Jennette Lee

“ Uncle William’s face lightened. “I don’t mind a mite myself—” he explained, “but I was kind o’ ’fraid you ’d want to be inside—where folks can’t see you doing things so.”
“Never!” said Bodet, “—with the sky for a ceiling and the clouds for frescoes—what more could a man want?” He waved his towel briskly at the landscape.
Uncle William tiptoed back to the house. “He likes it—out there,” he said.
Her face twinkled and she set the dumplings on the table with a brisk movement. “He’s a nice man,” she said.
“You comin’, Benjy?” called Uncle William. ”

“ Bodet turned as he came up. “Who cares about building a house!” he said. “Look at that sky and water and all this—!” His gesture took in the rocks and turf and the flock of sheep feeding their way up the hill to the horizon.
Uncle William’s eye followed it all placidly. “You do get over being in a hurry—up here,” he said slowly, “I reckon it’s because the Lord’s done so well by it—got a chance to finish things up—without folks meddling too much—it seems kind o’ foolish to hurry ’bout things.... Well, George ’ll do your house for you—if you want him to.” ”

“ Benjamin’s face was perhaps a trifle less glowing than Uncle William’s, but his assent was cheerful. “All right, William, I’ll do my part—You help me with that contractor and I’ll wipe dishes for you—all day, if you say so.”
Uncle William regarded him thoughtfully. “You ought to have George Manning to help you about your house, Benjy. He could do it for you—nice.”
“Manning?” Bodet looked at him with lifted eyebrows—“You mean that boy—?”
“He ain’t a boy exactly, Benjy. He looks kind o’ young—not having any whiskers, and chewing a piece of grass the way he does when he’s thinking. ”

“ 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. ”

“ Uncle William watched the clouds and George Manning and Bodet, moving to and fro before them.
“Manning says it can’t be done,” said Bodet, walking over to him. Two straight wrinkles stood between his eyes.
“I don’t see how it can be—not yet,” said the man. He held out the plan. “He wants his chimney—”
Uncle William nodded. “I know—where the old one was.”
“But that chimney isn’t any good. You’ve got to build from the ground up—You can’t use the old foundation—?”
“Well, not exactly use it, mebbe.” Uncle William looked at him thoughtfully. ”

“ 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. ”

“ Uncle William cast a quick glance at the cliff—“I don’t suppose I should,” he said hastily.
“And as for values—” The man’s hand swept the horizon. “You could sell at your own price. I’m really doing you a favor, Mr. Benslow—” he leaned toward him, “if you had foresight.”
“Yes, I reckon it takes foresight,” said Uncle William. He looked at him mildly. “I might just as well tell ye, Mr. Carter—you can’t build no hotel—not up here. You can build down ’t the village, if you want to,” he added. ”

“ Uncle William’s eye followed it, smiling. “Cur’us the way women is—running after ye, one minute—till you’re most scared—and then.”... He waved his lantern at the misty, moonlit hill, where the little figure flitted toward the sky. He shook his head.... Out at the end of the wharf there was calling and creaking, and the thumping of barrels and blocks of ice. Uncle William watched them a minute—then he turned toward the cliff. “What he ’ll need more ’n anything’s a good hot meal,” he said. He climbed to the little house and opened the door cautiously. Bodet, across the room, glanced at him. ”

“ Uncle William’s gaze broke. He pushed up his spectacles and leaned forward. “That’s just where ’tis, Benjy. It’s different—on the Island. When you’ve lived here a spell, you don’t want to finish things up lickety-cut, and then set down and look at the water.... You kind o’ spin ’em out and talk about ’em—paint one end, mebbe, and go out fishin’ or suthin’—not paint the other for fo-five months, like enough—not ever paint it.” ”

“ Uncle William nodded. “They ’ll be comin’ back some day—sailing into the harbor—Sergia and Alan—and there ’ll be a little one traveling with ’em. It’s al’ays the little ones,—Benjy—I do’ ’no’ what the Lord made ’em that way for... they’re so kind o’ queer and little... but I don’t ever see one of ’em runnin’ down the beach—arms goin’ that kind o’ way they have, and hair flyin’—I don’t ever see ’em without feelin’ real good somewheres inside. Everything breaks out all new—lights up, you know—’s if the fog had blown off suddenlike and you looked way out where the sun is.” ”

“ Andy glanced at the sun. “We ’ll be late,” he said.
“Yes, we ’ll be late, like enough. Smells good up here, don’t it!” Uncle William snuffed the salt air with relish. “I al’ays like to stop along here somewheres. It makes a putty good half-way place.”
Andy sat down. “Benjy’s wastin’ time on that house of his,” he said glumly.
“Yes, he’s wastin’ time.” Uncle William looked about him placidly. “Benjy don’t mind time—nor wastin’ it. What he wants is a house that he wants. I do’ ’no’s I blame him for that—I like a house that suits me, too.” ”

“ 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.” ”

“ V UNCLE WILLIAM was wondering whether he could leave the frying-pan another day. He had promised Benjy he would come up... the sun was shining and Benjy needed him. He went to the door, with the pan in his hand, and looked out. He took in great sniffs of salt air, looking over his spectacles at the moor and the sky light on the rocks and the stretch of his face was mild and happy, and his look rested casually on a figure that had left the beach and was coming up the rocky path. Presently he leaned forward, waving the frying-pan back and forth. “‘Morning, George,” he called. ”

“ 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.” ”

“ Uncle William nodded, looking at it thoughtfully. “I’ve thought about ’em—when I’ve been sailin’—all them machines. I reckon they’re made for folks that can’t travel in their minds—don’t know how—it kind o’ makes feet and legs for ’em so ’s ’t they can get around faster. They feel sort o’ empty in their minds, and lonesome, like enough, and then they take a train and go somewheres—or a toboggan slide, or suthin’, and they feel better—Don’t you reckon that’s the way ’tis, Benjy?” ”

“ 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.” ”

“ He was looking at him with affectionate eyes, over the big spectacles.
Bodet nodded. “That’s what’s happened to us. And George Manning, I suppose—”
“George never had a chance,” said Uncle William thoughtfully.... “I don’t mean that nobody would ’a’ had him. I guess the’ ain’t a girl on the Island but what’s set her cap for George, one time or another—set it kind o’ modest, you know. But George don’t see ’em. He just goes around looking at the sky and things—kind o’ thinkin’ in his mind—might bump right up against a girl and not know she was there—” Uncle William chuckled. ”

“ The young man smiled a little.
“Not without we have to be,” said Uncle William quickly. “They’re our lobsters, and mostly we know what’s good for ’em—and what’s good for us, and if we want to ketch a few and eat, now and then, we don’t need no inspector.... Not but what we’re always glad to see you,” he said. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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 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. ”

“ 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.... ”

“ 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?” ”

“ She gets ’em clean, you know, but she don’t really enjoy her cleanness—not really.... If you’re down there a spell, watchin’ her and kind o’ settin’ round—you get to feelin’ ’s if nobody ’d o’t to live—men-folks, special.... I do’ ’no’ what it is about her,” said Uncle William reflectively—“about Harr’et.... She’s kind o’ straight in the back and her shoulders don’t bend much.... Seems’s if the’ was suthin’ wrong about a woman—an old woman like Harr’et—if her shoulders don’t give a little.” ”

“ Uncle William bustled about, getting out the kettle. “I thought mebbe you ’d be in bed.” He placed the kettle on the stove and went over to the cupboard.
“In bed?” Bodet laughed—“I came up to get my coat. I don’t go to bed tonight—not while things are stirring down there.”
Uncle William turned his head to listen—Sounds of thumping came up faintly. “‘Tis interesting,” he said. “The’s times when it seems’s if more things was happening on this island than anywheres in the world—big things, you know.... Where do you s’pose Celia put that fish?” ”

“ Uncle William eyed him a minute. “You wa ’n’t ever much acquainted with women, was ye, George?”
“I don’t know as I was,” said the young man. “Too busy, I guess.”
“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. ”

“ The little breeze had died out and the clouds were drifting toward the horizon. Uncle William glanced wistfully at a big rock by the roadside. “We might set down a spell,” he suggested. He moved toward the rock. “I’ve been stirring since daylight,” he said, “It don’t seem quite right to keep goin’ every minute so. Benjy’s a pretty active man—for his years,” he added. He seated himself on the rock and stretched his great legs in the sun—He drew a long breath. “I do take a sight o’ comfort—not doin’ things,” he said. “Set down, Andy.” ”