Part 5

Uncle William shook his head. “I can’t tell ye—not yet. It’s suthin’ about the old well—and pipes and things. I’m kind o’ thinkin’ it out—”

“All right. I’ll be in—along after supper.”

“Yes, that’s a good time. I’ll have it thought up—by that time, like enough.” The young man went out and Uncle William continued to chew slowly, his eyes on the red table cloth. Presently he looked up and his eye met Bodet’s—He shook his head.

“I do’ ’no’ what I’ll tell him about that well,” he said.

“Tell him the idea you had just now—the one you spoke of. It will come back to you by that time, maybe.”

Uncle William shook his head again—slowly. “That idee can’t come back to me, Benjy—I ain’t ever had it.”

Bodet stared at him. “You told him—”

“I know I told him, Benjy.” Uncle William was a little testy. “I do’ ’no’ what I lie so easy for.... Seems ’s if sometimes there was lies all round in the air—just waiting to slip in.... I never had no idee ’bout that well—I’ll have to have one.”

Bodet’s eye rested on him reflectively. “You must have had some reason—”

Uncle William looked up hastily, “I don’t believe I did, Benjy. I say things like that sometimes—things that don’t mean a thing—things that ain’t so. It makes me a lot of trouble.”

He got up and went to the window. “There’s your Portland cement, out there, and your windows. I thought the sky was gettin’ kind o’ smudgy.”

Bodet followed him and they stood together, looking down at the big harbor where the sails went to and fro and the little black steamer was coming in.

XII

THE little room was shining-clean. The window shone, the stove shone, and the boards of the floor were sand-white. Uncle William, standing in the door, looked at them cautiously. Then he looked down at his feet and wiped them on a piece of sacking spread on the step. “Clean enough to eat off of,” he said, stepping carefully on to the white floor.

The girl at the sink nodded, the little curls bobbing about her face. “I’ve been scrubbing,” she said.

“I should say you had!”—He stepped forward gingerly. “You’ve done a lot to it.”—He was looking about vaguely, as if to find a place to put his feet down.

The girl’s look relaxed subtly. “I thought you ’d like to have it clean—I wanted to do it the way you like?” She was looking at him a little wistfully—“You do like it, don’t you?”

“It’s just right, Celia—I shouldn’t know anybody ’d lived in it—ever. You ain’t seen Juno anywheres round, have you!”

A subdued look flitted in the girl’s face. “She went off when I began to beat the lounge. I saw her flying over the rocks—I had to beat it hard, you know?”

“‘Twas kind o’ dusty, wa ’n’t it?” said Uncle William, looking at it affectionately. “I’ve been meaning to do it myself—but when I was thinkin’ and settin’ on it, I couldn’t do it and when I wa ’n’t settin’ on it, I wa ’n’t thinkin’ about it.” He moved toward the sink.

“I’ve put your washing-duds outside,” said Celia, “your wash-basin and towel and soap and things—out by the door, you know.” She motioned him off.

Uncle William stopped and looked at her. “That’s the way Harr’et has ’em,” he said. “How ’d you come to think of that, Celia?”

The girl bubbled a little laugh. “I didn’t think very hard—Is Mr. Bodet coming?”

“He ’ll be right along,” said Uncle William. “He stopped to talk with George Manning—about plans and so on. He ’ll be here pretty quick now.” He went out of the door, and the room was very quiet. The girl stood twisting a corner of her apron in her fingers and looking about the shining room. There was a little dimple in her cheek that came and went.

“What you thinking about, Celia?” asked Uncle William, coming in. His face glowed from its washing and the tofts of hair stood up straight.

The girl started a little. “I wasn’t thinking about anything—I guess.” She looked at the stove—“They ’ll cook all to pieces if he doesn’t come pretty quick,” she said.

“He’s coming.” Uncle William went to the window. “He’s right up the road a piece—You ain’t had time to get homesick, have you, Celia?” He was standing with his back to her.

“No, sir—Is that man coming, too?”

“That man—?” Uncle William wheeled about.... “Oh, George? You mean George Manning, I guess.”

“That’s his name—the one that was up there this morning—fussing around.” Uncle William nodded, his shrewd eyes on the little curls that were bending over the sink. “That’s George Manning—He’s a nice boy,” he added, seating himself on the lounge. “He’s a putty good boy—George is.”

Her interest was absorbed in something in the kettle on the stove—that steamed and swirled about her. She took a fork and tested it tenderly. Then she glanced at the window. “He’s coming—Mr. Bodet—You go show him where to wash—while I take up the dumplings—” She lifted the kettle, and Uncle William went meekly to the door. “You wash up out here, Benjy,” said Uncle William. He waved his hand at the toilet articles ranged on the bench by the door—“It’s a nice place, you see—soap, and there’s your towel.... She ’ll let us come in rainy days and cold days, maybe,” he said thoughtfully.

Bodet gave a dry chuckle. “Suits me,” he said.

Uncle William’s face lightened. “I don’t mind a mite myself—” he explained, “but I was kind o’ ’fraid you ’d want to be inside—where folks can’t see you doing things so.”

“Never!” said Bodet, “—with the sky for a ceiling and the clouds for frescoes—what more could a man want?” He waved his towel briskly at the landscape.

Uncle William tiptoed back to the house. “He likes it—out there,” he said.

Her face twinkled and she set the dumplings on the table with a brisk movement. “He’s a nice man,” she said.

“You comin’, Benjy?” called Uncle William.

While they ate, the handmaiden flitted in and out. She looked out for their wants and washed pots and kettles on the bench by the door and hummed bits of song—and once a little whistle was wafted in the door—but it stopped suddenly, as if quick fingers had cut it off.

Uncle William looked at Benjy and chuckled. “Some like having a canary around, ain’t it? Kind o’ bubbles and goes along by itself!—She likes doin’ ’em,” he added. “The’s a lot of comfort having folks around you that like doin’ things.... Now, Harr’et—you ain’t ever seen the way Harr’et does ’em, hev you?”

Bodet shook his head.

Uncle William smiled, looking at something in his mind. “Harr’et don’t really like doin’ ’em,” he said confidingly, “I’ve seen her look at the bottom of a pan as if she hated it, kind of.... She gets ’em clean, you know, but she don’t really enjoy her cleanness—not really.... If you’re down there a spell, watchin’ her and kind o’ settin’ round—you get to feelin’ ’s if nobody ’d o’t to live—men-folks, special.... I do’ ’no’ what it is about her,” said Uncle William reflectively—“about Harr’et.... She’s kind o’ straight in the back and her shoulders don’t bend much.... Seems’s if the’ was suthin’ wrong about a woman—an old woman like Harr’et—if her shoulders don’t give a little.” He sat looking before him.... “The’s suthin’ about ’em, I do’ ’no’ what it is—about women—when their shoulders get a little mite bent, that makes me feel happy inside—Seems ’s if the Lord had made ’em that way a-purpose—kind o’ gentle-like, you know—so ’s ’t they could bend easy—and stay kind o’ curved over, and not mind. I’ve set and watched ’em in meetin’, a good many times, when they didn’t know I was looking—and I’ve took a sight o’ comfort with ’em.”

Bodet looked at him critically. “I don’t see that you bend very much, William.” Uncle William’s broad shoulders spread themselves and he drew a deep breath. “That’s different, Benjy.... Men hadn’t o’t to bend—not without they have rheumatism or cramps and things.”

Celia whisked in at the door and out. Benjy’s eye followed her and returned to William.

“I know what you’re thinkin’, Benjy,” said Uncle William. “She’s straight as one o’ them rushes, up ’t the pond—and she ought to be.... She won’t bend for a spell yet—she’s got to know things first—Hello!—There’s George!”

They pushed back from the table and went outside.

XIII

THE three men looked across the harbor—far in the distance something troubled the surface of the water—as if a bit of the dusk had fallen on it and traveled with little restless waves.

Uncle William’s eye grew round.... “Mackerel!” he said solemnly.

“Been schooling all day,” answered Manning. His teeth closed on the bit of grass between them and held it hard.

Uncle William looked at him sympathetically. “Any luck?” he asked.

“Bergen seven barrel—and Thompson about three, I guess. He set for a big school, but they got away—all but the tail end.... They’re running shy.”

“They’ve been bothered down below,” said Uncle William. “That’s why they’re here so early, like enough—It’s much as your life is worth—being a mackerel these days—Steve get any?”

Manning shook his head. “He started out—soon as Uncle Noah give the word—Uncle Noah ’d been up on the cliffs since daylight, you know—smelled ’em comin’, I guess.” Manning smiled.

Uncle William nodded. “He’s part mackerel, anyway, Noah is—Went out, I suppose?”

“Everybody went—except me.” The young man’s eye was gloomy. “That’s a big school.” His hand moved toward the harbor and the reddish bit of dusk glinting on it.

“Too late tonight,” said Uncle William. He felt in his pockets—“Now, where ’d I put that paper—must ’a’ left it inside—You go look, George—a kind o’ crumpled up paper—with figgers on it.” He felt again in his pocket and the young man went obediently toward the door.

Uncle William’s eye sought Benjy’s. “It ’ll take him quite a few minutes to find it, I reckon,” he said placidly.

“Isn’t it there?”

“Well—it’s there if it’s anywheres, I guess—” His eye returned to the water. “It’s a dretful pity George can’t go—He’s just aching to—You can see that plain enough—”

“He ’ll make more money,” said Bodet decisively, “—working on my house.”

“Well—I do’ ’no’ ’bout that—He ’d make a good many hunderd out there—” Uncle William motioned to the harbor, “a good many hunderd—if he had luck—”

“He ’ll make a good many hundred on the house. It’s steady work—and sure pay,” said Bodet.

Uncle William smiled. “I reckon that’s what’s the matter with it—The ’s suthin’ dretful unsatisfyin’ about sure pay.” Bodet smiled skeptically.

“You don’t understand about mackerel, Benjy, I guess—the mackerel feelin’.” Uncle William’s eye rested affectionately on the water.... “The’s suthin’ about it—out there—” He waved his hand—“Suthin’ ’t keeps sayin’, ’Come and find me—Come and find me—’ kind o’ low like. Why, some days I go out and sail around—just sail around. Don’t ketch anything—don’t try to, you know—just sail right out.... You ain’t ever felt it, I guess?”

Benjy shook his head.

“I kind o’ knew you hadn’t.... You’ve al’ays had things—had ’em done for ye—on dry land—It’s all right... and you’ve got things—” Uncle William looked at him admiringly, “Things ’t George and me won’t ever get, like enough.” He smiled on him affectionately, “But we wouldn’t swap with ye, Benjy.”

“Wouldn’t swap what?” asked Bodet. His little laugh teased the words—“You haven’t got anything—as far as I see—to swap—just a sense that there’s something you won’t ever get.”

Uncle William nodded. “That’s it, Benjy! You see it—don’t you?—Suthin’ ’t I can’t get—can’t ever get,” he looked far out over the water... “and some day I’ll sail out there and ketch—twenty barrel, like enough—and bring ’em in, and it’s all hurrah-boys down ’t the dock—and sayin’ ’How many ’d you get?’ and ’How ’d you do it?’ and runnin’ and fussin’—and then, come along toward night, and it ’ll get kind o’ big and dark out there... and I’ll forget all about the twenty barrel and about gettin’ money for ’em sensible—I’ll just want to heave ’em out and go again.” Uncle William paused—drawing a big sigh from some deep place.... “That’s the way George feels, I reckon.... If he stays and works on your house, Benjy—’twon’t be because he wants money.”

The young man appeared in the door—“I can’t find any paper in here,” he said. There was a little note of defiance in the words and the color in his face was dear scarlet.

Uncle William looked at him quizzically. “Maybe you didn’t look in the right place, Georgie,” he said. “We’re coming right in, anyway.”

In the clear, soft dusk of the room Celia’s face had a dancing look. She stood by the sink, her dish towel caught across her arm and her chin lifted a little as if she were listening to something pleasant—that no one had said. She turned away—hanging up the towel and brushing off the top of the stove with emphatic little movements and a far-away face.

“Now, maybe I left that figgering up to Benjy’s.” Uncle William glanced casually about him. “You sit down, George, and I’ll look around a little for it.” He fumbled with some papers by the window and went into the bedroom and came out, humming gently to himself. He glanced at the two men who sat on the red lounge—The younger one had drawn some lines on a scrap of paper and was leaning forward talking earnestly—his hat on the floor beside him and his hair pushed carelessly back. He had forgotten the room—and Uncle William—and all the little movements that danced. His fingers moved with the terse, short words, drawing new lines on the paper and crossing them out and drawing new ones.

Uncle William’s placid face held no comment. “‘D you see a piece of paper, Celia!” he asked, “—a kind of crumpled-up piece!”

She shook her head. Her eyes were on the two figures on the lounge and on Juno, who rose and stretched herself, drawing her feet together and yawning high and opening her pink-curved tongue. “I left some scraps for her—on the plate by the sink,” said Celia in a low voice. She untied her apron and hung it by the door. Then she put on her hat and a light jacket and stood looking about her—as if there might be something in the red room—something that would keep her a minute longer.

“Set down, Celia,” suggested Uncle William.

“I’ve got to go,” she said. She moved a little, toward the door.

Uncle William bustled about and knocked down the tongs and three or four sticks of wood, and picked them up. He grumbled a little. Bodet looked up, with a smile. “What’s the matter, William!”

Manning got to his feet, crowding the scrap of paper into his pocket, “I’ll have to go,” he said. “It’s getting late.”

“Why, yes—’tis kind o’ late—” assented Uncle William: “Gets late dretful early, these days.... If you’re going right along, George, you might’s well walk along with Celia—so ’s ’t the’ won’t anything happen to her—”

“I don’t need anyone,” said the girl quickly, “I’ve got my lantern.” She held it out.

The young man searched for his hat.

“I don’t need any company,” repeated the girl. She passed quickly from the open door and vanished.

George stood up, gazing after her light flickering on the path. He had found his hat and was twirling it in stiff slow fingers.

“Run along, George,” said Uncle William kindly. “You can ketch her, easy.”

“I don’t run after any girl,” said George. There was a deep glint in his eye.

Uncle William looked at it and then at the lantern, flicking and dancing on the path. He stepped to the door. “O-ho! Celia!” he called sternly.

The light wavered a little and paused and danced.... Then it went on.

Uncle William stepped out into the night. “Cel-i-a!” he called and his big voice boomed over the rocks. The lantern stopped. It came back—with little wavering steps and halted before him.

“What ’d you go running off like that for?”

Her face, above the lantern, was demure. “I didn’t run,” she said.

“Well, you might jest as well ’a’ run—I wanted you to take suthin’ for me.” Uncle William was feeling about in the darkness by the door.

“Oh—I didn’t know—” Her voice was very contrite now, and meek.

“I didn’t suppose you knew—but you could ’a’ waited.... Here they be!” He dragged forward a heavy sack of potatoes and untied the neck—“I told Harr’et I’d send her down a mess of new potatoes for breakfast,” he said. He dipped into the sack with generous hand—filling a basket that stood by the door.

The girl looked at it with round eyes.

“You ’d just as lives carry it along, wouldn’t you, Celia?”

She reached out her hand and lifted it a little. Then she looked at him.

“Like enough you need a little help with it,” said Uncle William wickedly. “Oh—George—” he stepped to the door. “You just give Celia a lift with this basket, won’t you!—It’s a little mite heavy for her.”

The young man appeared in the door. He lifted the basket with decisive hand and held out the other—“I’ll take that lantern,” he said.

She hesitated an instant—holding it a little behind her. Then she gave it up. “I can carry lanterns well enough.”

“I’ll take it,” replied George. He strode away over the rocks and she followed with little tripping steps that half ran to keep up.

Uncle William, standing by the open door, followed the flicker of the lantern with benignant eye—Then he went into the house. “Sent Harr’et quite a mess of potatoes,” he said comfortably.

Benjy looked at him. “—Not the new ones,” he said quickly.

Uncle William nodded. “I kind o’ felt as if suthin’ had to be sent to Harr’et, and that bag of potatoes was the fust thing I laid hold of.” He chuckled a little. “She ’ll be some s’prised, I guess—s’prised and pleased—Harr’et will—to get a new mess of potatoes and all—and not having to pay for ’em, or anything,” said Uncle William thoughtfully.

XIV

HERE you be, Juno!” Uncle William set the plate of scraps on the floor, and Juno walked across with leisurely gait.

He watched her a moment, smiling—then he reached for his lantern. “Guess I’d better go see ’t everything’s all right,” he said. “I’ve got to make a putty early start.”

Bodet looked at him inquiringly. “Where are you going?”

“Now?—Down to see t’ the Jennie.”

“You’re not going out?”

Uncle William laughed. “Not tonight, Benjy—I jest want to get a start, you know—have things ready.” He lighted the lantern and threw the match on the floor.

Benjy watched him soberly. “You ’ll be gone a week, I suppose.”

“Well, I do’ ’no’.” Uncle William put his lantern on the floor and sat down. “I come in every day—Soon’s I get a catch.”

Bodet scowled at his cigarette—and threw it aside. “It’s the last I’ll see of you—this season.”

Uncle William crossed his legs. “Won’t run more ’n a day or two, mebbe,” he said consolingly. “You can’t tell about mackerel. You look out and see little patches of ’em wrinkling around and the next day you won’t see a wrinkle.” His hand felt for its lantern.

Bodet’s eye was on the clock. Suddenly he got up and crossed over to it and took down something, almost tucked in around behind the dock. He glared at it a minute and threw it on the table. “It’s a letter!” he said.

“Why, so ’tis!” Uncle William leaned forward with a pleased look of interest. “Celia didn’t tell us about it, did she?” He looked at Benjy for sympathy. But there was no sympathy in Benjy’s eye.-He lifted the letter and tore it open—“It might have lain there a week,” he said sternly.

“Like enough ’t would—if you hadn’t seen it. You’ve got terrible good eyes, Benjy.” Uncle William all but patted him on the back.

Benjy shrugged his shoulders. His eyes ran over the letter—“It’s from the children. You want to read it—now?” He was holding it out.

Uncle William looked down at his lantern. He took it up.... Then he looked at the letter. “I kind o’ hate to have you read it first—without me.”

“I’ll wait,” said Bodet obligingly.

Uncle William shook his head. “I do’ ’no ’s we ’d better wait.” He blew gently into his lantern and set it down. “Might as well have it whilst we can....I’ve come to think that’s the best way, mebbe. The’s two-three things I didn’t take when I could ’a’ got ’em—easy. They’ve been always tagging me around since.” He settled a little more comfortably in his chair and stretched his big legs. “Go ahead, Benjy,” he said.

Bodet fixed his glasses on his nose and cleared his throat. Juno jumped on Uncle William’s knee, and his hand traveled thoughtfully up and down the grey back while the letter was being read.

A pleased, puzzled look held his face—“Goin’ right to Russia, be they? I can’t seem to understand that, Benjy—What was it she said?”

Bodet turned back and found the place.

“We have decided to go straight to St. Petersburg and then to Vilna, taking a house and spending the winter. Captain Spaulding will take the boat around to Yokohama and we shall join him in the spring—going overland.”

Uncle William’s face still held its puzzled look—“They won’t touch Iceland... nor Norway ’n’ Sweden?” He shook his head. “Jumped the whole thing—far as I see—Europe, Asia ’n’ Africa, and the Pacific Isles.... Now, what do you suppose they’re up to, doin’ that, Benjy?” He looked at him anxiously.

Bodet folded the letter in his slim fingers and creased it a little. “Perhaps she was homesick—thought how good it would seem to have a home for a little while again.”

“Mebbe she did...” Uncle William lighted the lantern, peering at it with shrewd, wrinkled eyes. “Don’t you set up for me, Benjy.” He looked at him kindly. “The ’ll be a moon, byme-by, you know—Like as not I’ll be putterin’ round quite a spell. You go to bed.”

“Well—I’ll see.” Bodet had taken up the newspaper and was scanning the lines—his glasses perched high. Juno, on the floor beside him, looked up as if she would like to be invited.

Uncle William looked at them both affectionately. Then he stepped out into the night, closing the door with gentle touch.

The night was softly dark, with high stars, and a little breeze blew up from the water.... His lantern swung down the path—his great legs keeping shadowy time to it. Now and then he paused, listening to the little waves that splashed up below, and drawing deep, full breaths of the darkness. He looked up to the stars and his face cleared. The little puzzled look that had come into it with the reading of the letter disappeared. He hummed to himself, as he went, little booming songs that began, and broke off, and ended nowhere—traveling along ahead....

On the beach he disappeared into the little black fish-house and came out bearing a great net that he stowed away in the dory, folding it down in under with watchful eye. He swung his lantern over the mound of net and gave a little running push and leaped in.... The oars in the thole-pins creaked and chugged, as he faded out in the night, and little phosphorescent gleams waked up along the water and ran in flocks behind him.