Seth was true to his promise concerning Job. The next afternoon that remarkable canine was decoyed, by the usual bone, into the box in which he had arrived. Being in, the cover was securely renailed above him. Brown and the light-keeper lifted the box into the back part of the “open wagon,” and Atkins drove triumphantly away, the pup's agonized protests against the journey serving as spurs to urge Joshua faster along the road to the village. When, about six o'clock, Seth reentered the yard, he was grinning broadly.
“Well,” inquired Brown, “did he take him back willingly?”
“Who? Henry G.? I don't know about the willin' part, but he'll take him back. I attended to that.”
“What did he say? Did he think you ungrateful for refusing to accept his present?”
Atkins laughed aloud. “He didn't say nothin',” he declared. “He didn't know it when I left Eastboro. I wa'n't such a fool as to cart that critter to the store, where all the gang 'round the store could holler and make fun. Not much! I drove way round the other way, up the back road, and unloaded him at Henry's house. I cal'lated to leave him with Aunt Olive—that's Henry's sister, keepin' house for him—but she'd gone out to sewin' circle, and there wa'n't nobody to home. The side door was unlocked, so I lugged that box into the settin' room and left it there. Pretty nigh broke my back; and that everlastin' Job hollered so I thought the whole town would hear him and come runnin' to stop the murderin' that they'd cal'late was bein' done. But there ain't no nigh neighbors, and those that are nighest ain't on speakin' terms with Henry; ruther have him murdered than not, I shouldn't wonder. So I left Job in his box in the settin' room and cleared out.”
The substitute assistant smiled delightedly.
“Good enough!” he exclaimed. “What a pleasant surprise for friend Henry or his housekeeper.”
“Ho, ho! ain't it! I rather guess 'twill be Henry himself that's surprised fust. Aunt Olive never leaves sewin' circle till the last bit of supper's eat up—she's got some of her brother's stinginess in her make-up—so I cal'late Henry'll get home afore she does. I shouldn't wonder,” with an exuberant chuckle, “if that settin' room' was some stirred up when he sees it. The pup had loosened the box cover afore I left. Ho, ho!”
“But won't he send the dog back here again?”
“No, he won't. I left a note for him on the table. There was consider'ble ginger in every line of it. No, Job won't be sent here, no matter what becomes of him. And if anything SHOULD be broke in that settin' room—well, there was SOME damage done to our kitchen. No, I guess Henry G. and me are square. He won't make any fuss; he wants to keep our trade, you see.”
It was a true prophecy. The storekeeper made no trouble, and Job remained at Eastboro until a foray on a neighbor's chickens resulted in his removal from this vale of tears. Neither the lightkeeper nor his helper ever saw him again, and when Seth next visited the store and solicitously inquired concerning the pup's health, Henry G. merely looked foolish and changed the subject.
But the dog's short sojourn at the Twin-Lights had served to solve one mystery, that of Atkins's daily excursions to Pounddug Slough. He went there to work on the old schooner, the Daisy M. Seth made no more disclosures concerning his past life—that remained a secret—but he did suggest his helper's going to inspect the schooner. “Just walk across and look her over,” he said. “I'd like to know what you think of her. See if I ain't makin' a pretty good job out of nothin'. FOR nothin', of course,” he added, gloomily; “but it keeps me from thinkin' too much. Go and see her, that's a good feller.”
So the young man did go. He climbed aboard the stranded craft—a forlorn picture she made, lying on her side in the mud—and was surprised to find how much had been manufactured “out of nothing.” Her seams, those which the sun had opened, were caulked neatly; her deck was clean and white; she was partially rigged, with new and old canvas and ropes; and to his landsman's eyes she looked almost fit for sea. But when he said as much to Seth, the latter laughed scornfully.
“Fit for nothin',” scoffed the lightkeeper. “I could make her fit, maybe, if I wanted to spend money enough, but I don't. I can't get at her starboard side, that's down in the mud, and I cal'late she'd leak like a skimmer. She's only got a fores'l and a jib, and the jib's only a little one that used to belong to a thirty-foot sloop. Her anchor's gone, and I wouldn't trust her main topmast to carry anything bigger'n a handkerchief, nor that in a breeze no more powerful than a canary bird's breath. And, as I told you, it would take a tide like a flood to float her. No, she's no good, and never will be; but,” with a sigh, “I get a little fun fussin' over her.”
“Er—by the way,” he added, a little later, “of course you won't mention to nobody what I told you about—about my bein' a fishin' skipper once. Not that anybody ever comes here for you to mention it to, but I wouldn't want . . . You see, nobody in Eastboro or anywheres on the Cape knows where I come from, and so . . . Oh, all right, all right. I know you ain't the kind to talk. Mind our own business, that's the motto you and me cruise under, hey?”
Yet, although the conversation in the substitute assistant's room was not again referred to by either, it had the effect of making the oddly assorted pair a bit closer in their companionship. The mutual trust was strengthened by the lightkeeper's half confidence and Brown's sympathetic reception of it. Each was lonely, each had moments when he felt he must express his hidden feelings to some one, and, though neither recognized the fact, it was certain that the time was coming when all mysteries would be mysteries no longer. And one day occurred a series of ridiculous happenings which, bidding fair at first to end in a quarrel the relationship between the two, instead revealed in both a kindred trait that removed the last barrier.
At a little before ten on this particular morning, Brown, busy in the kitchen, heard vigorous language outside. It was Atkins who was speaking, and the assistant wondered who on earth he could be talking to. A glance around the doorpost showed that he was, apparently, talking to himself—at least, there was no other human being to be seen. He held in his hand a battered pair of marine glasses and occasionally he peered through them. Each time he did so his soliloquy became more animated and profane.
“What's the matter?” demanded Brown, emerging from the house.
“Matter?” repeated Seth. “Matter enough! Here! take a squint through them glasses and tell me who's in that buggy comin' yonder?”
The buggy, a black dot far down the sandy road leading from the village, was rocking and dipping over the dunes. The assistant took the glasses, adjusted them, and looked as directed.
“Why!” he said slowly, “there are three people in that buggy. A man—and—”
“And two women; that's what I thought. Dum idiots comin' over to picnic and spend the day, sure's taxes. And they'll want to be showed round the lights and everywheres, and they'll ask more'n forty million questions. Consarn the luck!”
Brown looked troubled. He had no desire to meet strangers.
“How do you know they're coming here?” he asked. The answer was conclusive.
“Because,” snarled Seth, “as I should think you'd know by this time, there ain't no other place round here they COULD come to.”
A moment later, he added, “Well, you'll have to show 'em round.”
“I will?”
“Sartin. That's part of the assistant keeper's job.”
He chuckled as he said it. That chuckle grated on the young man's nerves.
“I'm not the assistant,” he declared cheerfully.
“You ain't? What are you then?”
“Oh, just a helper. I don't get any wages. You've told me yourself, over and over, that I have no regular standing here. And, according to the government rules, those you've got posted in the kitchen, the lightkeeper is obliged to show visitors about. I wouldn't break the rules for the world. Good morning. Think I'll go down to the beach.”
He stalked away whistling. Atkins, his face flaming, roared after him a profane opinion concerning his actions. Then he went into the kitchen, slamming the door with a bang.
Some twenty minutes later the helper heard his name shouted from the top of the bluff.
“Mr. Brown! I say! Ahoy there, Mr. Brown! Come up here a minute, won't ye?”
Brown clambered up the path. A little man, with grey throat whiskers, and wearing an antiquated straw hat, the edge of the brim trimmed with black braid, was standing waiting for him.
“Sorry to trouble you, Mr. Brown,” stammered the little man, “but you be Mr. Brown, ain't you?”
“I am. Yes.”
“Well, I cal'lated you was. My name's Stover, Abijah Stover. I live over to Trumet. Me and my wife drove over for a sort of picnic like. We've got her cousin, Mrs. Sophia Hains, along. Sophi's a widow from Boston, and she ain't never seen a lighthouse afore. I know Seth Atkins slightly, and I was cal'latin' he'd show us around, but bein' as he's so sick—”
“Sick? Is Mr. Atkins sick?”
“Why, yes. Didn't you know it? He's in the bedroom there groanin' somethin' terrible. He told me not to say nothin' to the women folks, but to hail you, and you'd look out for us. Didn't you know he was laid up? Why, he—”
Brown did not wait to hear more. He strode to the house, with Mr. Stover at his heels. On his way he caught a glimpse of the buggy, the horse dozing between the shafts. On the seat of the buggy were two women, one plump and round-faced, the other thin and gaunt.
Mr. Stover panted behind him.
“Say, Mr. Brown,” he whispered, as they entered the kitchen; “don't tell my wife nor Sophi about Seth's bein' sick. Better not say a word to them about it.”
The tone in which this was spoken made the substitute assistant curious.
“Why not?” he asked.
“'Cause—well, 'cause Hannah's hobby is sick folks, as you might say. If there's a cat in the neighborhood that's ailin' she's always dosin' of it up and fixin' medicine for it, and the like of that. And Sophi's one of them 'New Thoughters' and don't believe anybody's got any right to be sick. The two of 'em ain't done nothin' but argue and row over diseases and imagination and medicines ever since Sophi got here. If they knew Seth was laid up, I honestly believe they'd drop picnic and everythin' and start fightin' over whether he was really sick or just thought he was. And I sort of figgered on havin' a quiet day off.”
Brown found the lightkeeper stretched on the bed in his room. He was dressed, with the exception of coat and boots, and when the young man entered he groaned feebly.
“What's the matter?” demanded the alarmed helper.
“Oh, my!” groaned Seth. “Oh, my!”
“Are you in pain? What is it? Shall I 'phone for the doctor?”
“No, no. No use gettin' the doctor. I'll be all right by and by. It's one of my attacks. I have 'em every once in a while. Just let me alone, and let me lay here without bein' disturbed; then I'll get better, I guess.”
“But it's so sudden!”
“I know. They always come on that way. Now run along, like a good feller, and leave me to my suff'rin's. O-oh, dear!”
Much troubled, Brown turned to the door. As he was going out he happened to look back. The dresser stood against the wall beyond the bed, and in its mirror he caught a glimpse of the face of the sick man. On that face, which should have been distorted with agony, was a broad grin.
Brown found the little Stover man waiting for him in the kitchen.
“Be you ready?” he asked.
“Ready?” repeated Brown, absently. “Ready for what?”
“Why, to show us round the lights. Sophi, she ain't never seen one afore. Atkins said that, bein' as he wasn't able to leave his bed, you'd show us around.”
“He did, hey?”
“Yes. He said you'd be glad to.”
“Hum!” Mr. Brown's tone was that of one upon whom, out of darkness, a light has suddenly burst. “I see,” he mused, thoughtfully. “Yes, yes. I see.”
For a minute he stood still, evidently pondering. Then, with a twinkle in his eye, he strode out of the house and walked briskly across to the buggy.
“Good morning, ladies,” he said, removing the new cap which Seth had recently purchased for him in Eastboro. “Mr. Stover tells me you wish to be shown the lights.”
The plump woman answered. “Yes,” she said, briskly, “we do. Are you a new keeper? Where's Mr. Atkins?”
“Mr. Atkins, I regret to say,” began Brown, “is ill. He—”
Stover, standing at his elbow, interrupted nervously.
“Mr. Brown here'll show us around,” he said quickly. “Seth said he would.”
“I shall be happy,” concurred that young gentleman. “You must excuse me if I seem rather worried. Mr. Atkins, my chief—I believe you know him, Mrs. Stover—has been taken suddenly ill, and is, apparently, suffering much pain. The attack was very sudden, and I—”
“Sick?” The plump woman seemed actually to prick up her ears, like a sleepy cat at the sound of the dinner bell. “Is Seth sick? And you all alone with him here? Can't I do anything to help?”
“All he wants is to be left alone,” put in her husband anxiously. “He said so himself.”
“Do you know what's the matter? Have you got any medicine for him?” Mrs. Stover was already climbing out of the buggy.
“No,” replied Brown. “I haven't. That is, I haven't given him any yet.”
The slim woman, Mrs. Hains of Boston, now broke into the conversation.
“Good thing!” she snapped. “Most medicine's nothing but opium and alcohol. Fill the poor creature full of drugs and—”
“I s'pose you'd set and preach New Thought at him!” snapped Mrs. Stover. “As if a body could be cured by hot air! I believe I'll go right in and see him. Don't you s'pose I could help, Mr. Brown?”
Mr. Brown seemed pleased, but reluctant. “It's awfully good of you,” he said. “I couldn't think of troubling you when you've come so far on a pleasure excursion. But I am at my wit s end.”
“Don't say another word!” Mrs. Stover's bulky figure was already on the way to the door of the house. “I'm only too glad to do what I can. And, if I do say it, that shouldn't, I'm always real handy in a sick room. 'Bijah, be quiet; I don't care if we ARE on a picnic; no human bein' shall suffer while I set around and do nothin'.”
Mrs. Hains was at her cousin's heels.
“You'll worry him to death,” she declared. “You'll tell him how sick he is, and that he's goin' to die, and such stuff. What he needs is cheerful conversation and mental uplift. It's too bad! Well, you sha'n't have your own way with him, anyhow. Mr. Brown, where is he?”
“You two goin' to march right into his BEDROOM?” screamed the irate Abijah. The women answered not. They were already in the kitchen. Brown hastened after them.
“It's all right, ladies,” he said. “Right this way, please.”
He led the way to the chamber of the sick man. Mr. Atkins turned on his bed of pain, caught a glimpse of the visitors, and sat up.
“What in time?” he roared.
“Seth,” said Brown, benignly, “this is Mrs. Stover of Eastboro. I think you know her. And Mrs. Hains of Boston. These ladies have heard of your sickness, and, having had experience in such cases, have kindly offered to stay with you and help in any way they can. Mrs. Stover, I will leave him in your hands. Please call me if I can be of any assistance.”
Without waiting for further comment from the patient, whose face was a picture, he hastened to the kitchen, choking as he went. Mr. Stover met him at the outer door.
“Now you've done it!” wailed the little man. “NOW you've done it! Didn't I tell you? Oh, this'll be a hell of a picnic!”
He stalked away, righteous indignation overcoming him. Brown sat down in a rocking chair and shook with emotion. From the direction of the sick room came the sounds of three voices, each trying to outscream the other. The substitute assistant listened to this for a while, and, as he did so, a new thought struck him. He remembered a story he had read in a magazine years before. He crossed to the pantry, found an empty bottle, rinsed it at the sink, stepped again to the pantry, and, entering it, closed the door behind him. There he busied himself with the molasses jug, the soft-soap bucket, the oil can, the pepper shaker, and a few other utensils and their contents. Footsteps in the kitchen caused him to hurriedly reenter that apartment. Mrs. Stover was standing by the range, her face red.
“Oh, there you are, Mr. Brown!” she exclaimed. “I wondered where you'd gone to.”
“How is he?” inquired Brown, the keenest anxiety in his utterance.
“H'm! he'd do well enough if he had the right treatment. I cal'late he's better now, even as 'tis; but, when a person has to lay and hear over and over again that what ails 'em is nothin' but imagination, it ain't to be wondered at that they get mad. What he needs is some sort of soothin' medicine, and I only wish 'twan't so fur over to home. I've got just what he needs there.”
“I was thinking—” began Brown.
“What was you thinkin'?”
“I was wondering if some of my 'Stomach Balm' wouldn't help him. It's an old family receipt, handed down from the Indians, I believe. I always have a bottle with me and . . . Still, I wouldn't prescribe, not knowing the disease.”
Mrs. Stover's eyes sparkled. Patent medicines were her hobby.
“Hum!” she said. “'Stomach Balm' sounds good. And he says his trouble is principally stomach. Some of them Indian medicines are mighty powerful. Have you—did you say you had a bottle with you, Mr. Brown?”
The young man went again to the pantry and returned with the bottle he had so recently found there. Now, however, it was two thirds full of a black sticky mixture. Mrs. Stover removed the cork and took an investigating sniff.
“It smells powerful,” she said, hopefully.
“It is. Would you like to taste it?” handing her a tablespoon. He watched as she swallowed a spoonful.
“Ugh! oh!” she gasped; even her long suffering palate rebelled at THAT taste. “It—I should think that OUGHT to help him.”
“I should think so. It may be the very thing he needs. At any rate, it can't hurt him. It's quite harmless.”
Mrs. Stover's face was still twisted, under the influence of the “Balm”; but her mind was made up.
“I'm goin' to try it,” she declared. “I don't care if every New Thoughter in creation says no. He needs medicine and needs it right away.”
“The dose,” said Mr. Brown, gravely, “is two tablespoonfuls every fifteen minutes. I do hope it will help him. Give him my sympathy—my deepest sympathy, Mrs. Stover, please.”
The plump lady disappeared in the direction of the sick room. The substitute assistant lingered and listened. He heard a shrill pow-wow of feminine voices. Evidently “New Thought” and the practice of medicine had once more clashed. The argument waxed and waned. Followed the click of a spoon against glass. And then came a gasp, a gurgle, a choking yell; and high upon the salty air enveloping Eastboro Twin-Lights rose the voice of Mr. Seth Atkins, expressing his opinion of the “Stomach Balm” and those who administered it.
John Brown darted out of the kitchen, dodged around the corner of the house, tiptoed past the bench by the bluff, where Mr. Stover sat gloomily meditating, and ran lightly down the path to the creek and the wharf. The boathouse at the end of the wharf offered a convenient refuge. Into the building he darted, closed the door behind him, and collapsed upon a heap of fish nets.
At three-thirty that afternoon, Mr. Atkins, apparently quite recovered, was sitting in the kitchen rocker, reading a last week's newspaper, one of a number procured on his most recent trip to the village. The Stovers and their guest had departed. Their buggy was out of sight beyond the dunes. A slight noise startled the lightkeeper, and he looked up. His helper was standing in the doorway, upon his face an expression of intense and delighted surprise.
“What?” exclaimed Mr. Brown. “What? Is it really you?”
Seth put down the paper and nodded.
“Um-hm,” he observed drily, “it's really me.”
“Up? and WELL?” queried Brown.
“Um-hm. Pretty well, considerin', thank you. Been for a stroll up Washin'ton Street, have you? Or a little walk on the Common, maybe?”
The elaborate sarcasm of these questions was intended to be withering. Mr. Brown, however, did not wither. Neither did he blush.
“I have been,” he said, “down at the boathouse. I knew you were in safe hands and well looked after, so I went away. I couldn't remain here and hear you suffer.”
“Hum! HEAR me suffer, hey? Much obliged, I'm sure. What have you been doin' there all this time? I hoped you was—that is, I begun to be afraid you was dead. Thought your sympathy for me had been too much for you, maybe.”
Brown mournfully shook his head. “It was—almost,” he said, solemnly. “I think I dropped asleep. I was quite overcome.”
“Hum! Better take a dose of that 'Stomach Balm,' hadn't you? That'll liven you up, I'll guarantee.”
“No, thank you. The sight of you, well and strong again, is all the medicine I need. We must keep the 'Balm' in case you have another attack. By the way, I notice the dinner dishes haven't been washed. I'll do them at once. I know you must be tired, after your illness—and the exertion of showing your guests about the lights.”
Atkins did not answer, although he seemed to want to very much. However, he made no objection when his helper, rolling up his sleeves, turned to the sink and the dish washing.
Seth was silent all the rest of the afternoon and during supper. But that evening, as Brown sat on the bench outside, Atkins joined him.
“Hello!” said Seth, as cheerfully as if nothing had happened.
“Hello!” replied the assistant, shortly. He had been thinking once more, and his thoughts were not pleasant.
“I s'pose you cal'late,” began Atkins, “that maybe I've got a grudge against you on account of this mornin' and that 'Balm' and such. I ain't.”
“That's good. I'm glad to hear it.”
“Yes. After the fust dose of that stuff—for thunder sakes WHAT did you put in it?—I was about ready to murder you, but I've got over that. I don't blame you for gettin' even. We are even, you know.”
“I'm satisfied, if you are.”
“I be. But what I don't understand is why you didn't want to show them folks around.”
“Oh, I don't know. I had my reasons, such as they were. Why didn't you want to do it yourself?”
Seth crossed his legs and was silent for a moment or two. Then he spoke firmly and as if his mind was made up.
“Young feller,” he said, “I don't know whether you realize it or not, and perhaps I shouldn't be the one to mention it—but you're under some obligations to me.”
His companion nodded. “I realize that,” he said.
“Yes, but maybe you don't realize the amount of the obligations. I'm riskin' my job keepin' you here. If it wa'n't for the superintendent bein' such a friend of mine, there'd have been a reg'lar assistant keeper app'inted long ago. The gov'ment don't pick up its lightkeepers same as you would farm hands. There's civil service to be gone through, and the like of that. But you wanted to stay, and I've kept you, riskin' my own job, as I said. And now I cal'late we'd better have a plain understandin'. You've got to know just what your job is. I'm goin' to tell you.”
He stopped, as if to let this sink in. Brown nodded again. “All right,” he observed, carelessly; “go on and tell me; I'm listening.”
“Your job around the lights you know already, part of it. But there's somethin' else. Whenever men folks come here, I'll do my share of showin' the place off. But when women come—women, you understand—you've got to be guide. I'll forgive you to-day's doin's. I tried to play a joke on you, and you evened it up with a better one on me. That's all right. But, after this, showin' the lights to females is your job, and you've got to do it—or get out. No hard feelin's at all, and I'd really hate to lose you, but THAT'S got to be as I say.”
He rose, evidently considering the affair settled. Brown caught his coat and pulled him back to the bench.
“Wait, Atkins,” he said. “I'm grateful to you for your kindness, I like you and I'd like to please you; but if what you say is final, then—as they used to say in some play or other—'I guess you'll have to hire another boy.'”
“What? You mean you'll quit?”
“Rather than do that—yes.”
“But why?”
“For reasons, as I told you. By the way, you haven't told me why you object to acting as guide to—females.”
“Because they are females. They're women, darn 'em!”
Before his helper could comment on this declaration, it was repeated. The lightkeeper shook both his big fists in the air.
“Darn 'em! Darn all the women!” shouted Seth Atkins.
“Amen,” said John Brown, devoutly.
Seth's fists dropped into his lap. “What?” he cried; “what did you say?”
“I said Amen.”
“But—but . . . why . . . you didn't mean it!”
“Didn't I?” bitterly. “Humph!”
Seth breathed heavily, started to speak once more, closed his lips on the words, rose, walked away a few paces, returned, and sat down.
“John Brown,” he said, solemnly, “if you're jokin', the powers forgive you, for I won't. If you ain't, I—I . . . See here, do you remember what you asked me that night when you struck me for the assistant keeper's job? You asked me if I was married?”
Brown assented wonderingly. “Why, yes,” he said, “I believe I did.”
“You did. And I ain't been so shook up for many a day. Young feller, I'm goin' to tell you what no other man in Ostable County knows. I AM married. I've got a wife livin'.”
“I'm married, and I've got a wife livin',” continued Seth; adding hurriedly and fiercely, “don't you say nothin' to me! Don't you put me out. I'm goin' to tell you! I'm goin' to tell you all of it—all, by time! I am, if I die for it.”
He was speaking so rapidly that the words were jumbled together. He knocked his hat from his forehead with a blow of his fist and actually panted for breath. Brown had never before seen him in this condition.
“Hold on! Wait,” he cried. “Atkins, you needn't do this; you mustn't. I am asking no questions. We agreed to—”
“Hush up!” Seth waved both hands in the air. “DON'T you talk! Let me get this off my chest. Good heavens alive, I've been smotherin' myself with it for years, and, now I've got started, I'll blow off steam or my b'iler'll bust. I'm GOIN' to tell you. You listen—
“Yes, sir, I'm a married man,” he went on. “I wa'n't always married, you understand. I used to be single once. Once I was single; see?”
“I see,” said Brown, repressing a smile.
Seth was not aware that there was anything humorous in his statement.
“Yes,” he said, “I was single and—and happy, by jiminy! I was skipper of a mack'rel schooner down Cape Ann way, never mind where, and Seth Atkins is only part of my name; never mind that, neither. I sailed that schooner and I run that schooner—I RUN her; and when I said 'boo' all hands aboard jumped, I tell you. When I've got salt water underneath me, I'm a man. But I told you that afore.
“However, this is what I didn't tell you nor nobody else in this part of the state: I stayed single till I got to be past forty. Everybody set me down as an old bach. Then I met a woman; yes, sir, I met a woman.”
He made this assertion as if it was something remarkable. His companion on the bench made no comment.
“She was a widow woman,” went on Seth, “and she had a little property left her by her first husband. Owned a house and land, she did, and had some money in the bank. Some folks cal'lated I married her for that, but they cal'lated wrong. I wanted her for herself. And I got her. Her name was Emeline. I always thought Emeline was a sort of pretty name.”
He sighed. Brown observed that Emeline was a very pretty name, indeed.
“Um-hm. That's what I thought, and Emeline was a real pretty woman, for her age and heft—she was fleshy. She had some consider'ble prejudice against my goin' to sea, so I agreed to stay on shore a spell and farm it, as you might say. We lived in the house she owned and was real happy together. She bossed me around a good deal, but I didn't mind bein' bossed by her. 'Twas a change, you see, for I'd always been used to bossin' other folks. So I humored her. And, bein' on land made me lose my—my grip or somethin'; 'cause I seemed to forget how to boss. But we was happy, and then—then Bennie D. come. Consarn him!”
His teeth shut with a snap, and he struck his knee with his fist. “Consarn him!” he repeated, and was silent.
The substitute assistant ventured to jog his memory.
“Who was Bennie D.?” he asked.
“What? Hey? Bennie D.? Oh, he was her brother-in-law, her husband's brother from up Boston way. He was a genius—at least, he said he was—and an inventor. The only invention I ever could l'arn he'd invented to a finish was how to live without workin', but he'd got that brought to a science. However, he was forever fussin' over some kind of machine that was sartin sure to give power to the universe, when 'twas done, and Emeline's husband—his name was Abner—thought the world and all of him. 'Fore he died he made Emeline promise to always be kind to Bennie D., and she said she would. Abner left him a little money, and he spent it travelin' 'for his health.' I don't know where he traveled to, but, wherever 'twas, the health must have been there. He was the healthiest critter ever I see—and the laziest.
“Well, his travels bein' over, down he comes to make his sister-in-law a little visit. And he stays on and stays on. He never took no shine to me—I judge he figgered I hadn't no business sharin' Abner's property—and I never took to him, much.
“Emeline noticed Bennie D. and me wa'n't fallin' on each other's necks any to speak of, and it troubled her. She blamed me for it. Said Bennie was a genius, and geniuses had sensitive natures and had to be treated with consideration and different from other folks. And that promise to Abner weighed on her conscience, I cal'late. Anyhow, she petted that blame inventor, and it made me mad. And yet I didn't say much—not so much as I'd ought to, I guess. And Bennie D. was always heavin' out little side remarks about Emeline's bein' fitted for better things than she was gettin', and how, when his invention was 'perfected,' HE'D see that she didn't slave herself to death, and so on and so on. And he had consider'ble to say about folks tryin' to farm when they didn't know a cucumber from a watermelon, and how 'farmin'' was a good excuse for doin' nothin', and such. And I didn't have any good answer to that, 'cause I do know more about seaweed than I do cucumbers, and the farm wasn't payin' and I knew it.
“If he'd said these things right out plain, I guess likely I'd have give him what he deserved. But he didn't; he just hinted and smiled and acted superior and pityin'. And if I got mad and hove out a little sailor talk by accident, he'd look as sorry and shocked as the Come-Outer parson does when there's a baby born to a Universalist family. He'd get up and shut the door, as if he was scart the neighbors' morals would suffer—though the only neighbor within hearin' was an old critter that used to run a billiard saloon in Gloucester, and HIS morals had been put out of their misery forty years afore—and he'd suggest that Emeline better leave the room, maybe. And then I'd feel ashamed and wouldn't know what to do, and 'twould end, more'n likely, by my leavin' it myself.
“You can see how matters was driftin'. I could see plain enough, and I cal'late Emeline could, too—I'll give her credit for that. She didn't begin to look as happy as she had, and that made me feel worse than ever. One time, I found her cryin' in the wash room, and I went up and put my arm round her.
“'Emeline,' I says, 'don't; please don't. Don't cry. I know I ain't the husband I'd ought to be to you, but I'm doin' my best. I'm tryin' to do it. I ain't a genius,' I says.
“She interrupted me quick, sort of half laughin' and half cryin'. 'No, Seth,' says she, 'you ain't, that's a fact.'
“That made me sort of mad. 'No, I ain't,' I says again; 'and if you ask me, I'd say one in the house was enough, and to spare.'
“'I know you don't like Bennie,' she says.
“''Taint that,' says I, which was a lie. 'It ain't that,' I says; 'but somehow I don't seem to fit around here. Bennie and me, we don't seem to belong together.'
“'He is Abner's brother,' she says, 'and I promised Abner. I can't tell him to go. I can't tell him to leave this house, his brother's house.'
“Now, consarn it, there was another thing. It WAS Abner's house, or had been afore he died, and now 'twas hers. If I ever forgot that fact, which wa'n't by no means likely to happen, Bennie D. took occasions enough to remind me of it. So I was set back again with my canvas flappin', as you might say.
“'No,' says I, 'course you can't. He's your brother-in-law.'
“'But you are my husband,' she says, lookin' at me kind of queer. Anyhow, it seems kind of queer to me now. I've thought about that look a good deal since, and sometimes I've wondered if—if . . . However, that's all past and by.
“'Yes,' I says, pretty average bitter, 'but second husbands don't count for much.'
“'Some of 'em don't seem to, that's a fact,' she says.
“'By jiminy,' I says, 'I don't count for much in this house.'
“'Yes?' says she. 'And whose fault is that?'
“Well, I WAS mad. 'I tell you what I CAN do,' I sings out. 'I can quit this landlubber's job where I'm nothin' but a swab, and go to sea again, where I'm some account. That's what I can do.'
“She turned and looked at me.
“'You promised me never to go to sea again, she says.
“'Humph!' says I; 'some promises are hard to keep.'
“'I keep mine, hard or not,' says she. 'Would you go away and leave me?'
“'You've got Brother Bennie,' says I. 'He's a genius; I ain't nothin' but a man.'
“She laughed, pretty scornful. 'Are you sartin you're that?' she wanted to know.
“'Not since I been livin' here, I ain't,' I says. And that ended that try of makin' up.
“And from then on it got worse and worse. There wan't much comfort at home where the inventor was, so I took to stayin' out nights. Went down to the store and hung around, listenin' to fools' gabble, and wishin' I was dead. And the more I stayed out, the more Bennie D. laughed and sneered and hinted. And then come that ridic'lous business about Sarah Ann Christy. That ended it for good and all.”
Seth paused in his long story and looked out across the starlit sea.
“Who was Sarah Ann?” asked Brown. The lightkeeper seemed much embarrassed.
“She was a born fool,” he declared, with emphasis; “born that way and been developin' extry foolishness ever since. She was a widow, too; been good lookin' once and couldn't forget it, and she lived down nigh the store. When I'd be goin' down or comin' back, just as likely as not she was settin' on the piazza, and she'd hail me. I didn't want to stop and talk to her, of course.”
“No, of course not.”
“Well, I DIDN'T. And I didn't HAVE to talk. Couldn't if I wanted to; she done it all. Her tongue was hung on ball-bearin' hinges and was a self-winder guaranteed to run an hour steady every time she set it goin'. Talk! my jiminy crimps, how that woman could talk! I couldn't get away; I tried to, but, my soul, she wouldn't let me. And, if 'twas a warm night, she'd more'n likely have a pitcher of lemonade or some sort of cold wash alongside, and I must stop and taste it. By time, I can taste it yet!
“Well, there wa'n't no harm in her at all; she was just a fool that had to talk to somebody, males preferred. But my stayin' out nights wasn't helpin' the joyfulness of things to home, and one evenin'—one evenin' . . . Oh, there! I started to tell you this and I might's well get it over.
“This evenin' when I came home from the store I see somethin' was extry wrong soon's I struck the settin' room. Emeline was there, and Bennie D., and I give you my word, I felt like turnin' up my coat collar, 'twas so frosty. 'Twas hotter'n a steamer's stoke-hole outside, but that room was forty below zero.
“Nobody SAID nothin', you know—that was the worst of it; but I'd have been glad if they had. Finally, I said it myself. 'Well, Emeline,' says I, 'here I be.'
“No answer, so I tried again. 'Well, Emeline,' says I, 'I've fetched port finally.'
“She didn't answer me then, but Bennie D. laughed. He had a way of laughin' that made other folks want to cry—or kill him. For choice I'd have done the killin' first.
“'More nautical conversation, sister,' says he. 'He knows how fond you are of that sort of thing.'
“You see, Emeline never did like to hear me talk sailor talk; it reminded her too much that I used to be a sailor, I s'pose. And that inventor knew she didn't like it, and so he rubbed it in every time I made a slip. 'Twas just one of his little ways; he had a million of 'em.
“But I tried once more. 'Emeline,' I says, 'I'm home. Can't you speak to me?'
“Then she looked at me. 'Yes, Seth,' says she, 'I see you are home.'
“'At last,' put in brother-in-law, '“There is no place like home”—when the other places are shut up.' And he laughed again.
“'Stop, Bennie,' says Emeline, and he stopped. That was another of his little ways—to do anything she asked him. Then she turned to me.
“'Seth,' she asks, 'where have you been?'
“'Oh, down street,' says I, casual. 'It's turrible warm out.'
“She never paid no attention to the weather signals. 'Where 'bouts down street?' she wanted to know.
“'Oh, down to the store,' I says.
“'You go to the store a good deal, don't you,' says she. Bennie D. chuckled, and then begged her pardon. That chuckle stirred my mad up.
“'I go where folks seem to be glad to see me,' I says. 'Where they treat me as if I was somebody.'
“'So you was at the store the whole evenin'?' she asks.
“'Course I was,' says I. 'Where else would I be?'
“She looked at me hard, and her face sort of set. She didn't answer, but took up the sewin' in her lap and went to work on it. I remember she dropped it once, and Bennie D. jumped to pick it up for her, quick as a wink. I set down in the rockin' chair and took the Gloucester paper. But I didn't really read. The clock ticked and ticked, and 'twas so still you could hear every stroke of the pendulum. Finally, I couldn't stand it no longer.
“'What on earth is the matter?' I sings out. 'What have I done this time? Don't you WANT me to go to the store? Is that it?'
“She put down her sewin'. 'Seth,' says she, quiet but awful cold, 'I want you to go anywheres that you want to go. I never'll stand in your way. But I want you tell the truth about it afterwards.'
“'The truth?' says I. 'Don't I always tell you the truth?'
“'No,' says she. 'You've lied to me tonight. You've been callin' on the Christy woman, and you know it.'
“Well, you could have knocked me down with a baby's rattle. I'd forgot all about that fool Sarah Ann. I cal'late I turned nineteen different shades of red, and for a minute I couldn't think of a word to say. And Bennie D. smiled, wicked as the Old Harry himself.
“'How—how did you—how do you know I see Sarah Ann Christy?' I hollered out, soon's I could get my breath.
“'Because you were seen there,' says she.
“'Who see me?'
“'I did,' says she. 'I went down street myself, on an errand, and, bein' as you weren't here to go with me, Bennie was good enough to go. It ain't pleasant for a woman to go out alone after dark, and—and I have never been used to it,' she says.
“That kind of hurt me and pricked my conscience, as you may say.
“'You know I'd been tickled to death to go with you, Emeline,' I says. 'Any time, you know it. But you never asked me to go with you.'
“'How long has it been since you asked to go with me?' she says.
“'Do you really want me to go anywheres, Emeline?' says I, eager. 'Do you? I s'posed you didn't. If you'd asked—'
“'Why should I always do the askin'? Must a wife always ask her husband? Doesn't the husband ever do anything on his own responsibility? Seth, I married you because I thought you was a strong, self-reliant man, who would advise me and protect me and—'
“That cussed inventor bust into the talk right here. I cal'late he thought twas time.
“'Excuse me, sister,' he says; 'don't humiliate yourself afore him. Remember you and me saw him tonight, saw him with our own eyes, settin' on a dark piazza with another woman. Drinkin' with her and—'
“'Drinkin'!' I yells.
“'Yes, drinkin',' says he, solemn. 'I don't wonder you are ashamed of it.'
“'Ashamed! I ain't ashamed.'
“'You hear that, sister? NOW I hope you're convinced.'
“''Twa'n't nothin' but lemonade I was drinkin',' I hollers, pretty nigh crazy. 'She asked me to stop and have a glass 'cause 'twas so hot. And as for callin' on her, I wa'n't. I was just passin' by, and she sings out what a dreadful night 'twas, and I said 'twas, too, and she says won't I have somethin' cold to drink. That's all there was to it.'
“Afore Emeline could answer, Bennie comes back at me again.
“'Perhaps you'll tell us this was the first time you have visited her,' he purrs.
“Well, that was a sockdolager, 'cause twa'n't the first time. I don't know how many times 'twas. I never kept no account of 'em. Too glad to get away from her everlastin' tongue-clackin'. But when 'twas put right up to me this way, I—I declare I was all fussed up. I felt sick and I guess I looked so. Emeline was lookin' at me and seemin'ly waitin' for me to say somethin'; yet I couldn't say it. And Bennie D. laughed, quiet but wicked.
“That laugh fixed me. I swung round and lit into him.
“'You mind your own business,' I roars. 'Ain't you ashamed, makin' trouble with a man's wife in his own house?'
“'I was under the impression the house belonged to my sister-in-law,' he says. And again I was knocked off my pins.
“'You great big loafer!' I yelled at him; 'settin' here doin' nothin' but raisin' the divil generally! I—I—'
“He jumped as if I'd stuck a brad-awl into him. The shocked expression came across his face again, and he runs to Emeline and takes her arm.
“'Sister, sister,' he says, quick, but gentle, 'this is no place for you. Language like that is . . . there! there! don't you think you'd better leave the room?'
“She didn't go. As I remember it now, it keeps comin' back to me that she didn't go. She just stood still and looked at me. And then she says: 'Seth, why did you lie to me?'”
“'I didn't lie,' I shouts. 'I forgot, I tell you. I never thought that windmill of a Christy woman was enough importance to remember. I didn't lie to you—I never did. Oh, Emeline, you know I didn't. What's the matter with you and me, anyway? We used to be all right and now we're all wrong.'
“'One of us is,' says Bennie D. That was the final straw that choked the camel.
“'Yes,' I says to him, 'that's right, one of us is, and I don't know which. But I know this: you and I can't stay together in this house any longer.'
“I can see that room now, as 'twas when I said that. Us three lookin' at each other, and the clock a-tickin', and everything else still as still. I choked, but I kept on.
“'I mean it,' I says. 'Either you clear out of this house or I do.'
“And, while the words was on my lips, again it came to me strong that it wa'n't really my house at all. I turned to my wife.
“'Emeline,' says I, 'it's got to be. You must tell him to go, or else—'
“She'd been lookin' at me again with that kind of queer look in her eyes, almost a hopeful look, seem's if 'twas, and yet it couldn't have been, of course. Now she drawed a long breath.
“'I can't tell him to go, Seth,' says she. 'I promised to give him a home as long as I had one.'
“I set my jaws together. 'All right,' I says; 'then I'M goin'. Good by.'
“And I went. Yes, sir, I went. Just as I was, without any hat or dunnage of any kind. When I slammed the back door it seemed as if I heard her sing out my name. I waited, but I guess I was mistaken, for she didn't call it again. And—and I never set eyes on her since. No, sir, not once.”
The lightkeeper stopped. John Brown said nothing, but he laid a hand sympathetically on the older man's shoulder. Seth shuddered, straightened, and went on.
“I cleared out of that town that very night,” he said. “Walked clear into Gloucester, put up at a tavern there till mornin', and then took the cars to Boston. I cal'lated fust that I'd ship as mate or somethin' on a foreign voyage, but I couldn't; somehow I couldn't bring myself to do it. You see, I'd promised her I wouldn't ever go to sea again, and so—well, I was a dum idiot, I s'pose, but I wouldn't break the promise. I knew the superintendent of lighthouses in this district, and I'd been an assistant keeper when I was younger. I told him my yarn, and he told me about this job. I changed my name, passed the examination and come directly here. And here I've stayed ever since.”
He paused again. Brown ventured to ask another question.
“And your—and the lady?” he asked. “Where is she?”
“I don't know. Livin' in her house back there on Cape Ann, I s'pose. She was, last I knew. I never ask no questions. I want to forget—to forget, by time! . . . Hi hum! . . . Well, now you know what nobody this side of Boston knows. And you can understand why I'm willin' to be buried alive down here. 'Cause a woman wrecked my life; I'm done with women; and to this forsaken hole no women scarcely ever come. But, when they DO come, you must understand that I expect you to show 'em round. After hearin' what I've been through, I guess you'll be willin' to do that much for me.”
He rose, evidently considering the affair settled. Brown stroked his chin.
“I'm sorry, Atkins,” he observed, slowly; “and I certainly do sympathize with you. But—but, as I said, 'I guess you'll have to hire another boy!'”
“What? What do you mean?”
“I mean that you're not the only woman-hater on the beach.”
“Hey? Has a woman given YOU the go by?”
“No. The other way around, if anything. Look here, Atkins! I'm not in the habit of discussing my private affairs with acquaintances, but you've been frank with me—and well, hang it! I've got to talk to somebody. At least, I feel that way just now. Let's suppose a case. Suppose you were a young fellow not long out of college—a young fellow whose mother was dead and whose dad was rich, and head over heels in money-making, and with the idea that his will was no more to be disputed than a law of the Almighty. Just suppose that, will you?”
“Huh! Well, 'twill be hard supposin', but I'll try. Heave ahead.”
“Suppose that you'd never been used to working or supporting yourself. Had a position, a nominal one, in your dad's office but absolutely no responsibility, all the money you wanted, and so on. Suppose because your father wanted you to—and HER people felt the same—you had become engaged to a girl, a nice enough girl, too, in her way. But, then suppose that little by little you came to realize that her way wasn't yours. You and she liked each other well enough, but the whole thing was a family arrangement, a money arrangement, a perfectly respectable, buy-and-sell affair. That and nothing else. And the more you thought about it, the surer you felt that it was so. But when you told your governor he got on his ear and sailed into you, and you sailed back, until finally he swore that you should either marry that girl or he'd throw you out of his house and office to root for yourself. What would you do?”
“Hey? Land sakes! I don't know. I always HAD to root, so I ain't a competent judge. Go on, you've got me interested.”
“Well, I said I'd root, that's all. But I didn't have the nerve to go and tell the girl. The engagement had been announced, and all that, and I knew what a mess it would make for her. I sat in my room, among the things I was packing in my grip to take with me, and thought and thought. If I went to her there would be a scene. If I said I had been disinherited she would want to know why—naturally. I had quarreled with the governor—yes, but why? Then I should have to tell her the real reason: I didn't want to marry her or anybody else on such a bargain-counter basis. That seemed such a rotten thing to say, and she might ask why it had taken me such a long time to find it out. No, I just COULDN'T tell her that. So, after my think was over, I wrote her a note saying that my father and I had had a disagreement and he had chucked me out, or words to that effect. Naturally, under the circumstances, marriage was out of the question, and I released her from the engagement. Good by and good luck—or something similar. I mailed the letter and left the town the next morning.”
He paused. The lightkeeper made no comment. After a moment the young man continued.
“I landed in Boston,” he said, “full of conceit and high-minded ideas of working my own way up the ladder. But in order to work up, you've got to get at least a hand-hold on the bottom rung. I couldn't get it. Nobody wanted a genteel loafer, which was me. My money gave out. I bought a steamboat passage to another city, but I didn't have enough left to buy a square meal. Then, by bull luck, I fell overboard and landed here. And here I found the solution. I'm dead. If the governor gets soft-hearted and gets private detectives on my trail, they'll find I disappeared from that steamer, that's all. Drowned, of course. SHE'LL think so, too. 'Good riddance to bad rubbish' is the general verdict. I can stay here a year or so, and then, being dead and forgotten, can go back to civilization and hustle for myself. BUT a woman is at the bottom of my trouble, and I never want to see another. So, if my staying here depends upon my seeing them, I guess, as I've said twice already, 'you'll have to hire another boy.'”
He, too, rose. Seth laid a big hand on his shoulder.
“Son,” said the lightkeeper, “I'm sorry for you; I cal'late I know how you feel. I like you fust-rate, and if it's a possible thing, I'll fix it so's you can stay right here long's you want to. As for women folks that do come—why, we'll dodge 'em if we can, and share responsibility if we must. But there's one thing you've GOT to understand. You're young, and maybe your woman hate'll wear off. If it does, out you go. I can't have any sparkin' or lovemakin' around these premises.”
The assistant snorted contemptuously.
“If ever you catch me being even coldly familiar with a female of any age,” he declared, “I hereby request that you hit me, politely, but firmly, with that axe,” pointing to the kindling hatchet leaning against the door post.
Seth chuckled. “Good stuff!” he exclaimed. “And, for my part, if ever you catch me gettin' confectionery with a woman, I . . . well, don't stop to pray over me; just drown me, that's all I ask. It's a bargain. Shake!”
So they shook, with great solemnity.