And now affairs at the lights settled down into a daily routine in which the lightkeeper and his helper each played his appointed part. All mysteries now being solved, and the trust between them mutual and without reserve, they no longer were on their guard in each other's presence, but talked freely on all sorts of topics, and expressed their mutual dislike of woman with frequency and point. No regular assistant was appointed or seemed likely to be, for the summer, at least. Seth and his friend, the superintendent, held another lengthy conversation over the wire, and, while Brown's uncertain status remained the same, there was a tacit understanding that, by the first of September, if the young man was sufficiently “broken in,” the position vacated by Ezra Payne should be his—if he still wanted it.
“You may change your mind by that time,” observed Seth. “This ain't no place for a chap with your trainin', and I know it. It does well enough for an old derelict like me, with nobody to care a hang whether he lives or dies, but you're different. And even for me the lonesomeness of it drives me 'most crazy sometimes. I've noticed you've been havin' blue streaks more often than when you first came. I cal'late that by fall you'll be headin' somewheres else, Mr. 'John Brown,'” with significant emphasis upon the name.
Brown stoutly denied being “bluer” than usual, and his superior did not press the point. Seth busied himself in his spare time with the work on the Daisy M. and with his occasional trips behind Joshua to the village. Brown might have made some of these trips, but he did not care to. Solitude and seclusion he still desired, and there were more of these than anything else at the Twin-Lights.
The lightkeeper experimented with no more dogs, but he had evidently not forgotten the lifesaving man's warning concerning possible thieves, for he purchased a big spring-lock in Eastboro and attached it to the door of the boathouse on the little wharf. The lock was, at first, a good deal more of a nuisance than an advantage, for the key was always being forgotten or mislaid, and, on one occasion, the door blew shut with Atkins inside the building, and he pounded and shrieked for ten minutes before his helper heard him and descended to the rescue.
June crawled by, and July came. Crawled is the proper word, for John Brown had never known days so long or weeks so unending as those of that early summer. The monotony was almost never broken, and he began to find it deadly. He invented new duties about the lights and added swimming and walks up and down the beach to his limited list of recreations.
The swimming he especially enjoyed. The cove made a fine bathing place, and the boathouse was his dressing room, though the fragrance of the ancient fish nets stored within it was not that of attar of roses. A cheap bathing suit was one of the luxuries Atkins had bought for him, by request, in Eastboro. Seth bought the suit under protest, for he scoffed openly at his helper's daily bath.
“I should think,” the lightkeeper declared over and over again, “that you'd had salt water soak enough to last you for one spell; a feller that come as nigh drownin' as you done!”
Seth did not care for swimming; the washtub every Saturday night furnished him with baths sufficient.
He was particular to warn his helper against the tide in the inlet: “The cove's all right,” he said, “but you want to look out and not try to swim in the crick where it's narrow, or in that deep hole by the end of the wharf, where the lobster car's moored. When the tide's comin' in or it's dead high water, the current's strong there. On the ebb it'll snake you out into the breakers sure as I'm settin' here tellin' you. The cove's all right and good and safe; but keep away from the narrer part of the crick.”
Swimming was good fun, and walking, on pleasant days, was an aid in shaking off depression; but, in spite of his denials and his attempts at appearing contented, the substitute assistant realized that he was far from that happy condition. He did not want to meet people, least of all people of his own station in life—his former station. Atkins was a fine chap, in his way; but . . . Brown was lonely . . . and when one is lonely, one thinks of what might have been, and, perhaps, regrets. Regrets, unavailing regrets, are the poorest companions possible.
The lightkeeper, too, seemed lonely, which, considering his years of experience in his present situation, was odd. He explained his loneliness one evening by observing that he cal'lated he missed the painting chaps.
“What painting chaps?” asked Brown.
“Oh, them two young fellers that always used to come to the cottage—what you call the bungalow—across the cove there, the ones I told you about. They was real friendly, sociable young chaps, and I kind of liked to have 'em runnin' in and out. Seems queer to have it July, and they not here to hail me and come over to borrow stuff. And they was forever settin' around under white sunshades, sloppin' paint onto paper. I most wish they hadn't gone to Europe. I cal'late you'd have liked 'em, too.”
“Perhaps,” said the helper, doubtfully.
“Oh, you would; no perhaps about it. It don't seem right to see the bungalow all shuttered up and deserted this time of year. You'd have liked to meet them young painters; they was your kind.”
“Yes, I know. Perhaps that's why I shouldn't like to meet them.”
“Hey? . . . Oh, yes, yes; I see. I never thought of that. But 'tain't likely they'd know you; they hailed from Boston, not New York.”
“How did you know I came from New York? I didn't tell you that.”
“No, you didn't, that's a fact. But, you said you left the city where you lived and came to Boston, so I sort of guessed New York. But that's all right; I don't know and I don't care. Names and places you and me might just as well not tell, even to each other. If we don't tell them, we can answer 'don't know' to questions and tell the truth; hey?”
One morning about a week later, Brown, his dish washing and sweeping done, was busy in the light-room at the top of the right hand tower, polishing the brass of the lantern. The curtains were drawn on the landward side, and those toward the sea open. Seth, having finished his night watching and breakfast, was audibly asleep in the house. Brown rubbed and polished leisurely, his thoughts far away, and a frown on his face. For the thousandth time that week he decided that he was a loafer and a vagabond, and that it would have been much better for himself, and creation generally, if he had never risen after the plunge over the steamer's rail.
He pulled the cloth cover over the glittering lantern and descended the iron stair to the ground floor. When he emerged into the open air, he heard a sound which made him start and listen. The sound was the distant rattle of wheels from the direction of the village. Was another “picnic” coming? He walked briskly to the corner of the house and peered down the winding road. A carriage was in sight certainly, but it was going, not coming. He watched it move further away each moment. Someone—not the grocer or a tradesman—was driving to the village. But where had he been, and who was he? Not Seth, for Seth was asleep—he could hear him.
The driver of the carriage, whoever he was, had not visited the lights. And, as Atkins had said, there was nowhere else to go on that road. Brown, puzzled, looked about him, at the sea, the lights, the house, the creek, the cove, the bluff on the other side of the cove, the bungalow—ah! the bungalow!
For the door of the bungalow was open, and one or two of the shutters were down. The carriage had brought some person or persons to the bungalow and left them there. Instantly, of course, Brown thought of the artists from Boston. Probably they had changed their minds and decided to summer at Eastboro after all. His frown deepened.
Then, from across the cove, from the bungalow, came a shrill scream, a feminine scream. The assistant started, scarcely believing his ears. Before he could gather his wits, a stout woman, with a checked apron in her hand, rushed out of the bungalow door, looked about, saw him, and waved the apron like a flag.
“Hi!” she screamed. “Hi, you! Mr. Lighthouseman! come quick! do please come here quick and help us!”
There was but one thing to do, and Brown did it instinctively. He raced through the beach grass, down the hill, in obedience to the call. As he ran, he wondered who on earth the stout woman could be. Seth had said that the artists did their own housekeeping.
“Hurry up!” shrieked the stout woman, dancing an elephantine fandango in front of the bungalow. “Come ON!”
To run around the shore line of the cove would have taken a good deal of time. However, had the tide been at flood there would have been no other way—excepting by boat—to reach the cottage. But the tide was out, and the narrowest portion of the creek, the stream connecting the cove with the ocean, was but knee deep. Through the water splashed the substitute assistant and clambered up the bank beyond.
“Quick!” screamed the woman. “They'll eat us alive!”
“Who? What?” panted Brown.
“Wasps! They're in there! The room's full of 'em. If there's one thing on earth I'm scart of, it's . . . Don't stop to talk! Go IN!”
She indicated the door of a room adjoining the living room of the little cottage. From behind the door came sounds of upsetting furniture and sharp slaps. Evidently the artists were having a lively time. But they must be curious chaps to be afraid of wasps. Brown opened the door and entered, partly of his own volition, partly because he was pushed by the stout woman. Then he gasped in astonishment.
The wasps were there, dozens of them, and they had built a nest in the upper corner of the room. But they were not the astonishing part of the picture. A young woman was there, also; a young woman with dark hair and eyes, the sleeves of a white shirtwaist rolled above her elbows, and a wet towel in her right hand. She was skipping lightly about the room, slapping frantically at the humming insects.
“Mrs. Bascom,” she panted, “don't stand there screaming. Get another towel and—”
Then she turned and saw Brown. For an instant she, too, seemed astonished. But only for an instant.
“Oh, I'm so glad you came!” she exclaimed. “Here! take this! you must hit quick and HARD.”
“This” was the towel. The assistant took it mechanically. The young lady did not wait to give further orders. She rushed out of the room and shut the door. Brown was alone with the wasps, and they were lively company. When, at last, the battle was over, the last wasp was dead, the nest was a crumpled gray heap over in the corner, and the assistant's brow was ornamented with four red and smarting punctures, which promised to shortly become picturesque and painful lumps. Rubbing these absently with one hand, and bearing the towel in the other, he opened the door and stepped out into the adjoining room.
The two women were awaiting him. He found them standing directly in front of him as he emerged.
“Have you—have you killed them?” begged the younger of the pair.
“Be they all dead?” demanded the other.
Brown nodded solemnly. “I guess so,” he said. “They seem to be.”
“Oh, I'm so glad!” cried the dark haired girl. “I'm—we—are so much obliged to you.”
“If there's any critters on earth,” declared the stout woman, “that I can't stand, it's wasps and hornets and such. Mice, I don't mind—”
“I do,” interrupted her companion with emphasis.
“But when I walked into that room and seen that nest in the corner I was pretty nigh knocked over—and,” she added, “it takes consider'ble to do that to ME.”
The assistant looked at her. “Yes,” he said, absently, “I should think it might. That is, I mean—I—I beg your pardon.”
He paused and wiped his forehead with the towel. The young lady burst into a peal of laughter, in which the stout woman joined. The laugh was so infectious that even Brown was obliged to smile.
“I apologize,” he stammered. “I didn't mean that exactly as it sounded. I'm not responsible mentally—yet—I guess.”
“I don't wonder.” It was the stout woman who answered. The girl had turned away and was looking out the window; her shoulders shook. “I shouldn't think you would be. Hauled in bodily, as you might say, and shut up in a room to fight wasps! And by folks you never saw afore and don't know from Adam! You needn't apologize. I'd forgive you if you said somethin' a good deal worse'n that. I'm long past the age where I'm sensitive about my weight, thank goodness.”
“And we ARE so much obliged to you.” The girl was facing him once more, and she was serious, though the corners of her mouth still twitched. “The whole affair is perfectly ridiculous,” she said, “but Mrs. Bascom was frightened and so was I—when I had time to realize it. Thank you again.”
“You're quite welcome, I'm sure. No trouble at all.”
The assistant turned to go. His brain was beginning to regain a little of its normal poise, and he was dimly conscious that he had been absent from duty quite long enough.
“Maybe you'd like to know who 'tis you've helped,” observed the stout woman. “And, considerin' that we're likely to be next-door neighbors for a spell, I cal'late introductions are the proper thing. My name's Bascom. I'm housekeeper for Miss Ruth Graham. This is Miss Graham.”
The young lady offered a hand. Brown took it.
“Graham?” he repeated. “Where?” Then, remembering a portion of what Seth had told him, he added, “I see! the—the artist?”
“My brother is an artist. He and his friend, Mr. Hamilton, own this bungalow. They are abroad this summer, and I am going to camp here for a few weeks—Mrs. Bascom and I. I paint a little, too, but only for fun.”
Brown murmured a conventionality concerning his delight at meeting the pair, and once more headed for the door. But Mrs. Bascom's curiosity would not permit him to escape so easily.
“I thought,” she said, “when I see you standin' over there by the lights, that you must be one of the keepers. Not the head keeper—I knew you wa'n't him—but an assistant, maybe. But I guess you're only a visitor, Mister—Mister—?”
“Brown.”
“Yes, Mr. Brown. I guess you ain't no keeper, are you?”
“I am the assistant keeper at present. Yes.”
“You don't say!” Mrs. Bascom looked surprised. So, too, did Miss Graham. “You don't look like a lighthouse keeper,” continued the former. “Oh, I don't mean your clothes!” noticing the young man's embarrassed glance at his wet and far from immaculate garments. “I mean the way you talk and act. You ain't been here long, have you?”
“No.”
“Just come this summer?”
“Yes.”
“I thought so. You ain't a Cape Codder?”
“No.”
“I was sure you wa'n't. Where DO you come from?”
Brown hesitated. Miss Graham, noticing his hesitation, hastened to end the inquisition.
“Mr. Brown can't stop to answer questions, Mrs. Bascom,” she said. “I'm sure he wants to get back to his work. Good morning, Mr. Brown. No doubt we shall see each other often, being the only neighbors in sight. Call again—do. I solemnly promise that you shall have to fight no more wasps.”
“Say!” The stout woman took a step forward. “Speakin' of wasps . . . stand still a minute, Mr. Brown, won't you. What's them lumps on your forehead? Why, I do believe you've been bit. You have, sure and sartin!”
Miss Graham was very much concerned. “Oh, no!” she exclaimed; “I hope not. Let me see.”
“No, indeed!” The assistant was on the step by this time and moving rapidly. “Nothing at all. No consequence. Good morning.”
He almost ran down the hill and crossed the creek at the wading place. As he splashed through, the voice of the housekeeper reached his ears.
“Cold mud's the best thing,” she screamed. “Put it on thick. It takes out the smart. Good and thick, mind!”
For the next hour or two the lightkeeper's helper moved about his household tasks in a curious frame of mind. He was thoroughly angry—or thought he was—and very much disturbed. Neighbors of any kind were likely to be a confounded nuisance, but two women! Heavens! And the stout woman was sure to be running in for calls and to borrow things. As for the other, she seemed a nice girl enough, but he never wanted to see another girl, nice or otherwise. Her eyes were pretty, so was her hair, but what of it? Oh, hang the luck! Just here he banged his swollen forehead on the sharp edge of the door, and found relief in profanity.
Seth Atkins was profane, also, when he heard the news. Brown said nothing until his superior discovered with his own eyes that the bungalow was open. Then, in answer to the lightkeeper's questions, came the disclosure of the truth.
“Women!” roared Seth. “You say there's two WOMEN goin' to live there? By Judas! I don't believe it!”
“Go and see for yourself, then,” was the brusque answer.
“I sha'n't, neither. Who told you?”
“They did.”
“They DID? Was you there?”
“Yes.”
“What for? I thought you swore never to go nigh a woman again.”
“I did, but—well, it wasn't my fault. I—”
“Yes? Go on.”
“I went because I couldn't help myself. Went to help some one else, in fact. I expected to find Graham and that other artist. But—”
“Well, go ON.”
“I was stung,” said Mr. Brown, gloomily, and rubbed his forehead.
During the following day the occupants of the lightkeeper's dwelling saw little or nothing of the newcomers at the bungalow. Brown, his forehead resembling a section of a relief map of the Rocky Mountains, remained indoors as much as possible, working when there was anything to do, and reading back-number magazines when there was not. Seth went, as usual, to his room soon after noon. His slumbers must, however, have been fitful ones, for several times the substitute assistant, turning quickly, saw the bedroom door swing silently shut. The third time that this happened he ran to the door and threw it open in season to catch Mr. Atkins in an undignified dive for the bed. A tremendous snore followed the dive. The young man regarded him in silence for a few moments, during which the snores continued. Then he shook his head.
“Humph!” he soliloquized; “I must 'phone for the doctor at once. Either the doctor or the superintendent. If he has developed that habit, he isn't fit for this job.”
He turned away. The slumberer stirred uneasily, rolled over, opened one eye, and sat up.
“Hi!” he called. “Come back here! Where you goin'?”
Brown returned, looking surprised and anxious.
“Oh!” he exclaimed, “are you awake?”
“Course I'm awake! What a fool question that is. Think I'm settin' up here and talkin' in my sleep?”
“Well, I didn't know.”
“Why didn't you know? And, see here! what did you mean by sayin' you was goin' to 'phone the doctor or the superintendent, one or t'other? Yes, you said it. I heard you.”
“Oh, no! you didn't.”
“Tell you I did. Heard you with my own ears.”
“But how could you? You weren't awake.”
“Course I was awake! Couldn't have heard you unless I was, could I? What ails you? Them stings go clear through to your brains, did they?”
Again Brown shook his head.
“This is dreadful!” he murmured. “He walks in his sleep, and snores when he's awake. I MUST call the doctor.”
“What—what—” The lightkeeper's wrath was interfering with his utterance. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sputtered incoherently.
“Be calm, Atkins,” coaxed the assistant. “Don't complicate your diseases by adding heart trouble. Three times today I've caught you peeping at me through the crack of that door. Within fifteen seconds of the last peep I find you snoring. Therefore, I say—”
“Aw, belay! I was only—only just lookin' out to see what time it was.”
“But you must have done it in your sleep, because—”
“I never. I was wide awake as you be.”
“But why did you snore? You couldn't have fallen asleep between the door and the bed. And you hadn't quite reached the bed when I got here.”
“I—I—I—Aw, shut up!”
Brown smiled blandly. “I will,” he said, “provided you promise to keep this door shut and don't do any more spying.”
“Spyin'? What do you mean by that?”
“Just what I said. You and I had a discussion concerning that same practice when I fell over the bank at the Slough a while ago. I was not spying then, but you thought I was, and you didn't like it. Now I think you are, and I don't like it.”
“Wh—what—what would I be spyin' on you for? Wh—what reason would I have for doin' it?”
“No good reason; because I have no intention of visiting our new neighbors—none whatever. That being understood, perhaps you'll shut the door and keep it shut.”
Seth looked sheepish and guilty.
“Well,” he said, after a moment's reflection, “I beg your pardon. But I couldn't help feelin' kind of uneasy. I—I ought to know better, I s'pose; but, with a young, good-lookin' girl landed unexpected right next to us, I—I—”
“How did you know she was good-looking? I didn't mention her looks.”
“No, you didn't, but—but . . . John Brown, I've been young myself, and I know that at your age most ANY girl's good-lookin'. There!”
He delivered this bit of wisdom with emphasis and a savage nod of the head. Brown had no answer ready, that is, no relevant answer.
“You go to bed and shut the door,” he repeated, turning to go.
“All right, I will. But don't you forget our agreement.”
“I have no intention of forgetting it.”
“What ARE you goin' to do?”
“Do? What do you mean?”
“I mean what are you goin' to do now that things down here's changed, and you and me ain't alone, same as we was?”
“I don't know. I'm not sure that I sha'n't leave—clear out.”
“What? Clear out? Run away and leave me alone to—to . . . By time! I didn't think you was a deserter.”
The substitute assistant laughed bitterly. “You needn't worry,” he said. “I couldn't go far, even if I wanted to. I haven't any money.”
“That's so.” Seth was evidently relieved. “All right,” he observed; “don't you worry. 'Twon't be but a couple of months anyway, and we'll fight it through together. But ain't it a shame! Ain't it an everlastin' shame that this had to happen just as we'd come to understand each other and was so contented and friendly! Well, there's only one thing to do; that's to make the best of it for us and the worst for them. We'll keep to ourselves and pay no attention to em no more'n if they wa'n't there. We'll forget 'em altogether; hey? . . . I say we'll forget 'em altogether, won't we?”
Brown's answer was short and sharp.
“Yes,” he said, and slammed the door behind him. Seth slowly shook his head before he laid it on the pillow. He was not entirely easy in his mind, even yet.
However, there was no more spying, and the lightkeeper did not mention the bungalow tenants when he appeared at supper time. After the meal he bolted to the lights, and was on watch in the tower when his helper retired.
Early the next afternoon Brown descended the path to the boathouse. He had omitted his swim the day before. Now, however, he intended to have it. Simply because those female nuisances had seen fit to intrude where they had no business was no reason why he should resign all pleasure. He gave a quick glance upward at the opposite bank as he reached the wharf. There was no sign of life about the bungalow.
He entered the boathouse, undressed, and donned his bathing suit. In a few minutes he was ready, and, emerging upon the wharf, walked briskly back along the shore of the creek to where it widened into the cove. There he plunged in, and was soon luxuriating in the cool, clear water.
He swam with long, confident strokes, those of a practiced swimmer. This was worth while. It was the one place where he could forget that he was no longer the only son of a wealthy father, heir to a respected name—which was NOT Brown—a young man with all sorts of brilliant prospects; could forget that he was now a disinherited vagabond, a loafer who had been unable to secure a respectable position, an outcast. He swam and dove and splashed, rejoicing in his strength and youth and the freedom of all outdoors.
Then, as he lay lazily paddling in deep water, he heard the rattle of gravel on the steep bank of the other side of the cove. Looking up, he saw, to his huge disgust, a female figure in a trim bathing suit descending the bluff from the bungalow. It was the girl who had left him to fight the wasps. Her dark hair was covered with a jauntily tied colored handkerchief, and, against the yellow sand of the bluff, she made a very pretty picture. Not that Brown was interested, but she did, nevertheless.
She saw him and waved a hand. “Good morning,” she called. “Beautiful day for a swim, isn't it?”
“Yes,” growled the young man, brusquely. He turned and began to swim in the opposite direction, up the cove. The girl looked after him, raised a puzzled eyebrow, and then, with a shrug, waded into the water. The next time the assistant looked at her, she was swimming with long, sweeping strokes down the narrow creek to the bend and the deep hole at the end of the wharf. Round that bend and through that hole the tide whirled, like a rapid, out into the miniature bay behind Black Man's Point. It was against that tide that Seth Atkins had warned him.
And the girl was swimming directly toward the dangerous narrows. Brown growled an exclamation of disgust. He had no mind to continue the acquaintance, and yet he couldn't permit her to do that.
“Miss Graham!” he called. “Oh, Miss Graham!”
She heard him, but did not stop.
“Yes?” she called in answer, continuing to swim. “What is it?”
“You mustn't—” shouted Brown. Then he remembered that he must not shout. Shouting might awaken the lightkeeper, and the latter would misunderstand the situation, of course. So he cut his warning to one word.
“Wait!” he called, and began swimming toward her. She did not come to meet him, but merely ceased swimming and turned on her back to float. And, floating, the tide would carry her on almost as rapidly as if she assisted it. That tide did not need any assistance. Brown swung on his side and settled into the racing stroke, the stroke which had won him cups at the athletic club.
He reached her in a time so short that she was surprised into an admiring comment.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, “you CAN swim!”
He did not thank her for the compliment. There was no time for that, even if he had felt like it.
“You shouldn't be here,” he said sharply.
She looked at him.
“Why, what do you mean?” she demanded.
“It isn't safe. A little farther, and the tide would carry you out to sea. Come back, back up to the cove at once.”
He expected her to ask more questions, but she did not. Instead she turned and struck out in silence. Against the tide, even there, the pull was tremendous.
“Shall I help you?” he asked.
“No, I can make it.”
And she did. It was his turn to be surprised into admiration.
“By Jove!” he panted, as they swung into the quiet water of the cove and stood erect in the shallows, “that was great! You are a good swimmer.”
“Thank you,” she answered, breathlessly. “It WAS a tug, wasn't it? Thank you for warning me. Now tell me about the dangerous places, please.”
He told her, repeating Seth's tales of the tide's strength.
“But it is safe enough here?” she asked.
“Oh, yes! perfectly safe anywhere this side of the narrow part—the creek.”
“I'm so glad. This water is glorious, and I began to be afraid I should have to give it up.”
“The creek, and even the bay itself are safe enough at flood,” he went on. “I often go there then. When the tide is coming in it is all right even for—”
He paused. She finished the sentence for him. “Even for a girl, you were going to say.” She waded forward to where the shoal ended and the deeper part began. There she turned to look at him over her shoulder.
“I'm going to that beach over there,” she said, pointing across the cove. “Do you want to race?”
Without waiting to see whether he did or not, she struck out for the beach. And, without stopping to consider why he did it, the young man followed her.
The race was not so one-sided. Brown won it by some yards, but he had to work hard. His competitor did not give up when she found herself falling behind, but was game to the end.
“Well,” she gasped, “you beat me, didn't you? I never could get that side stroke, and it's ever so much faster.”
“It's simple enough. Just a knack. I'll teach you if you like.”
“Will you? That's splendid.”
“You are the strongest swimmer, Miss Graham, for a girl, that I ever saw. You must have practiced a great deal.”
“Yes, Horace—my brother—taught me. He is a splendid swimmer, one of the very best.”
“Horace Graham? Why, you don't mean Horace Graham of the Harvard Athletic?”
“Yes, I do. He is my brother. But how . . . Do you know him?”
The surprise in her tone was evident. Brown bit his lip. He remembered that Cape Cod lightkeepers' helpers were not, as a usual thing, supposed to be widely acquainted in college athletic circles.
“I have met him,” he stammered.
“But where—” she began; and then, “why, of course! you met him here. I forgot that he has been your neighbor for three summers.”
The assistant had forgotten it, too, but he was thankful for the reminder.
“Yes. Yes, certainly,” he said. She regarded him with a puzzled look.
“It's odd he didn't mention you,” she observed. “He has told me a great deal about the bungalow, and the sea views, and the loneliness and the quaintness of it all. That was what made me wish to spend a month down here and experience it myself. And he has often spoken,” with an irrepressible smile, “of your—of the lightkeeper, Mr. Atkins. That is his name, isn't it?”
“Yes.”
“I want to meet him. Horace said he was—well, rather odd, but, when you knew him, a fine fellow and full of dry humor. I'm sure I should like him.”
Brown smiled, also—and broadly. He mentally pictured Seth's reception of the news that he was “liked” by the young lady across the cove. And then it occurred to him, with startling suddenness, that he had been conversing very familiarly with that young lady, notwithstanding the solemn interchange of vows between the lightkeeper and himself.
“I must be going,” he said hastily; “good morning, Miss Graham.”
He waded to the shore and strode rapidly back toward the boathouse. His companion called after him.
“I shall expect you to-morrow afternoon,” she said. “You've promised to teach me that side stroke, remember.”
Brown dressed in a great hurry and climbed the path to the lights at the double quick. All was safe and serene in the house, and he breathed more freely. Atkins was sound asleep, really asleep, in the bedroom, and when he emerged he was evidently quite unaware of his helper's unpremeditated treason. Brown's conscience pricked him, however, and he went to bed that night vowing over and over that he would be more careful thereafter. He would take care not to meet the Graham girl again. Having reached this decision, there remained nothing but to put her out of his mind entirely; which he succeeded in doing at a quarter after eleven, when he fell asleep. Even then she was not entirely absent, for he dreamed a ridiculous dream about her.
Next day he did not go for a swim, but remained in the house. Seth, at supper, demanded to know what ailed him.
“You're as mum as the oldest inhabitant of a deaf and dumb asylum,” was the lightkeeper's comment. “And ugly as a bull in fly time. What ails you?”
“Nothing.”
“Humph! better take somethin' for it, seems to me. Little 'Stomach Balm,' hey? No? Well, GO to bed! Your room's enough sight better'n your company just now.”
The helper's ill nature was in evidence again at breakfast time. Seth endeavored to joke him out of it, but, not succeeding, and finding his best jokes received with groans instead of laughter, gave it up in disgust and retired. The young man cleared the table, piled the dishes in the sink, heated a kettleful of water and began the day's drudgery, drudgery which he once thought was fun.
Why had he had the ill luck to fall overboard from that steamer. Or why didn't he drown when he did fall overboard? Then he would have been comfortably dead, at all events. Why hadn't he stayed in New York or Boston or somewhere and kept on trying for a position, for work—any kind of work? He might have starved while trying, but people who were starving were self-respecting, and when they met other people—for instance, sisters of fellows they used to know—had nothing to be ashamed of and needn't lie—unless they wanted to. He was a common loafer, under a false name, down on a sandheap washing dishes. At this point he dropped one of the dishes—a plate—and broke it.
“D—n!” observed John Brown, under his breath, but with enthusiasm.
He stooped to pick up the fragments of the plate, and, rising once more to an erect position, found himself facing Miss Ruth Graham. She was standing in the doorway.
“Don't mind me, please,” she said. “No doubt I should feel the same way if it were my plate.”
The young man's first move, after recovery, was to make sure that the door between the kitchen and the hall leading to the lightkeeper's bedroom was shut. It was, fortunately. The young lady watched him in silence, though her eyes were shining.
“Good morning, Mr. Brown,” she observed, gravely.
The assistant murmured a good morning, from force of habit.
“There's another piece you haven't picked up,” continued the visitor, pointing.
Brown picked up the piece.
“Is Mr. Atkins in?” inquired the girl.
“Yes, he's—he's in.”
“May I see him, please?”
“I—I—”
“If he's busy, I can wait.” She seated herself in a chair. “Don't let me interrupt you,” she continued. “You were busy, too, weren't you?”
“I was washing dishes,” declared Brown, savagely.
“Oh!”
“Yes. Washing and sweeping and doing scrubwoman's work are my regular employments.”
“Indeed! Then I'm just in time to help. Is this the dish towel?” regarding it dubiously.
“It is, but I don't need any help, thank you.”
“Of course you do. Everyone is glad to be helped at doing dishes. I may as well make myself useful while I'm waiting for Mr. Atkins.”
She picked up a platter and proceeded to wipe it, quite as a matter of course. Brown, swearing inwardly, turned fiercely to the suds.
“Did you wish to see Atkins on particular business?” he asked, a moment later.
“Oh, no; I wanted to make his acquaintance, that's all. Horace told me so many interesting things about him. By the way, was it last summer, or the summer before, that you met my brother here?”
No answer. Miss Graham repeated her question. “Was it last summer or the summer before?” she asked.
“Oh—er—I don't remember. Last summer, I think.”
“Why, you must remember. How could any one forget anything that happened down here? So few things do happen, I should say. So you met him last summer?”
“Yes.”
“Hum! that's odd.”
“Shall I call Atkins? He's in his room.”
“I say it is odd, because, when Mrs. Bascom and I first met you, you told us this was your first summer here.”
There wasn't any answer to this; at least the assistant could think of none at the moment.
“Do you wish me to call Atkins?” he asked, sharply. “He's asleep, but I can wake him.”
“Oh! he's asleep. Now I understand why you whisper even when you sw—that is, when you break a plate. You were afraid of waking him. How considerate you are.”
Brown put down the dishcloth. “It isn't altogether consideration for him—or for myself,” he said grimly. “I didn't care to wake him unless you took the responsibility.”
“Why?”
“Because, Miss Graham, Seth Atkins took the position of lightkeeper here almost for the sole reason that no women ever came here. Mr. Atkins is a woman-hater of the most rabid type. I'll wake him up if you wish, but I won't be responsible for the consequences.”
The young lady stared at him in surprise, delighted surprise apparently, judging by the expression of her face.
“A woman-hater?” she repeated. “Is he really?”
“He is.” Mr. Brown neglected to add that he also had declared himself a member of the same fraternity. Perhaps he thought it was not necessary.
“A woman-hater!” Miss Graham fairly bubbled with mischievous joy. “Oh, jolly! now I'm CRAZY to meet him!”
The assistant moved toward the hall door. “Very good!” he observed with grim determination. “I think he'll cure your lunacy.”
His hand was outstretched toward the latch, when the young lady spoke again.
“Wait a minute,” she said. “Perhaps I had better not wake him now.”
“Just as you say. The pleasure is—or will be—entirely mine, I assure you.”
“No—o. On the whole, I think I'll wait until later. I may call again. Good morning.”
She moved across the threshold. Then, standing on the mica slab which was the step to the kitchen door, she turned to say:
“You didn't swim yesterday.”
“No—o. I—I was busy.”
“I see.”
She paused, as if expecting him to say something further on the subject. He was silent. Her manner changed.
“Good morning,” she said, coldly, and walked off. The assistant watched her as she descended the path to the cove, but she did not once look back. Brown threw himself into a chair. He had never hated anyone as thoroughly as he hated himself at the moment.
“What a cheerful liar she must think I am,” he reflected. “She caught me in that fool yarn about meeting her brother here last summer; and now, after deliberately promising to teach her that stroke, I don't go near her. What a miserable liar she must think I am! And I guess I am. By George, I can't be such a cad. I've got to make good somehow. I must give her ONE lesson. I must.”
The tide served for bathing about three that afternoon. At ten minutes before that hour the substitute assistant keeper of Eastboro Twin-Lights tiptoed silently to the bedroom of his superior and peeped in. Seth was snoring peacefully. Brown stealthily withdrew. At three, precisely, he emerged from the boathouse on the wharf, clad in his bathing suit.
Fifteen minutes after three, Seth Atkins, in his stocking feet and with suspicion in his eye, crept along the path to the edge of the bluff. Crouching behind a convenient sand dune he raised his head and peered over it.
Below him was the cove, its pleasant waters a smooth, deep blue, streaked and bordered with pale green. But the water itself did not interest Seth. In that water was his helper, John Brown, of nowhere in particular, John Brown, the hater of females, busily engaged in teaching a young woman to swim.
Atkins watched this animated picture for some minutes. Then, carefully crawling back up to the path until he was well out of possible sight from the cove, he rose to his feet, raised both hands, and shook their clenched fists above his head.
“The liar!” grated Mr. Atkins, between his teeth. “The traitor! The young blackguard! After tellin' me that he . . . And after my doin' everything for him that . . . Oh, by Judas, wait! only wait till he comes back! I'LL l'arn him! I'LL show him! Oh, by jiminy crimps!”
He strode toward the doorway of the kitchen. There he stopped short. A woman was seated in the kitchen rocker; a stout woman, with her back toward him. The room, in contrast to the bright sunshine without, was shadowy, and Seth, for an instant, could see her but indistinctly. However, he knew who she must be—the housekeeper at the bungalow—“Basket” or “Biscuit” his helper had said was her name, as near as he could remember it. The lightkeeper ground his teeth. Another female! Well, he would teach this one a few things!
He stepped across the threshold.
“Ma'am,” he began, sharply, “perhaps you'll tell me what you—”
He stopped. The stout woman had, at the sound of his step, risen from the chair, and turned to face him. And now she was staring at him, her face almost as white as the stone-china cups and saucers on the table.
“Why . . . why . . . SETH!” she gasped.
The lightkeeper staggered back until his shoulders struck the doorpost.
“Good Lord!” he cried; “good . . . LORD! Why—why—EMELINE!”
For over a minute the pair stared at each other, white and speechless. Then Mrs. Bascom hurried to the door, darted out, and fled along the path around the cove to the bungalow. Atkins did not follow her; he did not even look in the direction she had taken. Instead, he collapsed in the rocking-chair and put both hands to his head.
When, an hour later, the swimming teacher, his guilty conscience pricking him, and the knowledge of having been false to his superior strong within him, came sneaking into the kitchen, he was startled and horrified to find the lightkeeper awake and dressed. Mentally he braced himself for the battery of embarrassing questions which, he felt sure, he should have to answer. It might be that he must face something more serious than questions. Quite possible Seth, finding him absent, had investigated—and seen. Well, if he had, then he had, that was all. The murder would be out, and Eastboro Twin-Lights would shortly be shy a substitute assistant keeper.
But there were no embarrassing questions. Atkins scarcely noticed him. Seated in the rocker, he looked up as the young man entered, and immediately looked down again. He seemed to be in a sort of waking dream and only dimly conscious of happenings about him.
“Hello!” hailed the assistant, with an assumption of casual cheerfulness.
“Hey? Oh! how be you?” was Mr. Atkins's reply.
“I've been for my dip,” explained Brown. “The water was fine to-day.”
“Want to know!”
“You're up early, aren't you?”
“Hey? Yes, I guess likely I be.”
“What's wrong? Not sick, are you?”
“No. Course I ain't sick. Say!” Seth seemed to take a sudden interest in the conversation, “you come straight up from the cove, have you?”
“Yes. Why?”
“You ain't been hangin' around outside here, have you?”
“Hanging around outside? What do you mean?”
“Nothin'. Why do you stand there starin' at me as if I was some sort of dime show curiosity? Anything queer about me?”
“No. I didn't know I was staring.” The young man was bewildered by this strange behavior. He was prepared for suspicion concerning his own actions; but Seth seemed rather to be defending himself from suspicion on the part of his helper.
“Humph!” The lightkeeper looked keenly at him for a moment. Then he said:
“Well, ain't there nothin' to do but stand around? Gettin' pretty nigh to supper time, ain't it? Put the kettle on and set the table.”
It was not supper time, but Brown obeyed orders. Seth went to cooking. He spoke perhaps three words during the culinary operations, and a half dozen more during the meal, of which he ate scarcely a mouthful. After it was over, he put on his cap and went out, not to his usual lounging spot, the bench, but to walk a full half mile along the edge of the bluff and there sit in the seclusion of a clump of bayberry bushes and gaze stonily at nothing in particular. Here he remained until the deepening dusk reminded him that it was time the lights were burning. Returning, he lit the lanterns and sat down in the room at the top of the left-hand tower to think, and think, and think.
The shadows deepened; the last flush of twilight faded from the western sky; the stars came out; night and the black silence of night shrouded Eastboro Twin-Lights. The clock in the tower room ticked on to nine and then to ten. Still Seth sat, a huddled, dazed figure in the camp chair, by the great lantern. At last he rose and went out on the iron balcony. He looked down at the buildings below him; they were black shapes without a glimmer. Brown had evidently gone to bed. In the little stable Joshua thumped the side of his stall once or twice—dreaming, perhaps, that he was again pursued by the fly-papered Job—and subsided. Atkins turned his gaze across the inlet. In the rear window of the bungalow a dim light still burned. As he watched, it was extinguished. He groaned aloud, and, with his arms on the railing, thought and thought.
Suddenly he heard sounds, faint, but perceptible, above the low grumble of the surf. They were repeated, the sounds of breaking sticks, as if some one was moving through the briers and bushes beyond the stable. Some one was moving there, coming along the path from the upper end of the cove. Around the corner of the stable a bulky figure appeared. It came on until it stood beneath the balcony.
“Seth,” called a low voice; “Seth, are you there?”
For a moment the agitated lightkeeper could not trust his voice to answer.
“Seth,” repeated the voice; “Seth.”
The figure was moving off in the direction of the other tower. Then Seth answered.
“Here—here I be,” he stammered, in a hoarse whisper. “Who is it?”
He knew who it was, perfectly well; the question was quite superfluous.
“It's me,” said the voice. “Let me in, I've got to talk to you.”
Slowly, scarcely certain that this was not a part of some dreadful nightmare, Seth descended the iron ladder to the foot of the tower, dragged his faltering feet to the door, and slowly swung it open. The bulky figure entered instantly.
“Shut the door,” said Mrs. Bascom.
“Hey? What?” stammered Seth.
“I say, shut that door. Hurry up! Land sakes, HURRY! Do you suppose I want anybody to know I'm here?”
The lightkeeper closed the door. The clang reverberated through the tower like distant thunder. The visitor started nervously.
“Mercy!” she exclaimed; “what a racket! What made you slam it?”
“Didn't,” grumbled Seth. “Any kind of a noise sounds up in here.”
“I should think as much. It's enough to wake the dead.”
“Ain't nobody BUT the dead to wake in this place.”
“Yes, there is; there's that young man of yours, that Brown one. He ain't dead, is he?”
“Humph! he's asleep, and that's next door to dead—with him.”
“Well, I'm glad of it. My nerves are pretty steady as a general thing, but I declare I'm all of a twitter to-night—and no wonder. It's darker than a pocket in here. Can't we have a light?”
Atkins stumbled across the stone floor and took the lantern from the hook by the stairs. He struck a match, and it went out; he tried another, with the same result. Mrs. Bascom fidgeted.
“Mercy on us!” she cried; “what DOES ail the thing?”
Seth's trembling fingers could scarcely hold the third match. He raked it across the whitewashed wall and broke the head short off.
“Thunder to mighty!” he snarled, under his breath.
“But what DOES—”
“What does? What do you s'pose? You ain't the only one that's got nerves, are you?”
The next trial was successful, and the lantern was lighted. With it in his hand, he turned and faced his caller. They looked at each other. Mrs. Bascom drew a long breath.
“It is you,” she said. “I couldn't scarcely believe it. It is really you.”
Seth's answer was almost a groan. “It's you,” he said. “You—down here.”
This ended the conversation for another minute. Then the lady seemed to awake to the realities of the situation.
“Yes,” she said, “it's me—and it's you. We're here, both of us. Though why on earth YOU should be, I don't know.”
“Me? Me? Why, I belong here. But you—what in time sent you here? Unless,” with returning suspicion, “you came because I—”
He paused, warned by the expression on his caller's face.
“What was that?” she demanded.
“Nothin'.”
“Nothin', I guess. If you was flatterin' yourself with the idea that I came here to chase after you, you never was more mistaken in your life, or ever will be. You set down. You and I have got to talk. Set right down.”
The lightkeeper hesitated. Then he obeyed orders by seating himself on an oil barrel lying on its side near the wall. The lantern he placed on the floor at his feet. Mrs. Bascom perched on one of the lower steps of the iron stairs.
“Now,” she said, “we've got to talk. Seth Bascom—”
Seth started violently.
“What is it?” asked the lady. “Why did you jump like that? Nobody comin', is there?”
“No. No . . . But I couldn't help jumpin' when you called me that name.”
“That name? It's your name, isn't it? Oh,” she smiled slightly; “I remember now. You've taken the name of Atkins since we saw each other last.”
“I didn't take it; it belonged to me. You know my middle name. I just dropped the Bascom, that's all.”
“I see. Just as you dropped—some other responsibilities. Why didn't you drop the whole christenin' and start fresh? Why did you hang on to 'Seth'?”
The lightkeeper looked guilty. Mrs. Bascom's smile broadened. “I know,” she went on. “You didn't really like to drop it all. It was too much of a thing to do on your hook, and there wasn't anybody to tell you to do it, and so you couldn't quite be spunky enough to—”
He interrupted her. “That wa'n't the reason,” he said shortly.
“What was the reason?”
“You want to know, do you?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Well, the 'Bascom' part wa'n't mine no more—not all mine. I'd given it to you.”
“O—oh! oh, I see. And you ran away from your name as you ran away from your wife. I see. And . . . why, of course! you came down here to run away from all the women. Miss Ruth said this mornin' she was told—I don't know who by—that the lightkeeper was a woman-hater. Are you the woman-hater, Seth?”
Mr. Atkins looked at the floor. “Yes, I be,” he answered, sullenly. “Do you wonder?”
“I don't wonder at your runnin' away; that I should have expected. But there,” more briskly, “this ain't gettin' us anywhere. You're here—and I'm here. Now what's your idea of the best thing to be done, under the circumstances?”
Seth shifted his feet. “One of us better go somewheres else, if you ask me,” he declared.
“Run away again, you mean? Well, I sha'n't run away. I'm Miss Ruth's housekeeper for the summer. I answered her advertisement in the Boston paper and we agreed as to wages and so on. I like her and she likes me. Course if I'd known my husband was in the neighborhood, I shouldn't have come here; but I didn't know it. Now I'm here and I'll stay my time out. What are you goin' to do?”
“I'm goin' to send in my resignation as keeper of these lights. That's what I'm goin' to do, and I'll do it to-morrow.”
“Run away again?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Why? WHY? Emeline Bascom, do you ask me that?”
“I do, yes. See here, Seth, we ain't children, nor sentimental young folks. We're sensible, or we'd ought to be. Land knows we're old enough. I shall stay here and you ought to. Nobody knows I was your wife or that you was my husband, and nobody needs to know it. We ain't even got the same names. We're strangers, far's folks know, and we can stay strangers.”
“But—but to see each other every day and—”
“Why not? We've seen each other often enough so that the sight won't be so wonderful. And we'll keep our bein' married a secret. I sha'n't boast of it, for one.”
“But—but to SEE each other—”
“Well, we needn't see each other much. Why, we needn't see each other any, unless I have to run over to borrer somethin', same as neighbors have to every once in a while. I can guess what's troublin' you; it's young Brown. You've told him you're a woman-hater, haven't you?”
“Yes, I have.”
“Humph! Is he one, too?”
The lightkeeper's mouth was twisted with a violent emotion. He remembered his view of that afternoon's swimming lesson.
“He said he was,” he snarled. “He pretends he is.”
Mrs. Bascom smiled. “I want to know,” she said. “Umph! I thought . . . However, it's no matter. Perhaps he is. Anyhow he can pretend to be and you can pretend to believe him. That'll be the easiest way, I guess. Of course,” she added, “I ain't tellin' you what to do with any idea that you'll do it because I say so. The time for that is all past and gone. But it seems to me that, for once in my life, I'd be man enough to stick it out. I wouldn't run away again.”
Seth did not answer. He scowled and stared at the circle of lantern light on the stone floor. Mrs. Bascom rose from her seat on the stairs.
“Well,” she observed, “I must be gettin' back to the house if I want to get any sleep to-night. I doubt if I get much, for a body don't get over a shock, such as I've had, in a minute. But I'm goin' to get over it and I'm goin' to stay right here and do my work; I'm goin' to go through with what seems to be my duty, no matter how hard it is. I've done it afore, and I'll do it again. I've promised, and I keep my promises. Good night.”
She started toward the door. Her husband sprang from the oil barrel.
“Hold on,” he cried; “you wait a minute. I've got somethin' to say.”
She shook her head. “I can't wait,” she said; “I've got to go.”
“No, you ain't, neither. You can stay a spell longer, if you want to.”
“Perhaps, but I don't want to.”
“Why not? What are you afraid of?”
“Afraid! I don't know as I'm afraid of anything—that is,” with a contemptuous sniff, “nothin' I see around here.”
“Then what are YOU runnin' away for?”
This was putting the matter in a new light. Mrs. Bascom regarded her husband with wrathful amazement, which slowly changed to an amused smile.
“Oh,” she said, “if you think I'm runnin' away, why—”
“I don't see what else 'tis. If I ain't scart to have you here, I don't see why you should be scart to stay. Set down on them stairs again; I want to talk to you.”
The lady hesitated an instant and then returned to her former seat. Seth went back to his barrel.
“Emeline,” he said. “I'll stay here on my job.”
She looked surprised, but she nodded.
“I'm glad to hear it,” she said. “I'm glad you've got that much spunk.”
“Yup; well, I have. I came down here to get clear of everybody, women most of all. Now the one woman that—that—”
“That you 'specially wanted to get clear of—”
“No! No! that ain't the truth, and you know it. She set out to get clear of me—and I let her have her way, same as I done in everything else.”
“She didn't set out to get clear of you.”
“She did.”
“No, she didn't.”
“I say she did.”
Mrs. Bascom rose once more. “Seth Bascom,” she declared, “if all you wanted me to stay here for is to be one of a pair of katydids, hollerin' at each other, I'm goin'. I'm no bug; I'm a woman.”
“Emeline, you set down. You've hove out a whole lot of hints about my not bein' a man because I run away from your house. Do you think I'd have been more of a man if I'd stayed in it? Stayed there and been a yaller dog to be kicked out of one corner and into another by you and—and that brother-in-law of yours. That's all I was—a dog.”
“Humph! if a dog's the right breed—and big enough—it's his own fault if he's kicked twice.”
“Not if he cares more for his master than he does for himself—'taint.”
“Why, yes, it is. He can make his master respect him by provin' he ain't the kind of dog to kick. And maybe one of his masters—his real master, for he hadn't ought to have but one—might be needin' the right kind of watchdog around the house. Might be in trouble her—himself, I mean; and be hopin' and prayin' for the dog to protect her—him, I should say. And then the—”
“Emeline, what are you talkin' about?”
“Oh, nothin', nothin'. Seth, what's the use of us two settin' here at twelve o'clock at night and quarrelin' over what's past and settled? I sha'n't do it, for one. I don't want to quarrel with you.”
Seth sighed. “And I don't want to quarrel with you, Emeline,” he agreed. “As you say, there's no sense in it. Dear! dear! this, when you come to think of it, is the queerest thing altogether that ever was in the world, I guess. Us two had all creation to roam 'round in, and we landed at Eastboro Twin-Lights. It seems almost as if Providence done it, for some purpose or other.”
“Yes; or the other critter, for HIS purposes. How did you ever come to be keeper of a light, Seth?”
“Why—why—I don't know. I used to be in the service, 'fore I went to sea much. You remember I told you I did. And I sort of drifted down here. I didn't care much what became of me, and I wanted a lonesome hole to hide in, and this filled the bill. I've been here ever since I left—left—where I used to be. But, Emeline, how did YOU come here? You answered an advertisement, you told me; but why?”
“'Cause I wanted to do somethin' to earn my livin'. I was alone, and I rented my house and boarded. But boardin' ain't much comfort, 'specially when you board where everybody knows you, and knows your story. So I—”
“Wait a minute. You was alone, you say? Where was—was HE?”
“He?”
“Yes. You know who I mean.”
He would not speak the hated name. His wife spoke it for him.
“Bennie?” she asked. “Oh, he ain't been with me for 'most two year now. He—he went away. He's in New York now. And I was alone and I saw Miss Graham's advertisement for a housekeeper and answered it. I needed the money and—”
“Hold on! You needed the money? Why, you had money.”
“Abner left me a little, but it didn't last forever. And—”
“You had more'n a little. I wrote to bank folks there and turned over my account to you. And I sent 'em a power of attorney turnin' over some stocks—you know what they was—to you, too. I done that soon's I got to Boston. Didn't they tell you?”
“Yes, they told me.”
“Well, then, that ought to have helped along.”
“You don't s'pose I took it, do you?”
“Why—why not?”
“Why not! Do you s'pose I'd use the money that belonged to the husband that run off and left me? I ain't that kind of a woman. The money and stocks are at the bank yet, I s'pose; anyhow they're there for all of me.”
The lightkeeper's mouth opened and stayed open for seconds before he could use it as a talking machine. He could scarcely believe what he had heard.
“But—but I wanted you to have it,” he gasped. “I left it for you.”
“Well, I didn't take it; 'tain't likely!” with fiery indignation. “Did you think I could be bought off like a—a mean—oh, I don't know what?”
“But—but I left it at the bank—for you. What—what'll I do with it?”
“I don't know, I'm sure. You might give it to Sarah Ann Christy; I wouldn't wonder if she was less particular than I be.”
Seth's guns were spiked, for the moment. He felt the blood rush to face, and his fists, as he brandished them in the air, trembled.
“I—I—you—you—” he stammered. “I—I—you think I—”
He knew that his companion would regard his agitation as an evidence of conscious guilt, and this knowledge did not help to calm him. He strode up and down the floor.
“Look out,” said Mrs. Bascom, coldly, “you'll kick over the lantern.”
Her husband stopped in his stride. “Darn the lantern!” he shouted.
“S-sh-sh! you'll wake up the Brown man.”
This warning was more effective. But Seth was still furious.
“Emeline Bascom,” he snarled, shaking his forefinger in her face, “you've said over and over that I wa'n't a man. You have, haven't you?”
She was looking at his shirt cuff, then but a few inches from her nose.
“Who sewed on that button?” she asked.
This was so unexpected that his wrath was, for the instant, displaced by astonishment.
“What?” he asked. “What button?”
“That one on your shirt sleeve. Who sewed it on?”
“Why, I did, of course. What a crazy question that is!”
She smiled. “I guessed you did,” she said. “Nobody but a man would sew a white button on a white shirt—or one that was white once—with black thread.”
He looked at the button and then at her. His anger returned.
“You said I wa'n't a man, didn't you?” he demanded.
“Yes, I did. But I'll have to take part of it back. You're half a man anyhow; that sewin' proves it.”
“Huh! I want to know. Well, maybe I ain't a man; maybe I'm only half a one. But I ain't a fool! I ain't a fool!”
She sighed wearily. “Well, all right,” she admitted. “I sha'n't argue it.”
“You needn't. I ain't—or anyhow I ain't an EVERLASTIN' fool. And nobody but the everlastin'est of all fools would chase Sarah Ann Christy. I didn't. That whole business was just one of your—your Bennie D.'s lies. You know that, too.”
“I know some one lied; I heard 'em. They denied seein' Sarah Ann, and I saw 'em with her—with my own eyes I saw 'em. . . . But there, there,” she added; “this is enough of such talk. I'm goin' now.”
“I didn't lie; I forgot.”
“All right, then, you forgot. I ain't jealous, Seth. I wa'n't even jealous then. Even then I give you a chance, and you didn't take it—you 'forgot' instead. I'm goin' back to the bungalow, but afore I go let's understand this: you're to stay here at the lights, and I stay where I am as housekeeper. We don't see each other any oftener than we have to, and then only when nobody else is around. We won't let my Miss Graham nor your Brown nor anybody know we've ever met afore—or are meetin' now. Is that it?”
Seth hesitated. “Yes,” he said, slowly, “I guess that's it. But,” he added, anxiously, “I—I wish you'd be 'specially careful not to let that young feller who's workin' for me know. Him and me had a—a sort of agreement and—and I—I—”
“He sha'n't know. Good-by.”
She fumbled with the latch of the heavy door. He stepped forward and opened it for her. The night was very dark; a heavy fog, almost a rain, had drifted in while they were together. She didn't seem to notice or mind the fog or blackness, but went out and disappeared beyond the faint radiance which the lantern cast through the open door. She blundered on and turned the corner of the house; then she heard steps behind her.
“Who is it?” she whispered, in some alarm.
“Me,” whispered the lightkeeper, gruffly. “I'll go with you a ways.”
“No, of course you won't. I'm goin' alone.”
“It's too dark for you to go alone. You'll lose the way.”
“I'm goin' alone, I tell you! Go back. I don't want you.”
“I know you don't; but I'm goin'. You'll fetch up in the cove or somewheres if you try to navigate this path on your own hook.”
“I sha'n't. I'm used to findin' my own way, and I'm goin' alone—as I've had to do for a good while. Go back.”
She stopped short. Seth stopped, also.
“Go back,” she insisted, adding scornfully: “I don't care for your help at all. I'm partic'lar about my company.”
“I ain't,” sullenly. “Anyhow, I'm goin' to pilot you around the end of that cove. You sha'n't say I let you get into trouble when I might have kept you out of it.”
“Say? Who would I say it to? Think I'm so proud of this night's cruise that I'll brag of it? WILL you go back?”
“No.”
They descended the hill, Mrs. Bascom in advance. She could not see the path, but plunged angrily on through the dripping grass and bushes.
“Emeline—Emeline,” whispered Seth. She paid no attention to him. They reached the foot of the slope and suddenly the lady realized that her shoes, already wet, were now ankle deep in water. And there seemed to be water amid the long grass all about her.
“Why? What in the world?” she exclaimed involuntarily. “What is it?”
“The salt marsh at the end of the cove,” answered the lightkeeper. “I told you you'd fetch up in it if you tried to go alone. Been tryin' to tell you you was off the track, but you wouldn't listen to me.”
And she would not listen to him now. Turning, she splashed past him.
“Hold on,” he whispered, seizing her arm. “That ain't the way.”
She shook herself from his grasp.
“WILL you let me be, and mind your own business?” she hissed.
“No, I won't. I've set out to get you home, and I'll do it if I have to carry you.”
“Carry me? You? You DARE!”
His answer was to pick her up in his arms. She was no light weight, and she fought and wriggled fiercely, but Seth was big and strong and he held her tight. She did not scream; she was too anxious not to wake either the substitute assistant or Miss Graham, but she made her bearer all the trouble she could. They splashed on for some distance; then Seth set her on her feet, and beneath them was dry ground.
“There!” he grumbled, breathlessly. “Now I cal'late you can't miss the rest of it. There's the bungalow right in front of you.”
“You—you—” she gasped, chokingly.
“Ugh!” grunted her husband, and stalked off into the dark.
All books are sourced from Project Gutenberg