CHAPTER XIII
"JOHN BROWN" CHANGES HIS NAME
"So we shall soon be together again as of old. Your loving brother,Benjamin."
The sentence which had met his eyes as he picked up the note whichhis caller had dropped was still before them, burned into his memory.Benjamin! "Bennie D."! the loathed and feared and hated Bennie D., causeof all the Bascom matrimonial heartbreaks, had written to say that heand his sister-in-law were soon to be together as they used to be. Thatmeant that there had been no quarrel, but merely a temporaryseparation. That she and he were still friendly. That they had been incorrespondence and that the "inventor" was coming back to take hisold place as autocrat in the household with all his old influenceover Emeline. Seth's new-found courage and manhood had vanished at thethought. Bennie D.'s name had scarcely been mentioned during the variousinterviews between the lightkeeper and his wife. She had said her firsthusband's brother had been in New York for two years, and her manner ofsaying it led Seth to imagine a permanent separation following some sortof disagreement. And now! and now! He remembered Bennie D.'s superiorairs, his polite sneers, his way of turning every trick to his advantageand of perverting and misrepresenting his, Seth's, most innocent speechand action into crimes of the first magnitude. He remembered the meaningof those last few months in the Cape Ann homestead. All hisfiery determination to be what he had once been--Seth Bascom, theself-respecting man and husband--collapsed and vanished. He groaned inabject surrender. He could not go through it again; he was afraid. Ofany other person on earth he would not have been, but the unexpectedresurrection of Bennie D. made him a hesitating coward. Therefore he wassilent when his wife left him, and he realized that his opportunity wasgone, gone forever.
In utter misery and self-hatred he sat, with his head in his hands,beside the kitchen table until eleven o'clock. Then he rose, got dinner,and called Brown to eat it. He ate nothing himself, saying that he'dlost his appetite somehow or other. After the meal he harnessed Joshuato the little wagon and started on his drive to Eastboro. "I'll be backearly, I cal'late," were his last words as he drove out of the yard.
After he had gone, and Brown had finished clearing away and theother housekeeping tasks which were now such a burden, the substituteassistant went out to sit on the bench and smoke. The threatenedeasterly wind had begun to blow, and the sky was dark with tumblingclouds. The young man paid little attention to the weather, however. Allskies were gloomy so far as he was concerned, and the darkest day was noblacker than his thoughts. Occasionally he glanced at the bungalow,and on one such occasion was surprised to see a carriage, one of theturnouts supplied by the Eastboro livery stable, roll up to its doorand Mrs. Bascom, the housekeeper, emerge, climb to the seat beside thedriver, and be driven away in the direction of the village. He idlywondered where she was going, but was not particularly interested. When,a half hour later, Ruth Graham left the bungalow and strolled off alongthe path at the top of the bluff, he was very much interested indeed.He realized, as he had been realizing for weeks, that he was moreinterested in that young woman than in anything else on earth. Also,that he had no right--miserable outcast that he was--to be interested inher; and certainly it would be the wildest insanity to imagine that shecould be interested in him.
For what the lightkeeper might say or do, in the event of his secretbeing discovered, he did not care in the least. He was long past thatpoint. And for the breaking of their solemn compact he did not careeither. Seth might or might not have played the traitor; that, too, wasa matter of no importance. Seth himself was of no importance; neitherwas he. There was but one important person in the whole world, and shewas strolling along the bluff path at that moment. Therefore he left hisseat on the bench, hurried down the slope to the inner end of the cove,noting absently that the tide of the previous night must have beenunusually high, climbed to the bungalow, turned the corner, and walkedslowly in the direction of the trim figure in the blue suit, which waswalking, even more slowly, just ahead of him.
It may be gathered that John Brown's feelings concerning the oppositesex had changed. They had, and he had changed in other ways, also. Howmuch of a change had taken place he did not himself realize, until thisvery afternoon. He did not realize it even then until, after he and thegirl in blue had met, and the customary expressions of surprise at theircasual meeting had been exchanged, the young lady seated herself on adune overlooking the tumbling sea and observed thoughtfully:
"I shall miss all this"--with a wave of her hand toward the waves--"nextweek, when I am back again in the city."
Brown's cap was in his hand as she began to speak. After she hadfinished he stooped to pick up the cap, which had fallen to the ground.
"You are going away--next week?" he said slowly.
"We are going to-morrow. I shall remain in Boston for a few days. Then Ishall visit a friend in the Berkshires. After that I may join my brotherin Europe; I'm not sure as to that."
"To-morrow?"
"Yes!"
There was another one of those embarrassing intervals of silence whichof late seemed to occur so often in their conversation. Miss Graham, asusual, was the first to speak.
"Mr. Brown," she began. The substitute assistant interrupted her.
"Please don't call me that," he blurted involuntarily. "It--oh, confoundit, it isn't my name!"
She should have been very much surprised. He expected her to be. Insteadshe answered quite calmly.
"I know it," she said.
"You DO?"
"Yes. You are 'Russ' Brooks, aren't you?"
Russell Brooks, alias John Brown, dropped his cap again, but did notpick it up. He swallowed hard.
"How on earth did you know that?" he asked as soon as he could sayanything.
"Oh, it was simple enough. I didn't really know; I only guessed. Youweren't a real lightkeeper, that was plain. And you weren't used towashing dishes or doing housework--that," with the irrepressible curl ofthe corners of her lips, "was just as plain. When you told me that fibabout meeting my brother here last summer I was sure you had met himsomewhere, probably at college. So in my next letter to him I describedyou as well as I could, mentioned that you were as good or a betterswimmer than he, and asked for particulars. He answered that theonly fellow he could think of who fitted your description was 'Russ'Brooks--Russell, I suppose--of New York; though what Russ Brooks wasdoing as lightkeeper's assistant at Eastboro Twin-Lights he DIDN'T know.Neither did I. But then, THAT was not my business."
The substitute assistant did not answer: he could not, on such shortnotice.
"So," continued the girl, "I felt almost as if I had known you for along time. You and Horace were such good friends at college, and hehad often told me of you. I was very glad to meet you in real life,especially here, where I had no one but Mrs. Bascom to talk to; Mr.Atkins, by reason of his aversion to my unfortunate sex, being barred."
Mr. Brown's--or Mr. Brooks'--next speech harked back to her previousone.
"I'll tell you while I'm here," he began.
"You needn't, unless you wish," she said. "I have no right toknow"--adding, with characteristic femininity, "though I'm dying to."
"But I want you to know. As I told Atkins when I first came, I haven'tmurdered anyone and I haven't stolen anything. I'm not a crook runningfrom justice. I'm just a plain idiot who fell overboard from a steamerand"--bitterly--"hadn't the good luck to drown."
She made no comment, and he began his story, telling it much as he hadtold it to the lightkeeper.
"There!" he said in conclusion, "that's the whole fool business. That'swhy I'm here. No need to ask what you think of it, I suppose."
She was silent, gazing at the breakers. He drew his own conclusions fromher silence.
"I see," he said. "Well, I admit it. I'm a low down chump. Still, if Ihad it to do over again, I should do pretty much the same. A few thingsdifferently, but in general the very same."
"What would you do differently?" she asked, still without looking athim.
&n
bsp; "For one thing, I wouldn't run away. I'd stay and face the music. Earnmy living or starve."
"And now you're going to stay here?"
"No longer than I can help. If I get the appointment as assistant keeperI'll begin to save every cent I can. Just as soon as I get enough towarrant risking it I'll head for Boston once more and begin the earningor starving process. And," with a snap of his jaws, "I don't intend tostarve."
"You won't go back to your father?"
"If he sees fit to beg my pardon and acknowledge that I was right--nototherwise. And he must do it of his own accord. I told him that when Iwalked out of his office. It was my contribution to our fond farewell.His was that he would see me damned first. Possibly he may."
She smiled.
"You must have been a charming pair of pepper pots," she observed. "Andthe young lady--what of her?"
"She knows that I am fired, cut off even without the usual shilling.That will be quite sufficient for her, I think."
"How do you know it will? How do you know she might not have beenwilling to wait while you earned that living you are so sure is coming?"
"Wait? She wait for me? Ann Davidson wait for a man without a cent whilehe tried to earn a good many dollars? Humph! you amuse me."
"Why not? You didn't give her a chance. You calmly took it for grantedthat she wanted only money and social position and you walked off andleft her. How do you know she wouldn't have liked you better for tellingher just how you felt. If a girl really cared for a man it seems to methat she would be willing to wait for him, years and years if it werenecessary, provided that, during that time, he was trying his best forher."
"But--but--she isn't that kind of a girl."
"How do you know? You didn't put her to the test. You owed her that. Itseems to me you owe it to her now."
The answer to this was on his tongue. It was ready behind his closedlips, eager to burst forth. That he didn't love the Davidson girl, neverhad loved her. That during the past month he had come to realize therewas but one woman in the wide world for him. And did that woman meanwhat she said about waiting years--and years--provided she cared? Anddid she care?
He didn't utter one word of this. He wanted to, but it seemed sopreposterous. Such an idiotic, outrageous thing to ask. Yet it isprobable that he would have asked it if the young lady had given himthe chance. But she did not; after a sidelong glance at his face, shehurriedly rose from the rock and announced that she must be getting backto the house.
"I have some packing to do," she explained; "and, besides, I think it isgoing to rain."
"But, Miss Graham, I--"
A big drop of rain splashing upon his shoe confirmed the weatherprophecy. She began to walk briskly toward the bungalow, and he walkedat her side.
"Another storm," she said. "I should think the one we have just passedthrough was sufficient for a while. I hope Mrs. Bascom won't get wet."
"She has gone to the village, hasn't she?"
"Yes. She has received some message or other--I don't know how itcame--which sent her off in a hurry. A livery carriage came for her. Shewill be back before night."
"Atkins has gone, too. He had some errands, I believe. I can't make outwhat has come over him of late. He has changed greatly. He used to be sojolly and good-humored, except when female picnickers came. Now he is assolemn as an owl. When he went away he scarcely spoke a word. I thoughthe seemed to be in trouble, but when I asked him, he shut me up sopromptly that I didn't press the matter."
"Did he? That's odd. Mrs. Bascom seemed to be in trouble, too. I thoughtshe had been crying when she came out of her room to go to the carriage.She denied it, but her eyes looked red. What can be the matter?"
"I don't know."
"Nor I. Mr.--er--Brooks--Or shall I still call you 'Brown'?"
"No. Brown is dead; drowned. Let him stay so."
"Very well. Mr. Brooks, has it occurred to you that your Mr. Atkins is apeculiar character? That he acts peculiarly?"
"He has acted peculiarly ever since I knew him. But to what particularpeculiarity do you refer?"
"His queer behavior. Several times I have seen him--I am almost sureit was he--hiding or crouching behind the sand hills at the rear of ourbungalow."
"You have? Why, I--"
He hesitated. Before he could go on or she continue, the rain came in adeluge. They reached the porch just in time.
"Well, I'm safe and reasonably dry," she panted. "I'm afraid you will bedrenched before you get to the lights. Don't you want an umbrella?"
"No. No, indeed, thank you."
"Well, you must hurry then. Good-by."
"But, Miss Graham," anxiously, "I shall see you again before you go.To-morrow, at bathing time, perhaps?"
"Judging by the outlook just at present, bathing will be out of thequestion to-morrow."
"But I want to see you. I must."
She shook her head doubtfully. "I don't know," she said. "I shall bevery busy getting ready to leave; but perhaps we may meet again."
"We must. I--Miss Graham, I--"
She had closed the door. He ran homeward through the rain, the stormwhich soaked him to the skin being but a trifle compared to the tornadoin his breast.
He spent the balance of the day somehow, he could not have told how. Therain and wind continued; six o'clock came, and Seth should have returnedan hour before, but there was no sign of him. He wondered if Mrs. Bascomhad returned. He had not seen the carriage, but she might have comewhile he was inside the house. The lightkeeper's nonappearance began toworry him a trifle.
At seven, as it was dark, he took upon himself the responsibilityof climbing the winding stairs in each tower and lighting the greatlanterns. It was the first time he had done it, but he knew how, and theduty was successfully accomplished. Then, as Atkins was still absent andthere was nothing to do but wait, he sat in the chair in the kitchen andthought. Occasionally, and it showed the trend of his thoughts, herose and peered from the window across the dark to the bungalow. Inthe living room of the latter structure a light burned. At ten it wasextinguished.
At half past ten he went to Seth's bedroom, found a meager assortment ofpens, ink and note paper, returned to the kitchen, sat down by the tableand began to write.
For an hour he thought, wrote, tore up what he had written, and beganagain. At last the result of his labor read something like this:
"DEAR MISS GRAHAM:
"I could not say it this afternoon, although if you had stayed I think Ishould. But I must say it now or it may be too late. I can't let you gowithout saying it. I love you. Will you wait for me? It may be a verylong wait, although God knows I mean to try harder than I have evertried for anything in my life. If I live I will make something of myselfyet, with you as my inspiration. You know you said if a girl reallycared for a man she would willingly wait years for him. Do you care forme as much as that? With you, or for you, I believe I can accomplishanything. DO you care?
"RUSSELL BROOKS."
He put this in an envelope, sealed and addressed it, and withoutstopping to put on either cap or raincoat went out in the night.
The rain was still falling, although not as heavily, but the wind wascoming in fierce squalls. He descended the path to the cove, flounderingthrough the wet bushes. At the foot of the hill he was surprised to findthe salt marsh a sea of water not a vestige of ground above the surface.This was indeed a record-breaking tide, such as he had never knownbefore. He did not pause to reflect upon tides or such trivialities,but, with a growl at being obliged to make the long detour, he roundedthe end of the cove and climbed up to the door of the bungalow. Underthe edge of that door he tucked the note he had written. As soon asthis was accomplished he became aware that he had expressed himself veryclumsily. He had not written as he might. A dozen brilliant thoughtscame to him. He must rewrite that note at all hazards.
So he spent five frantic minutes trying to coax that envelope from underthe door. But, in his care to push it far enough, it had dropped beyondthe sill, and
he could not reach it. The thing was done for betteror for worse. Perfectly certain that it was for worse, he splashedmournfully back to the lights. In the lantern room of the right-handtower he spent the remainder of the night, occasionally wandering out onthe gallery to note the weather.
The storm was dying out. The squalls were less and less frequent, andthe rain had been succeeded by a thick fog. The breakers pounded in thedark below him, and from afar the foghorns moaned and wailed. It was abad night, a night during which no lightkeeper should be absent from hispost. And where was Seth?
The Woman-Haters Page 13