Part 8

Uncle William’s eye was mild. “I reckoned you ’d come around to doin’ it, Benjy. We wouldn’t ever ’a’ felt comfortable, sitting in your house—when ’twas all done,” Uncle William looked at it approvingly—“We wouldn’t ’a’ wanted to set there and look at it and remember how George Manning didn’t get a chance to put down a net all this season.... I reckon I’d al’ays kind o’ remember his face—when I was settin’ there—the way he looks in there, and the mackerel ripplin’ round out there in the water—and him hammerin’.”

Bodet grunted a little. “All right—I’ll let him off—tomorrow.”

Uncle William beamed on him. “You ’ll feel a good deal better, Benjy—now ’t you’ve done it. I see it was kind o’ making you bother?”

“I could have stood it—quite a while yet—if you could have,” said Bodet dryly.

Uncle William chuckled and looked toward the house—“There’s George in there now—You go tell him—why don’t you, Benjy.”

He moved away and Bodet stepped toward the house. He disappeared inside and Uncle William seated himself on a rock and studied the boats that dotted the harbor. Only two were at anchor—the new Jennie, riding in proud, fresh paint, near by, and George Manning’s great boat—dark green, with crimson lines and gleams of gold along the prow. She was a handsome boat, large and finely built, and Maiming had refused more than one offer for her for the mackerel season....

He would take her out himself—or she should ride the season at anchor.

Uncle William turned toward the house—The young man was coming from the door. “Hello, George—I hear you’re going out!”

The sombre face smiled a little. “‘Bout time!” His eye dropped to the big boat and lingered on it. “She’s all ready—and I’ve got my pick of men.” He gathered a stem of grass from the cliff and took it in his teeth. “I don’t believe I was going to hold out much longer,” he said.

“Oh, yes—you ’d ’a’ held out. I wa ’n’t a mite afraid of your not holdin’ out,” said Uncle William. “All I was afraid of was that Benjy ’d hold out—I kind o’ thought he ’d be ’shamed byme-by—when he come to see how ’twas on the Island.... It’s different, living on an island, George. We can’t expect everybody to see what we do—right off, I guess. There’s something about living on an island, perhaps. You just get little handy samples o’ things and see how ’tis—right off. Bein’ born on an island’s a dretful good thing—saves you hurryin’ and repentin’.” Uncle William gazed at the horizon. “Benjy don’t like repentin’ any more ’n you do. He ’ll be real glad ’bout your going—byme-by.”

“I’m going down to fix things up a little—I’ll be back along towards night.”

“Oh—George—?” Uncle William’s fingers fumbled in his pocket.

The young man held his step.

“I’ve got it here—somewheres—” murmured Uncle William. “Yes—here ’tis.... You just give this to Celia, will you?” He held out a torn envelope. “You tell her to put it behind the clock for me.” Uncle William’s face was impassive.

The young man eyed it a minute....

“All right.” He held out his hand. “I wasn’t expecting to go by your place. But I can—if you want me to.” He tucked the note in his pocket and moved off.

Uncle William looked after him with a kindly smile—“Just hates to do it—worst way,” he murmured.... “Don’t none of us know what’s good for us, I reckon—no more ’n he does.”

Celia, moving about the room like a bird, paused a moment and listened. Then she went cautiously to the window and pushed back the red curtain and looked out... her eyes followed the line of road, with eager, glancing look—little smiles in them and bubbles of laughter. She dropped the curtain and went back to her work, shaking out pillows and dusting the quaint room, with intent, peering looks that darted at the dust and shook it out and rebuked it as it flew.

A shadow blocked the door, but she did not look up. She held a pillow in her hand, looking severely at a rip in the side and Uncle William’s feathers fluffing out.... The young man scraped his feet a little on the stone step.

She looked up then—the severe look still in her face. “Mr. Benslow is not here,” she said.

“I know he is not here.” He stepped over the sill. “He asked me to give you this.” He fetched the foolish paper out of his pocket grimly and looked at it and handed it to her.

She took it gravely. “What is it for?” she asked.

“He said you were to put it behind the clock—I don’t know what it’s for—” he said a little gruffly.

Her laugh scanned the bit of paper. “I can put it behind the clock—if he wants it there—” She walked over and tucked it away. “But I think it’s a funny idea,” she said.

“So do I,” said George.

“Will you sit down?” She motioned to the disorderly room.

“I’ve got to go,” he replied. He looked about him—sitting down.

A little smile played through Celia’s face and ran away. “I didn’t thank you for carrying the potatoes for me—that night—” she said politely. “You went off so quick I didn’t get a chance.”

“I’m going mackereling tomorrow,” responded George.

“You are!” Her eyes opened. “Did Mr. Bodet say you could?”

His face darkened. “I’d have gone before—so far as he is concerned.” He straightened himself a little.

“Oh—I—thought—he didn’t want you to go.”

“He didn’t—but that isn’t what kept me.”

“What was it—kept you, then?” She had seated herself and her hands, holding the dust-cloth, were crossed demurely in her lap.

George looked at them. “I stayed because I thought I ought to,” he said.

“I’d have gone.” She gave a little flit to the dust-cloth and folded it down.

He turned his eyes away. “Likely enough you would—” he said, “you’re a woman—”

“I don’t know what you mean by that!” She had got to her feet and was looking at him.

“I don’t know just what I mean myself,” said George. “But I guess I didn’t mean any harm—women are just different, you know.... I’ve got to go now—” he said, crossing his legs.

“You’ve got a nice boat,” said Celia. The teasing look had left her face.

“Do you think so?” He flushed a little and lifted his eyes to the window.

“Uncle William says she’s the best boat on the harbor,” said Celia.

“Well—I guess she is.... He’s got a good one, too—mine’s bigger,” said George.

“It’s a beautiful boat, I think,” said the girl. She had gone to the window and was looking down. The wind came in and blew past her curls a little and ruffled around through the room.

“I’d like to take you out in her some day,” said George.

“Would you!” She turned to him, with a quick little flutter of curls and the color dabbing her cheeks. “I’d love to go!”

“All right.” He got up. He went toward the door slowly—as if fingers held him.

The girl did not stir....

He turned at the door and looked at her—“Good-bye,” he said—

“Good-bye.” She moved a step, “Oh—I—”

He paused a minute—waiting.

“I thank you for bringing the paper,” said Celia.

“That’s all right.” He moved away down the path.

She stood where he had left her—the dust-cloth in her hand, the little clear color in her cheeks. Slowly the look changed. By and by she went to the window and looked out. Down below, a young man had drawn a dory to the water’s edge and was shoving off. She watched him seat himself and pull out with long, easy strokes.

Presently he looked up. He crossed the clumsy oars in one hand and lifted his hat.

The dust-cloth fluttered a moment and was gone.

With a smile the young man replaced his hat and resumed the oars. The dory moved through the water with long, even motion—and overhead a gull followed the dory, hanging on moveless, outspread wings.

XXI

THE day was alive—pink dawn, moving waves, little tingling breaths of salt, and fresh, crisp winds. Celia, up in the little house, was singing bits of song, peering into closets and out, brushing and scrubbing and smiling, and running to and fro.... Uncle William, out on the big rock near the house, turned his head and listened to the flurry going on inside.... There was a pause and a quick exclamation—and silence. Through the open door he could see the curly head bent over an old plate. She was standing on a chair and had reached the plate down from the top shelf. Uncle William’s face fell a little. She jumped down from the chair and came toward the door, holding it at arm’s length. “Look at that!” she said.

Uncle William looked. “That’s my boot-grease,” he said a little wistfully. “I put it up there—kind o’ out of your way, Celia.”

She set it down hard on the rock. “I’ll make you some fresh—when I get to it.” She disappeared in the door, and Uncle William looked at the plate. He half got up and reached out to it—“The’s suthin’ about real old grease—” he murmured softly. He took up the plate and looked at it—and looked around him—at the sky and moor and sea.... “I do’ ’no’ where I’d put it ’t she wouldn’t find it,” he said regretfully. He set the plate down on the rock and returned to his harbor. A light wind touched the water and the little boats skimmed and shook out sail. Down on the beach George Manning was bending over his dory, stowing away nets. The other men on the beach went to and fro, and scraps of talk and laughter floated up. Uncle William leaned over, scanning the scene with happy eye—“When you goin’ out, Georgie?” he called down.

The young man lifted his head and made a hollow of his hands—“Waiting for Steve,” he called up.

“He goin’ out with ye?”

The young man nodded and pointed to a figure loping down over the rocks.

The figure joined him and stood by him. The two men were talking and scanning the sky. Uncle William gazed over their heads—out to the clear horizon.... “Best kind o’ weather,” he murmured. He looked a little wistfully at the Jennie rocking below.

Celia came to the door, “You going out today, Mr. Benslow?”

Uncle William shook his head and looked at the sky.

“It’s a good day,” said Celia.

“Best kind o’ day—” assented Uncle William. He looked again at the heavens. Little scallops—rays of clouds, shot athwart it.

“I’d go if I was you,” said Celia.

“I thought mebbe I’d stay and help Benjy—byme-by. George Manning’s going out.” The corner of his eye sought her face.

It dimpled a little. “He told me he was going out—when he brought the paper yesterday,” she said. “It’s behind the clock—when you want it,” she added.

“I don’t want it—not now,” said Uncle William absently.

Celia returned to her work and Uncle William was left in the clear, open peace of the morning. Along the horizon the boats crawled back and forth, and down on the beach the clutter and hurry of men and oars came up, fresh. He bent forward and watched it all—his big, round face full of sympathy and happy comment....

“Much as ever George ’ll make out to set this morning,” he said. His eye scanned the distant boats that crept along the horizon with cautious tread. “He ought to ’a’ known Steve Burton ’d be late. Steve ’d miss his own funeral—if they ’d let him.” Uncle William chuckled..... The great, dark boat had lifted sail and was moving a little, feeling her way to meet the mysterious power that waited somewhere out in the open—Uncle William watched her swing to the wind and lift her wings....

He stepped to the door—“Oh, Celia—Want to see suthin’ pretty?”

The girl went to the window and looked out. She gazed at the sky, and swept the horizon with a look. “Anything different from usual?” she said. Her eye kept away from the harbor.

Uncle William came and stood behind her, looking down. “Just look down there a minute, Celia.” He took the curly head in his hands and bent it gently.

She gazed at the boat—pacing slowly with the deepening wind—and her eyes glinted a little.

“Looks nice, don’t it?” said Uncle William.

She nodded, her fingers on her apron traveling with absent, futile touch. “I always like to see boats start off,” she said happily.... “Look, how she takes the wind—!” She leaned forward, her eyes glowing, her face lighted with the same quick, inner light that touched the breeze and the sails.

Uncle William, behind her, smiled benignantly.

“He’s a good sailor,” he said contentedly, “I taught George how to sail a boat myself.”

He leaned forward beside her. The boat had come opposite them—gathering herself for flight. The full sails tightened to the breeze, and the bow rose and dipped in even rhythm.... The girl’s eyes followed it happily.

Uncle William’s hands made a trumpet about his words—“Oh-o—George! Oh-lo-ho!—Ship ahoy!” he bellowed.

The young man looked up. He took off his hat and swung it about his head. The boat was moving faster and the wind blew the hair from his forehead.

“Give him a kind of send-off, Celia!” said Uncle William. He untied the little starched bow of her apron. “Wave it to him,” he said. “It ’ll bring him good luck, mebbe—!”

She pulled at the apron and flung it wide—shaking it up and down with quick little movements that danced.

“That’s the way,” said Uncle William, “That’s right.”

The young man looked up with eager eyes. He leaped on the rail and ran along with quick, light step, waving back. Then he sprang to the stem seat and took the tiller. He was off to the mackerel fleet—with the sun shining overhead—and up on the cliff the girl stood with eager eyes and little freshening curls that blew in the wind.

She tied on the apron soberly and went back to her work.

Uncle William, standing up over the sink, was looking for something.

“What is it you want?” she asked.

Uncle William dimbed down and peered under the sink. “I used to have a paintbrush,” he said. He looked about the room vaguely and helplessly—

“Covered with red paint?” asked Celia.

“—Mebbe ’twas red,” said Uncle William thoughtfully, “I do’ ’no’ when I used that paint-brash—But it’s a good brush and Benjy said they was short of brushes. I thought mebbe—”

“It’s out behind the woodpile,” she said crisply, “I put it there yesterday—fifty old rags with it—I was going to burn them up,” she added, “but I didn’t get to it.” Her eyes danced.

“They’re perfectly good paint rags, Celia.” Uncle William looked at her reproachfully. “I was tellin’ Benjy this morning I’d got a nice lot of rags for him. I do’ ’no’ what I’d ’a’ done if you ’d burned them up.”

“There are plenty more around,” said the girl. She looked meaningly at a bit of wristband that showed below his sleeve.

Uncle William tucked it hastily out of sight. “I gen’ally trim ’em off,” he said. “But I couldn’t find my scissors this morning—I thought the knife had cut it putty good?” He peered down at it distrustfully.

“Knife!” The word was scornful—but the little look that followed him from the door held only gentleness and affection.

Uncle William, outside the door, looked at the sky and the harbor, with the mackerel fleet sailing on it—and at the Jennie rocking below. Then his eye traveled, half guiltily, over the moor toward Benjy’s, and back.... “Best kind o’ weather,” he murmured. “No kind o’ day to—” He took a step toward Benjy’s house—another, and another, and moved briskly off up the road. Suddenly he turned, as if a hand had been laid on his shoulder, and strode toward the rocky path that led to the beach. A big smile held his face. “—No kind o’ day to paint,” he said softly as he dragged the dory to the water’s edge and shoved off. Five minutes later the Jennie had hoisted anchor and was off to the fleet. Benjy, painting with Gunnion up in the new house, looked out now and then from the window as if hoping to see a big figure rolling toward him along the white road.

Celia, in the little house on the cliff, brought a roll of cloth from the shelf over the sink and undid it slowly. Inside was a large pair of scissors. She smiled a little as she took them up and spread out the cloth. It was a great garment, the size and shape of Uncle William. Sitting by the window, where the breeze blew in from the water, her thimble flew in the light. Now and then she glanced far out where the boats sailed. Then her eyes returned to her needle and she sewed with swift stitches... a little smile came and went on her face as the breeze came and went on the water outside.

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.