CHAPTER XIV
"BENNIE D."
Seth's drive to Eastboro was a dismal journey. Joshua pounded along overthe wet sand or through ruts filled with water, and not once during thetrip was he ordered to "Giddap" or "Show some signs of life." Notuntil the first scattered houses of the village were reached did thelightkeeper awaken from his trance sufficiently to notice that the oldhorse was limping slightly with the right forefoot.
"Hello!" exclaimed Seth. "What's the matter with you, Josh?"
Joshua slopped on, but this was a sort of three-legged progress. Thedriver leaned forward and then pulled on the reins.
"Whoa!" he ordered. "Stand still!"
Joshua stood still, almost with enthusiasm. Seth tucked the end of thereins between the whip socket and the dashboard, and swung out ofthe wagon to make an examination. Lifting the lame foot, he found thetrouble at once. The shoe was loose.
"Humph!" he soliloquized. "Cal'late you and me'll have to give Benijaha job. Well," climbing back into the vehicle, "I said I'd never give himanother after the row we had about the last, but I ain't got ambitionenough to go clear over to the Denboro blacksmith's. I don't care. Idon't care about nothin' any more. Giddap."
Benijah Ellis's little, tumble-down blacksmith shop was located in themain street of Eastboro, if that hit-or-miss town can be said to possessa main street. Atkins drove up to its door, before which he foundBenijah and a group of loungers inspecting an automobile, the body ofwhich had been removed in order that the engine and running gear mightbe the easier reached. The blacksmith was bending over the car, his headand shoulders down amidst the machinery; a big wrench was in his hand,and other wrenches, hammers, and tools of various sizes were scatteredon the ground beside him.
"Hello, Benije," grunted Seth.
Ellis removed his nose from its close proximity to the gear shaftand straightened up. He was a near-sighted, elderly man, and worespectacles. Just now his hands, arms, and apron were covered with greaseand oil, and, as he wiped his forehead with the hand not holding thewrench, he left a wide mourning band across it.
"Well?" he panted. "Who is it? Who wants me?"
One of the loafers, who had been assisting the blacksmith by holding hispipe while he dove into the machinery, languidly motioned toward the newarrival. Benijah adjusted his spectacles and walked over to the wagon.
"Who is it?" he asked crossly. Then, as he recognized his visitor, hegrunted: "Ugh! it's you, hey. Well, what do YOU want?"
"Want you to put a new shoe on this horse of mine," replied Seth, nottoo graciously.
"Is that so! Well, I'm busy."
"I don't care if you be. I guess you ain't so busy you can't do a job ofwork. If you are, you're richer'n I ever heard you was."
"I want to know! Maybe I'm particular who I work for, Seth Atkins."
"Maybe you are. I ain't so particular; if I was, I wouldn't come here,I tell you that. This horse of mine's got a loose shoe, and I want himattended to quick."
"Thought you said you'd never trust me with another job."
"I ain't trustin' you now. I'll be here while it's done. And I ain'taskin' you to trust me, neither. I'll pay cash--cash, d'ye understand?"
The bystanders grinned. Mr. Ellis's frown deepened. "I'm busy," hedeclared, with importance. "I've got Mr. Delancey Barry's automobile tofix, and I can't stop to bother with horses--specially certain kind ofhorses."
This sneer at Joshua roused his owner's ire. He dropped the reins andsprang to the ground.
"See here, Benije Ellis," he growled, advancing upon the repairer ofautomobiles, who retreated a step or two with promptness. "I don't carewhat you're fixin', nor whose it is, neither. I guess 'twill be 'fixed'all right when you get through with it, but that ain't neither here northere. And it don't make no difference if it does belong to Mr. Barry.If 'twas Elijah's chariot of fire 'twould be just the same. That autowon't be done this afternoon, and nobody expects it to be. Here's myhorse sufferin' to be shod; I want him shod and I've got the money topay for it. When it's winter time you're around cryin' that you can'tearn money to pay your bills. Now, just because it's summer and there'scity big-bugs in the neighborhood innocent enough to let you tinker withtheir autos--though they'll never do it but once--I don't propose tobe put off. If you won't shoe this horse of mine I'll know it's becauseyou've got so much money you don't need more. And if that's the case,there's a whole lot of folks would be mighty glad to know it--Henry G.Goodspeed for one. I'm goin' up to his store now. Shall I tell him?"
This was a shot in the bull's-eye. Mr. Ellis owed a number of bills,had owed them for a long time, and Mr. Goodspeed's was by no meansthe smallest. The loafers exchanged winks, and the blacksmith's mannerbecame more conciliatory.
"I didn't say I wouldn't do it for you, Seth," he pleaded. "I'm alwayswillin' to do your work. You're the one that's been complainin'."
"Ugh! Well, I'm likely to complain some more, but the complaint's onething, and the need's another. I'm like Joel Knowles--he said when hecouldn't get whisky he worried along best he could with bay rum. Ineed a blacksmith, and if I can't get a real one I'll put up with animitation. Will you shoe this horse for me?"
"Course I'll shoe him. But I can't do it this minute. I've got thisconsarned machine," waving a hand toward the automobile, "out of doorhere and all to pieces. And it's goin' to rain. Just let me put enoughof it together so's I can shove it into the shop out of the wet, andthen I'll tackle your job. You leave your horse and team here and go doyour other errands. He'll be ready when you come back."
So on this basis the deal was finally made. Seth was reluctant to trustthe precious Joshua out of his sight, but, after some parley, he agreedto do so. The traces were unfastened, and the animal was led into theshop, the carriage was backed under a shed, and the lightkeeper wentaway promising to be back in an hour. As soon as he had gone, Ellisdived again into the vitals of the auto.
The argument with the blacksmith had one satisfactory result so far asSeth was concerned. In a measure it afforded a temporary vent for hisfeelings. He was moderately agreeable during his brief stay at thegrocery store, and when his orders were given and he found the hour nothalf over, he strolled out to walk about the village. And then, aloneonce more, all his misery and heartache returned. He strode along, hishead down, scarcely speaking to acquaintances whom he met, until hereached the railway station, where he sat down on the baggage truck tomentally review, over and over again, the scene with Emeline and thedreadful collapse of his newborn hopes and plans.
As he sat there, the door of the station opened and a man emerged, a manevidently not a native of Eastboro. He was dressed in a rather loud, butsomewhat shabby, suit of summer plaid, his straw hat was set a trifleover one ear, and he was smoking the stump of a not too fragrantcigar. Altogether he looked like a sporting character under a temporaryfinancial cloud, but the cloud did not dim his self-satisfaction norshadow his magnificent complaisance. He regarded the section of Eastborobefore him with condescending scorn, and then, catching sight of thedoleful figure on the baggage truck, strolled over and addressed it.
"I say, my friend," he observed briskly, "have you a match concealedabout your person? If so, I--"
He stopped short, for Mr. Atkins, after one languid glance in hisdirection, had sprung from the truck and was gazing at him as if he wassome apparition, some figure in a nightmare, instead of his blase self.And he, as he looked at the lightkeeper's astounded countenance,dropped the cigar stump from his fingers and stepped backward in alarmedconsternation.
"You--you--YOU?" gasped Seth.
"YOU!" repeated the stranger.
"You!" cried Seth again; not a brilliant nor original observation, but,under the circumstances, excusable, for the nonchalant person inthe plaid suit was Emeline Bascom's brother-in-law, the genius, the"inventor," the one person whom he hated--and feared--more than anyoneelse in the world--Bennie D. himself.
There was a considerable interval during which neither of the pairspoke. Seth, open-mouthe
d and horror-stricken, was incapable of speech,and the inventor's astonishment seemed to be coupled with a certainnervousness, almost as if he feared a physical assault. However, as thelightkeeper made no move, and his fists remained open, the nervousnessdisappeared, and Bennie D. characteristically took command of thesituation.
"Hum!" he observed musingly. "Hum! May I ask what you are doing here?"
"Huh--hey?" was Seth's incoherent reply.
"I ask what you are doing here? Have you followed me?"
"Fol-follered you? No."
"You're sure of that, are you?"
"Yes, I be." Seth did not ask what Bennie D. was doing there. Alreadythat question was settled in his mind. The brother-in-law had foundout that Emeline was living next door to the man she married, that hersummer engagement was over, and he had come to take her away.
"Well?" queried the inventor sharply, "if you haven't followed me, whatare you doing here? What do you mean by being here?"
"I belong here," desperately. "I work here."
"You do? And may I ask what particular being is fortunate enough toemploy you?"
"I'm keeper down to the lighthouses, if you want to know. But I cal'lateyou know it already."
Bennie D.'s coolness was not proof against this. He started.
"The lighthouses?" he repeated. "The--what is it they call them?--theTwin-Lights?"
"Yes. You know it; what's the use of askin' fool questions?"
The inventor had not known it--until that moment, and he took time toconsider before making another remark. His sister-in-law was employed ashousekeeper at some bungalow or other situated in close proximity tothe Twin-Lights; that he had discovered since his arrival on the morningtrain. Prior to that he had known only that she was in Eastboro forthe summer. Before that he had not been particularly interested in herlocation. Since the day, two years past, when, having decided that hehad used her and her rapidly depleting supply of cash as long as wassafe or convenient, he had unceremoniously left her and gone to NewYork to live upon money supplied by a credulous city gentleman, whom hissmooth tongue had interested in his "inventions," he had not taken thetrouble even to write to Emeline. But within the present month the NewYorker's credulity and his "loans" had ceased to be material assets.Then Bennie D., face to face with the need of funds, remembered hissister and the promise given his dead brother that he should be providedwith a home as long as she had one.
He journeyed to Cape Ann and found, to his dismay, that she was nolonger there. After some skillful detective work, he learned of theEastboro engagement and wrote the letter--a piteous, appealing letter,full of brotherly love and homesickness--which, held back by the storm,reached Mrs. Bascom only that morning. In it he stated that he wason his way to her and was counting the minutes until they should betogether once more. And he had, as soon after his arrival in the villageas possible, 'phoned to the Lights and spoken with her. Her tone, asshe answered, was, he thought, alarmingly cold. It had made himapprehensive, and he wondered if his influence over her was on the wane.But now--now he understood. Her husband--her husband, of all people--hadbeen living next door to her all summer. No doubt she knew he was therewhen she took the place. Perhaps they had met by mutual agreement. Why,this was appalling! It might mean anything. And yet Seth did notlook triumphant or even happy. Bennie D. resolved to show no signs ofperturbation or doubt, but first to find out, if he could, the truth,and then to act accordingly.
"Mr. Bascom--" he began. The lightkeeper, greatly alarmed, interruptedhim.
"Hush!" he whispered. "Don't say that. That ain't my name--down here."
"Indeed? What is your name?"
"Down here they call me Seth Atkins."
Bennie D. looked puzzled. Then his expression changed. He was relieved.When he 'phoned to the Lights--using the depot 'phone--the station agenthad seemed to consider his calling a woman over the lighthouse wiregreat fun. The lightkeeper, so the agent said, was named Atkins, and wasa savage woman-hater. He would not see a woman, much less speak to one;it was a standing joke in the neighborhood, Seth's hatred of females.That seemed to prove that Emeline and her husband were not reconciledand living together, at least. Possibly their being neighbors was merelya coincidence. If so, he might not have come too late. When he nextaddressed his companion it was in a different tone and without the"Mister."
"Bascom--or--er--Atkins," he said sharply, "I hoped--I sincerely hopedthat you and I might not meet during my short stay here; but, as we havemet, I think it best that we should understand each other. Suppose wewalk over to that clump of trees on the other side of the track.We shall be alone there, and I can say what is necessary. I don'twish--even when I remember your behavior toward my sister--to humiliateyou in the town where you may be trying to lead a better life. Come."
He led the way, and Seth, yielding as of old to this man's almosthypnotic command over him and still bewildered by the unexpectedmeeting, followed like a whipped dog. Under the shelter of the treesthey paused.
"Now then," said Bennie D., "perhaps you'll tell me what you mean bydecoying my sister down here in my absence, when I was not present toprotect her. What do you mean by it?"
Seth stared at him uncomprehendingly. "Decoyin' her?" he repeated. "Inever decoyed her. I've been here ever since I left--left you and herthat night. I never asked her to come. I didn't know she was comin'. Andshe didn't know I was here until--until a month or so ago. I--"
Bennie D. held up a hand. He was delighted by this piece of news, but hedid not show it.
"That will do," he said. "I understand all that. But since then--sincethen? What do you mean by trying to influence her as you have? Answerme!"
The lightkeeper rubbed his forehead.
"I ain't tried to influence her," he declared. "She and me have scarcelyseen each other. Nobody knows that we was married, not even Miss Grahamnor the young feller that's--that's my helper at the lights. You mustknow that. She must have wrote you. What are you talkin' about?"
She had not written; he had received no letters from her during the twoyears, but again the wily "genius" was equal to the occasion. He lookedwise and nodded.
"Of course," he said importantly. "Of course. Certainly."
He hesitated, not knowing exactly what his next move should be. AndSeth, having had time to collect, in a measure, his scattered wits,began to do some thinking on his own account.
"Say," he said suddenly, "if you knew all this aforehand, what are youaskin' these questions for?"
"That," Bennie D.'s gesture was one of lofty disdain, "is my business."
"I want to know! Well, then, maybe I've got some business of my own. Whomade my business your business? Hey?"
"The welfare of my sister--"
"Never you mind your sister. You're talkin' with me now. And you ain'tgot me penned up in a house, neither. By jiminy crimps!" His angerboiled over, and, to the inventor's eyes, he began to look alarminglyalive. "By jiminy crimps!" repeated Seth, "I've been prayin' all theseyears to meet you somewheres alone, and now I've a good mind to--to--"
His big fist closed. Bennie D. stepped backward out of reach.
"Bascom--" he cried, "don't--"
"Don't you call me that!"
"Bascom--" The inventor was thoroughly frightened, and his voice rosealmost to a shout.
The lightkeeper's wrath vanished at the sound of the name. If any nativeof Eastboro, if the depot master on the other side of the track, shouldhear him addressed as "Bascom," the fat would be in the fire for goodand all. The secret he had so jealously guarded would be out, and allthe miserable story would, sooner or later, be known.
"Don't call me Bascom," he begged. "Er--please don't."
Bennie D.'s courage returned. Yet he realized that if a trump card wasto be played it must be then. This man was dangerous, and, somehowor other, his guns must be spiked. A brilliant idea occurred to him.Exactly how much of the truth Seth knew he was not sure, but he took therisk.
"Very well then--Atkins," he said contemptuously. "I
am not used toaliases--not having dealt with persons finding it necessary to employthem--and I forget. But before this disagreeable interview is ended Iwish you to understand thoroughly why I am here. I am here to protect mysister and to remove her from your persecution. I am here to assist herin procuring a divorce."
"A divorce! A DIVORCE! Good heavens above!"
"Yes, sir," triumphantly, "a divorce from the man she was trapped intomarrying and who deserted her. You did desert her, you can't denythat. So long as she remains your wife, even in name, she is liableto persecution from you. She understands this. She and I are to see alawyer at once. That is why I am here."
Seth was completely overwhelmed. A divorce! A case for the papers toprint, and all of Ostable county to read!
"I--I--I--" he stammered, and then added weakly, "I don't believe it.She wouldn't . . . There ain't no lawyer here."
"Then we shall seek the one nearest here. Emeline understands. I 'phonedher this morning."
"Was it YOU that 'phoned?"
"It was. Now--er--Atkins, I am disposed to be as considerate of yourwelfare as possible. I know that any publicity in this matter mightprejudice you in the eyes of your--of the government officials. I shallnot seek publicity, solely on your account. The divorce will be obtainedprivately, provided--PROVIDED you remain out of sight and do notinterfere. I warn you, therefore, not to make trouble or to attempt tosee my sister again. If you do--well, if you do, the consequences willbe unpleasant for you. Do you understand?"
Seth understood, or thought he did. He groaned and leaned heavilyagainst a tree trunk.
"You understand, do you?" repeated Bennie D. "I see that you do. Verygood then. I have nothing more to say. I advise that you remain--er--inseclusion for the next few days. Good-by."
He gave a farewell glance at the crushed figure leaning against thetree. Then he turned on his heel and walked off.
Seth remained where he was for perhaps ten minutes, not moving a muscle.Then he seemed to awaken, looked anxiously in the direction of the depotto make sure that no one was watching, pulled his cap over his eyes,jammed his hands into his pockets, and started to walk across thefields. He had no fixed destination in mind, had no idea where he wasgoing except that he must go somewhere, that he could not keep still.
He stumbled along, through briers and bushes, paying no attention toobstacles such as fences or stone walls until he ran into them, when heclimbed over and went blindly on. A mile from Eastboro, and he wasalone in a grove of scrub pines. Here he stopped short, struck his handstogether, and groaned aloud:
"I don't believe it! I don't believe it!"
For he was beginning not to believe it. At first he had not thoughtof doubting Bennie D.'s statement concerning the divorce. Now, as histhoughts became clearer, his doubts grew. His wife had not mentioned thesubject in their morning interview. Possibly she would not have doneso in any event, but, as the memory of her behavior and speech becameclearer in his mind, it seemed to him that she could not have kept sucha secret. She had been kinder, had seemed to him more--yes, almost--why,when he asked her to be his again, to give him another chance, she hadhesitated. She had not said no at once, she hesitated. If she was aboutto divorce him, would she have acted in such a way? It hardly seemedpossible.
Then came the letter and the telephone message. It was after these thatshe had said no with decision. Perhaps . . . was it possible that shehad known of her brother-in-law's coming only then? Now that he thoughtof it, she had not gone away at once after the talk over the 'phone. Shehad waited a moment as if for him to speak. He, staggered and paralyzedby the sight of his enemy's name in that letter, had not spoken andthen she . . . He did not believe she was seeking a divorce! It was allanother of Bennie D.'s lies!
But suppose she was seeking it. Or suppose--for he knew the persuasivepower of that glib tongue only too well--suppose her brother-in-lawshould persuade her to do it. Should he sit still--in seclusion, as hislate adviser had counseled--and let this irrevocable and final movebe made? After a divorce--Seth's idea of divorces were vague andPuritanical--there would be no hope. He and Emeline could never cometogether after that. And he must give her up and all his hopes ofhappiness, all that he had dreamed of late, would be but dreams, neverrealities. No! he could not give them up. He would not. Publicity,scandal, everything, he could face, but he would not give his wife upwithout a fight. What should he do?
For a long time he paced up and down beneath the pines trying to plan,to come to some decision. All that he could think of was to return tothe Lights, to go openly to the bungalow, see Emeline and make one lastappeal. Bennie D. might be there, but if he was--well, by jiminy crimps,let him look out, that's all!
He had reached this point in his meditations when the wind, which hadbeen steadily increasing and tossing the pinetops warningly, suddenlybecame a squall which brought with it a flurry of rain. He started andlooked up. The sky was dark, it was late in the afternoon, and the stormhe had prophesied had arrived.
Half an hour later he ran, panting and wet, into the blacksmith's shop.The automobile was standing in the middle of the floor, and Mr. Elliswas standing beside it, perspiring and troubled.
"Where's Joshua?" demanded Seth.
"Hey?" inquired the blacksmith absently.
"Where's my horse? Is he ready?"
Benijah wiped his forehead.
"Gosh!" he exclaimed. "By . . . gosh!"
"What are you b'goshin' about?"
"Seth--I don't know what you'll say to me--but--but I declare I forgotall about your horse."
"You FORGOT about him?"
"Yes. You see that thing?" pointing pathetically at the auto. "Well,sir, that pesky thing's breakin' my heart--to say nothin' of my back. Igot it apart all right, no trouble about that. And by good rightsI've got it together again, leastways it looks so. Yet, by time," indistracted agitation, "there's a half bucket of bolts and nuts and oddsand ends that ain't in it yet--left over, you might say. And I can'tfind any place to put one of 'em. Do you wonder I forget trifles?"
Trifles! the shoeing of Joshua a trifle! The lightkeeper had beensuffering for an opportunity to blow off steam, and the opportunity washere. Benijah withered under the blast.
"S-sh-sh! sh-sh!" he pleaded. "Land sakes, Seth Atkins, stop it! I don'tblame you for bein' mad, but you nor nobody else sha'n't talk to me thatway. I'll fix your horse in five minutes. Yes, sir, in five minutes.Shut up now, or I won't do it at all!"
He rushed over to the stall in the rear of the shop, woke Joshua fromthe sweet slumber of old age, and led him to the halter beside theforge. The lightkeeper, being out of breath, had nothing further to sayat the moment.
"What's the matter with all you lighthouse folks?" asked Benijah,anxious to change the subject. "What's possessed the whole lot of you tocome to the village at one time? Whoa, boy, stand still!"
"The whole lot of us?" repeated Seth. "What do you mean?"
"Mean I've seen two of you at least this afternoon. That Bascom woman,housekeeper at the Graham bungalow she is, went past here twice. Fusttime she was in one of Snow's livery buggies, Snow's boy drivin' her.Then, about an hour ago, she went by again, but the boy'd gone, andthere was another feller pilotin' the team--a stranger, nobody I eversee afore."
Seth's red face turned pale. "What?" he cried. "Em--Mrs. Bascom ridin'with a stranger! What sort of a stranger?"
"Oh, a feller somewheres between twenty and fifty. Smooth-faced critterwith a checked suit and a straw hat. . . . What on earth's the matterwith you now?"
For the lightkeeper was shaking from head to foot.
"Did--did--which way was they goin'? Back to the Lights or--or where?"
"No, didn't seem to be goin' to the Lights at all. They went on theother road. Seemed to be headin' for Denboro if they kept on as theystarted. . . . Seth Atkins, have you turned loony?"
Seth did not answer. With a leap he landed at Joshua's head, unhookedthe halter, and ran out of the shop leading the horse. The astonishedblacksmith followe
d as far as the door. Seth was backing the animal intohis wagon, which stood beneath the shed. He fastened the traces withtrembling fingers.
"What in the world has struck you?" shouted Ellis. "Ain't you goin' tohave that shoe fixed? He can't travel that way. Seth! Seth Atkins! . . .By time, he IS crazy!"
Seth did not deny the charge. Climbing into the wagon, he took up thereins.
"Are you sure and sartin' 'twas the Denboro road they took?" hedemanded.
"Who took? That feller and the Bascom woman? Course I am, but . . .Well, I swan!"
For the lightkeeper waited to hear no more. He struck the unsuspectingJoshua with the end of the reins and, with a jump, the old horse startedforward. Another moment, and the lighthouse wagon was splashing andrattling through the pouring rain along the road leading to Denboro.
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