Happy Island 8

Happy Island 8

Her hands dabbled in the water thoughtfully. “I don’t know’s I do,” she

said. “I’ve got a home now—with you—”

 

“It ain’t real—not a real home,” said Uncle William quickly.

 

“It’s the nicest one I ever had,” she said. A little laugh lighted her

face—“and it will be the nicest one that ever was when I’ve cleaned up a

little.” She dried her hands on the towel, looking down at them. “I know

what you mean, Mr. Benslow—about ’little ones’—I guess every woman knows

about that—and wants ’em,” she added, under her breath, to the towel.

“But there’s some things we can’t have!” She took down the broom from

the wall. “Now, if you’re going out, I’ll sweep up a little.”

 

Uncle William did not look back. “Andy’s coming,” he said, “I guess we

’ll go see how Benjy’s getting on—Don’t you mind anything I said, Celia.

I’m kind o’ old and foolish, like enough.” The girl did not reply. But

when he had gone, she came to the door and stood looking after him—and

the dancing look in her eyes grew wistful and sweet.

 

 

 

 

VIII

 

WE used to meet on this rock when we was boys,” said Uncle William,

sitting down, “—You remember them times, Andy?”

 

“I don’t remember nothin’,” said Andy. Uncle William looked at him. “I

do’ ’no’ how you forget so easy.... I can see it all, just as plain as

you be—settin’ there—you and me and Benjy, racing to get to this rock

first—and planning suthin’—suthin’ ’t we hadn’t o’t to.... Seems kind o’

good to have Benjy back—just ’s if he ’d never been off the island?”

 

“He’s changed some,” said Andy. “Well—outside he’s peaked up a

little—but inside, I can’t see a mite o’ difference. He gets mad just

about ’s easy ’s ever,” said Uncle William contentedly.... “Now, this

morning—” Uncle William moved his hand toward the horizon, “He’s gone

over to his place, all kind o’ boilin’-like. He stopped and gazed at

a figure that loomed on the horizon at the end of the long road. They

watched the light, high-stepping figure come swiftly down the road.

 

“He’s got something on his mind,” said Uncle William, “I can see by

the way his elbows act—kind o’ stiff so. I reckon that contractor does

bother him—a good deal,” he added thoughtfully.

 

The man came on quickly, lessening his gait a little as he neared the

rock, and taking off his hat to the breeze. “Feels good,” he said,

nodding. He seated himself on the big rock. “Well—I’ve done it.” He

turned his head slowly, taking in great whiffs of the fresh, bracing

air. “I’ve fired him,” he said.

 

“You hev!” Uncle William’s face beamed. “That’s good—He’s fired him,

Andy—”

 

“When’s he going to leave?” asked Andy.

 

“He’s going to leave just as soon as he can pack,” said Bodet with

satisfaction, “He’s stood all he can—and so have I.” He threw out his

thin legs and looked at them. “I don’t think I ever knew a man that

irritated me the way he did,” he said reflectively.

 

“I see he kind o’ did,” said Uncle William.

 

Andy looked out to sea. “Harr’et was boardin’ him,” he said, “She was

cal’-lating on the board money—right along.” His eye dropped to Bodet.

 

The man threw out an impatient leg.

 

“Now, don’t you mind about that,” said Uncle William hastily, “Benjy ’ll

fix it up all right—He’s got to have somebody to build his house, and

it’s got to be somebody that ’ll eat—somebody with a stomach.”

 

The thin man sat up, smiling a little.

 

“I wish to the Lord I knew whose stomach it was!” he said, “It’s like

trying to build a house in heaven—having to import contractors and

masons and plumbers—”

 

Uncle William chuckled—— “We gen’ally use the home-folks, round here,”

he said after a pause.

 

Bodet looked at him a little. “You wouldn’t build a twenty-thousand

dollar house just with the home-folks, would you!”

 

“I do’ ’no’ why not,” said Uncle William, “It ain’t so much different

from any other house, fur as I see—just more of it—more spread. There’s

George Manning,” he suggested.

 

“The carpenter?” Bodet’s lip smiled.

 

“Well—he ain’t exactly a carpenter—not exactly,” said Uncle William.

“He’s a fisherman too—first-class—and he can steer any kind of a craft

you want to rig up. He was captain on the Halifax Line one spell.” Uncle

William’s eye followed the boats passing across the harbor. “An’ he’s a

kind o’ mason, and a first-rate painter—I do’ ’no’s you could git a man

knows more ’n George Manning does.... I never see the thing yet George

wa ’n’t willing to tackle. Seems’s if he kind o’ liked to try his hand

at things folks said couldn’t be done. I’ve seen him sit up night after

night figgering on things—”

 

“He ’ll have to figure some on this,” said Bodet. He drew the plans from

his pocket. “This is what we’ve just split on—Ordway and I—” He spread

out the paper, holding it between his hands. Uncle William moved over a

little toward it. Andy dropped an eye from above.... “This is it,” said

Bodet. “You see how that roof-line comes down, don’t you?”

 

“Uh-huh,” Uncle William looked at it with pleased smile—“Comfy, ain’t

it—Sort o’ makes a house look like an old hen with her chickens.”

 

“That’s it,” said Bodet quickly, “It’s the very thing I want—a house

that settles down among the rocks as if it belonged there—The architect

got the idea all right—from photographs. But he hadn’t been here and we

hadn’t allowed for that dip to the south—You know it?”

 

Uncle William nodded. “Drops fo’-five feet, I should think?”

 

“Six—: a little over six,” replied Bodet, “and this is the kind of thing

he wanted—Ordway wanted!” He took out a rough pencil sketch and held it

at arm’s length. “He wants to run it out here in the air, this way, and

put a lattice-work underneath.... paint it green, I suppose.” He snorted

a little.

 

“Does look kind o’ funny—don’t it, Andy?” said Uncle William.

 

“Looks good enough—far as I see,” said Andy, “I’ve seen a lot of houses

built that way.”

 

“—So have I,” broke in Bodet. He crushed the paper in his hand. “It’s a

seaside cottage,” he said, “—a regular seaside cottage!”

 

“I do’ ’no’ what you feel that way about it for,” said Andy, “if ’tis a

cottage and ’tis built on the sea—right along side—”

 

Bodet got impatiently to his feet—“Ordway couldn’t see, either. That’s

why I fired him—’seaside cottage!’—” He fizzed a little and straightened

his garments and shook his legs.

 

“There, there, Benjy,—don’t you mind. I’m a-thinkin’ about it,” said

Uncle William soothingly.

 

Benjy smiled—the thin, sweet smile that seemed to come of itself from

somewhere behind the high, nervous features, when Uncle William’s voice

spoke to it, “All right, William, I won’t mind—now I’ve got Ordway off

my hands. I thought one time he would drive me crazy—”

 

“I didn’t know but he would, too,” said Uncle William, “You acted kind

o’ queer.”

 

“Well, I felt kind o’ queer,” responded Bodet dryly. “Now, about

Manning—We ’ll go talk things over with him.... He might do—with a

little watching.”

 

 

 

 

IX

 

BENJY thought mebbe you ’d do the whole thing, George!”

 

The three men stood on the site of the new house. Across the rocks and

moor Uncle William’s chimney showed against the sky, and below them the

water of the harbor dimpled in little waves of light.

 

Benjamin Bodet stood looking across it, a kind of quiet satisfaction in

his face.

 

“He’s been a good deal bothered,” said Uncle William to the younger man.

They moved a little aside and looked at him. “What he wants,” said

Uncle William, “is somebody that ’ll take everything off him—do all the

figgerin’ and plannin’ that comes up and trot round and get things—men,

you know—and things you run out of and can’t get on the Island. It’s

kind o’ hard building out at sea,” he said tentatively, “But you could

do it?” He turned to him.

 

“Yes, I could do it—if he wants me to,” said Manning. He held the stalk

of grass between his teeth and it turned slowly as he talked, “I’d like

to build a house like this one—such as he’s planning for.... There must

be a good many things come up, you won’t know how to do.” He moved his

hand toward the circumference about them, with a half gesture.

 

“That’s it,” said Uncle William, “That’s just what I told Benjy....

You take the whole thing over—tell him how much ’twill cost, and so

on—figger it out?”

 

“Beforehand!” said the man with a slow look.

 

Uncle William nodded. “He wants to know before he begins. I told him

mebbe you couldn’t do it—but he’s kind o’ set on it.” He looked at the

other a little anxiously. The man chewed the bit of grass in silence.

 

“Ordway ’d done it,” said Uncle William simply.

 

Manning turned a slow eye on him. “How ’d he know he could get men—here

on the Island—and keep ’em!” he demanded.

 

“Well, he didn’t know it, George.” Uncle William chuckled a little. “I

reckon he ’d ’a’ learned quite a few things about the Island—if he ’d

’a’ kep’ on it.”

 

“I reckon he would,” said the man with a slow smile. “I can’t tell

Bodet what it ’ll cost—What if a barge-load of lumber should be held up,

getting here?—Might have to wait weeks—Suppose I can’t get anybody to

board ’em—”

 

“Andy ’ll board ’em,” said Uncle William.

 

“Umph,” said the man.

 

“An’ Andy’s wife—you want to put her in. She might up an’ say she

wouldn’t, any day?”

 

Manning shook his head. “I can’t sign any contract, and I can’t tell him

what it will cost—not within a good many dollars—a house like that—but

if he wants me to build it, I’ll take it and do my best for him.”