“Just a-settin’ here a little,” replied Uncle William.
“Ain’t Benjy to home?” demanded Andy.
“Yes, he’s to home,” admitted William.
Andy looked toward the house.
“I wouldn’t go in, if I was you,” said William, “He’s kind o’ tending to things—in his mind.”
But if Bodet fretted1 at delays and slow decisions and failure of material to arrive, he caught the spirit of the place, after a little, and settled down to it and held up work—a week at a time—while he changed details or pottered over new ones. Uncle William—in his element—went back and forth2 between the old chimney-place and his house, carrying ideas and bricks with impartial3 hand. George Manning, with one eye on his plans and the other on his men, pushed the work or held it back, as the wind blew. When the men grumbled4 over a foundation wall torn out and put in again, with a hair’s breadth of difference, he looked at them with slow, sympathetic eye and admitted that it wasn’t so very much different, maybe—just enough to look different, somehow.
It was when he had studied on the roofline a week or more, that he came in one morning—a look of cautious elation5 in his face.
Bodet sat before the fire reading day-before-yesterday’s paper. Uncle William was pottering about, finishing the last of the dishes, and Celia was down at, Andy’s helping6 Harriet who was ill.
Bodet looked up as the young man came in, and laid down his paper. “How is it coming on?” he said. The tone was mild. He had had a good night’s rest, and he had come somehow to share Uncle William’s belief that Manning would find a way out—“only give him time enough and suthin’ to figger on.”
The young man seated himself on the red lounge, his hat between his knees. “I don’t suppose you ’d like going up and down stairs?” he said.
Bodet looked at him a little quizzically and swung his glasses to his nose. “That depends,” he replied.
“It won’t be stairs exactly,” said Manning, “just steps, maybe. You drop the floor of the south room to get your level and then put some steps here—” He came over with the paper.
Bodet took it in cautious fingers.
Manning bent7 over him. “There’s the living-room and the fire-place,” He indicated the rough lines, “—just where you want them—You kind of look down into the room, you see, when the door’s open—instead of all on a level—?”
“I see.” Bodet studied it with lifting face.
Uncle William came over and stood by them, his dish towel on his arm and his glasses alert—“The house sort o’ climbs down the rocks, don’t it?” he suggested. “I’ve seen them that way—foreign parts—a lot.” The glow in his face swept the room. “I do’ ’no’ how we didn’t come to think of it, fust thing—easy as settin’.”
“Just about,” said Bodet. “How did you get it?” He looked at the young man. “You never saw a room like that, did you?”
“No, I never saw one,” he replied slowly—“but something ’d got to give way somewheres. You wouldn’t let the roof-line be touched, nor the ground, and there wasn’t anything left to give way—but the floor. I guess it kind of dropped down by itself—while I was figuring on it.” He looked at it fondly.
“It improves the thing fifty per cent,” said Bodet. He held off the paper, scanning it with happy vision, “We ’ll have a little railing here, with carving8 on it, and something leading up to it—It’s the feature of the place.” He handed it back. “Go ahead with it. There isn’t anything else to decide, is there?”
“No. Things are coming on.” He took the paper, tucking it in his pocket. “The ’Happy Thought’ got in last night with her lumber9 and the new masons came this morning. I was kind of bothered about their not getting here, and the Widow Deman’s well going dryer10 and dryer all the while, and no brickwork getting done. I’ll go set ’em to work.” He nodded and was gone.
Uncle William looked after him with smiling face. “He’s a nice boy,” he said, “You just can’t find a thing George can’t figger out.”
“He’s a genius,” said Bodet thoughtfully, “He ought to be somewhere besides on this island—somewhere he ’d have a chance.”
“Chance for what?” asked Uncle William, with simple interest.
“A chance to rise,” said Bodet with emphasis. “It’s all right for you and me, William—old men—with our work done—”
“Mine ain’t quite done,” said William, “—your bed and two-three things,” and he flaxed around softly as if he were doing something.
Bodet smiled at him. “Now what do you think you are doing, William?” he said. “We’re out of it. We’ve had our day—we’ve worked and fought and suffered—”
“That’s it, Benjy.” Uncle William nodded, “We hev had a good time, ain’t we? But I do’ ’no’s I ever had a better one ’n I’m having right here on the Island—specially since you come,” he added.
The other shook his head. “It won’t do, William. 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. We don’t hurry much, but seems to me we get about as much—about as much living as other folks do.” He looked at him over his glasses. “We’ve got enough to eat, and beds—putty good beds—and things to wear.... I keep a-thinking and a-thinking about it,” he went on, “and I don’t see just what ’tis we o’t to scratch around so for.”
“There’s education,” said the other, swinging his long glasses on their slender chain.
“Yes, you’ve got eddication, Benjy. I can see it—kind o’ the way you set in a chair—different from my way.” Uncle William regarded his great legs with kindly11 eye. “But I do’ ’no’ ’s you’re any happier—or your legs any happier?” he said slowly.
“You know I’m not happier.” 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 hustling12 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.... I can’t see ’s the Lord hurries much,” he added, with a glance at the little window.
“You’re not the Lord, William,” said Benjy.
William smiled at him—his broad, kind smile, “‘Twas a kind o’ funny idea—my saying that—wa ’n’t it? I do’ ’no’ why I get to thinking about things—and about me and the Lord.... I reckon it’s because I’m out in a boat so much—kind o’ sailin’ around and watching how he does things—and kind o’ enjoying his ways,” he added softly.... “The’s suthin’-about it—suthin’ about the way the tides come in and the sun goes down and the stars come out—that makes you feel glad. I’ve seen George Manning, a good many times—when we was out, and had a ketch, and was coming along in, towards dark—I’ve seen him set and look... and I knew he wa ’n’t thinkin’ ’bout how many fish we ’d got—any more ’n. I was. You can’t think how many fish you’ve got—more ’n about so long—” said Uncle William thoughtfully.
He glanced down the road. “There’s Celia comin’,” he said happily. He went over and watched her come—“Don’t she kind o’ skim along good, Benjy!” The smile on his big face kindled13 and deepened. “It’s most too bad George ain’t here.” He looked back into the room with a shrewd glance. “He never see anybody just like her—I reckon.”
Bodet shook his head. “You better let well enough alone, William.”
“Well, mebbe I will,” said Uncle William. “‘Twon’t hurt none for him to see her—will it?... You got back pretty quick, Celia.”—He looked kindly at her glowing cheeks, “How’s Harr’et?”
“She’s feeling better,” said the girl. She glanced about the room, “You did the dishes!—I didn’t mean you to do the dishes.”
“I didn’t do ’em so very well,” said Uncle William. “We had company whilst you was gone,” he added craftily14.
She looked at him—“That young fellow that’s building his house for him?” She nodded at Bodet, who had taken his hat and gone outside.
Uncle William nodded back—“That’s the one, Celia—You ain’t ever seen him, have you?”
“I’ve seen him out of the window,” she said shortly, “That’s near enough for me—seeing him go by.”
Uncle William’s face fell a little. “I guess I’ll go ’long up with Benjy,” he said.
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1
fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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2
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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3
impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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4
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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5
elation
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| n.兴高采烈，洋洋得意 | |
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6
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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7
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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8
carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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9
lumber
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| n.木材，木料；v.以破旧东西堆满；伐木；笨重移动 | |
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10
dryer
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| n.干衣机，干燥剂 | |
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11
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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12
hustling
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| 催促（hustle的现在分词形式） | |
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13
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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14
craftily
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| 狡猾地，狡诈地 | |
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