“Yes,” said Ira, “I think I must go. Is there anything I can do for you in Portland or Boston?”
“Wal, I guess I’ll ask one thing; ’tain’t much, an’ you said my boy looked arter you a little, ’fore the schooner struck. There’s a spot down on the sheltered side of Black Rock Head, jest to the end o’ my meader, where I allers calkerlated to be buried, some day or other, along with the old woman. I can’t find my boy to bury him there,” he added simply, “but I’d like to put up somethin’ of a moniment t’ make us think of him. These gravestone pedlars don’t come very often to The Island; they tried it fer several years, but folks seemed t’ give up dyin’ and they didn’t git no orders. Wal, I wish when you git to Boston, you’d look ’round an’ buy me a handsome pair o’ stones, a big one with a round top fer the head, an’ a small one fer the feet, an’ have Willum’s name an’ age put on—I’ll write it down an’ Mirandy ’ll look up a text. Have ’em leave room enough below Willum’s for another name. When dyin’ once gits into a family, there’s no knowing where it ’ll stop. I feel as if there’d be some more on us goin’ afore long. They kin ship the stones in some of these coasters an’ I’ll pay fer ’em down to the custom house. ’Tain’t askin’ too much, I hope, mister?”
“Certainly not,” said Ira, much affected and resolving that there should be no bill at the custom house. “I’ll see that it is done just as you wish.”
“Thanky kindly,” said the old man. “When the stones come along, I’ll set ’em under the cedars. It’ll do mother an’ me a sight o’ good to see ’em an’ kind er make our boy seem near.”
“There’s one thing I wish to speak to you about,” said Mr. Waddy, after a considerable silence. “This Miss Sullivan—I have money enough and to spare. Do you know of anything I could do for her?”
The question was put rather awkwardly; Mr. Waddy knew as well as anyone that money is not the current coin to repay an act of devotion.
“Wal,” said Dempster, seeing the good feeling that suggested and checked the inquiry, “I don’t believe she wants fer money. She offered me a thousand dollars fer our P’int. I told her perhaps I’d sell out the whole farm for two thousand. I’ve been talkin’ some, along back, with Willum, of goin’ out west an’ settlin’ by some o’ them big lakes. When folks has been used to water, they don’t like to live away from it. Willum’s gone, but Dan’l’s a handy boy, an’ Mirandy’s as good as a whole drawin’ of some men. I guess we’ll go. It don’t look quite so bright ’round here as it did,” and he passed his hand across his eyes.
“If Miss Sullivan doesn’t buy it, I will,” said Ira quickly. “Can you tell me where she is to be found, so that I can have inquiry made what her decision is? This is just the spot I should like to buy—it is a good lonely place, where I can escape from my friends,—if I ever make any,” he added, in a half-voice and rather bitterly.
“She came with a grist o’ folks from York,” said Dempster; “pretty good folks, but different kind to her. Mirandy had their names on a paper, but it got lost. But she said she’d write about the farm an’ I kin let you know. Wal, if you want to go in the mornin’ I must go over an’ tell Jake. I’ll be gone to the other field when you start; so good-bye.”
He gave Waddy a crushing grasp of the hand and looked at him wistfully, as if he were recalling his son through this one who had seen him last. Then, feeling that tears—tears of that better manhood which men call unmanly—were falling over his brown cheeks, now hollow with fatigue and sleepless grief, he unclosed his hand with grave gentleness and walked slowly away.