XXII
IN the clear morning light the mackerel fleet stood out against the horizon. Only one boat had not gone out—a dark one, green with crimson lines and gold along her prow. The girl on the beach looked at it curiously as she selected her fish from the dory, transferring them to the pan held high in the hollow of her arm. The silver scales gleamed in the sun—lavender, green and blue, and violet-black, as she lifted them, in running lines of light. The salt tang in the air and the little wind that rippled the water touched her face. She lifted it with a quick breath and looked out to the mackerel fleet upon the sea.... Uncle William had promised to take her—some day. She returned again to her fish, selecting them with quick, scrutinizing glance.... A shadow fell across the pan and she looked up. The young man had paused by the dory—and was regarding her with sombre eyes.
The little curls shook themselves and she stood up. “Aren’t you going out?”
The sombre eyes transferred themselves to the sky. “By and by—maybe—no hurry.” He smiled down at her, and the blood in her cheeks quickened.
“Everybody else has gone—” She waved an impatient hand at the distant fleet that sailed the horizon.
“I haven’t gone,” he said. He continued to study the sky with serene gaze.
“Why don’t you?” she asked severely.
He looked at her again, the little, dark smile touching his lip, “I’m waiting for luck,” he said.
“You won’t find it here—” Her eye swept the beach—with its tumbling fishhouses and the litter of dories and trawls.
“Maybe I shall,” he said. He looked down at the dory. “There are more fish right there than I’ve caught in three days,” he said quietly.
Her wide eyes regarded him—with a little laugh in them somewhere. “They call you ’King of the Fleet,’ don’t they?” she said demurely.
“That’s what they call me,” he replied. He moved a little away from her toward a dory at the water’s edge. “Want to go out?” he said carelessly.
Her eyes danced, and she looked down at the fish in her pan and up to the sky, and ran lightly to the fish-house and pushed the pan far inside and shut the door. “I ought to be getting dinner,” she said, coming back, with a quick smile.
“Never mind dinner.” He held out his hand and she scrambled into the dory, her eyes shining and the little curls bobbing about her face. She was like a child—made happy.
He pulled out with long strokes, looking contentedly at her as she sat huddled in the end of the boat. “I am taking you along for luck, you know.”
“I’ll never bring anybody luck,” she replied. Her eyes followed the great gulls overhead. “I’m like the birds, I guess,” she lifted her hand, “I just keep around where luck is.”
“That’s good enough for me,” he replied. He helped her into the boat and lifted anchor, running up the sails and casting off. The breeze freshened and caught the sail and filled it and the great boat crept from the harbor and rounded the point.... Out in the open, it was blowing stiff and the boat ran fast before it, little dashes of spray striking the bow and flying high. The girl’s laugh sounded in the splashing water, and the salt spray was on her arms and cheeks and hair.
The young man looked at her and smiled and turned the bow—ever so little—to take the wave and send it splashing about her, and her laugh came to him through the swash of the spray. It was a game—old as the world... pursuit and laughter and flight and soft, shining color and the big sun overhead, pulling the whole game steadily through space—holding the eggshell boats on the waves and these two, riding out to sea.
He turned the bow again and the splashing of the water ceased. She was looking at him with beseeching, shining eyes, and he bent a little forward, a tremulous smile of power on his lip. He was drinking life—and sky and sea were blotted out. The boat ran heedless on her way... and he talked foolish nothings that sounded important and strange in his unstopped ears.... The girl nodded shyly and spoke now and then—but only to the sky and sea....
The sky had darkened and the distant fleet bore toward home—casting curious glances toward the dark boat that moved with random hand.... George Manning could be trusted in any blow, but he was up to something queer off there—with a sky like that. They drew in sail and ran close, making for harbor....
The young man looked up and blinked a little and sprang to his feet. He had pushed the tiller as he sprang, and one leg held it firm while he reached to the guy rope and loosed it. “Get down,” he said harshly.
Her quick eyes questioned him and the little head lifted itself...With a half-muttered word he had seized her, crowding her to the bottom of the boat and ducking his head as the great boom swung past.
She gazed at him in swift anger, pulling herself free. But her wrath spoke only to the winds—He had run forward, dragging down the foresail, and was back to the tiller—his dark face set sternly, his eyes on the horizon.
When she tried to get up, he did not look at her—“Stay where you are,” he said roughly.
She hesitated a minute and sank back, biting her lip close. The line of gunwale that rose with heavy sweep to the sky and fell through space, cut her off. There was only the creaking of the boat, straining against the sea, and the figure of the man, above her, who had thrust her down—the great figure of the man and the blackened sky. By and by the rain fell and drenched her and the wind blew fiercely past the boat, driving them on. She could see the great hand on the tiller tighten itself to the wind, and force its will upon it, and the figure of the man grow tense. One leg thrust itself quickly and struck against her and pushed her hard—but she would not cry out—She hated him and his boat and the great sea pounding about them.... She wanted to get her pan of fish and go home to Uncle William and cook the dinner. The tears were on her face, mingling with the rain and the salt water that drenched it.
By and by the pounding waves grew less and the boat ceased to strain and creak and the great hand on the tiller relaxed its hold a little.
“You ’d better get up now,” he said—his voice sounded rough and indifferent and she lifted indignant eyes, but he did not see her. His gaze was still on the horizon, holding it with intent look.
She got up and gathered the little loose curls in her hands, wringing the water from them and shaking them apart.
Then she got to her knees and crawled to the seat, shivering a little. Off to the left, the woods of the Point shut off the main force of the wind, but the breeze was still fresh. He took off his coat and tossed it to her. “Put that on,” he said briefly.
It fell on the seat beside her, but she did not touch it or look at it. Her little face had a firm look.
His gaze left the horizon, for a flash, and came back. “You put on that coat,” he said.
“I don’t want it—” The words trailed away in a sob.
He did not look at her again. “You ’ll do as I tell you,” he said quietly—“or I shall make you.”
She reached out for the coat and put it on, drawing it miserably about her chin—“I think you are horrid.” She was wiping away the tears that ran quickly down.
“I don’t care what you think—You might have been killed,” he added after a pause.
“I’d rather—have been—killed.” The breath she drew was a quick sob.
He looked at her a minute. Then he looked away to the horizon. “There can’t be two captains on a boat,” he said dryly—“I didn’t mean to hurt you—I had to speak quick.”
She did not reply. She did not look at him again—not even when he helped her into the dory and rowed her ashore.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he repeated, as he held up his hand to help her from the boat. She leaped to the beach. “I wish I’d never gone with you.” She stamped her little foot on the sand. “I’ll never go again—never, never—not as long as I live!” She turned her back on him and walked toward the fish-house.
He looked after her, a curious glint in his eye. Then he looked at his boat, riding at anchor, and the look changed subtly, “You needn’t worry,” he said softly—but not too softly to reach the pink ears—“You needn’t worry, Miss Celia—there will never be but one captain on a boat.”
She opened the door into the fish-house and took her pan and went up the rocky path without a look behind her.
XXIII
A NDY stepped up the road, a sombre look in his face. Now and then he cast an eye at the mouth of the harbor where the mackerel fleet sailed. Then he strode on with stately step. He had been fishing for a week and had caught nothing—twice his net had been hung up on the rocks and yesterday the dog-fish had run it through—and Harr’et’s temper was worn thin.... He looked his grievance at the horizon.
Harriet had been firm. If he could not fish, he should paint, and Bodet was offering three-fifty a day. She had rented the boat, over his head—his boat—and she had talked about Jonah, and had sent him out of the house—with his paint brushes!
Andy fizzed a little and stepped higher and looked ahead up the road.
A figure, seated in the sunshine, was making strange pantomimic gestures with a paint brush. Andy stopped a minute to look at it—then he came steadily on.
Uncle William looked up and nodded. “Hello, Andy—goin’ to help?”
“Guess so,” said Andy. He glared at the harbor.
Uncle William spatted his brush along the rock and dipped it again in the tin can beside him.
“What you doin’.” asked Andy.
Uncle William squinted at the brush and rubbed it thoughtfully back and forth—a deep red smudge followed it. “Kind o’ getting my brush ready,” he said.
Andy sniffed. “Bodet inside?”
“Why, yes—he’s there—” Uncle William hesitated—“Yes—he’s there—”
He drew a long flourish of red on the rock and looked at it approvingly.
“It ’ll take you an hour to get that brush clean,” said Andy.
“Do ye think so?” Uncle William beamed. “That’s just about what I cal’-lated—an hour.”
“I’m going to work,” said Andy virtuously. He moved toward the house.
Uncle William cast an eye at him. “I do’ ’no’s I’d go in, Andy, if I was you—not just yet.”
“Why not?” He wheeled about.
“Well—” Uncle William hesitated a second—and looked at the little clouds and the big moor, “I don’t think Benjy’s ready,” he said, “not just ready.”
“What’s he doing?” asked Andy.
“Kind o’ stewin’,” said Uncle William, “He’s got suthin’ on his mind—about paint.”
“Come—ain’t it!” Andy’s eye was curious.
“Yes—it’s come—loads of it has come—” Uncle William drew the brush thoughtfully back and forth, making little red dabs along the rock. “The’s a good many kinds—and colors—and sizes—piled up in there—but the’ ain’t any of ’em what Benjy wants.” He lifted his brush with a flourish.
“What does he want, then!”
“I do’ ’no ’s I can tell ye—exactly, Andy.” Uncle William gazed at the harbor. “Benjy knows—somewheres in his mind—but he can’t seem to find it on dry land.” Uncle William chuckled.... “Gunnion’s mixin’ ’em, you know.”
Andy nodded.
“An’ he’s got a green mixed up in there—that’s along kind o’ east by no’-east, I should think.... An’ what Benjy wants, far’s I make out, is a green that’s kind o’ no’-east by east.” Uncle William chuckled again.... “Jim puts in the color, you know, and daubs some of it on a stick they’ve got there—and Benjy looks at it and says, no—’twon’t do—needs more yellow or suthin’—and Jim chucks in a little yellow and then they both look at it and Benjy kind o’ hops around—swears some. I thought I’d come out and do my brushes.”
“Gunnion’s a good painter,” said Andy.
“Well—yes—he can lay it on putty good.... But they ain’t got to layin’ on yet. I do’ ’no’s they ever will get to it,” said Uncle William thoughtfully—“It ’d be easier if Benjy knew a little how the colors are liable to act together, I guess—when you put ’em in.” Uncle William’s eye was reflective. “I reckon that’s what makes him lose his head so,” he said, “—he ain’t prepared in his mind for how Jim ’ll make them colors act together. You see, Jim—he puts in the yellow and Benjy peeks in the pail, expecting to see suthin’ kind o’ yellow and,’.tead o’ that, the thing’s turned blue—sort o’.”
“Like enough,” said Andy carelessly—“He ’d ought to know yellow and blue will run towards green,” he said contemptuously, “—anybody ’d know that.”
“Benjy don’t know it,” said Uncle William, with an accent of decision. “You can tell by the way he acts—lookin’ in the pail. You see he’s after a green that’s a little mite more on the yellow—so he says, proud as Punch, ’Put in more yellow,’ he says, and then—when he sees it—he says things.”
A voice sounded from the window and they turned around. Bodet stood in it, beaming at them and at the landscape. “Come on in and see the color we’ve got,” he said triumphantly.
Uncle William gathered up his brush and turpentine and they moved slowly toward the house.
Benjy waved them toward the stairs. “Go up and look,” he said.
Jim Gunnion, on the floor, was stirring a pot of paint with a stick. There was a set look in his face as he stirred.
Uncle William looked at him and winked. The look in Jim’s face moved a little.
“There’s a color for you!” said Bodet. He moved his hand proudly toward the door panel.
Uncle William put on his glasses and inspected it—“’.is a good color, Benjy,” he said cordially, “I’m glad ye held out—both of ye.”
Bodet, with his head thrown back, stared at the streak of old-fashioned green on the panel. The man on the floor stirred the pot of paint. Uncle William looked at them both with benignant eye.... “I reckon I’m all ready to begin.” He drew the paint brush down the leg of his trousers and looked at it inquiringly—“Putty clean,” he said with satisfaction. “Now, where ’ll you have me?”
The man on the floor handed him a pot of paint in silence and pointed to the mop-board. Uncle William sighed a little and let himself down. Andy, seizing another pail, attacked the unfinished panel. The painter went on mixing color. Benjy, over by the window, studied the harbor.
Presently he looked back into the room. “Fog’s setting in,” he said. Andy came across and looked out.
“Uh-huh,” he said.
Uncle William, from the floor, looked up. “They’ve had quite a spell of 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.
Bodet came and stood beside him, looking out. “It suits me,” he said. “I 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.