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