Happy Island 10

Happy Island 10

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?”