Happy Island 6

Happy Island 6

“Yes—you al’ays keep a-doin’—same as I do,” said Uncle William. “But

I’ve kind o’ watched ’em—between times—women. They’re interestin’,” he

added, “—a leetle more interesting ’n men be, I reckon.”

 

A little smile held the face opposite him. “Men are good enough for me,”

he said.

 

“You can talk to men—sensible—know what they mean.”

 

“That’s it,” said Uncle William, “I reckon that’s what I like about

women—you can’t tell what they mean—it keeps you guessing, kind of—makes

you feel lively in your mind.”

 

“My mind’s lively enough without that,” said George carelessly. His eye

was on the dark water and the little white-caps that rode on it.

 

“Well, I do’ ’no’. I like to have a good many things to think about—when

I’m settin’,” said Uncle William, “and when I’m sailin’. I keep quite

a lot of ’em tucked away in my mind somewheres—and fetch ’em out when I

have a minute or two, quiet-like, to myself.” He touched the letter in

his hand, almost reverently, “The’s suthin about women ’t I can’t

make out—” he said, “If it’s a wedding or a funeral or going away,

or whatever ’tis—most the first thing they think about is their

clothes—like Celia here—” he touched the letter again.... “Now, that’s

interestin’—’bout their clothes, ain’t it!” He beamed on him.

 

The young man returned the look tolerantly. “Foolishness,” he said.

 

Uncle William nodded. “I know—foolishness for you and me and Andy—and

for Benjy, mebbe. But ’tain’t foolishness for women. You can see that,

the way they do it. It’s kind o’ like goin’ to church to ’em and they

don’t really feel right without they’re doing it.... It’s kind o’ pretty

to see ’em—al’ays a-makin’ and plannin’—and makin’ ’em for the little

ones ’fore they come—turning ’em over, and showin’ ’em to other women,

like enough—not sayin’ much—just lookin’ at ’em.”

 

The young man on the rock stirred uneasily.

 

Uncle William went on hastily. “I reckon it ain’t wrong for Celia to

think about getting her clothes ready.” He was smiling at the letter.

“It’s when they stop thinkin’ about ’em that it’s wrong.... Why, it’s

kind o’ awful!” he added severely.

 

The young man laughed out. Suddenly he stopped and looked at Uncle

William. “—Like Andy’s wife’s!” he said.

 

“Like Harr’et,” assented Uncle William. “Harr’et ’ll wear

anything—anything ’t covers her, that is. She ’d wear sailcloth, I

reckon, if ’t wa ’n’t so hard to sew—old ones, you know, ’t was wore out

for sailin’. Harr’et wouldn’t waste new sails on her.... And that kind

o’ hard way she has of doin’ her hair—like a doughnut—only harder—”

Uncle William rubbed the back of his head reflectively. “I do’ ’no’ what

’tis about Harr’et. I al’ays feel’s if the woman part of her was gone

off somewheres.... It’s the woman part ’t makes ’em interestin’, I

reckon. You al’ays kind o’ wonder—”

 

“Andy don’t wonder much,” said the young man. “He’s learned mostly.” He

was regarding Uncle William curiously and his face had an alert look. “I

never thought about women that way before,” he said, turning the bit

of grass in his teeth. “You make ’em seem interesting, Uncle William—as

interesting as a boat—or fishing—or doing arithmetic.” He laughed out.

 

“Celia’s letter reads to me ’s if she ’d kind o’ keep you guessing,”

said Uncle William, taking it up.

 

“I’ve got to be going,” said George. He stood up.

 

“Now, don’t you go yet awhile, Georgie.” Uncle William got to his feet,

looking about him, “The’s two-three little things I wanted to ask you

about. The ketch to my cupboard door don’t work good.”

 

They went into the house and Uncle William tucked the letter behind the

clock.

 

The young man examined the lock and took a file from his pocket and

filed the catch a little, whistling softly. His face had a keen, happy

look.

 

Uncle William filled the tea-kettle and put it on and came across and

bent over the young man, a hand on either knee. “I al’ays like to watch

ye doin’ things, George. You do ’em so kind o’ neat.”

 

The young man snapped the catch two or three times in the lock—“That ’ll

work,” he said. He got to his feet, slipping the file into his pocket.

 

“Benjy needs somebody like you up to his place,” said Uncle William.

 

“I thought he ’d got a man from Boston.” The tone was non-committal and

dry. The young man was looking at the window.

 

“Well, I guess he’s got somebody—He’s from Boston—yes. Benjy’s a good

deal bothered,” added Uncle William hopefully.

 

George shook his head. “I don’t want to be building—as long as the

fishing suits me.”

 

“Cod—so far,” said Uncle William.

 

“You can ’t tell what ’ll be along any day now,” said the young man. He

moved toward the door.

 

“You think it over, George,” said Uncle William—he held up a benignant

hand and cut off the answer—“You just think it over. Mebbe he won’t need

you. But if he does—you ’ll hev to help him out, I guess. He’s livin’ on

the Island now, you know, same as the rest of us.”

 

 

 

 

VI

 

UNCLE WILLIAM and Benjy had been away all day—up at the new house—and

Andy’s wife had sent dinner to them.... They came home in the dusk,

hungry and tired. “Harr’et’s cooking ’do ’t to be e’t hot,” said Uncle

William. He looked up at his own house. “Hello! somebody’s visitin’ us.”

 

Benjy’s eye lighted. A glow from the red room shone in the dusk. “It’s

the new girl,” he said. They quickened their pace a little.

 

Uncle William went ahead and opened the door. The little room was full

of warm light and the pleasant smell of cooking. By the stove knelt a

young girl, her hand on the oven door. She looked up as they came in and

closed the door carefully. Then she got to her feet—a little smile on

her face. “I’ve come, Mr. Benslow,” she said.

 

“We’re glad to see you,” said Uncle William heartily. He glanced at the

table. “‘D you find dishes enough for a meal?”

 

A little dimple in her cheek came out, and ran away. “I washed a few,”

she replied.

 

Uncle William’s eye ran along the shelf over the sink. “You’ve done ’em

all!”

 

“Not quite—I put some of them outside by the door—pots and kettles and

pans—”

 

“That’s what I fell over,” said Uncle William, “I gen’ally keep ’em

under the sink—out o’ sight—kind of—?” He looked at her.

 

“I saw where you kept them.” She had dear, searching eyes and quick

little movements that ran ahead of her and did things for her. “Supper

is ready,” she said. “The biscuit are just right.” She took the biscuit

from the oven and set chairs for them at the table and flitted about,

with quick, soft steps. Juno, on her lounge, huddled herself a little

and turned her halfshut eyes on the swish of skirts. By and by she got

down and came over to Uncle William.

 

He fed her a bit of fish and she returned to her lounge, closing her

eyes. “She knows suthin’ ’s happened,” said Uncle William, “Her mind’s

going round and round.”

 

Bodet smiled. “She looks placid enough.”

 

“You can’t tell that way,” said Uncle William. “Women ain’t like

men-folks—not just like ’em. They ’ll smile and look polite and fix

their faces—and then, all of a sudden, things ’ll happen.”

 

A little laugh bubbled over from the sink.

 

Uncle William turned in his chair and looked at her. He adjusted his

glasses and looked again. “‘D you say anything, Celia?”

 

“No, sir—I just thought it was kind of funny about women—”

 

“So ’tis,” said Uncle William, “It’s funny’s anything I know—the way

women be. I take a sight o’ comfort thinkin’ about women and the way

they be.”

 

“Yes, sir—would you like some more tea?”

 

Uncle William waved it away—“Not another mite. We’ve had a good supper.”

He pushed back from the table. “Now, we ’ll help you clear up a little—”

He looked about him.

 

“I don’t want anybody to touch my dishes,” she said promptly.

 

Uncle William looked at her over his glasses. “I was going to show you

where things be,” he said.

 

“I know where everything is.’.rdquo; The little smile played about her

lips. “And I don’t need any help.” She whisked the cloth from the table

and bore it away.

 

Uncle William’s eye followed her.

 

“There’s a letter for you.” She took it from behind the dock and laid it

on the table.

 

Uncle William took it up with slow fingers. “I gen’ally read my letters

first thing,” he said reflectively.

 

“It’s better to have your supper first.” She disappeared out of the door

and they heard a little rattle of pans. Uncle William chuckled. “Some

like the sou’-west wind,” he said. “You read it, Benjy.”

 

Bodet held out his hand. “They’re in Greenland,” he said, glancing at

the postmark.

 

“I reckoned they ’d be.” Uncle William reached down the map and they

bent over the table, talking and tracing the line of travel and reading bits from the letter.