Happy Island 7

Happy Island 7

The girl, as she moved about the room, glanced at them contentedly now

and then. When she had finished her work, she took off her apron

and folded it up. “I’m going now,” she announced, “I’ll be up in the

morning—along about six.” She moved toward the door.

 

Uncle William looked up, blinking. He had come from Labrador at a lively

rate.... “Why—you can’t go—alone, Celia. You wait a minute whilst I see

about getting ready to go with you.”

 

“I know the way,” she said promptly, “I came up.”

 

“The’s rocks,” said Uncle William. He was lighting a lantern.

 

“I know about the rocks—I’ll take the lantern—thank you, sir.” She went

out of the door and the light of her lantern flitted along down the path

over the cliff.

 

Uncle William’s eye followed it. He chuckled softly and looked at

Benjy. “A good deal like the sou’-west wind,” he said, “a little

west-by-sou’-west, mebbe—and blowin’ hard.”

 

“She’s a pretty girl,” said Bodet, watching the light out in the dark.

 

“She’s a good girl,” said Uncle William. He looked silently at the

shining rows of dishes over the sink—He crossed the room and opened the

cupboard door under the sink and looked in—“The’ ain’t a dish left,” he

said solemnly, “She’s washed ’em all!”

 

 

 

 

VII

 

I’VE got a fire made, Celia. You come right along in,” said Uncle

William. He regarded her kindly as she stood in the doorway, her curls

freshened in the wind and her cheeks touched with clear pink—like the

morning outside.

 

She cast a quick glance at the disordered room and came in.

 

Uncle William retreated a little. “I was cal’lating to clear it up ’fore

you got here,” he said. He gathered in an armful of boots and shoes and

slippers that had strayed away and looked about him a little helplessly—

 

A smile crept into her face and lingered in it. “You’ve got somebody to

take care of you now,” she said. “You put those right down and bring me

a pail of water and some wood—” she looked in the box, “—and a little

fine stuff—to hurry with. Nobody could hurry with that—” She cast a

scornful hand at the wood in the box.

 

“‘Tis kind o’ green,” admitted Uncle William. He took the water-pail

and went outside, looking at the morning with slow content and moving

in supreme restfulness toward the well. When he returned the room was in

order, a smell of coffee filled the air, and the table by the window was

set, in the sunshine, with plates for two.

 

“Benjy up?” asked Uncle William. He glanced toward the inner door as he

set the pail on its shelf.

 

She nodded quickly. “I called him,” she said.

 

“I gen’ally let him sleep,” replied Uncle William.

 

“Better for him to be up.” She filled a dipper of water and carried it

to the table, filling the glasses.

 

“Ain’t you going to have breakfast with us?” asked Uncle William,

glancing at the table.

 

“I’ve had mine—I brought in the kindling-wood myself,” she added

pointedly.

 

Uncle William’s face fell. “I did kind o’ forget—” The door opened and

Benjy came out—yawning, but brisk. “Well, we’ve got a good start,” he

said. He nodded to the girl and sat down.

 

Uncle William looked relieved. “I thought you ’d kind o’ mind getting up

so early?” he said.

 

Bodet laughed out. “I don’t mind getting up—It’s waiting for breakfast

that I mind.”

 

Uncle William looked out of the window. “I go kind o’ slow on

breakfasts,” he admitted. He craned his neck a little—“Guess George is

going out.” He glanced behind him. The girl had stepped outside the door

a minute and Uncle William leaned forward with a confidential whisper,

“She ’d make a dretful good wife for a young man, wouldn’t she!”

 

“You ’d better eat your breakfast, William—and be thankful,” said Bodet

severely.

 

Uncle William made no reply. A look of deep craft was in his eye. When

Bodet started off, he lingered behind.

 

“I’ll be’long byme-by, Benjy,” he said. He nodded to him kindly. “You go

tell Ordway what you want and I’ll talk to him ’bout it when I come. I

reckon he ’ll do it the way you want it,” he said hopefully.

 

Bodet disappeared up the road, and Uncle William pottered about the

door. By and by he went in.

 

The girl glanced up quickly. “I thought you ’d gone.”

 

“No, I ain’t gone.” Uncle William’s tone was cheerful. “The’s two-three

little things I want to tend to.” He strayed into the bedroom and when

he came out she was seated by the window paring potatoes. “I’ll have to

soak ’em an hour,” she said briskly, “You ought to buy some new ones.”

 

“They be kind o’ old,” said Uncle William. He glanced past her, out of

the window. “Nice place to set,” he suggested.

 

She did not look up.

 

“Guess George Manning’s going out,” said Uncle William.

 

“Who’s George Manning?” said Celia. She finished another potato, with

efficiency, and dropped it into the pan of water beside her.

 

“George Manning—He’s about the nicest young man on the Island, I guess,”

said Uncle William innocently.

 

A little laugh flitted at the potatoes.

 

She glanced out of the window and returned to her work.

 

Uncle William’s look deepened. “He ’d make a dretful good husband for

somebody.”

 

“I don’t believe much in husbands,” she replied. She held the knife in

her hand, and she was looking at him with candid, laughing eyes.

 

Uncle William returned the look reproachfully. “You don’t have no call

to say that, Celia!”

 

“I’ve been engaged,” she replied promptly. She took up another potato

with a little glance of scorn at it.

 

Uncle William leaned forward. “When you goin’ to be married?” he asked

happily, “I might ’a’ known you was engaged—nice as you be!”

 

She looked at him. “I’m not engaged any more,” she replied, “I just

was.”

 

Uncle William’s face was full of sympathy. “I didn’t know ’t you ’d lost

anybody,” he said. “You poor little girl!”

 

She looked up again—a little puzzled line between her eyes, “He wasn’t

so much—to lose—” she said slowly.

 

“When was it he died?” asked Uncle William.

 

She stared at him. Then she laughed and threw out her hands in a quick

gesture. “You thought he died!” she said.

 

“Didn’t you say so?” demanded Uncle William.

 

“I didn’t mean that—” She returned, a little guiltily, to her potatoes.

 

Uncle William looked at her.

 

“I just meant I wasn’t going to marry him—nor anybody!” She lifted her

head with a little defiant movement.

 

Uncle William’s gaze was sober. “You don’t mean you promised him and

then wouldn’t—?” He was looking at her over his spectacles.

 

She nodded her head over the potatoes, biting her lip a little. “I only

loved his hair anyway,” she said. There was silence in the room, and the

faint sound of voices came from the beach.

 

“He had curly hair,” she said, “and it was yellow—like gold—and all the

other girls wanted him—”

 

“George’s hair is black,” said Uncle William hopefully, “—most black.”

 

She looked at him—and the eyes danced a little behind their mistiness,

“I wouldn’t marry a man—not if his hair was coal-black, nor if ’twas

yellow, nor brown, nor any color—I’ve got you to take care of and that’s

enough!” She glanced at him, almost tenderly, and carried the potatoes

to the sink. “It makes you feel foolish,” she said, splashing the water

into the pan and moving the potatoes about—“It’s foolish caring about

folks and thinking they’re beautiful—and then finding out that they’re

selfish—and stupid and lazy—!”

 

Uncle William looked out at the sun. “It’s getting late,” he said.

 

He moved toward the door and stood with his back to her. “I like to have

folks get married, Celia—” he said slowly, “I like to think about homes

and buildin’ ’em on the Island—and little ones coming—Don’t you like to think about it that way?”