Uncle William

“ Uncle William went to the window. “He’s right up the road a piece—You ain’t had time to get homesick, have you, Celia?” He was standing with his back to her.
“No, sir—Is that man coming, too?”
“That man—?” Uncle William wheeled about.... “Oh, George? You mean George Manning, I guess.”
“That’s his name—the one that was up there this morning—fussing around.” Uncle William nodded, his shrewd eyes on the little curls that were bending over the sink. “That’s George Manning—He’s a nice boy,” he added, seating himself on the lounge. “He’s a putty good boy—George is.” ”

“ 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 face softened as he watched them. “I kind o’ like to see ’em, Andy—up and down and bobbin’ and sloppin’ and scramblin’; you never know where they’ll come up next.”
“Don’t need to,” grumbled Andy. “Can’t eat the blamed things—nor wear ’em. I tell you, Willum,”—he turned a gloomy eye on his companion,—“I tell you, you set too much store by wuthless things.”
“Mebbe I do,” said William, humbly.
“This one, now—this painter fellow.” Andrew gave a wave of his hand that condensed scorn. “What’d you get out o’ him, a-gabblin’ and sailin’ all summer?” ”

“ Uncle William looked thoughtful. “I dunno,” he said slowly. “I’ve thought about that, myself. Can’t be the paint nor the canvas.”
“Cheap as dirt,” said Andy.
“Must be the way he does ’em.”
“Just a-settin’ and a-daubin’, and a-settin’ and a-daubin’,” sneered Andrew.
“I dunno’s I’d say that, Andy,” said Uncle William, reprovingly. “He sweat and fussed a lot.”
Andy’s eye roamed the landscape. “‘T ain’t reasonable,” he said, jealously. “A thing o’t to be wuth more’n a picter of it. There’s more to a thing.” He struck the solid ground of fact with relief. ”

“ Uncle William’s chuckle was genial. “Kittens ain’t everything,” he said mildly. “But I’ve seen the time when kittens wa’n’t to be despised. You jest set that way a little mite, Mr. Woodworth, and I’ll beach her even.”
“One thing I’m glad of,” said the artist, as the boat grated along the pebbles. “You can pay Andy.”
“Andy’ll be glad,” responded Uncle William, “but it’ll be quite a spell before he has a chance to.” He waved his arm toward the bay. “He’s off for the day.” ”

“ Andy’s face held no comment.
Uncle William sighed a little. “You can’t help wantin’ things the way you want ’em,” he said. “And Benjy ain’t ever been married—no more ’n me. Now, you’ve been married—”
“Yes, I’ve been married—a good many year,” said Andy sombrely.
“That’s it! An’ you know what ’tis to want things—’t you can’t have! But Benjy ’n’ me—” Uncle William looked around him—at the great rocks on either side and the big, cloudless sky and the road running to the horizon and dipping beyond—“Me and Benjy—we’ve missed it—somehow.” ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ Andy glanced at it contemptuously. It glowed in the light of the late sun, warm and radiant. “‘T ain’t wuth a hunderd,” he said.
Uncle William’s face fell a little. “Well, I wouldn’t say jest that, Andy.
“Roof leaks,” said Andrew.
“A leetle,” admitted Uncle William, “over ’n the southeast corner, She’s weather-tight all but that.” He gazed at the little structure affectionately. The sun flamed at the windows, turning them to gold. The artist’s face appeared at one of them, beckoning and smiling. Uncle William turned to Andy. “A man give him two thousand for it,” he said. ”

“ 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.” ”

“ It was fortunate that the artist was better, for Uncle William became lost in the kittens and their welfare. The weakest thing at hand claimed his interest. He carried them in a clam-basket from point to point, seeing the best spots for their comfort and development. Juno marched at his side, proud and happy. She purred approval of the universe and the ways of man. Wherever Uncle William deposited the basket, she took up her abode, serenely pleased ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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.... ”

“ 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.” ”

“ Uncle William shook his head again, returning the gaze with a kind of sternness. “I dunno,” he says. “When a man treats her like Andy has, she must kind o’ hate him—like pizen.”
The artist sat up, a look of hope faint and perplexed, dawning beneath his stare. He leaned forward, speaking slowly. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talkin’ about that.” Uncle William held out the letter. “It’s from Andy, and Juno’s left him. Took to the woods. She couldn’t stan’ havin’ him round, I guess.” Uncle William chuckled a little. ”

“ 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.” ”

“ But, you see, the Lord’s got him.”
“Yes, sir,” said Celia.
“You go right home—and you go to sleep,” said Uncle William.
“I’d rather stay here,” said the girl quickly, “this is home.”
“Why, so ’tis,” said Uncle William, “—and the’ ain’t any reason why you can’t stay as well as not. You just lie down on the lounge here.... Juno’s good comp’ny and there’s the fire, and lights.... You won’t get lonesome.” He patted the shoulder and was gone.
The girl finished the dishes and sat down in the big chair by the stove. ”

“ 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 smiled, quietly. “Perfect. He has never done anything so good.”
“It is a putty nice house,” said Uncle William. His eye dwelt on it fondly. “I’d a’most forgot how nice it was. You see that little cloud there—that one jest over the edge? That means suthin’ ’fore mornin’.” He lifted his hand to it. “I wouldn’t trust a sky like that—not without reefin’ down good.” He drew a breath. “Cur’us how it makes you feel right there!” he said. “I’d a’most forgot.” He glanced at the moving crowd a little hostilely and drew another deep breath. ”

“ She was looking at him, an amused question in her eyes.
“Is it speaking pieces?” said Uncle William, cautiously.
“Playing them, and singing—one or two. It’s a musicale, you know. You might like it—” She was still thinking, her forehead a little wrinkled. “They are nice girls and—Oh—?” the forehead suddenly lifted, “you would like it. There are sea-pieces—MacDowell’s. They’re just the thing.—” She held him hospitably.—“Do come. You would be sure to enjoy it.”
“Like enough,” said Uncle William. “It takes all kinds of singing to make a world. ”

“ 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 gloom in Andy’s face lifted.
“I’ve thought about that a good many times,” went on Uncle William. “It’s cur’us. You get to know folks that’s a good deal nicer than your own folks that you was born and brought up and have lived and quarreled with,—and you get to know ’em a good deal better some ways—but they ain’t the same as your own.” ”

“ 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. ”

“ Bodet looked at him critically. “I don’t see that you bend very much, William.” Uncle William’s broad shoulders spread themselves and he drew a deep breath. “That’s different, Benjy.... Men hadn’t o’t to bend—not without they have rheumatism or cramps and things.”
Celia whisked in at the door and out. Benjy’s eye followed her and returned to William.
“I know what you’re thinkin’, Benjy,” said Uncle William. “She’s straight as one o’ them rushes, up ’t the pond—and she ought to be.... She won’t bend for a spell yet—she’s got to know things first—Hello!—There’s George!” ”

“ 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?” ”

“ He knows the Island—and everybody on it.”
“Yes, I saw him. He said the papers were drawn and signed—two weeks ago—in his office. You’re not dealing with Andy—this time, William.”
“I guess I’ll go see Harr’et,” said Uncle William cheerfully. “And don’t you worry, Benjy. The’ ain’t nobody going to set on your land without you want ’em to—it ain’t right—and it ain’t goin’ to be.”
Uncle William smiled—a great, reassuring smile—and mounted the zigzag path to the cliff. For a minute his figure loomed against the sky at the top. Then it disappeared over the edge, headed toward Andy’s house. ”