CHAPTER X
THE BUNGALOW WOMAN
When, an hour later, the swimming teacher, his guilty consciencepricking him, and the knowledge of having been false to his superiorstrong within him, came sneaking into the kitchen, he was startled andhorrified to find the lightkeeper awake and dressed. Mentally he bracedhimself for the battery of embarrassing questions which, he felt sure,he should have to answer. It might be that he must face something moreserious than questions. Quite possible Seth, finding him absent, hadinvestigated--and seen. Well, if he had, then he had, that was all. Themurder would be out, and Eastboro Twin-Lights would shortly be shy asubstitute assistant keeper.
But there were no embarrassing questions. Atkins scarcely noticedhim. Seated in the rocker, he looked up as the young man entered, andimmediately looked down again. He seemed to be in a sort of waking dreamand only dimly conscious of happenings about him.
"Hello!" hailed the assistant, with an assumption of casualcheerfulness.
"Hey? Oh! how be you?" was Mr. Atkins's reply.
"I've been for my dip," explained Brown. "The water was fine to-day."
"Want to know!"
"You're up early, aren't you?"
"Hey? Yes, I guess likely I be."
"What's wrong? Not sick, are you?"
"No. Course I ain't sick. Say!" Seth seemed to take a sudden interest inthe conversation, "you come straight up from the cove, have you?"
"Yes. Why?"
"You ain't been hangin' around outside here, have you?"
"Hanging around outside? What do you mean?"
"Nothin'. Why do you stand there starin' at me as if I was some sort ofdime show curiosity? Anything queer about me?"
"No. I didn't know I was staring." The young man was bewildered bythis strange behavior. He was prepared for suspicion concerning his ownactions; but Seth seemed rather to be defending himself from suspicionon the part of his helper.
"Humph!" The lightkeeper looked keenly at him for a moment. Then hesaid:
"Well, ain't there nothin' to do but stand around? Gettin' pretty nighto supper time, ain't it? Put the kettle on and set the table."
It was not supper time, but Brown obeyed orders. Seth went to cooking.He spoke perhaps three words during the culinary operations, and a halfdozen more during the meal, of which he ate scarcely a mouthful. Afterit was over, he put on his cap and went out, not to his usual loungingspot, the bench, but to walk a full half mile along the edge of thebluff and there sit in the seclusion of a clump of bayberry bushesand gaze stonily at nothing in particular. Here he remained until thedeepening dusk reminded him that it was time the lights were burning.Returning, he lit the lanterns and sat down in the room at the top ofthe left-hand tower to think, and think, and think.
The shadows deepened; the last flush of twilight faded from the westernsky; the stars came out; night and the black silence of night shroudedEastboro Twin-Lights. The clock in the tower room ticked on to nine andthen to ten. Still Seth sat, a huddled, dazed figure in the camp chair,by the great lantern. At last he rose and went out on the iron balcony.He looked down at the buildings below him; they were black shapeswithout a glimmer. Brown had evidently gone to bed. In the little stableJoshua thumped the side of his stall once or twice--dreaming, perhaps,that he was again pursued by the fly-papered Job--and subsided. Atkinsturned his gaze across the inlet. In the rear window of the bungalow adim light still burned. As he watched, it was extinguished. He groanedaloud, and, with his arms on the railing, thought and thought.
Suddenly he heard sounds, faint, but perceptible, above the low grumbleof the surf. They were repeated, the sounds of breaking sticks, as ifsome one was moving through the briers and bushes beyond the stable.Some one was moving there, coming along the path from the upper end ofthe cove. Around the corner of the stable a bulky figure appeared. Itcame on until it stood beneath the balcony.
"Seth," called a low voice; "Seth, are you there?"
For a moment the agitated lightkeeper could not trust his voice toanswer.
"Seth," repeated the voice; "Seth."
The figure was moving off in the direction of the other tower. Then Sethanswered.
"Here--here I be," he stammered, in a hoarse whisper. "Who is it?"
He knew who it was, perfectly well; the question was quite superfluous.
"It's me," said the voice. "Let me in, I've got to talk to you."
Slowly, scarcely certain that this was not a part of some dreadfulnightmare, Seth descended the iron ladder to the foot of the tower,dragged his faltering feet to the door, and slowly swung it open. Thebulky figure entered instantly.
"Shut the door," said Mrs. Bascom.
"Hey? What?" stammered Seth.
"I say, shut that door. Hurry up! Land sakes, HURRY! Do you suppose Iwant anybody to know I'm here?"
The lightkeeper closed the door. The clang reverberated through thetower like distant thunder. The visitor started nervously.
"Mercy!" she exclaimed; "what a racket! What made you slam it?"
"Didn't," grumbled Seth. "Any kind of a noise sounds up in here."
"I should think as much. It's enough to wake the dead."
"Ain't nobody BUT the dead to wake in this place."
"Yes, there is; there's that young man of yours, that Brown one. Heain't dead, is he?"
"Humph! he's asleep, and that's next door to dead--with him."
"Well, I'm glad of it. My nerves are pretty steady as a general thing,but I declare I'm all of a twitter to-night--and no wonder. It's darkerthan a pocket in here. Can't we have a light?"
Atkins stumbled across the stone floor and took the lantern fromthe hook by the stairs. He struck a match, and it went out; he triedanother, with the same result. Mrs. Bascom fidgeted.
"Mercy on us!" she cried; "what DOES ail the thing?"
Seth's trembling fingers could scarcely hold the third match. He rakedit across the whitewashed wall and broke the head short off.
"Thunder to mighty!" he snarled, under his breath.
"But what DOES--"
"What does? What do you s'pose? You ain't the only one that's gotnerves, are you?"
The next trial was successful, and the lantern was lighted. With it inhis hand, he turned and faced his caller. They looked at each other.Mrs. Bascom drew a long breath.
"It is you," she said. "I couldn't scarcely believe it. It is reallyyou."
Seth's answer was almost a groan. "It's you," he said. "You--down here."
This ended the conversation for another minute. Then the lady seemed toawake to the realities of the situation.
"Yes," she said, "it's me--and it's you. We're here, both of us. Thoughwhy on earth YOU should be, I don't know."
"Me? Me? Why, I belong here. But you--what in time sent you here?Unless," with returning suspicion, "you came because I--"
He paused, warned by the expression on his caller's face.
"What was that?" she demanded.
"Nothin'."
"Nothin', I guess. If you was flatterin' yourself with the idea that Icame here to chase after you, you never was more mistaken in your life,or ever will be. You set down. You and I have got to talk. Set rightdown."
The lightkeeper hesitated. Then he obeyed orders by seating himself onan oil barrel lying on its side near the wall. The lantern he placed onthe floor at his feet. Mrs. Bascom perched on one of the lower steps ofthe iron stairs.
"Now," she said, "we've got to talk. Seth Bascom--"
Seth started violently.
"What is it?" asked the lady. "Why did you jump like that? Nobodycomin', is there?"
"No. No . . . But I couldn't help jumpin' when you called me that name."
"That name? It's your name, isn't it? Oh," she smiled slightly; "Iremember now. You've taken the name of Atkins since we saw each otherlast."
"I didn't take it; it belonged to me. You know my middle name. I justdropped the Bascom, that's all."
"I see. Just as you dropped--some other responsibilities. Why d
idn'tyou drop the whole christenin' and start fresh? Why did you hang on to'Seth'?"
The lightkeeper looked guilty. Mrs. Bascom's smile broadened. "I know,"she went on. "You didn't really like to drop it all. It was too much ofa thing to do on your hook, and there wasn't anybody to tell you to doit, and so you couldn't quite be spunky enough to--"
He interrupted her. "That wa'n't the reason," he said shortly.
"What was the reason?"
"You want to know, do you?"
"Yes, I do."
"Well, the 'Bascom' part wa'n't mine no more--not all mine. I'd given itto you."
"O--oh! oh, I see. And you ran away from your name as you ran away fromyour wife. I see. And . . . why, of course! you came down here to runaway from all the women. Miss Ruth said this mornin' she was told--Idon't know who by--that the lightkeeper was a woman-hater. Are you thewoman-hater, Seth?"
Mr. Atkins looked at the floor. "Yes, I be," he answered, sullenly. "Doyou wonder?"
"I don't wonder at your runnin' away; that I should have expected. Butthere," more briskly, "this ain't gettin' us anywhere. You're here--andI'm here. Now what's your idea of the best thing to be done, under thecircumstances?"
Seth shifted his feet. "One of us better go somewheres else, if you askme," he declared.
"Run away again, you mean? Well, I sha'n't run away. I'm Miss Ruth'shousekeeper for the summer. I answered her advertisement in the Bostonpaper and we agreed as to wages and so on. I like her and she likes me.Course if I'd known my husband was in the neighborhood, I shouldn't havecome here; but I didn't know it. Now I'm here and I'll stay my time out.What are you goin' to do?"
"I'm goin' to send in my resignation as keeper of these lights. That'swhat I'm goin' to do, and I'll do it to-morrow."
"Run away again?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Why? WHY? Emeline Bascom, do you ask me that?"
"I do, yes. See here, Seth, we ain't children, nor sentimental youngfolks. We're sensible, or we'd ought to be. Land knows we're old enough.I shall stay here and you ought to. Nobody knows I was your wife or thatyou was my husband, and nobody needs to know it. We ain't even gotthe same names. We're strangers, far's folks know, and we can staystrangers."
"But--but to see each other every day and--"
"Why not? We've seen each other often enough so that the sight won't beso wonderful. And we'll keep our bein' married a secret. I sha'n't boastof it, for one."
"But--but to SEE each other--"
"Well, we needn't see each other much. Why, we needn't see each otherany, unless I have to run over to borrer somethin', same as neighborshave to every once in a while. I can guess what's troublin' you; it'syoung Brown. You've told him you're a woman-hater, haven't you?"
"Yes, I have."
"Humph! Is he one, too?"
The lightkeeper's mouth was twisted with a violent emotion. Heremembered his view of that afternoon's swimming lesson.
"He said he was," he snarled. "He pretends he is."
Mrs. Bascom smiled. "I want to know," she said. "Umph! I thought . . .However, it's no matter. Perhaps he is. Anyhow he can pretend to be andyou can pretend to believe him. That'll be the easiest way, I guess. Ofcourse," she added, "I ain't tellin' you what to do with any idea thatyou'll do it because I say so. The time for that is all past and gone.But it seems to me that, for once in my life, I'd be man enough to stickit out. I wouldn't run away again."
Seth did not answer. He scowled and stared at the circle of lanternlight on the stone floor. Mrs. Bascom rose from her seat on the stairs.
"Well," she observed, "I must be gettin' back to the house if I want toget any sleep to-night. I doubt if I get much, for a body don't get overa shock, such as I've had, in a minute. But I'm goin' to get over itand I'm goin' to stay right here and do my work; I'm goin' to go throughwith what seems to be my duty, no matter how hard it is. I've done itafore, and I'll do it again. I've promised, and I keep my promises. Goodnight."
She started toward the door. Her husband sprang from the oil barrel.
"Hold on," he cried; "you wait a minute. I've got somethin' to say."
She shook her head. "I can't wait," she said; "I've got to go."
"No, you ain't, neither. You can stay a spell longer, if you want to."
"Perhaps, but I don't want to."
"Why not? What are you afraid of?"
"Afraid! I don't know as I'm afraid of anything--that is," with acontemptuous sniff, "nothin' I see around here."
"Then what are YOU runnin' away for?"
This was putting the matter in a new light. Mrs. Bascom regarded herhusband with wrathful amazement, which slowly changed to an amusedsmile.
"Oh," she said, "if you think I'm runnin' away, why--"
"I don't see what else 'tis. If I ain't scart to have you here, I don'tsee why you should be scart to stay. Set down on them stairs again; Iwant to talk to you."
The lady hesitated an instant and then returned to her former seat. Sethwent back to his barrel.
"Emeline," he said. "I'll stay here on my job."
She looked surprised, but she nodded.
"I'm glad to hear it," she said. "I'm glad you've got that much spunk."
"Yup; well, I have. I came down here to get clear of everybody, womenmost of all. Now the one woman that--that--"
"That you 'specially wanted to get clear of--"
"No! No! that ain't the truth, and you know it. She set out to get clearof me--and I let her have her way, same as I done in everything else."
"She didn't set out to get clear of you."
"She did."
"No, she didn't."
"I say she did."
Mrs. Bascom rose once more. "Seth Bascom," she declared, "if all youwanted me to stay here for is to be one of a pair of katydids, hollerin'at each other, I'm goin'. I'm no bug; I'm a woman."
"Emeline, you set down. You've hove out a whole lot of hints about mynot bein' a man because I run away from your house. Do you think I'dhave been more of a man if I'd stayed in it? Stayed there and beena yaller dog to be kicked out of one corner and into another by youand--and that brother-in-law of yours. That's all I was--a dog."
"Humph! if a dog's the right breed--and big enough--it's his own faultif he's kicked twice."
"Not if he cares more for his master than he does for himself--'taint."
"Why, yes, it is. He can make his master respect him by provin' he ain'tthe kind of dog to kick. And maybe one of his masters--his real master,for he hadn't ought to have but one--might be needin' the right kind ofwatchdog around the house. Might be in trouble her--himself, I mean; andbe hopin' and prayin' for the dog to protect her--him, I should say. Andthen the--"
"Emeline, what are you talkin' about?"
"Oh, nothin', nothin'. Seth, what's the use of us two settin' here attwelve o'clock at night and quarrelin' over what's past and settled? Isha'n't do it, for one. I don't want to quarrel with you."
Seth sighed. "And I don't want to quarrel with you, Emeline," he agreed."As you say, there's no sense in it. Dear! dear! this, when you cometo think of it, is the queerest thing altogether that ever was in theworld, I guess. Us two had all creation to roam 'round in, and we landedat Eastboro Twin-Lights. It seems almost as if Providence done it, forsome purpose or other."
"Yes; or the other critter, for HIS purposes. How did you ever come tobe keeper of a light, Seth?"
"Why--why--I don't know. I used to be in the service, 'fore I went tosea much. You remember I told you I did. And I sort of drifted downhere. I didn't care much what became of me, and I wanted a lonesomehole to hide in, and this filled the bill. I've been here ever since Ileft--left--where I used to be. But, Emeline, how did YOU come here? Youanswered an advertisement, you told me; but why?"
"'Cause I wanted to do somethin' to earn my livin'. I was alone, and Irented my house and boarded. But boardin' ain't much comfort, 'speciallywhen you board where everybody knows you, and knows your story. So I--"
"Wai
t a minute. You was alone, you say? Where was--was HE?"
"He?"
"Yes. You know who I mean."
He would not speak the hated name. His wife spoke it for him.
"Bennie?" she asked. "Oh, he ain't been with me for 'most two year now.He--he went away. He's in New York now. And I was alone and I saw MissGraham's advertisement for a housekeeper and answered it. I needed themoney and--"
"Hold on! You needed the money? Why, you had money."
"Abner left me a little, but it didn't last forever. And--"
"You had more'n a little. I wrote to bank folks there and turned overmy account to you. And I sent 'em a power of attorney turnin' over somestocks--you know what they was--to you, too. I done that soon's I got toBoston. Didn't they tell you?"
"Yes, they told me."
"Well, then, that ought to have helped along."
"You don't s'pose I took it, do you?"
"Why--why not?"
"Why not! Do you s'pose I'd use the money that belonged to the husbandthat run off and left me? I ain't that kind of a woman. The money andstocks are at the bank yet, I s'pose; anyhow they're there for all ofme."
The lightkeeper's mouth opened and stayed open for seconds before hecould use it as a talking machine. He could scarcely believe what he hadheard.
"But--but I wanted you to have it," he gasped. "I left it for you."
"Well, I didn't take it; 'tain't likely!" with fiery indignation. "Didyou think I could be bought off like a--a mean--oh, I don't know what?"
"But--but I left it at the bank--for you. What--what'll I do with it?"
"I don't know, I'm sure. You might give it to Sarah Ann Christy; Iwouldn't wonder if she was less particular than I be."
Seth's guns were spiked, for the moment. He felt the blood rush to face,and his fists, as he brandished them in the air, trembled.
"I--I--you--you--" he stammered. "I--I--you think I--"
He knew that his companion would regard his agitation as an evidence ofconscious guilt, and this knowledge did not help to calm him. He strodeup and down the floor.
"Look out," said Mrs. Bascom, coldly, "you'll kick over the lantern."
Her husband stopped in his stride. "Darn the lantern!" he shouted.
"S-sh-sh! you'll wake up the Brown man."
This warning was more effective. But Seth was still furious.
"Emeline Bascom," he snarled, shaking his forefinger in her face,"you've said over and over that I wa'n't a man. You have, haven't you?"
She was looking at his shirt cuff, then but a few inches from her nose.
"Who sewed on that button?" she asked.
This was so unexpected that his wrath was, for the instant, displaced byastonishment.
"What?" he asked. "What button?"
"That one on your shirt sleeve. Who sewed it on?"
"Why, I did, of course. What a crazy question that is!"
She smiled. "I guessed you did," she said. "Nobody but a man would sewa white button on a white shirt--or one that was white once--with blackthread."
He looked at the button and then at her. His anger returned.
"You said I wa'n't a man, didn't you?" he demanded.
"Yes, I did. But I'll have to take part of it back. You're half a mananyhow; that sewin' proves it."
"Huh! I want to know. Well, maybe I ain't a man; maybe I'm only half aone. But I ain't a fool! I ain't a fool!"
She sighed wearily. "Well, all right," she admitted. "I sha'n't argueit."
"You needn't. I ain't--or anyhow I ain't an EVERLASTIN' fool. And nobodybut the everlastin'est of all fools would chase Sarah Ann Christy. Ididn't. That whole business was just one of your--your Bennie D.'s lies.You know that, too."
"I know some one lied; I heard 'em. They denied seein' Sarah Ann, and Isaw 'em with her--with my own eyes I saw 'em. . . . But there, there,"she added; "this is enough of such talk. I'm goin' now."
"I didn't lie; I forgot."
"All right, then, you forgot. I ain't jealous, Seth. I wa'n't evenjealous then. Even then I give you a chance, and you didn't take it--you'forgot' instead. I'm goin' back to the bungalow, but afore I go let'sunderstand this: you're to stay here at the lights, and I stay where Iam as housekeeper. We don't see each other any oftener than we have to,and then only when nobody else is around. We won't let my Miss Grahamnor your Brown nor anybody know we've ever met afore--or are meetin'now. Is that it?"
Seth hesitated. "Yes," he said, slowly, "I guess that's it. But," headded, anxiously, "I--I wish you'd be 'specially careful not to letthat young feller who's workin' for me know. Him and me had a--a sort ofagreement and--and I--I--"
"He sha'n't know. Good-by."
She fumbled with the latch of the heavy door. He stepped forward andopened it for her. The night was very dark; a heavy fog, almost a rain,had drifted in while they were together. She didn't seem to notice ormind the fog or blackness, but went out and disappeared beyond the faintradiance which the lantern cast through the open door. She blundered onand turned the corner of the house; then she heard steps behind her.
"Who is it?" she whispered, in some alarm.
"Me," whispered the lightkeeper, gruffly. "I'll go with you a ways."
"No, of course you won't. I'm goin' alone."
"It's too dark for you to go alone. You'll lose the way."
"I'm goin' alone, I tell you! Go back. I don't want you."
"I know you don't; but I'm goin'. You'll fetch up in the cove orsomewheres if you try to navigate this path on your own hook."
"I sha'n't. I'm used to findin' my own way, and I'm goin' alone--as I'vehad to do for a good while. Go back."
She stopped short. Seth stopped, also.
"Go back," she insisted, adding scornfully: "I don't care for your helpat all. I'm partic'lar about my company."
"I ain't," sullenly. "Anyhow, I'm goin' to pilot you around the end ofthat cove. You sha'n't say I let you get into trouble when I might havekept you out of it."
"Say? Who would I say it to? Think I'm so proud of this night's cruisethat I'll brag of it? WILL you go back?"
"No."
They descended the hill, Mrs. Bascom in advance. She could not see thepath, but plunged angrily on through the dripping grass and bushes.
"Emeline--Emeline," whispered Seth. She paid no attention to him. Theyreached the foot of the slope and suddenly the lady realized that hershoes, already wet, were now ankle deep in water. And there seemed to bewater amid the long grass all about her.
"Why? What in the world?" she exclaimed involuntarily. "What is it?"
"The salt marsh at the end of the cove," answered the lightkeeper. "Itold you you'd fetch up in it if you tried to go alone. Been tryin' totell you you was off the track, but you wouldn't listen to me."
And she would not listen to him now. Turning, she splashed past him.
"Hold on," he whispered, seizing her arm. "That ain't the way."
She shook herself from his grasp.
"WILL you let me be, and mind your own business?" she hissed.
"No, I won't. I've set out to get you home, and I'll do it if I have tocarry you."
"Carry me? You? You DARE!"
His answer was to pick her up in his arms. She was no light weight, andshe fought and wriggled fiercely, but Seth was big and strong and heheld her tight. She did not scream; she was too anxious not to wakeeither the substitute assistant or Miss Graham, but she made her bearerall the trouble she could. They splashed on for some distance; then Sethset her on her feet, and beneath them was dry ground.
"There!" he grumbled, breathlessly. "Now I cal'late you can't miss therest of it. There's the bungalow right in front of you."
"You--you--" she gasped, chokingly.
"Ugh!" grunted her husband, and stalked off into the dark.
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