Part 10

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.

XXVII

IN March Jimmu Yoshitomo arrived and, soon after him, a cablegram from Alan and Sergia. “Hurray!” Uncle William leaned out of the window, waving it, “It’s come, Benjy—Didn’t I tell you it ’d come!” Bodet hurried up and took it from him, reading it aloud, Uncle William leaning over him—

“Wilhelmina Bodet Woodworth and Mother both doing well.”

Uncle William leaned out further, reading it over his shoulder. “Wilhelmina Bodet—Kind o’ queer, ain’t it, Benjy?”

“It’s a girl—and she’s named for you,” said Bodet proudly.

“Why, so ’t is—Willie-Meeny.” Uncle William regarded the paper fondly. “—and it’s a girl, you think, do you, Benjy?... I’m glad it’s a girl. I al’ays like little girls—they have ways with ’em.” He took the paper and handled it tenderly—turning it over and looking at it as if something further might crop up. “Jest think how it come to us, Benjy—scootin’ round the world—’Twa ’n’t twenty-four hours old and here ’tis—and we knowin’ all about it—and seeing her lying there, all kind o’ quiet, and the little one—and folks steppin’ around soft and doin’ things.... I reckon that’s what the Lord made ’em for—” He held off the telegram and looked at it—“so ’s ’t we could be happy everywheres—seeing folks all in a minute—Seems like all one fam’ly. You don’t need to travel—just sit still and look.”

“There’s considerable travel going on still—” said Bodet smiling. He was looking out across the harbor, to the world of steamboat lines and railroads and automobiles threading the earth off there. “People don’t sit still a great deal,” he said. “There’s quite a lot of machinery humming.” His hand motioned from the top of the world where they stood, off to the sun-lit space below.

Uncle William nodded, looking at it thoughtfully. “I’ve thought about ’em—when I’ve been sailin’—all them machines. I reckon they’re made for folks that can’t travel in their minds—don’t know how—it kind o’ makes feet and legs for ’em so ’s ’t they can get around faster. They feel sort o’ empty in their minds, and lonesome, like enough, and then they take a train and go somewheres—or a toboggan slide, or suthin’, and they feel better—Don’t you reckon that’s the way ’tis, Benjy?” He looked at him hopefully.

“I shouldn’t wonder at all,” said Bodet—“There ought to be some excuse for clatter.”... The Japanese servant appeared around the corner of the house, moving a mysterious, respectful hand and Bodet joined him.

Uncle William looked at them a minute. Then he tucked the telegram in his pocket. “Guess I’ll go tell folks about it,” he said.

Jimmu Yoshitomo took possession of Bodet and his belongings as thoroughly as Celia had taken possession of Uncle William—though with possibly a little less flurry. He made a little garden for him out by the house, and raised flowers and vegetables and planted flowers alongside the house and among the rocks—and found a sheltered corner where wisteria would live through the winter—if carefully protected.

By September the wisteria had sent great shoots against the house, and the flowers among the rocks were a brilliant mass of bloom. The Japanese moved among them like a dusky blossom in white coat and trousers—his century-old face turned always toward Bodet and his needs.

Andy, coming up the road, regarded him with disfavor—“Monkey man and monkey clo’es,” he said scornfully.

“Benjy takes a sight o’ comfort with him,” responded William.

They made their way toward the house, and Jimmu Yoshitomo approached from the garden, bowing low.

Uncle William bowed low in return. Andy remained stiffly erect, detached from all these things.

“Don’t you stop workin’, Jimmie Yosh,” said Uncle William kindly—“We’re just goin’ to set ’round a spell.” They went on toward the house and Jimmu Yoshitomo returned to his flowers.

Inside, the house was a bit of tropic-land that had floated over seas, and lighted on the Island. Colors in the old rugs glowed dully, and little gleams of metal and glass caught the light and played with it. The tiny kitchen was a white-set gem, and through the long vista of the living-room doors there were hints of the art gallery and a scattered horde of pictures.

“Like enough he’s in there,” said William.

The gallery was the only room in the house that had not been put in order. Even Sergia’s and Alan’s rooms were ready—the beds made and a little basket cradle swinging in the apple-wood frame that George Manning had made for it—in his off hours.

Uncle William could never pass the door without looking in. He peeked in now, on tiptoe, and withdrew.

“Looks nice, don’t it?” he confided to Andy.

“Kind o’ odd,” admitted Andy.

They stood in the door of the gallery and looked in on its emptiness. Pictures stood on the floor and on boxes and chairs. Some of the boxes were still unopened—and only a small part of the pictures taken out had been hung up.

Uncle William looked around him with pleased eyes. “He’s got some new ones out, Andy.”

“Uh-huh.” Andy bent over and peered at one—a little behind the others. He straightened himself quickly and shut his eyes. “They ain’t fit to look at,” he said.

Uncle William bent over and drew the picture out and regarded it with interest. He set it against a box and stood off and looked at it, and looked at it again. “She’s dreadful pretty, ain’t she, Andy?”

Andy opened his eye a crack and withdrew it. “She ain’t decent,” he said firmly.

“You can set with your back to it, Andy,” said Uncle William kindly. “You don’t need to go stun-blind—not to see it.”

“They won’t let him have it on the Island,” said Andy. He sat down and glared at the picture of an innocent cow—of the Dutch school.

“Well, I do’ ’no’, Andy.” Uncle William studied the picture with lenient eyes. “She’s kind o’ young and pretty—The’ ain’t much about this climate in it—” He glanced casually up at the glass roof above them. “Come along winter, now—when the winds get to shrieking and blowing up there—it ’ll seem kind o’ queer to see her standin’ on a hank—like that—all ready to jump in so, won’t it?”

Andy turned his head a little and craned his neck.

“I’ve been in countries,” went on Uncle William, “where that ’d seem putty good—Italy, now—best kind of place—warm and summery always—year ’round. Seems ’s if in this climate we ’d ought to paint furs and woolen goods more. I don’t suppose Benjy knew where he was going to hang his pictures when he bought ’em—just gathered ’em up most anywheres—without thinkin’ how they ’d look hung up.”

“He’s coming,” said Andy. He wheeled about on his box.

The man stood in the doorway, looking at them with pleased eyes. “I thought I should find you here.” The glasses dangled from their long chain and he swung them a little, smiling.... “What do you think is down in the harbor?” he said quietly—

Uncle William got to his feet—“Hev they come, Benjy?”

“Looks like it,” said the man. “If I know my own yacht—she’s just dropped anchor off the Island.”

Uncle William cast a quick glance at the glass roof overhead.

“You can’t see anything there,” said Bodet smiling. “Come on out.”

They went quickly from the house—out to the edge of the cliff. Beneath the cliff, close to the Jennie, a big white boat swung at anchor, and on the deck a man and woman stood looking up to the Island.

“She’s got it with her, Benjy!” said Uncle William. He leaned over the cliff. Little white garments in the woman’s arms fluttered softly.

The woman looked up and saw them and raised the child high in her arms, lifting it to them in the shining harbor light.

XXVIII

THEY were sitting about the fire-place in the big living-room, and a fire burned briskly for the cool September morning. In front of the fire, on a great rug, Wilhelmina Bodet Woodworth, fresh from her bath, gurgled and reached out cooing hands to the fire. Her language could not be understood—not even by the dusky Jimmu Yoshitomo, who came and stood in the doorway and looked in with unfathomable eyes. But the words were very pointed and sweet and quick and had little laughs and chuckles behind them—all about things she used to know.... By and by—when she had learned proper ones, she would forget the things she used to know—or remember them only in her dreams, or some day when she met a stranger in the street—and half stopped and went on—listening to the little bells that were ringing somewhere—far off.... She lunged toward the fire and fell afoul of her toes and laughed and seized them and gazed at them intently.

Uncle William, a hand on either knee—gazed in rapt content. “She’s about the littlest and the nicest—” he said, “I didn’t reckon she ’d be like that.”

He looked at Bodet for sympathy. Benjy smiled and swung the long glasses playfully toward the rug.... The person on the rug regarded them a minute—then she adjusted her muscles and made a little hitching motion toward the glasses—they were round and they glittered and went back and forth—and ought to be stopped.... She reached up a hand and laughed and toppled over—and looked up and saw Andy’s grin somewhere.... For a long minute she gazed back at it—then she went on hands and knees across the rug—flying from fate.

Sergia reached down and gathered her up, smoothing the white dress. “I put her into short clothes a week ago,” she said proudly....

“She couldn’t stan’ up a little now, Sergia, could she!” suggested Uncle William.

“Never!” Sergia looked at him and patted the round legs. “She won’t walk for ten weeks probably,” she said kindly.

Uncle William’s face had fallen a little. “She ’ll be quite a spell gettin’ down to my house,” he said wistfully.

“I’ll bring her tomorrow.” The baby gurgled and reached out fat hands and Uncle William bent forward.

“Kind o’ takes to me!” he said. He held out tentative hands, waggling the fingers, and the child looked at them gravely, and leaned forward a little, and broke into glee as Uncle William seized her and swung her toward the ceiling.

“She’s not afraid of you,” said Sergia proudly.

“Afraid of me!... I reckon she couldn’t be afraid of Uncle William—!” There was something a little misty behind the big spectacles... the blue eyes looked out at the child from forgotten seas. She grasped the tufts of beard and tugged at them, rocking hard, and making remarks to them.

Uncle William smiled in triumph and seized the hand. “I reckon I might as well take her down to my house,” he said. “She’s got to learn the way sometime.”

Sergia’s face was a little alarmed—“You couldn’t take care of her.”

“I don’t know why,” said Uncle William, “I reckon I can take all the care she needs—She don’t need any entertainin’.” He gazed at her fondly and chucked her a little.

“She has to be fed,” said Sergia.

“I’ll tend to feedin’ her myself,” said Uncle William, “Nobody ever starved—to my house. You got a little bunnet for her somewheres?” He put his big hand on the shining head.

Sergia looked at them reflectively. “She has to have special milk, you know—?”

“I get mine to Andy’s,” said Uncle William. “It’s just as special as any, ain’t it—Andy’s milk?”

Sergia smiled a little. “It isn’t that—It has to be prepared—sterilized, you know.”