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