The Woman-Haters






CHAPTER XII

THE LETTER AND THE 'PHONE

The cookies appeared on the table that evening. Brown noticed them at once.

“When did you bake these?” he asked.

Atkins made no reply, so the question was repeated with a variation.

“Did you bake these this afternoon?” inquired the substitute assistant.

“Humph? Hey? Oh, yes, I guess so. Why? Anything the matter with 'em?”

“Matter with them? No. They're the finest things I've tasted since I came here. New receipt, isn't it?”

“Cal'late so.”

“I thought it must be. I'll take another.”

He took another, and many others thereafter. He and his superior cleared the plate between them.

Brown was prepared for questions concerning his occupation of the afternoon and was ready with some defiant queries of his own. But no occasion arose for either defiance or cross-examination. Seth never hinted at a suspicion nor mentioned the young lady at the bungalow. Brown therefore remained silent concerning what he had seen from the attic window. He would hold that in reserve, and if Atkins ever did accuse him of bad faith or breach of contract he could retort in kind. His conscience was clear now—he was no more of a traitor than Seth himself—and, this being so, he felt delightfully independent. If trouble came he was ready for it, and in the meantime he should do as he pleased.

But no trouble came. That day, and for many days thereafter, the lightkeeper was sweetness itself. He and his helper had never been more anxious to please each other, and the house at Twin-Lights was—to all appearances—an abode of perfect trust and peace. Every day, when Seth was asleep or out of the way, “working on the Daisy M.,” the assistant swam to the cove, and every day he met Miss Graham there! During the first week he returned from his dips expecting to be confronted by his superior, and ready with counter accusations of his own. After this he ceased to care. Seth did not ask a question and was so trustful and unsuspecting that Brown decided his secret was undiscovered. In fact, the lightkeeper was so innocent that the young man felt almost wicked, as if he were deceiving a child. He very nearly forgot the meeting behind the sand dune, having other and much more important things to think of.

July passed, and the first three weeks of August followed suit. The weather, which had been glorious, suddenly gave that part of the coast a surprise party in the form of a three days' storm. It was an offshore gale, but fierce, and the lighthouse buildings rocked in its grasp. Bathing was out of the question, and one of Seth's dories broke its anchor rope and went to pieces in the breakers. Atkins and Brown slept but little during the storm, both being on duty the greater part of the time.

The fourth day broke clear, but the wind had changed to the east and the barometer threatened more bad weather to come. When Seth came in to breakfast he found his helper sound asleep in a kitchen chair, his head on the table. The young man was pretty well worn out. Atkins insisted upon his going to bed for the forenoon.

“Of course I sha'n't,” protested Brown. “It's my watch, and you need sleep yourself.”

“No, I don't, neither,” was the decided answer. “I slept between times up in the tower, off and on. You go and turn in. I've got to drive over to Eastboro by and by, and I want you to be wide awake while I'm away. We ain't done with this spell of weather yet. We'll have rain and an easterly blow by night, see if we don't. You go right straight to bed.”

“I shall do nothing of the sort.”

“Yes, you will. I'm your boss and I order you to do it. No back talk, now. Go!”

So Brown went, unwilling but very tired. He was sound asleep in ten minutes.

Seth busied himself about the house, occasionally stepping to the window to look out at the weather. An observer would have noticed that before leaving the window on each of these occasions, his gaze invariably turned toward the bungalow. His thoughts were more constant than his gaze; they never left his little cottage across the cove. In fact, they had scarcely left it for the past month. He washed the breakfast dishes, set the room in order, and was turning once more toward the window, when he heard a footstep approaching the open door. He knew the step; it was one with which he had been familiar during other and happier days, and now, once more—after all the years and his savage determination to forget and to hate—it had the power to awaken strange emotions in his breast. Yet his first move was to run into the living room and close his helper's chamber door. When he came back to the kitchen, shutting the living-room door carefully behind him, Mrs. Bascom was standing on the sill. She started when she saw him.

“Land sakes!” she exclaimed. “You? I cal'lated, of course, you was abed and asleep.”

The lightkeeper waved his hands.

“S-sh-h!” he whispered.

“What shall I s-sh-h about? Your young man's gone somewhere, I s'pose, else you wouldn't be here.”

“No, he ain't. He's turned in, tired out.”

“Oh, then I guess I'd better go back home. 'Twas him I expected to see, else, of course, I shouldn't have come.”

“Oh, I know that,” with a sigh. “Where's your boss, Miss Graham?”

“She's gone for a walk along shore. I came over to—to bring back them eggs I borrowed.”

“Did you? Where are they?”

The housekeeper seemed embarrassed, and her plump cheeks reddened.

“I—I declare I forgot to bring 'em after all,” she stammered.

“I want to know. That's funny. You don't often—that is, you didn't use to forget things hardly ever, Emeline.”

“Hum! you remember a lot, don't you.”

“I remember more'n you think I do, Emeline.”

“That's enough of that, Seth. Remember what I told you last time we saw each other.”

“Oh, all right, all right. I ain't rakin' up bygones. I s'pose I deserve all I'm gettin'.”

“I s'pose you do. Well, long's I forgot the eggs I guess I might as well be trottin' back. . . . You—you've been all right—you and Mr. Brown, I mean—for the last few days, while the storm was goin' on?”

“Um-h'm,” gloomily. “How about you two over to the bungalow? You've kept dry and snug, I judge.”

“Yes.”

“I didn't know but you might be kind of nervous and scart when 'twas blowin'. All alone so.”

“Humph! I've got used to bein' alone. As for Miss Ruth, I don't think she's scart of anythin'.”

“Well, I was sort of nervous about you, if you wa'n't about yourself. 'Twas consider'ble of a gale of wind. I thought one spell I'd blow out of the top of the tower.”

“So did I. I could see your shadow movin' 'round up there once in a while. What made you come out on the gallery in the worst of it night afore last?”

“Oh, the birds was smashin' themselves to pieces against the glass same as they always do in a storm, and I . . . But say! 'twas after twelve when I came out. How'd you come to see me? What was your doin' up that time of night?”

Mrs. Bascom's color deepened. She seemed put out by the question.

“So much racket a body couldn't sleep,” she explained sharply. “I thought the shingles would lift right off the roof.”

“But you wa'n't lookin' at the shingles. You was lookin' at the lighthouses; you jest said so. Emeline, was you lookin' for me? Was you worried about me?”

He bent forward eagerly.

“Hush!” she said, “you'll wake up the other woman-hater.”

“I don't care. I don't care if I wake up all creation. Emeline, I believe you was worried about me, same as I was about you. More'n that,” he added, conviction and exultation in his tone, “I don't believe 'twas eggs that fetched you here this mornin' at all. I believe you came to find out if we—if I was all right. Didn't you?”

“I didn't come to SEE you, be sure of that,” with emphatic scorn.

“I know. But you was goin' to see Brown and find out from him. Answer me. Answer me now, didn't—”

She stepped toward the door. He extended an arm and held her back.

“You answer me,” he commanded.

She tried to pass him, but his arm was like an iron bar. She hesitated a moment and then laughed nervously.

“You certainly have took to orderin' folks round since the old days,” she said. “Why, yes, then; I did come to find out if you hadn't got cold, or somethin'. You're such a child and I'm such a soft-headed fool I couldn't help it, I cal'late?”

“Emeline, s'pose I had got cold. S'pose you found I was sick—what then?”

“Why—why, then I guess likely I'd have seen the doctor on my way through Eastboro. I shall be goin' that way to-morrer when I leave here.”

“When you leave here? What do you mean by that?”

“Just what I say. Miss Graham's goin' to Boston to-morrer, and I'm goin' with her—as far as the city.”

“But—but you're comin' back!”

“What should I come back here for? My summer job's over. If you want to know, my principal reason for comin' here this mornin' was to say good-by—to Mr. Brown, of course.”

Seth's arm dropped. He leaned heavily against the doorpost.

“You're goin' away!” he exclaimed. “You're goin' away! Where?”

“I don't know. Back home, I s'pose. Though what I'll do when I get there I don't know. I've sold the house, so I don't exactly know where I'll put up. But I guess I'll find a place.”

“You've sold your house? The house we used to live in?”

“Yes. The man that's been hirin' it has bought it. I'm glad, for I need the money. So good-by, Seth. 'Tain't likely we'll meet again in this life.”

She started toward the door once more, and this time he was too greatly disturbed and shaken by what she had told him to detain her. At the threshhold she turned and looked at him.

“Good-by, Seth,” she said again. “I hope you'll be happy. And,” with a half smile, “if I was you I'd stay keepin' lights; it, or somethin' else, has improved you a whole lot. Good-by.”

Then he sprang forward. “Emeline,” he cried, “Emeline, wait. You mustn't go. I can't let you go this way. I . . . What's that?”

“That” was the sound of horse's feet and the rattle of wheels. The lightkeeper ran to the window.

“It's Henry G.'s grocery cart,” he said. “I cal'late he's fetchin' some truck I ordered last week. Do you want him to see you here?”

“I don't care. He don't know but what you and me are the best of friends. Yet, I don't know. Maybe it's just as well he don't see me; then there'll be no excuse for talk. I'll step inside and wait.”

She returned to the kitchen, and Seth went out to meet the wagon. Its driver was the boy who had brought the flypaper and “Job.”

“Hello,” hailed the youngster, pulling in his steed; “how be you, Mr. Atkins? I've got some of them things you ordered. The rest ain't come from Boston yet. Soon's they do, Henry G.'ll send 'em down. How you feelin' these days? Ain't bought no more dogs, have you?”

Seth curtly replied that he “wa'n't speculatin' in dogs to no great extent any more,” and took the packages which the boy handed him. With them was a bundle of newspapers and an accumulation of mail matter.

“I fetched the mail for the bungalow, too,” said the boy. “There's two or three letters for that Graham girl and one for Mrs. Bascom. She's housekeeper there, you know.”

“Yes. Here, you might's well leave their mail along with mine. I'll see it's delivered, all right.”

“Will you? Much obliged. Goin' to take it over yourself? Better look out, hadn't you? That Graham girl's a peach; all the fellers at the store's talkin' about her. Seems a pity she's wastin' her sassiety on a woman-hater like you; that's what they say. You ain't gettin' over your female hate, are you? Haw, haw!”

Mr. Atkins regarded his questioner with stern disapproval.

“There's some things—such as chronic sassiness—some folks never get over,” he observed caustically. “Though when green hides are too fresh they can be tanned; don't forget that, young feller. Any more chatty remarks you've got to heave over? No? Well, all right; then I'd be trottin' back home if I was you. Henry G.'ll have to shut up shop if you deprive him of your valuable services too long. Good day to you.”

The driver, somewhat abashed, gathered up the reins. “I didn't mean to make you mad,” he observed. “Anything in our line you want to order?”

“No. I'm cal'latin' to go to the village myself this afternoon, and if I want any more groceries I'll order 'em then. As for makin' me mad—well, don't you flatter yourself. A moskeeter can pester me, but he don't make me mad but once—and his funeral's held right afterwards. Now trot along and keep in the shade much as you can. You're so fresh the sun might spile you.”

The boy, looking rather foolish, laughed and drove out of the yard. Seth, his arms full, went back to the kitchen. He dumped the packages and newspapers on the table and began sorting the letters.

“Here you are, Emeline,” he said. “Here's Miss Graham's mail and somethin' for you.”

“For me?” The housekeeper was surprised. “A letter for me! What is it, I wonder? Somethin' about sellin' the house maybe.”

She took the letter from him and turned to the light before opening it. Seth sat down in the rocker and began inspecting his own assortment of circulars and papers. Suddenly he heard a sound from his companion. Glancing up he saw that she was leaning against the doorpost, the open letter in her hand, and on her face an expression which caused him to spring from his chair.

“What is it, Emeline?” he demanded. “Any bad news?”

She scarcely noticed him until he spoke again. Then she shook her head.

“No,” she said slowly. “Nothin' but—but what I might have expected.”

“But what is it? It is bad news. Can't I help you? Please let me, if I can. I—I'd like to.”

She looked at him strangely, and then turned away. “I guess nobody can help me,” she answered. “Least of all, you.”

“Why not? I'd like to; honest, I would. If it's about that house business maybe I—”

“It ain't”

“Then what is it? Please, Emeline. I know you don't think much of me. Maybe you've got good reasons; I'm past the place where I'd deny that. I—I've been feelin' meaner'n meaner every day lately. I—I don't know's I done right in runnin' off and leavin' you the way I did. Don't you s'pose you could give me another chance? Emeline, I—”

“Seth Bascom, what do you mean?”

“Just what I say. Emeline, you and me was mighty happy together once. Let's try it again. I will, if you will.”

She was staring at him in good earnest now.

“Why, Seth!” she exclaimed. “What are you talkin' about? You—the chronic woman-hater!”

“That be blessed! I wa'n't really a woman-hater. I only thought I was. And—and I never hated you. Right through the worst of it I never did. Let's try it again, Emeline. You're in trouble. You need somebody to help you. Give me the chance.”

There was a wistful look in her eyes; she seemed, or so he thought, to be wavering. But she shook her head. “I was in trouble before, Seth,” she said, “and you didn't help me then. You run off and left me.”

“You just as much as told me to go. You know you did.”

“No, I didn't.”

“Well, you didn't tell me to stay.”

“It never seemed to me that a husband—if he was a man—would need to be coaxed to stay by his wife.”

“But don't you care about me at all? You used to; I know it. And I always cared for you. What is it? Honest, Emeline, you never took any stock in that Sarah Ann Christy doin's, you know you didn't; now, did you?”

She was close to tears, but she smiled in spite of them.

“Well, no, Seth,” she answered. “I will confess that Sarah Ann never worried me much.”

“Then DON'T you care for me, Emeline?”

“I care for you much as I ever did. I never stopped carin' for you, fool that I am. But as for livin' with you again and runnin' the risk of—”

“You won't run any risk. You say I've improved, yourself. Your principal fault with me was, as I understand it, that I was too—too—somethin' or other. That I wa'n't man enough. By jiminy crimps, I'll show you that I'm a man! Give me the chance, and nothin' nor nobody can make me leave you again. Besides, there's nobody to come between us now. We was all right until that—that Bennie D. came along. He was the one that took the starch out of me. Now he's out of the way. HE won't bother us any more and . . . Why, what is it, Emeline?”

For she was looking at him with an expression even more strange. And again she shook her head.

“I guess,” she began, and was interrupted by the jingle of the telephone bell.

The instrument was fastened to the kitchen wall, and the lightkeeper hastened to answer the ring.

“Testin' the wire after the storm, most likely,” he explained, taking the receiver from the hook. “Hello! . . . Hello! . . . Yep, this is Eastboro Lights. . . . I'm the lightkeeper, yes. . . . Hey? . . . Miss Graham? . . . Right next door. . . . Yes. . . . WHO?” Then, turning to his companion, he said in an astonished voice: “It's somebody wants to talk with you, Emeline.”

“With ME?” Mrs. Bascom could hardly believe it. “Are you sure?”

“So they say. Asked me if I could get you to the 'phone without any trouble. She's right here now,” he added, speaking into the transmitter. “I'll call her.”

The housekeeper wonderingly took the receiver from his hand.

“Hello!” she began. “Yes, this is Mrs. Bascom. . . . Who? . . . What? . . . OH!”

The last exclamation was almost a gasp, but Seth did not hear it. As she stepped forward to the 'phone she had dropped her letter. Atkins went over and picked it up. It lay face downward on the floor, and the last page, with the final sentence and signature, was uppermost. He could not help seeing it. “So we shall soon be together as of old. Your loving brother, Benjamin.”

When Mrs. Bascom turned away from the 'phone after a rather protracted conversation she looked more troubled than ever. But Seth was not looking at her. He sat in the rocking-chair and did not move nor raise his head. She waited for him to speak, but he did not.

“Well,” she said with a sigh, “I guess I must go. Good-by, Seth.”

The lightkeeper slowly rose to his feet. “Emeline,” he stammered, “you ain't goin' without—”

He stopped without finishing the sentence. She waited a moment and then finished it for him.

“I'll answer your question, if that's what you mean,” she said. “And the answer is no. All things considered, I guess that's best.”

“But Emeline, I—I—”

“Good-by, Seth.”

“Sha'n't I,” desperately, “sha'n't I see you again?”

“I expect to be around here for another day or so. But I can't see anythin' to be gained by our meetin'. Good-by.”

Taking her letter and those addressed to Miss Graham from the table she went out of the kitchen. Seth followed her as far as the door, then turned and collapsed in the rocking-chair.





CHAPTER XIII

“JOHN BROWN” CHANGES HIS NAME

“So we shall soon be together again as of old. Your loving brother, Benjamin.”

The sentence which had met his eyes as he picked up the note which his caller had dropped was still before them, burned into his memory. Benjamin! “Bennie D.”! the loathed and feared and hated Bennie D., cause of all the Bascom matrimonial heartbreaks, had written to say that he and his sister-in-law were soon to be together as they used to be. That meant that there had been no quarrel, but merely a temporary separation. That she and he were still friendly. That they had been in correspondence and that the “inventor” was coming back to take his old place as autocrat in the household with all his old influence over Emeline. Seth's new-found courage and manhood had vanished at the thought. Bennie D.'s name had scarcely been mentioned during the various interviews between the lightkeeper and his wife. She had said her first husband's brother had been in New York for two years, and her manner of saying it led Seth to imagine a permanent separation following some sort of disagreement. And now! and now! He remembered Bennie D.'s superior airs, his polite sneers, his way of turning every trick to his advantage and of perverting and misrepresenting his, Seth's, most innocent speech and action into crimes of the first magnitude. He remembered the meaning of those last few months in the Cape Ann homestead. All his fiery determination to be what he had once been—Seth Bascom, the self-respecting man and husband—collapsed and vanished. He groaned in abject surrender. He could not go through it again; he was afraid. Of any other person on earth he would not have been, but the unexpected resurrection of Bennie D. made him a hesitating coward. Therefore he was silent when his wife left him, and he realized that his opportunity was gone, gone forever.

In utter misery and self-hatred he sat, with his head in his hands, beside the kitchen table until eleven o'clock. Then he rose, got dinner, and called Brown to eat it. He ate nothing himself, saying that he'd lost his appetite somehow or other. After the meal he harnessed Joshua to the little wagon and started on his drive to Eastboro. “I'll be back early, I cal'late,” were his last words as he drove out of the yard.

After he had gone, and Brown had finished clearing away and the other housekeeping tasks which were now such a burden, the substitute assistant went out to sit on the bench and smoke. The threatened easterly wind had begun to blow, and the sky was dark with tumbling clouds. The young man paid little attention to the weather, however. All skies were gloomy so far as he was concerned, and the darkest day was no blacker than his thoughts. Occasionally he glanced at the bungalow, and on one such occasion was surprised to see a carriage, one of the turnouts supplied by the Eastboro livery stable, roll up to its door and Mrs. Bascom, the housekeeper, emerge, climb to the seat beside the driver, and be driven away in the direction of the village. He idly wondered where she was going, but was not particularly interested. When, a half hour later, Ruth Graham left the bungalow and strolled off along the path at the top of the bluff, he was very much interested indeed. He realized, as he had been realizing for weeks, that he was more interested in that young woman than in anything else on earth. Also, that he had no right—miserable outcast that he was—to be interested in her; and certainly it would be the wildest insanity to imagine that she could be interested in him.

For what the lightkeeper might say or do, in the event of his secret being discovered, he did not care in the least. He was long past that point. And for the breaking of their solemn compact he did not care either. Seth might or might not have played the traitor; that, too, was a matter of no importance. Seth himself was of no importance; neither was he. There was but one important person in the whole world, and she was strolling along the bluff path at that moment. Therefore he left his seat on the bench, hurried down the slope to the inner end of the cove, noting absently that the tide of the previous night must have been unusually high, climbed to the bungalow, turned the corner, and walked slowly in the direction of the trim figure in the blue suit, which was walking, even more slowly, just ahead of him.

It may be gathered that John Brown's feelings concerning the opposite sex had changed. They had, and he had changed in other ways, also. How much of a change had taken place he did not himself realize, until this very afternoon. He did not realize it even then until, after he and the girl in blue had met, and the customary expressions of surprise at their casual meeting had been exchanged, the young lady seated herself on a dune overlooking the tumbling sea and observed thoughtfully:

“I shall miss all this”—with a wave of her hand toward the waves—“next week, when I am back again in the city.”

Brown's cap was in his hand as she began to speak. After she had finished he stooped to pick up the cap, which had fallen to the ground.

“You are going away—next week?” he said slowly.

“We are going to-morrow. I shall remain in Boston for a few days. Then I shall visit a friend in the Berkshires. After that I may join my brother in Europe; I'm not sure as to that.”

“To-morrow?”

“Yes!”

There was another one of those embarrassing intervals of silence which of late seemed to occur so often in their conversation. Miss Graham, as usual, was the first to speak.

“Mr. Brown,” she began. The substitute assistant interrupted her.

“Please don't call me that,” he blurted involuntarily. “It—oh, confound it, it isn't my name!”

She should have been very much surprised. He expected her to be. Instead she answered quite calmly.

“I know it,” she said.

“You DO?”

“Yes. You are 'Russ' Brooks, aren't you?”

Russell Brooks, alias John Brown, dropped his cap again, but did not pick it up. He swallowed hard.

“How on earth did you know that?” he asked as soon as he could say anything.

“Oh, it was simple enough. I didn't really know; I only guessed. You weren't a real lightkeeper, that was plain. And you weren't used to washing dishes or doing housework—that,” with the irrepressible curl of the corners of her lips, “was just as plain. When you told me that fib about meeting my brother here last summer I was sure you had met him somewhere, probably at college. So in my next letter to him I described you as well as I could, mentioned that you were as good or a better swimmer than he, and asked for particulars. He answered that the only fellow he could think of who fitted your description was 'Russ' Brooks—Russell, I suppose—of New York; though what Russ Brooks was doing as lightkeeper's assistant at Eastboro Twin-Lights he DIDN'T know. Neither did I. But then, THAT was not my business.”

The substitute assistant did not answer: he could not, on such short notice.

“So,” continued the girl, “I felt almost as if I had known you for a long time. You and Horace were such good friends at college, and he had often told me of you. I was very glad to meet you in real life, especially here, where I had no one but Mrs. Bascom to talk to; Mr. Atkins, by reason of his aversion to my unfortunate sex, being barred.”

Mr. Brown's—or Mr. Brooks'—next speech harked back to her previous one.

“I'll tell you while I'm here,” he began.

“You needn't, unless you wish,” she said. “I have no right to know”—adding, with characteristic femininity, “though I'm dying to.”

“But I want you to know. As I told Atkins when I first came, I haven't murdered anyone and I haven't stolen anything. I'm not a crook running from justice. I'm just a plain idiot who fell overboard from a steamer and”—bitterly—“hadn't the good luck to drown.”

She made no comment, and he began his story, telling it much as he had told it to the lightkeeper.

“There!” he said in conclusion, “that's the whole fool business. That's why I'm here. No need to ask what you think of it, I suppose.”

She was silent, gazing at the breakers. He drew his own conclusions from her silence.

“I see,” he said. “Well, I admit it. I'm a low down chump. Still, if I had it to do over again, I should do pretty much the same. A few things differently, but in general the very same.”

“What would you do differently?” she asked, still without looking at him.

“For one thing, I wouldn't run away. I'd stay and face the music. Earn my living or starve.”

“And now you're going to stay here?”

“No longer than I can help. If I get the appointment as assistant keeper I'll begin to save every cent I can. Just as soon as I get enough to warrant risking it I'll head for Boston once more and begin the earning or starving process. And,” with a snap of his jaws, “I don't intend to starve.”

“You won't go back to your father?”

“If he sees fit to beg my pardon and acknowledge that I was right—not otherwise. And he must do it of his own accord. I told him that when I walked out of his office. It was my contribution to our fond farewell. His was that he would see me damned first. Possibly he may.”

She smiled.

“You must have been a charming pair of pepper pots,” she observed. “And the young lady—what of her?”

“She knows that I am fired, cut off even without the usual shilling. That will be quite sufficient for her, I think.”

“How do you know it will? How do you know she might not have been willing to wait while you earned that living you are so sure is coming?”

“Wait? She wait for me? Ann Davidson wait for a man without a cent while he tried to earn a good many dollars? Humph! you amuse me.”

“Why not? You didn't give her a chance. You calmly took it for granted that she wanted only money and social position and you walked off and left her. How do you know she wouldn't have liked you better for telling her just how you felt. If a girl really cared for a man it seems to me that she would be willing to wait for him, years and years if it were necessary, provided that, during that time, he was trying his best for her.”

“But—but—she isn't that kind of a girl.”

“How do you know? You didn't put her to the test. You owed her that. It seems to me you owe it to her now.”

The answer to this was on his tongue. It was ready behind his closed lips, eager to burst forth. That he didn't love the Davidson girl, never had loved her. That during the past month he had come to realize there was but one woman in the wide world for him. And did that woman mean what she said about waiting years—and years—provided she cared? And did she care?

He didn't utter one word of this. He wanted to, but it seemed so preposterous. Such an idiotic, outrageous thing to ask. Yet it is probable that he would have asked it if the young lady had given him the chance. But she did not; after a sidelong glance at his face, she hurriedly rose from the rock and announced that she must be getting back to the house.

“I have some packing to do,” she explained; “and, besides, I think it is going to rain.”

“But, Miss Graham, I—”

A big drop of rain splashing upon his shoe confirmed the weather prophecy. She began to walk briskly toward the bungalow, and he walked at her side.

“Another storm,” she said. “I should think the one we have just passed through was sufficient for a while. I hope Mrs. Bascom won't get wet.”

“She has gone to the village, hasn't she?”

“Yes. She has received some message or other—I don't know how it came—which sent her off in a hurry. A livery carriage came for her. She will be back before night.”

“Atkins has gone, too. He had some errands, I believe. I can't make out what has come over him of late. He has changed greatly. He used to be so jolly and good-humored, except when female picnickers came. Now he is as solemn as an owl. When he went away he scarcely spoke a word. I thought he seemed to be in trouble, but when I asked him, he shut me up so promptly that I didn't press the matter.”

“Did he? That's odd. Mrs. Bascom seemed to be in trouble, too. I thought she had been crying when she came out of her room to go to the carriage. She denied it, but her eyes looked red. What can be the matter?”

“I don't know.”

“Nor I. Mr.—er—Brooks—Or shall I still call you 'Brown'?”

“No. Brown is dead; drowned. Let him stay so.”

“Very well. Mr. Brooks, has it occurred to you that your Mr. Atkins is a peculiar character? That he acts peculiarly?”

“He has acted peculiarly ever since I knew him. But to what particular peculiarity do you refer?”

“His queer behavior. Several times I have seen him—I am almost sure it was he—hiding or crouching behind the sand hills at the rear of our bungalow.”

“You have? Why, I—”

He hesitated. Before he could go on or she continue, the rain came in a deluge. They reached the porch just in time.

“Well, I'm safe and reasonably dry,” she panted. “I'm afraid you will be drenched before you get to the lights. Don't you want an umbrella?”

“No. No, indeed, thank you.”

“Well, you must hurry then. Good-by.”

“But, Miss Graham,” anxiously, “I shall see you again before you go. To-morrow, at bathing time, perhaps?”

“Judging by the outlook just at present, bathing will be out of the question to-morrow.”

“But I want to see you. I must.”

She shook her head doubtfully. “I don't know,” she said. “I shall be very busy getting ready to leave; but perhaps we may meet again.”

“We must. I—Miss Graham, I—”

She had closed the door. He ran homeward through the rain, the storm which soaked him to the skin being but a trifle compared to the tornado in his breast.

He spent the balance of the day somehow, he could not have told how. The rain and wind continued; six o'clock came, and Seth should have returned an hour before, but there was no sign of him. He wondered if Mrs. Bascom had returned. He had not seen the carriage, but she might have come while he was inside the house. The lightkeeper's nonappearance began to worry him a trifle.

At seven, as it was dark, he took upon himself the responsibility of climbing the winding stairs in each tower and lighting the great lanterns. It was the first time he had done it, but he knew how, and the duty was successfully accomplished. Then, as Atkins was still absent and there was nothing to do but wait, he sat in the chair in the kitchen and thought. Occasionally, and it showed the trend of his thoughts, he rose and peered from the window across the dark to the bungalow. In the living room of the latter structure a light burned. At ten it was extinguished.

At half past ten he went to Seth's bedroom, found a meager assortment of pens, ink and note paper, returned to the kitchen, sat down by the table and began to write.

For an hour he thought, wrote, tore up what he had written, and began again. At last the result of his labor read something like this:

“DEAR MISS GRAHAM:

“I could not say it this afternoon, although if you had stayed I think I should. But I must say it now or it may be too late. I can't let you go without saying it. I love you. Will you wait for me? It may be a very long wait, although God knows I mean to try harder than I have ever tried for anything in my life. If I live I will make something of myself yet, with you as my inspiration. You know you said if a girl really cared for a man she would willingly wait years for him. Do you care for me as much as that? With you, or for you, I believe I can accomplish anything. DO you care?

“RUSSELL BROOKS.”

He put this in an envelope, sealed and addressed it, and without stopping to put on either cap or raincoat went out in the night.

The rain was still falling, although not as heavily, but the wind was coming in fierce squalls. He descended the path to the cove, floundering through the wet bushes. At the foot of the hill he was surprised to find the salt marsh a sea of water not a vestige of ground above the surface. This was indeed a record-breaking tide, such as he had never known before. He did not pause to reflect upon tides or such trivialities, but, with a growl at being obliged to make the long detour, he rounded the end of the cove and climbed up to the door of the bungalow. Under the edge of that door he tucked the note he had written. As soon as this was accomplished he became aware that he had expressed himself very clumsily. He had not written as he might. A dozen brilliant thoughts came to him. He must rewrite that note at all hazards.

So he spent five frantic minutes trying to coax that envelope from under the door. But, in his care to push it far enough, it had dropped beyond the sill, and he could not reach it. The thing was done for better or for worse. Perfectly certain that it was for worse, he splashed mournfully back to the lights. In the lantern room of the right-hand tower he spent the remainder of the night, occasionally wandering out on the gallery to note the weather.

The storm was dying out. The squalls were less and less frequent, and the rain had been succeeded by a thick fog. The breakers pounded in the dark below him, and from afar the foghorns moaned and wailed. It was a bad night, a night during which no lightkeeper should be absent from his post. And where was Seth?





CHAPTER XIV

“BENNIE D.”

Seth's drive to Eastboro was a dismal journey. Joshua pounded along over the wet sand or through ruts filled with water, and not once during the trip was he ordered to “Giddap” or “Show some signs of life.” Not until the first scattered houses of the village were reached did the lightkeeper awaken from his trance sufficiently to notice that the old horse was limping slightly with the right forefoot.

“Hello!” exclaimed Seth. “What's the matter with you, Josh?”

Joshua slopped on, but this was a sort of three-legged progress. The driver leaned forward and then pulled on the reins.

“Whoa!” he ordered. “Stand still!”

Joshua stood still, almost with enthusiasm. Seth tucked the end of the reins between the whip socket and the dashboard, and swung out of the wagon to make an examination. Lifting the lame foot, he found the trouble at once. The shoe was loose.

“Humph!” he soliloquized. “Cal'late you and me'll have to give Benijah a job. Well,” climbing back into the vehicle, “I said I'd never give him another after the row we had about the last, but I ain't got ambition enough to go clear over to the Denboro blacksmith's. I don't care. I don't care about nothin' any more. Giddap.”

Benijah Ellis's little, tumble-down blacksmith shop was located in the main street of Eastboro, if that hit-or-miss town can be said to possess a main street. Atkins drove up to its door, before which he found Benijah and a group of loungers inspecting an automobile, the body of which had been removed in order that the engine and running gear might be the easier reached. The blacksmith was bending over the car, his head and shoulders down amidst the machinery; a big wrench was in his hand, and other wrenches, hammers, and tools of various sizes were scattered on the ground beside him.

“Hello, Benije,” grunted Seth.

Ellis removed his nose from its close proximity to the gear shaft and straightened up. He was a near-sighted, elderly man, and wore spectacles. Just now his hands, arms, and apron were covered with grease and oil, and, as he wiped his forehead with the hand not holding the wrench, he left a wide mourning band across it.

“Well?” he panted. “Who is it? Who wants me?”

One of the loafers, who had been assisting the blacksmith by holding his pipe while he dove into the machinery, languidly motioned toward the new arrival. Benijah adjusted his spectacles and walked over to the wagon.

“Who is it?” he asked crossly. Then, as he recognized his visitor, he grunted: “Ugh! it's you, hey. Well, what do YOU want?”

“Want you to put a new shoe on this horse of mine,” replied Seth, not too graciously.

“Is that so! Well, I'm busy.”

“I don't care if you be. I guess you ain't so busy you can't do a job of work. If you are, you're richer'n I ever heard you was.”

“I want to know! Maybe I'm particular who I work for, Seth Atkins.”

“Maybe you are. I ain't so particular; if I was, I wouldn't come here, I tell you that. This horse of mine's got a loose shoe, and I want him attended to quick.”

“Thought you said you'd never trust me with another job.”

“I ain't trustin' you now. I'll be here while it's done. And I ain't askin' you to trust me, neither. I'll pay cash—cash, d'ye understand?”

The bystanders grinned. Mr. Ellis's frown deepened. “I'm busy,” he declared, with importance. “I've got Mr. Delancey Barry's automobile to fix, and I can't stop to bother with horses—specially certain kind of horses.”

This sneer at Joshua roused his owner's ire. He dropped the reins and sprang to the ground.

“See here, Benije Ellis,” he growled, advancing upon the repairer of automobiles, who retreated a step or two with promptness. “I don't care what you're fixin', nor whose it is, neither. I guess 'twill be 'fixed' all right when you get through with it, but that ain't neither here nor there. And it don't make no difference if it does belong to Mr. Barry. If 'twas Elijah's chariot of fire 'twould be just the same. That auto won't be done this afternoon, and nobody expects it to be. Here's my horse sufferin' to be shod; I want him shod and I've got the money to pay for it. When it's winter time you're around cryin' that you can't earn money to pay your bills. Now, just because it's summer and there's city big-bugs in the neighborhood innocent enough to let you tinker with their autos—though they'll never do it but once—I don't propose to be put off. If you won't shoe this horse of mine I'll know it's because you've got so much money you don't need more. And if that's the case, there's a whole lot of folks would be mighty glad to know it—Henry G. Goodspeed for one. I'm goin' up to his store now. Shall I tell him?”

This was a shot in the bull's-eye. Mr. Ellis owed a number of bills, had owed them for a long time, and Mr. Goodspeed's was by no means the smallest. The loafers exchanged winks, and the blacksmith's manner became more conciliatory.

“I didn't say I wouldn't do it for you, Seth,” he pleaded. “I'm always willin' to do your work. You're the one that's been complainin'.”

“Ugh! Well, I'm likely to complain some more, but the complaint's one thing, and the need's another. I'm like Joel Knowles—he said when he couldn't get whisky he worried along best he could with bay rum. I need a blacksmith, and if I can't get a real one I'll put up with an imitation. Will you shoe this horse for me?”

“Course I'll shoe him. But I can't do it this minute. I've got this consarned machine,” waving a hand toward the automobile, “out of door here and all to pieces. And it's goin' to rain. Just let me put enough of it together so's I can shove it into the shop out of the wet, and then I'll tackle your job. You leave your horse and team here and go do your other errands. He'll be ready when you come back.”

So on this basis the deal was finally made. Seth was reluctant to trust the precious Joshua out of his sight, but, after some parley, he agreed to do so. The traces were unfastened, and the animal was led into the shop, the carriage was backed under a shed, and the lightkeeper went away promising to be back in an hour. As soon as he had gone, Ellis dived again into the vitals of the auto.

The argument with the blacksmith had one satisfactory result so far as Seth was concerned. In a measure it afforded a temporary vent for his feelings. He was moderately agreeable during his brief stay at the grocery store, and when his orders were given and he found the hour not half over, he strolled out to walk about the village. And then, alone once more, all his misery and heartache returned. He strode along, his head down, scarcely speaking to acquaintances whom he met, until he reached the railway station, where he sat down on the baggage truck to mentally review, over and over again, the scene with Emeline and the dreadful collapse of his newborn hopes and plans.

As he sat there, the door of the station opened and a man emerged, a man evidently not a native of Eastboro. He was dressed in a rather loud, but somewhat shabby, suit of summer plaid, his straw hat was set a trifle over one ear, and he was smoking the stump of a not too fragrant cigar. Altogether he looked like a sporting character under a temporary financial cloud, but the cloud did not dim his self-satisfaction nor shadow his magnificent complaisance. He regarded the section of Eastboro before him with condescending scorn, and then, catching sight of the doleful figure on the baggage truck, strolled over and addressed it.

“I say, my friend,” he observed briskly, “have you a match concealed about your person? If so, I—”

He stopped short, for Mr. Atkins, after one languid glance in his direction, had sprung from the truck and was gazing at him as if he was some apparition, some figure in a nightmare, instead of his blase self. And he, as he looked at the lightkeeper's astounded countenance, dropped the cigar stump from his fingers and stepped backward in alarmed consternation.

“You—you—YOU?” gasped Seth.

“YOU!” repeated the stranger.

“You!” cried Seth again; not a brilliant nor original observation, but, under the circumstances, excusable, for the nonchalant person in the plaid suit was Emeline Bascom's brother-in-law, the genius, the “inventor,” the one person whom he hated—and feared—more than anyone else in the world—Bennie D. himself.

There was a considerable interval during which neither of the pair spoke. Seth, open-mouthed and horror-stricken, was incapable of speech, and the inventor's astonishment seemed to be coupled with a certain nervousness, almost as if he feared a physical assault. However, as the lightkeeper made no move, and his fists remained open, the nervousness disappeared, and Bennie D. characteristically took command of the situation.

“Hum!” he observed musingly. “Hum! May I ask what you are doing here?”

“Huh—hey?” was Seth's incoherent reply.

“I ask what you are doing here? Have you followed me?”

“Fol-follered you? No.”

“You're sure of that, are you?”

“Yes, I be.” Seth did not ask what Bennie D. was doing there. Already that question was settled in his mind. The brother-in-law had found out that Emeline was living next door to the man she married, that her summer engagement was over, and he had come to take her away.

“Well?” queried the inventor sharply, “if you haven't followed me, what are you doing here? What do you mean by being here?”

“I belong here,” desperately. “I work here.”

“You do? And may I ask what particular being is fortunate enough to employ you?”

“I'm keeper down to the lighthouses, if you want to know. But I cal'late you know it already.”

Bennie D.'s coolness was not proof against this. He started.

“The lighthouses?” he repeated. “The—what is it they call them?—the Twin-Lights?”

“Yes. You know it; what's the use of askin' fool questions?”

The inventor had not known it—until that moment, and he took time to consider before making another remark. His sister-in-law was employed as housekeeper at some bungalow or other situated in close proximity to the Twin-Lights; that he had discovered since his arrival on the morning train. Prior to that he had known only that she was in Eastboro for the summer. Before that he had not been particularly interested in her location. Since the day, two years past, when, having decided that he had used her and her rapidly depleting supply of cash as long as was safe or convenient, he had unceremoniously left her and gone to New York to live upon money supplied by a credulous city gentleman, whom his smooth tongue had interested in his “inventions,” he had not taken the trouble even to write to Emeline. But within the present month the New Yorker's credulity and his “loans” had ceased to be material assets. Then Bennie D., face to face with the need of funds, remembered his sister and the promise given his dead brother that he should be provided with a home as long as she had one.

He journeyed to Cape Ann and found, to his dismay, that she was no longer there. After some skillful detective work, he learned of the Eastboro engagement and wrote the letter—a piteous, appealing letter, full of brotherly love and homesickness—which, held back by the storm, reached Mrs. Bascom only that morning. In it he stated that he was on his way to her and was counting the minutes until they should be together once more. And he had, as soon after his arrival in the village as possible, 'phoned to the Lights and spoken with her. Her tone, as she answered, was, he thought, alarmingly cold. It had made him apprehensive, and he wondered if his influence over her was on the wane. But now—now he understood. Her husband—her husband, of all people—had been living next door to her all summer. No doubt she knew he was there when she took the place. Perhaps they had met by mutual agreement. Why, this was appalling! It might mean anything. And yet Seth did not look triumphant or even happy. Bennie D. resolved to show no signs of perturbation or doubt, but first to find out, if he could, the truth, and then to act accordingly.

“Mr. Bascom—” he began. The lightkeeper, greatly alarmed, interrupted him.

“Hush!” he whispered. “Don't say that. That ain't my name—down here.”

“Indeed? What is your name?”

“Down here they call me Seth Atkins.”

Bennie D. looked puzzled. Then his expression changed. He was relieved. When he 'phoned to the Lights—using the depot 'phone—the station agent had seemed to consider his calling a woman over the lighthouse wire great fun. The lightkeeper, so the agent said, was named Atkins, and was a savage woman-hater. He would not see a woman, much less speak to one; it was a standing joke in the neighborhood, Seth's hatred of females. That seemed to prove that Emeline and her husband were not reconciled and living together, at least. Possibly their being neighbors was merely a coincidence. If so, he might not have come too late. When he next addressed his companion it was in a different tone and without the “Mister.”

“Bascom—or—er—Atkins,” he said sharply, “I hoped—I sincerely hoped that you and I might not meet during my short stay here; but, as we have met, I think it best that we should understand each other. Suppose we walk over to that clump of trees on the other side of the track. We shall be alone there, and I can say what is necessary. I don't wish—even when I remember your behavior toward my sister—to humiliate you in the town where you may be trying to lead a better life. Come.”

He led the way, and Seth, yielding as of old to this man's almost hypnotic command over him and still bewildered by the unexpected meeting, followed like a whipped dog. Under the shelter of the trees they paused.

“Now then,” said Bennie D., “perhaps you'll tell me what you mean by decoying my sister down here in my absence, when I was not present to protect her. What do you mean by it?”

Seth stared at him uncomprehendingly. “Decoyin' her?” he repeated. “I never decoyed her. I've been here ever since I left—left you and her that night. I never asked her to come. I didn't know she was comin'. And she didn't know I was here until—until a month or so ago. I—”

Bennie D. held up a hand. He was delighted by this piece of news, but he did not show it.

“That will do,” he said. “I understand all that. But since then—since then? What do you mean by trying to influence her as you have? Answer me!”

The lightkeeper rubbed his forehead.

“I ain't tried to influence her,” he declared. “She and me have scarcely seen each other. Nobody knows that we was married, not even Miss Graham nor the young feller that's—that's my helper at the lights. You must know that. She must have wrote you. What are you talkin' about?”

She had not written; he had received no letters from her during the two years, but again the wily “genius” was equal to the occasion. He looked wise and nodded.

“Of course,” he said importantly. “Of course. Certainly.”

He hesitated, not knowing exactly what his next move should be. And Seth, having had time to collect, in a measure, his scattered wits, began to do some thinking on his own account.

“Say,” he said suddenly, “if you knew all this aforehand, what are you askin' these questions for?”

“That,” Bennie D.'s gesture was one of lofty disdain, “is my business.”

“I want to know! Well, then, maybe I've got some business of my own. Who made my business your business? Hey?”

“The welfare of my sister—”

“Never you mind your sister. You're talkin' with me now. And you ain't got me penned up in a house, neither. By jiminy crimps!” His anger boiled over, and, to the inventor's eyes, he began to look alarmingly alive. “By jiminy crimps!” repeated Seth, “I've been prayin' all these years to meet you somewheres alone, and now I've a good mind to—to—”

His big fist closed. Bennie D. stepped backward out of reach.

“Bascom—” he cried, “don't—”

“Don't you call me that!”

“Bascom—” The inventor was thoroughly frightened, and his voice rose almost to a shout.

The lightkeeper's wrath vanished at the sound of the name. If any native of Eastboro, if the depot master on the other side of the track, should hear him addressed as “Bascom,” the fat would be in the fire for good and all. The secret he had so jealously guarded would be out, and all the miserable story would, sooner or later, be known.

“Don't call me Bascom,” he begged. “Er—please don't.”

Bennie D.'s courage returned. Yet he realized that if a trump card was to be played it must be then. This man was dangerous, and, somehow or other, his guns must be spiked. A brilliant idea occurred to him. Exactly how much of the truth Seth knew he was not sure, but he took the risk.

“Very well then—Atkins,” he said contemptuously. “I am not used to aliases—not having dealt with persons finding it necessary to employ them—and I forget. But before this disagreeable interview is ended I wish you to understand thoroughly why I am here. I am here to protect my sister and to remove her from your persecution. I am here to assist her in procuring a divorce.”

“A divorce! A DIVORCE! Good heavens above!”

“Yes, sir,” triumphantly, “a divorce from the man she was trapped into marrying and who deserted her. You did desert her, you can't deny that. So long as she remains your wife, even in name, she is liable to persecution from you. She understands this. She and I are to see a lawyer at once. That is why I am here.”

Seth was completely overwhelmed. A divorce! A case for the papers to print, and all of Ostable county to read!

“I—I—I—” he stammered, and then added weakly, “I don't believe it. She wouldn't . . . There ain't no lawyer here.”

“Then we shall seek the one nearest here. Emeline understands. I 'phoned her this morning.”

“Was it YOU that 'phoned?”

“It was. Now—er—Atkins, I am disposed to be as considerate of your welfare as possible. I know that any publicity in this matter might prejudice you in the eyes of your—of the government officials. I shall not seek publicity, solely on your account. The divorce will be obtained privately, provided—PROVIDED you remain out of sight and do not interfere. I warn you, therefore, not to make trouble or to attempt to see my sister again. If you do—well, if you do, the consequences will be unpleasant for you. Do you understand?”

Seth understood, or thought he did. He groaned and leaned heavily against a tree trunk.

“You understand, do you?” repeated Bennie D. “I see that you do. Very good then. I have nothing more to say. I advise that you remain—er—in seclusion for the next few days. Good-by.”

He gave a farewell glance at the crushed figure leaning against the tree. Then he turned on his heel and walked off.

Seth remained where he was for perhaps ten minutes, not moving a muscle. Then he seemed to awaken, looked anxiously in the direction of the depot to make sure that no one was watching, pulled his cap over his eyes, jammed his hands into his pockets, and started to walk across the fields. He had no fixed destination in mind, had no idea where he was going except that he must go somewhere, that he could not keep still.

He stumbled along, through briers and bushes, paying no attention to obstacles such as fences or stone walls until he ran into them, when he climbed over and went blindly on. A mile from Eastboro, and he was alone in a grove of scrub pines. Here he stopped short, struck his hands together, and groaned aloud:

“I don't believe it! I don't believe it!”

For he was beginning not to believe it. At first he had not thought of doubting Bennie D.'s statement concerning the divorce. Now, as his thoughts became clearer, his doubts grew. His wife had not mentioned the subject in their morning interview. Possibly she would not have done so in any event, but, as the memory of her behavior and speech became clearer in his mind, it seemed to him that she could not have kept such a secret. She had been kinder, had seemed to him more—yes, almost—why, when he asked her to be his again, to give him another chance, she had hesitated. She had not said no at once, she hesitated. If she was about to divorce him, would she have acted in such a way? It hardly seemed possible.

Then came the letter and the telephone message. It was after these that she had said no with decision. Perhaps . . . was it possible that she had known of her brother-in-law's coming only then? Now that he thought of it, she had not gone away at once after the talk over the 'phone. She had waited a moment as if for him to speak. He, staggered and paralyzed by the sight of his enemy's name in that letter, had not spoken and then she . . . He did not believe she was seeking a divorce! It was all another of Bennie D.'s lies!

But suppose she was seeking it. Or suppose—for he knew the persuasive power of that glib tongue only too well—suppose her brother-in-law should persuade her to do it. Should he sit still—in seclusion, as his late adviser had counseled—and let this irrevocable and final move be made? After a divorce—Seth's idea of divorces were vague and Puritanical—there would be no hope. He and Emeline could never come together after that. And he must give her up and all his hopes of happiness, all that he had dreamed of late, would be but dreams, never realities. No! he could not give them up. He would not. Publicity, scandal, everything, he could face, but he would not give his wife up without a fight. What should he do?

For a long time he paced up and down beneath the pines trying to plan, to come to some decision. All that he could think of was to return to the Lights, to go openly to the bungalow, see Emeline and make one last appeal. Bennie D. might be there, but if he was—well, by jiminy crimps, let him look out, that's all!

He had reached this point in his meditations when the wind, which had been steadily increasing and tossing the pinetops warningly, suddenly became a squall which brought with it a flurry of rain. He started and looked up. The sky was dark, it was late in the afternoon, and the storm he had prophesied had arrived.

Half an hour later he ran, panting and wet, into the blacksmith's shop. The automobile was standing in the middle of the floor, and Mr. Ellis was standing beside it, perspiring and troubled.

“Where's Joshua?” demanded Seth.

“Hey?” inquired the blacksmith absently.

“Where's my horse? Is he ready?”

Benijah wiped his forehead.

“Gosh!” he exclaimed. “By . . . gosh!”

“What are you b'goshin' about?”

“Seth—I don't know what you'll say to me—but—but I declare I forgot all about your horse.”

“You FORGOT about him?”

“Yes. You see that thing?” pointing pathetically at the auto. “Well, sir, that pesky thing's breakin' my heart—to say nothin' of my back. I got it apart all right, no trouble about that. And by good rights I've got it together again, leastways it looks so. Yet, by time,” in distracted agitation, “there's a half bucket of bolts and nuts and odds and ends that ain't in it yet—left over, you might say. And I can't find any place to put one of 'em. Do you wonder I forget trifles?”

Trifles! the shoeing of Joshua a trifle! The lightkeeper had been suffering for an opportunity to blow off steam, and the opportunity was here. Benijah withered under the blast.

“S-sh-sh! sh-sh!” he pleaded. “Land sakes, Seth Atkins, stop it! I don't blame you for bein' mad, but you nor nobody else sha'n't talk to me that way. I'll fix your horse in five minutes. Yes, sir, in five minutes. Shut up now, or I won't do it at all!”

He rushed over to the stall in the rear of the shop, woke Joshua from the sweet slumber of old age, and led him to the halter beside the forge. The lightkeeper, being out of breath, had nothing further to say at the moment.

“What's the matter with all you lighthouse folks?” asked Benijah, anxious to change the subject. “What's possessed the whole lot of you to come to the village at one time? Whoa, boy, stand still!”

“The whole lot of us?” repeated Seth. “What do you mean?”

“Mean I've seen two of you at least this afternoon. That Bascom woman, housekeeper at the Graham bungalow she is, went past here twice. Fust time she was in one of Snow's livery buggies, Snow's boy drivin' her. Then, about an hour ago, she went by again, but the boy'd gone, and there was another feller pilotin' the team—a stranger, nobody I ever see afore.”

Seth's red face turned pale. “What?” he cried. “Em—Mrs. Bascom ridin' with a stranger! What sort of a stranger?”

“Oh, a feller somewheres between twenty and fifty. Smooth-faced critter with a checked suit and a straw hat. . . . What on earth's the matter with you now?”

For the lightkeeper was shaking from head to foot.

“Did—did—which way was they goin'? Back to the Lights or—or where?”

“No, didn't seem to be goin' to the Lights at all. They went on the other road. Seemed to be headin' for Denboro if they kept on as they started. . . . Seth Atkins, have you turned loony?”

Seth did not answer. With a leap he landed at Joshua's head, unhooked the halter, and ran out of the shop leading the horse. The astonished blacksmith followed as far as the door. Seth was backing the animal into his wagon, which stood beneath the shed. He fastened the traces with trembling fingers.

“What in the world has struck you?” shouted Ellis. “Ain't you goin' to have that shoe fixed? He can't travel that way. Seth! Seth Atkins! . . . By time, he IS crazy!”

Seth did not deny the charge. Climbing into the wagon, he took up the reins.

“Are you sure and sartin' 'twas the Denboro road they took?” he demanded.

“Who took? That feller and the Bascom woman? Course I am, but . . . Well, I swan!”

For the lightkeeper waited to hear no more. He struck the unsuspecting Joshua with the end of the reins and, with a jump, the old horse started forward. Another moment, and the lighthouse wagon was splashing and rattling through the pouring rain along the road leading to Denboro.

All books are sourced from Project Gutenberg