The Woman-Haters

by Joseph Crosby Lincoln

  CHAPTER VII

  OUT OF THE BAG

  "I'm married, and I've got a wife livin'," continued Seth; addinghurriedly and fiercely, "don't you say nothin' to me! Don't you put meout. I'm goin' to tell you! I'm goin' to tell you all of it--all, bytime! I am, if I die for it."

  He was speaking so rapidly that the words were jumbled together. Heknocked his hat from his forehead with a blow of his fist and actuallypanted 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. Iam asking no questions. We agreed to--"

  "Hush up!" Seth waved both hands in the air. "DON'T you talk! Let me getthis off my chest. Good heavens alive, I've been smotherin' myselfwith it for years, and, now I've got started, I'll blow off steam or myb'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, youunderstand. 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 skipperof a mack'rel schooner down Cape Ann way, never mind where, and SethAtkins is only part of my name; never mind that, neither. I sailed thatschooner and I run that schooner--I RUN her; and when I said 'boo' allhands 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 ofthe state: I stayed single till I got to be past forty. Everybody set medown 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 companionon the bench made no comment.

  "She was a widow woman," went on Seth, "and she had a little propertyleft her by her first husband. Owned a house and land, she did, and hadsome money in the bank. Some folks cal'lated I married her for that, butthey cal'lated wrong. I wanted her for herself. And I got her. Her namewas 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, forher age and heft--she was fleshy. She had some consider'ble prejudiceagainst my goin' to sea, so I agreed to stay on shore a spell and farmit, as you might say. We lived in the house she owned and was real happytogether. 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 tobossin' other folks. So I humored her. And, bein' on land made me losemy--my grip or somethin'; 'cause I seemed to forget how to boss. But wewas 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'sbrother from up Boston way. He was a genius--at least, he said hewas--and an inventor. The only invention I ever could l'arn he'dinvented to a finish was how to live without workin', but he'd got thatbrought to a science. However, he was forever fussin' over some kind ofmachine that was sartin sure to give power to the universe, when 'twasdone, and Emeline's husband--his name was Abner--thought the world andall of him. 'Fore he died he made Emeline promise to always be kind toBennie D., and she said she would. Abner left him a little money, and hespent it travelin' 'for his health.' I don't know where he traveledto, but, wherever 'twas, the health must have been there. He was thehealthiest critter ever I see--and the laziest.

  "Well, his travels bein' over, down he comes to make his sister-in-lawa little visit. And he stays on and stays on. He never took no shineto me--I judge he figgered I hadn't no business sharin' Abner'sproperty--and I never took to him, much.

  "Emeline noticed Bennie D. and me wa'n't fallin' on each other's necksany to speak of, and it troubled her. She blamed me for it. Said Benniewas a genius, and geniuses had sensitive natures and had to be treatedwith consideration and different from other folks. And that promise toAbner weighed on her conscience, I cal'late. Anyhow, she petted thatblame inventor, and it made me mad. And yet I didn't say much--not somuch as I'd ought to, I guess. And Bennie D. was always heavin' outlittle side remarks about Emeline's bein' fitted for better things thanshe was gettin', and how, when his invention was 'perfected,' HE'D seethat she didn't slave herself to death, and so on and so on. And he hadconsider'ble to say about folks tryin' to farm when they didn't knowa cucumber from a watermelon, and how 'farmin'' was a good excuse fordoin' 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 farmwasn't payin' and I knew it.

  "If he'd said these things right out plain, I guess likely I'd have givehim what he deserved. But he didn't; he just hinted and smiled and actedsuperior and pityin'. And if I got mad and hove out a little sailor talkby accident, he'd look as sorry and shocked as the Come-Outer parsondoes when there's a baby born to a Universalist family. He'd get upand shut the door, as if he was scart the neighbors' morals wouldsuffer--though the only neighbor within hearin' was an old critter thatused to run a billiard saloon in Gloucester, and HIS morals had beenput out of their misery forty years afore--and he'd suggest that Emelinebetter leave the room, maybe. And then I'd feel ashamed and wouldn'tknow what to do, and 'twould end, more'n likely, by my leavin' itmyself.

  "You can see how matters was driftin'. I could see plain enough, and Ical'late Emeline could, too--I'll give her credit for that. She didn'tbegin to look as happy as she had, and that made me feel worse thanever. One time, I found her cryin' in the wash room, and I went up andput my arm round her.

  "'Emeline,' I says, 'don't; please don't. Don't cry. I know I ain't thehusband I'd ought to be to you, but I'm doin' my best. I'm tryin' to doit. 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 askme, 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; 'butsomehow I don't seem to fit around here. Bennie and me, we don't seem tobelong together.'

  "'He is Abner's brother,' she says, 'and I promised Abner. I can't tellhim 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, orhad 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 occasionsenough to remind me of it. So I was set back again with my canvasflappin', 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 looka 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 countfor 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 quitthis 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 wantedto know.

  "'Not since I been livin' here, I ain't,' I says. And that ended thattry of makin' up.

  "And from then on it got worse and worse. There wan't much comfort athome where the inventor was, so I took to stayin' out nights. Went downto 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 andsneered and hinted. And then come that ridic'lous business about SarahAnn 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 muchembarrassed.

  "She was a born fool," he declared, with emphasis; "born that way andbeen developin' extry foolishness ever since. She was a widow, too; beengood lookin' once and couldn't forget it, and she lived down nigh thestore. When I'd be goin' down or comin' back, just as likely as not shewas settin' on the piazza, and she'd hail me. I didn't want to stop andtalk 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 wasa self-winder guaranteed to run an hour steady every time she set itgoin'. Talk! my jiminy crimps, how that woman could talk! I couldn'tget away; I tried to, but, my soul, she wouldn't let me. And, if 'twas awarm night, she'd more'n likely have a pitcher of lemonade or some sortof cold wash alongside, and I must stop and taste it. By time, I cantaste it yet!

  "Well, there wa'n't no harm in her at all; she was just a fool that hadto talk to somebody, males preferred. But my stayin' out nights wasn'thelpin' 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 itover.

  "This evenin' when I came home from the store I see somethin' was extrywrong soon's I struck the settin' room. Emeline was there, and BennieD., and I give you my word, I felt like turnin' up my coat collar, 'twasso frosty. 'Twas hotter'n a steamer's stoke-hole outside, but that roomwas forty below zero.

  "Nobody SAID nothin', you know--that was the worst of it; but I'd havebeen glad if they had. Finally, I said it myself. 'Well, Emeline,' saysI, 'here I be.'

  "No answer, so I tried again. 'Well, Emeline,' says I, 'I've fetchedport finally.'

  "She didn't answer me then, but Bennie D. laughed. He had a way oflaughin' that made other folks want to cry--or kill him. For choice I'dhave done the killin' first.

  "'More nautical conversation, sister,' says he. 'He knows how fond youare of that sort of thing.'

  "You see, Emeline never did like to hear me talk sailor talk; itreminded her too much that I used to be a sailor, I s'pose. And thatinventor knew she didn't like it, and so he rubbed it in every time Imade 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 tome?'

  "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"--whenthe other places are shut up.' And he laughed again.

  "'Stop, Bennie,' says Emeline, and he stopped. That was another of hislittle 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 downstreet?' 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 treatme 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 shedropped it once, and Bennie D. jumped to pick it up for her, quick as awink. I set down in the rockin' chair and took the Gloucester paper. ButI didn't really read. The clock ticked and ticked, and 'twas so stillyou could hear every stroke of the pendulum. Finally, I couldn't standit no longer.

  "'What on earth is the matter?' I sings out. 'What have I done thistime? 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, 'Iwant you to go anywheres that you want to go. I never'll stand in yourway. 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 theChristy woman, and you know it.'

  "Well, you could have knocked me down with a baby's rattle. I'd forgotall about that fool Sarah Ann. I cal'late I turned nineteen differentshades of red, and for a minute I couldn't think of a word to say. AndBennie D. smiled, wicked as the Old Harry himself.

  "'How--how did you--how do you know I see Sarah Ann Christy?' I holleredout, 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. Itain't pleasant for a woman to go out alone after dark, and--and I havenever 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. 'Doyou? 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, whowould advise me and protect me and--'

  "That cussed inventor bust into the talk right here. I cal'late hethought 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 ofit.'

  "'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 nighcrazy. 'She asked me to stop and have a glass 'cause 'twas so hot. Andas for callin' on her, I wa'n't. I was just passin' by, and she singsout what a dreadful night 'twas, and I said 'twas, too, and she sayswon'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'tknow how many times 'twas. I never kept no account of 'em. Too glad toget away from her everlastin' tongue-clackin'. But when 'twas put rightup to me this way, I--I declare I was all fussed up. I felt sick and Iguess I looked so. Emeline was lookin' at me and seemin'ly waitin' forme to say somethin'; yet I couldn't say it. And Bennie D. laughed, quietbut 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,' hesays. 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--'
<
br />   "He jumped as if I'd stuck a brad-awl into him. The shocked expressioncame across his face again, and he runs to Emeline and takes her arm.

  "'Sister, sister,' he says, quick, but gentle, 'this is no place foryou. Language like that is . . . there! there! don't you think you'dbetter leave the room?'

  "She didn't go. As I remember it now, it keeps comin' back to me thatshe 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 thatwindmill of a Christy woman was enough importance to remember. I didn'tlie to you--I never did. Oh, Emeline, you know I didn't. What's thematter with you and me, anyway? We used to be all right and now we'reall wrong.'

  "'One of us is,' says Bennie D. That was the final straw that choked thecamel.

  "'Yes,' I says to him, 'that's right, one of us is, and I don't knowwhich. But I know this: you and I can't stay together in this house anylonger.'

  "I can see that room now, as 'twas when I said that. Us three lookin' ateach 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 itwa'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 hereyes, almost a hopeful look, seem's if 'twas, and yet it couldn't havebeen, of course. Now she drawed a long breath.

  "'I can't tell him to go, Seth,' says she. 'I promised to give him ahome 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 dunnageof any kind. When I slammed the back door it seemed as if I heard hersing out my name. I waited, but I guess I was mistaken, for she didn'tcall it again. And--and I never set eyes on her since. No, sir, notonce."

  The lightkeeper stopped. John Brown said nothing, but he laid ahand 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 clearinto Gloucester, put up at a tavern there till mornin', and then tookthe 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 todo it. You see, I'd promised her I wouldn't ever go to sea again, andso--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 beenan assistant keeper when I was younger. I told him my yarn, and he toldme about this job. I changed my name, passed the examination and comedirectly 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. Shewas, 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 ofBoston knows. And you can understand why I'm willin' to be buried alivedown here. 'Cause a woman wrecked my life; I'm done with women; and tothis 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 forme."

  He rose, evidently considering the affair settled. Brown stroked hischin.

  "I'm sorry, Atkins," he observed, slowly; "and I certainly do sympathizewith you. But--but, as I said, 'I guess you'll have to hire anotherboy!'"

  "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 notin 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 tosomebody. 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 fellowwhose mother was dead and whose dad was rich, and head over heels inmoney-making, and with the idea that his will was no more to be disputedthan 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 noresponsibility, all the money you wanted, and so on. Suppose becauseyour father wanted you to--and HER people felt the same--you had becomeengaged to a girl, a nice enough girl, too, in her way. But, thensuppose that little by little you came to realize that her way wasn'tyours. You and she liked each other well enough, but the whole thingwas a family arrangement, a money arrangement, a perfectly respectable,buy-and-sell affair. That and nothing else. And the more you thoughtabout it, the surer you felt that it was so. But when you told yourgovernor 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'dthrow you out of his house and office to root for yourself. What wouldyou do?"

  "Hey? Land sakes! I don't know. I always HAD to root, so I ain't acompetent 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 goand tell the girl. The engagement had been announced, and all that, andI knew what a mess it would make for her. I sat in my room, amongthe things I was packing in my grip to take with me, and thought andthought. If I went to her there would be a scene. If I said I had beendisinherited she would want to know why--naturally. I had quarreledwith the governor--yes, but why? Then I should have to tell her thereal reason: I didn't want to marry her or anybody else on such abargain-counter basis. That seemed such a rotten thing to say, and shemight ask why it had taken me such a long time to find it out. No, Ijust COULDN'T tell her that. So, after my think was over, I wrote hera note saying that my father and I had had a disagreement and hehad chucked me out, or words to that effect. Naturally, under thecircumstances, marriage was out of the question, and I released her fromthe engagement. Good by and good luck--or something similar. I mailedthe letter and left the town the next morning."

  He paused. The lightkeeper made no comment. After a moment the young mancontinued.

  "I landed in Boston," he said, "full of conceit and high-minded ideas ofworking my own way up the ladder. But in order to work up, you've got toget at least a hand-hold on the bottom rung. I couldn't get it. Nobodywanted a genteel loafer, which was me. My money gave out. I bought asteamboat passage to another city, but I didn't have enough left to buya square meal. Then, by bull luck, I fell overboard and landed here. Andhere I found the solution. I'm dead. If the governor gets soft-heartedand gets private detectives on my trail, they'll find I disappearedfrom 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 herea year or so, and then, being dead and forgotten, can go back tocivilization and hustle for myself. BUT a woman is at the bottom of mytrouble, and I never want to see another. So, if my staying here dependsupon my seeing them, I guess, as I've said twice already, 'you'll haveto 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 howyou feel. I like you fust-rate, and if it's a possible thing, I'll fixit so's you can stay right here long's you want to. As for women folksthat do come--why, we'll dodge 'em if we can, and share responsibilityif we must. But there's one thing you've GOT to understand. You'reyoung, and maybe your woman hate'll wear off. If it does, out you go. Ican'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 anyage,"
he declared, "I hereby request that you hit me, politely, butfirmly, with that axe," pointing to the kindling hatchet leaning againstthe door post.

  Seth chuckled. "Good stuff!" he exclaimed. "And, for my part, if everyou catch me gettin' confectionery with a woman, I . . . well, don'tstop to pray over me; just drown me, that's all I ask. It's a bargain.Shake!"

  So they shook, with great solemnity.