shook his head. “I can’t sign any contract, and I can’t tell him what it will cost—not within a good many dollars—a house like that—but if he wants me to build it, I’ll take it and do my best for him.”
“The’s a good many things might happen,” allowed Uncle William, turning it slowly in his mind. “The Widow Deman’s well might go dry and then where ’d you be, with your mortar and plaster and cement, if that well run dry?”
The man looked at him.
“You ’d want to put the well in,” Uncle William suggested, “if you should make the contract—”
“You can’t clutter up a contract that way. I’m not going to make any contract to build a house on this Island.”
“He ’ll want to do what’s fair,” said Uncle William. “S’pose you go see about the well whilst I talk with him,” he added diplomatically.
The man moved in the direction of a little house a few rods away and Uncle William turned toward the tall figure pacing back and forth on the short-cropped turf.
Bodet turned as he came up. “Who cares about building a house!” he said. “Look at that sky and water and all this—!” His gesture took in the rocks and turf and the flock of sheep feeding their way up the hill to the horizon.
Uncle William’s eye followed it all placidly. “You do get over being in a hurry—up here,” he said slowly, “I reckon it’s because the Lord’s done so well by it—got a chance to finish things up—without folks meddling too much—it seems kind o’ foolish to hurry ’bout things.... Well, George ’ll do your house for you—if you want him to.”
“I’m willing to try him,” said the man with a little note of condescension. “Where’s he gone!”
“He’s just stepped over to the Widow Deman’s well,” said Uncle William.
“He ’ll sign the contract, of course!”
“Well—” Uncle William hesitated. “He ’ll sign one, I guess, if you say so—If I was buildin’ a house, I’d just go ahead and build—if I could get George Manning.”
The tall man fidgeted a little. “Suppose he takes a notion—feathers his own nest while he’s building my house,” he said at last.
Uncle William’s eyes grew large—then they laughed. “George Manning ain’t a bird of the air, Benjy—and he’s pretty well past feathers now.... Curious, I didn’t understand about that contract,” he said after a little pause. “It never come over me that you thought George wouldn’t do the square thing by you... and I guess he wouldn’t ’a’ got it through his head all summer—that you thought he was going to cheat you—! Lucky I didn’t think of it,” he added, “I’d ’a’ made a muss of it somehow and you wouldn’t ’a’ got your house built—not this year, anyhow.” He looked at him sympathetically.
Bodet smiled. “I didn’t suppose there was a man left, you could trust like that,” he said.
“Well, George ain’t left exactly. He’s just here with the rest of us,” said Uncle William—“Folks mean to do ’bout what’s right up here, I guess. And I do’ ’no’ but that’s about as easy way as any. I’ve tried both kinds of places—honest and say nothin’—and places where they cheats and signs papers, and I do’ ’no’ ’s it’s any better ’n our way—just going along and doing as well as you can and expectin’ other folks to.... He’s coming back,” said Uncle William. They watched the young man move across the rocks toward them—thin and spare-built and firm. His face, tempered fine like a piece of old bronze, held a thoughtful look, and the stalk of grass between his teeth turned with gentle motion as he came.
“How ’d you find it?” said Uncle William.
He looked up. “It’s all right—fourteen feet of water, I guess.” He drew a slip of paper from his pocket and turned to Bodet—“I’ve been running it over in my mind a little,” he said slowly “and if that’s any use to you, I’m willing to sign it.”
Bodet took the paper in his thin fingers and swung his glasses to his nose. Uncle William looked at him with pleased smile.
The glasses swung down from the long nose. “What has the Widow Deman’s well got to do with my house!” he said expressively?
Uncle William leaned forward. “That’s my idee, Benjy.” He looked over the high shoulder—
“I will build your house for $25,000, provided and allowed the Widow Deman’s well holds out.
“(Signed) George Manning.”
“That’s right, George—that’s fust-rate,” said Uncle William, “You’ve put it high enough to cover you—and Benjy, too.”
“It would seem so,” said Bodet. “Ordway had figured twenty thousand—and he’s not cheap.”
“I told George to make it high—more ’n it could possibly figger up to,” said Uncle William with satisfaction, “so ’s ’t you ’d get something back—’stead o’ having to pay out more ’n you expected to. I thought that was what you wanted the contract for,” he added significantly.
“I see—Well, it’s a bargain—and without any pieces of paper.” He tore what was in his hands through, and handed it back with a little courteous gesture of decision—“If I’m going to build on the Island, I’ll build as the Island builds.”
“That’s right, Benjy. Now, let’s have a look at them plans.” Uncle William found a rock and sat down. The other two men moved from point to point, driving in stakes, and pulling them out, measuring lines and putting down new ones. While they were doing it, a big wind blew in around and proceeded to pile up clouds and roll them up the hill behind them. Uncle William watched the clouds and George Manning and Bodet, moving to and fro before them.
“Manning says it can’t be done,” said Bodet, walking over to him. Two straight wrinkles stood between his eyes.
“I don’t see how it can be—not yet,” said the man. He held out the plan. “He wants his chimney—”
Uncle William nodded. “I know—where the old one was.”
“But that chimney isn’t any good. You’ve got to build from the ground up—You can’t use the old foundation—?”
“Well, not exactly use it, mebbe.” Uncle William looked at him thoughtfully. “I do’ ’no’s I can tell you, George, what he wants it that way for—You see he set by that chimney when he was a boy—and the’s something about it—about the idee, you know?”
The carpenter looked at him with slow, smiling eyes. “‘Tain’t the chimney, then—He kind o’ likes the idea of a chimney—does he?... He didn’t say anything about the idea,” he added, “He just kind o’ fussed around when I tried to shift her—” He looked at the paper in his hand. “Well—I can’t tell—yet. I’ve got to figure on it—I’ll go down now and order my lumber, I guess.” He moved away toward the road and Uncle William got up.
He crossed over to the old chimney and stood looking toward the hill that mounted above it. The sun had disappeared and the dark turf was soft.... Long reaches of turf and the cropping sheep that moved across it in slow shapes. Uncle William drew a deep breath and turned to the man who stood silent beside him—his eyes on the hill. “Does seem like home, don’t it, Benjy?” he said quietly, in the big, deep voice that boomed underneath like the sea.