Part 4

“He’s just stepped over to the Widow Deman’s well,” said Uncle William.

“He ’ll sign the contract, of course!”

“Well—” Uncle William hesitated. “He ’ll sign one, I guess, if you say so—If I was buildin’ a house, I’d just go ahead and build—if I could get George Manning.”

The tall man fidgeted a little. “Suppose he takes a notion—feathers his own nest while he’s building my house,” he said at last.

Uncle William’s eyes grew large—then they laughed. “George Manning ain’t a bird of the air, Benjy—and he’s pretty well past feathers now.... Curious, I didn’t understand about that contract,” he said after a little pause. “It never come over me that you thought George wouldn’t do the square thing by you... and I guess he wouldn’t ’a’ got it through his head all summer—that you thought he was going to cheat you—! Lucky I didn’t think of it,” he added, “I’d ’a’ made a muss of it somehow and you wouldn’t ’a’ got your house built—not this year, anyhow.” He looked at him sympathetically.

Bodet smiled. “I didn’t suppose there was a man left, you could trust like that,” he said.

“Well, George ain’t left exactly. He’s just here with the rest of us,” said Uncle William—“Folks mean to do ’bout what’s right up here, I guess. And I do’ ’no’ but that’s about as easy way as any. I’ve tried both kinds of places—honest and say nothin’—and places where they cheats and signs papers, and I do’ ’no’ ’s it’s any better ’n our way—just going along and doing as well as you can and expectin’ other folks to.... He’s coming back,” said Uncle William. They watched the young man move across the rocks toward them—thin and spare-built and firm. His face, tempered fine like a piece of old bronze, held a thoughtful look, and the stalk of grass between his teeth turned with gentle motion as he came.

“How ’d you find it?” said Uncle William.

He looked up. “It’s all right—fourteen feet of water, I guess.” He drew a slip of paper from his pocket and turned to Bodet—“I’ve been running it over in my mind a little,” he said slowly “and if that’s any use to you, I’m willing to sign it.”

Bodet took the paper in his thin fingers and swung his glasses to his nose. Uncle William looked at him with pleased smile.

The glasses swung down from the long nose. “What has the Widow Deman’s well got to do with my house!” he said expressively?

Uncle William leaned forward. “That’s my idee, Benjy.” He looked over the high shoulder—

“I will build your house for $25,000, provided and allowed the Widow Deman’s well holds out.

“(Signed) George Manning.”

“That’s right, George—that’s fust-rate,” said Uncle William, “You’ve put it high enough to cover you—and Benjy, too.”

“It would seem so,” said Bodet. “Ordway had figured twenty thousand—and he’s not cheap.”

“I told George to make it high—more ’n it could possibly figger up to,” said Uncle William with satisfaction, “so ’s ’t you ’d get something back—’stead o’ having to pay out more ’n you expected to. I thought that was what you wanted the contract for,” he added significantly.

“I see—Well, it’s a bargain—and without any pieces of paper.” He tore what was in his hands through, and handed it back with a little courteous gesture of decision—“If I’m going to build on the Island, I’ll build as the Island builds.”

“That’s right, Benjy. Now, let’s have a look at them plans.” Uncle William found a rock and sat down. The other two men moved from point to point, driving in stakes, and pulling them out, measuring lines and putting down new ones. While they were doing it, a big wind blew in around and proceeded to pile up clouds and roll them up the hill behind them. Uncle William watched the clouds and George Manning and Bodet, moving to and fro before them.

“Manning says it can’t be done,” said Bodet, walking over to him. Two straight wrinkles stood between his eyes.

“I don’t see how it can be—not yet,” said the man. He held out the plan. “He wants his chimney—”

Uncle William nodded. “I know—where the old one was.”

“But that chimney isn’t any good. You’ve got to build from the ground up—You can’t use the old foundation—?”

“Well, not exactly use it, mebbe.” Uncle William looked at him thoughtfully. “I do’ ’no’s I can tell you, George, what he wants it that way for—You see he set by that chimney when he was a boy—and the’s something about it—about the idee, you know?”

The carpenter looked at him with slow, smiling eyes. “‘Tain’t the chimney, then—He kind o’ likes the idea of a chimney—does he?... He didn’t say anything about the idea,” he added, “He just kind o’ fussed around when I tried to shift her—” He looked at the paper in his hand. “Well—I can’t tell—yet. I’ve got to figure on it—I’ll go down now and order my lumber, I guess.” He moved away toward the road and Uncle William got up.

He crossed over to the old chimney and stood looking toward the hill that mounted above it. The sun had disappeared and the dark turf was soft.... Long reaches of turf and the cropping sheep that moved across it in slow shapes. Uncle William drew a deep breath and turned to the man who stood silent beside him—his eyes on the hill. “Does seem like home, don’t it, Benjy?” he said quietly, in the big, deep voice that boomed underneath like the sea.

X

THE young carpenter approached Bodet cautiously with his solution of the roof-line. They had talked it over a dozen times and Bodet had become restlessly impatient.... Ordway might be right, after all.... He looked at different forms of lattice-work and stone foundations and swore softly at a terrace—Ordway’s idea—with morning glories alongside.... Uncle William, any day, at any time of day, was in favor of a new plan altogether. He stood ready to furnish details—like his own house, mebbe, only bigger.... After this suggestion, every time it came up, he went out and sat on the rocks a long while and looked at the water. Andy coming by hailed him. “What you doing?” he called.

“Just a-settin’ here a little,” replied Uncle William.

“Ain’t Benjy to home?” demanded Andy.

“Yes, he’s to home,” admitted William.

Andy looked toward the house.

“I wouldn’t go in, if I was you,” said William, “He’s kind o’ tending to things—in his mind.”

But if Bodet fretted at delays and slow decisions and failure of material to arrive, he caught the spirit of the place, after a little, and settled down to it and held up work—a week at a time—while he changed details or pottered over new ones. Uncle William—in his element—went back and forth between the old chimney-place and his house, carrying ideas and bricks with impartial hand. George Manning, with one eye on his plans and the other on his men, pushed the work or held it back, as the wind blew. When the men grumbled over a foundation wall torn out and put in again, with a hair’s breadth of difference, he looked at them with slow, sympathetic eye and admitted that it wasn’t so very much different, maybe—just enough to look different, somehow.

It was when he had studied on the roofline a week or more, that he came in one morning—a look of cautious elation in his face.

Bodet sat before the fire reading day-before-yesterday’s paper. Uncle William was pottering about, finishing the last of the dishes, and Celia was down at, Andy’s helping Harriet who was ill.

Bodet looked up as the young man came in, and laid down his paper. “How is it coming on?” he said. The tone was mild. He had had a good night’s rest, and he had come somehow to share Uncle William’s belief that Manning would find a way out—“only give him time enough and suthin’ to figger on.”

The young man seated himself on the red lounge, his hat between his knees. “I don’t suppose you ’d like going up and down stairs?” he said.

Bodet looked at him a little quizzically and swung his glasses to his nose. “That depends,” he replied.

“It won’t be stairs exactly,” said Manning, “just steps, maybe. You drop the floor of the south room to get your level and then put some steps here—” He came over with the paper.

Bodet took it in cautious fingers.

Manning bent over him. “There’s the living-room and the fire-place,” He indicated the rough lines, “—just where you want them—You kind of look down into the room, you see, when the door’s open—instead of all on a level—?”

“I see.” Bodet studied it with lifting face.

Uncle William came over and stood by them, his dish towel on his arm and his glasses alert—“The house sort o’ climbs down the rocks, don’t it?” he suggested. “I’ve seen them that way—foreign parts—a lot.” The glow in his face swept the room. “I do’ ’no’ how we didn’t come to think of it, fust thing—easy as settin’.”

“Just about,” said Bodet. “How did you get it?” He looked at the young man. “You never saw a room like that, did you?”

“No, I never saw one,” he replied slowly—“but something ’d got to give way somewheres. You wouldn’t let the roof-line be touched, nor the ground, and there wasn’t anything left to give way—but the floor. I guess it kind of dropped down by itself—while I was figuring on it.” He looked at it fondly.

“It improves the thing fifty per cent,” said Bodet. He held off the paper, scanning it with happy vision, “We ’ll have a little railing here, with carving on it, and something leading up to it—It’s the feature of the place.” He handed it back. “Go ahead with it. There isn’t anything else to decide, is there?”

“No. Things are coming on.” He took the paper, tucking it in his pocket. “The ’Happy Thought’ got in last night with her lumber and the new masons came this morning. I was kind of bothered about their not getting here, and the Widow Deman’s well going dryer and dryer all the while, and no brickwork getting done. I’ll go set ’em to work.” He nodded and was gone.

Uncle William looked after him with smiling face. “He’s a nice boy,” he said, “You just can’t find a thing George can’t figger out.”

“He’s a genius,” said Bodet thoughtfully, “He ought to be somewhere besides on this island—somewhere he ’d have a chance.”

“Chance for what?” asked Uncle William, with simple interest.

“A chance to rise,” said Bodet with emphasis. “It’s all right for you and me, William—old men—with our work done—”

“Mine ain’t quite done,” said William, “—your bed and two-three things,” and he flaxed around softly as if he were doing something.

Bodet smiled at him. “Now what do you think you are doing, William?” he said. “We’re out of it. We’ve had our day—we’ve worked and fought and suffered—”

“That’s it, Benjy.” Uncle William nodded, “We hev had a good time, ain’t we? But I do’ ’no’s I ever had a better one ’n I’m having right here on the Island—specially since you come,” he added.

The other shook his head. “It won’t do, William. A young man must go out into the world—and do things.”

Uncle William hung his dish towel on the line. The big face in its tufts of beard glowed at Benjy over the top—“I suppose folks ’d say there’s bigger things I could be doin’—than wash dishes—but I do’ ’no’ what they be,” he said thoughtfully. “There’s things I’d like better—it’s terrible fussy—getting ’em clean and keepin’ ahead, so ’s ’t you ’ll have enough for a meal—and I’m putty glad Celia’s coming back.... I’ve thought about it, Benjy—a good many times—” He came over and sat down, “—’bout living here on the Island. We don’t hurry much, but seems to me we get about as much—about as much living as other folks do.” He looked at him over his glasses. “We’ve got enough to eat, and beds—putty good beds—and things to wear.... I keep a-thinking and a-thinking about it,” he went on, “and I don’t see just what ’tis we o’t to scratch around so for.”

“There’s education,” said the other, swinging his long glasses on their slender chain.

“Yes, you’ve got eddication, Benjy. I can see it—kind o’ the way you set in a chair—different from my way.” Uncle William regarded his great legs with kindly eye. “But I do’ ’no’ ’s you’re any happier—or your legs any happier?” he said slowly.

“You know I’m not happier.” The man turned with a quick smile, “There are not many men happier than you are, William.”

“No, I suppose the’ ain’t. Sometimes I wake up in the night and think how happy I be—Seems kind o’ shiftless,” he added thoughtfully, “Like enough, I ought to be out hustling for suthin’—But I do’ ’no’ what it ’d be?”

“Manning ought to get out into the world—and he’s going to—when he’s finished my house.... It’s all right for you, William. You’ve earned a rest.”

Uncle William smiled. “I don’t want any rest, Benjy—no more ’n George Manning—I like to keep a-doing—kind o’ gradual-like—al’ays did.... I can’t see ’s the Lord hurries much,” he added, with a glance at the little window.

“You’re not the Lord, William,” said Benjy.

William smiled at him—his broad, kind smile, “‘Twas a kind o’ funny idea—my saying that—wa ’n’t it? I do’ ’no’ why I get to thinking about things—and about me and the Lord.... I reckon it’s because I’m out in a boat so much—kind o’ sailin’ around and watching how he does things—and kind o’ enjoying his ways,” he added softly.... “The’s suthin’-about it—suthin’ about the way the tides come in and the sun goes down and the stars come out—that makes you feel glad. I’ve seen George Manning, a good many times—when we was out, and had a ketch, and was coming along in, towards dark—I’ve seen him set and look... and I knew he wa ’n’t thinkin’ ’bout how many fish we ’d got—any more ’n. I was. You can’t think how many fish you’ve got—more ’n about so long—” said Uncle William thoughtfully.

He glanced down the road. “There’s Celia comin’,” he said happily. He went over and watched her come—“Don’t she kind o’ skim along good, Benjy!” The smile on his big face kindled and deepened. “It’s most too bad George ain’t here.” He looked back into the room with a shrewd glance. “He never see anybody just like her—I reckon.”

Bodet shook his head. “You better let well enough alone, William.”

“Well, mebbe I will,” said Uncle William. “‘Twon’t hurt none for him to see her—will it?... You got back pretty quick, Celia.”—He looked kindly at her glowing cheeks, “How’s Harr’et?”

“She’s feeling better,” said the girl. She glanced about the room, “You did the dishes!—I didn’t mean you to do the dishes.”

“I didn’t do ’em so very well,” said Uncle William. “We had company whilst you was gone,” he added craftily.

She looked at him—“That young fellow that’s building his house for him?” She nodded at Bodet, who had taken his hat and gone outside.

Uncle William nodded back—“That’s the one, Celia—You ain’t ever seen him, have you?”

“I’ve seen him out of the window,” she said shortly, “That’s near enough for me—seeing him go by.”

Uncle William’s face fell a little. “I guess I’ll go ’long up with Benjy,” he said.

XI

GEORGE MANNING looked about him with satisfaction. The walls of the new house were up and boarded in—so much was safe. He knew Bodet might appear any minute with a completely new plan—unless it could be staved off—but he reflected comfortably, as he looked up at the great broadside of boards before him, that he probably would not tear down the whole thing any more.... The sound of saws and hammers came with a cheerful falling rhythm—now together, and now in hurried broken notes—and the men on the roof were singing—a great blond Swede leading them.

Manning stepped into the living-room and stopped and gave a few directions to the masons and then moved over to the window and looked out. Far below him, the harbor reflected the dear sun and he squinted across it, scanning the horizon for the little black steamer that was to bring Portland cement and a consignment of windows. The windows had been due three weeks now—and the work would be handicapped if they did not come soon. He turned away and attacked his work, whistling softly.

“Morning, George.” It was Uncle William—big and happy—in the doorway, beaming down upon him.

“Morning, Uncle—Mr. Bodet come up with you?”

“He’s outside somewheres. He’s got a new idee—about the well.”

Manning smiled a little—a shrewd, dry smile—and drew the plane toward him, “I don’t mind his having new plans for wells,” he said.

Uncle William sat down on a nail-keg and picked up a bit of pine, feeling in his pocket for his knife. He drew it out, and squinted across it, and opened the smaller blade, running it casually along his thumb.

George Manning’s plane followed a curling shaving down the length of the board and withdrew. There was a clean smell of pine mingling with the salt air.

Uncle William whittled a few minutes in silence. Then he looked through the great window-space, to the harbor. “I feel queer,” he said thoughtfully—“I feel dretful queer.”

The plane skirled its shaving off and Manning stopped—looking at him—“Anything wrong, Uncle William?” he asked.

William shook his head. “I don’t mind so much having things wrong.... I’m kind o’ used to it—having to fuss and fiddle some. It’s when things are comfortable-like—what most folks call comfortable—that I get grumpy, I guess.... We’ve got a new girl down to the house,” he added kindly.

“Yes—I heard about her.” Manning’s eyes laughed. “Puts you out, don’t it?”

Uncle William nodded. “I’m a good deal surprised to see how I feel. I cal’lated I’d come along up here—like a colt turned out to grass. Just set around and watch things—same as ever—feeling kind o’ light in my mind.... I don’t feel a mite light.” He sighed and returned to his whittling.

“You ’ll get used to it,” said Manning consolingly.

“I do’ ’no’ whether I shall or not. It’s been quite a spell now—” Uncle William held off his pine stick and looked at it. “I’m kind o’ wondering if I didn’t like to have them dishes—”

“To wash—?”

“Well—not to wash exactly—but to leave around behind—suthin’ I’d o’t to, and didn’t.... All the way up the road I keep kind o’ missing ’em—wishing I’d find ’em under the sink, mebbe, when I get back.... I wouldn’t want to do ’em exactly, when I got there, I suppose. But I do miss ’em.” He shook his head.

Manning pushed a heap of shavings aside with his foot and bent to his plane again. “I can find things enough, most any day—things I ought to do—and don’t—easy job, Uncle William.”

Uncle William looked at him. “You ought to be considerable happy, George,” he said slowly.

“Well—I am happy—as happy as most folks, I guess.” His shrewd, thin face followed the plane with even look. “I’ve got enough to do—if that’s what you mean.” He unscrewed his board from the bench and carried it across the room.

Uncle William’s eye followed him. “I suppose you never thought of getting married, George?” he said casually.

The young man shook his head at the board he was trying to fit in place. “Never was tempted,” he said. He measured a length on the board and took up his saw.

Uncle William retired into his mind. Benjamin Bodet came and stood in the door and looked at the two, and disappeared. The sound of the hammers trooped in and out through the silence.

Uncle William stood up, snapping his knife together. “I guess I’ll go find Benjy,” he said. He wandered out and sat down on a rock near by. Over the top of a scattered pile of lumber he could see Benjy’s head moving back and forth.

“Best kind of weather,” murmured Uncle William. He sat down.

By and by Benjy appeared around the corner of the lumber.

“We’re going to have dinner up here,” announced Uncle William. “Celia sent word by Gunnion’s boy she ’d have it here by twelve, sharp.” Uncle William’s face was guileless.

Benjy sat down. “I can’t get it through Marshall’s head—what I want about that well,” he said testily. “I’ll have to see Manning about it.”

“George ’ll fix it for ye all right,” said Uncle William.

“Have the windows come?” asked Bodet.

“Not yet, I reckon—He didn’t say—You’re going to have a nice house, Benjy!” His eyes rested on the rough frame, “It’s getting to look like I thought ’twould—nice and low—kind o’ like an old hen, you know—spreading her wings and settling down.”

Bodet’s face followed his look. “It’s coming out all right. Your George Manning knows his business—knows what he’s about.”

“He’s a nice boy,” said Uncle William. “The’s things about him might be different—might be a little different,” he added cautiously.

“I don’t know what they are. But I shall have a chance to find out, I suppose—before we’re through.”

“Oh, he ’ll do this all right.”

Bodet stared at him a little. “He’s not likely to have a much bigger job on hand—is he?”

“Mebbe not,” said Uncle William hastily, “I do’ ’no’ what I mean, like enough. I just had a feeling—kind of a feeling, that George wa ’n’t perfect.”

Bodet laughed out. “I should hope not—if I’m to have dealings with him. Come on in and talk with him about the well.”

They went toward the house. Through the window they could see the young man across the room, measuring a space on the wall. He stood back and looked at it thoughtfully—then he turned and saw them. “I was thinking about the width here,” he said, “If your picture you’re going to put here is five by nine—I’ll have to get the space on this side—somehow.”

“We’re coming in,” said Bodet, “I wanted to talk to you—Marshall’s all at sea with that well of his.”

“I told him—” said Uncle William. His mouth closed on the word, and a little smile crept up to it. “Why, Celia—I didn’t think you ’d be along yet—not quite a while yet.”

“It’s dinner time,” she said. She stood in the doorway, looking in. She wore no hat, and her hair was blown in little curls by the wind. “You going to have your dinner in here?” she asked.

“Why, yes—I guess we might as well—have it here—right here on the bench—can’t we, George?”

“For anything I care,” said the young roan, “I’ve got to go—” He turned toward the door.

“Oh—George—” Uncle William stopped him. “I want you to see Celia. This is our new girl—Celia.”

The young man stood very straight and stiff, regarding her. “How do you do,” he said.

“Oh, I’m pretty well, thank you.” A little laugh nodded in the words and whisked them away. “I’m very glad to see you,” she said. She looked down at her hands. Then she held out one of them.

The young man marched across and took it—he shook it a little and laid it down. “It’s a nice day,” he said briefly.

She smiled at him—straight and quick. Then she lifted the basket and set it on the table. “I couldn’t ’a’ got it here, ever, if Jim Gunnion’s team hadn’t come along,” she said. She opened the basket. “There’s your pickles—and biscuit—and pie—and cheese—” She set the things on the table, at one side—“and here’s your tablecloth.” She blew the bits of shavings from the bench and spread a red cloth across its width.

Uncle William’s eyes followed her, with a little twinkle—somewhere below them.

“It’s nice not to have to come home to dinner,” said Bodet impersonally.

“Yes, sir—I couldn’t have you all down there to-day. I’m too busy.” She stood back, looking at the table. “That’s all you need—Here’s the salt—and the pepper—and the stew is nice and hot.” She took the lid from the smoking pail and peered in. “I put coals under the pail,” she said. “You want to look out and not set things afire.... I’m going now. You can bring the dishes tonight when you come—” She stood in the door—and was gone.

Uncle William laughed out—and looked at Manning. The young man was regarding him soberly.

“Draw up, George,” said Uncle William, “It looks to me as if the’ was enough for three—easy.”

“I’ve got mine—outside,” said the young man. He lingered a little, apparently examining the bricks in the fireplace.

Uncle William looked at him and then drew up to the table. “Celia’s a dretful good cook,” he said. He helped himself to the stew.

The young man went slowly toward the door. “I guess I’ll go see Marshall—about the well.”

Uncle William looked over his shoulder. “Oh—and—George—?”

“Yes, sir?”

“If you happen to be goin’ by this evening, you know, along after dark, you might stop in. I’ve got suthin’ to tell you—kind of an idee—’bout the well.”

“You might tell me now—before I see Marshall—?” suggested Manning.