The Woman-Haters

by Joseph Crosby Lincoln

  CHAPTER XVII

  WOMAN-HATERS

  "But what," asked Ruth, as they entered the bungalow together, "hashappened to Mr. Atkins, do you think? You say he went away yesterdaynoon and you haven't seen him or even heard from him since. I shouldthink he would be afraid to leave the lights for so long a time. Has heever done it before?"

  "No. And I'm certain he would not have done it this time of his ownaccord. If he could have gotten back last night he would, storm or nostorm."

  "But last night was pretty bad. And," quite seriously, "of course heknew that you were here, and so everything would be all right."

  "Oh, certainly," with sarcasm, "he would know that, of course. So longas I am on deck, why come back at all? I'm afraid Atkins doesn't shareyour faith in my transcendent ability, dear."

  "Well," Miss Graham tossed her head, "I imagine he knew he could trustyou to attend to his old lighthouses."

  "Perhaps. If so, his faith has developed wonderfully. He never hastrusted me even to light the lanterns. No, I'm afraid something hashappened--some accident. If the telephone was in working order I couldsoon find out. As it is, I can only wait and try not to worry. By theway, is your housekeeper--Mrs. What's-her-name--all serene after her wetafternoon? When did she return?"

  "She hasn't returned. I expected her last evening--she said she would beback before dark--but she didn't come. That didn't trouble me; the stormwas so severe that I suppose she stayed in the village overnight."

  "So you were alone all through the gale. I wondered if you were; I wastremendously anxious about you. And you weren't afraid? Did you sleep?"

  "Not much. You see," she smiled oddly, "I received a letter before Iretired, and it was such an important--and surprising--communicationthat I couldn't go to sleep at once."

  "A letter? A letter last night? Who--What? You don't mean my letter? Theone I put under your door? You didn't get THAT last night!"

  "Oh, yes, I did."

  "But how? The bungalow was as dark as a tomb. There wasn't a lightanywhere. I made sure of that before I came over."

  "I know. I put the light out, but I was sitting by the window in thedark, looking out at the storm. Then I saw some one coming up the hill,and it was you."

  "Then you saw me push it under the door?"

  "Yes. What made you stay on the step so long after you had pushed itunder?"

  "Me? . . . Oh," hastily, "I wanted to make sure it was--er--under. Andyou found it and read it--then?"

  "Of course. I couldn't imagine what it could be, and I was curious,naturally."

  "Ruth!"

  "I was."

  "Nonsense! You knew what it must be. Surely you did. Now, truly, didn'tyou? Didn't you, dear?"

  "Why should I? . . . Oh, your sleeve is wet. You're soaking wet fromhead to foot."

  "Well, I presume that was to be expected. This water out here isremarkably damp, you know, and I was in it for some time. I should havebeen in it yet if it hadn't been for you."

  "Don't!" with a shudder, "don't speak of it. When I saw you fall intothat tide I . . . But there! you mustn't stay here another moment. Gohome and put on dry things. Go at once!"

  "Dry things be hanged! I'm going to stay right here--and look at you."

  "You're not. Besides, I am wet, too. And I haven't had my breakfast."

  "Haven't you? Neither have I." He forgot that he had attempted to haveone. "But I don't care," he added recklessly. Then, with a flash ofinspiration, "Why can't we breakfast together? Invite me, please."

  "No, I shall not. At least, not until you go back and change yourclothes."

  "To hear is to obey. 'I go, but I return,' as the fellow in the playobserves. I'll be back in just fifteen minutes."

  He was back in twelve, and, as to make the long detour about themarshes would, he felt then, be a wicked waste of time and the marshesthemselves were covered with puddles left by the tide, his "dry things"were far from dry when he arrived. But she did not notice, and he wastoo happy to care, so it was all right. They got breakfast together, andif the coffee had boiled too long and the eggs not long enough, that wasall right, also.

  They sat at opposite sides of the little table, and he needed frequentreminding that eating was supposed to be the business on hand. Theytalked of his father and of Ann Davidson--whom Ruth declared was to bepitied--of the wonderful coincidence that that particular paper, the onecontaining the "Personal" and the "Engagement in High Life" item, shouldhave been on top of the pile in the boathouse, and--of other things.Occasionally the talk lapsed, and the substitute assistant merelylooked, looked and smiled vacuously. When this happened Miss Grahamsmiled, also, and blushed. Neither of them thought of looking out of thewindow.

  If they had not been so preoccupied, if they had looked out of thatwindow, they would have seen a horse and buggy approaching over thedunes. Seth and Mrs. Bascom were on the buggy seat, and the lightkeeperwas driving with one hand. The equipage had been hired at the Eastborolivery stable. Joshua was undergoing repairs and enjoying a much-neededrest at the blacksmith shop in the village.

  As they drew near the lights, Seth sighed contentedly.

  "Well, Emeline," he observed, "here we be, safe and sound. Home again!Yes, sir, by jiminy crimps, HOME! And you ain't goin' to Boston to-day,neither."

  Mrs. Bascom, the practical, moved toward the edge of the seat.

  "Take your arm away, Seth," she cautioned. "They'll see you."

  "Who'll see me? What do I care who sees me? Ain't a man got a right toput his arm around his own wife, I'd like to know?"

  "Humph! Well, all right. I can stand it if you can. Only I cal'late youryoung Brown man is in for somethin' of a shock, that's all. HE don'tknow that I'm your wife."

  Seth removed his arm. His expression changed.

  "That's so," he admitted. "He will be set back three or four rows, won'the?"

  "I shouldn't wonder. He'll think your woman-hate has had a relapse, Iguess."

  The lightkeeper looked troubled; then he nodded grimly.

  "His ain't what you'd call a desp'rate case," he declared. "Judgin' bywhat I've seen in the cove for the last month, he's gettin' better ofit fast. I ain't no worse than he is, by time! . . . Wonder where he is!This place looks deader'n the doleful tombs."

  He hitched the horse to the back fence and assisted his wife to alightfrom the buggy. They entered the kitchen. No one was there, and Seth'shurried search of the other rooms resulted in finding them untenantedlikewise.

  "Maybe he's out in one of the lights," he said, "wait here, Emeline, andI'll go see."

  But she would not wait. "I'm goin' right over to the bungalow," shesaid. "I'm worried about Miss Ruth. She was alone all last night, andI sha'n't rest easy till I know nothin's happened to her. You can comewhen you find your young man. You and me have got somethin' to tell 'em,and we might as well get the tellin' done as soon as possible. Nothin'sever gained by putting off a mean job. Unless, of course," she added,looking at him out of the corners of her eyes, "you want to back out,Seth. It ain't too late even now, you know."

  He stared at her. "Back out!" he repeated; "back out! Emeline Bascom,what are you talkin' about? You go to that bungalow and go in a hurry.Don't stop to talk! go! Who's runnin' this craft? Who's the man in thisfamily--you or me?"

  She laughed. "You seem to be, Seth," she answered, "just now."

  "I am. I've been a consider'ble spell learnin' how to be, but I'velearned. You trot right along."

  Brown was in neither of the light towers, and Seth began to be worriedabout him. He descended to the yard and stood there, wondering whaton earth could have happened. Then, looking across the cove, he becameaware that his wife was standing on the edge of the bluff, makingsignals with both hands.

  He opened his mouth to shout a question, but she frantically signaledfor silence. Then she beckoned. He ran down the path at full speed. Shemet him at the other side of the cove.

  "Come here!" she whispered. "Don't say a word, but just come--and look."

 
He followed her, crept close to the bungalow window and peeped in. Hishelper, "John Brown," and Miss Ruth Graham were seated at the table.Also the substitute assistant was leaning across that table with theyoung lady's hand in his; the pair were entirely oblivious of anythingin the world except each other.

  A few moments later a thunderous knock shook the bungalow door. Theknock was not answered immediately; therefore, Seth opened the doorhimself. Miss Graham and the lightkeeper's helper were standing somedistance apart; they gazed speechlessly at the couple who now enteredthe room.

  "Well," observed Seth, with sarcasm, "anybody got anything to say?You," turning to the young man, "seems to me you ought to say SOMETHIN'.Considerin' a little agreement you and me had, I should imagine Iwas entitled to some triflin' explanation. What are you doin' overhere--with HER? Brown--"

  The young gentleman came to himself with a start. He walked across towhere Miss Graham was standing, and once more took her hand.

  "My name is not Brown," he said firmly. "It is Brooks; and this is theyoung lady I am to marry."

  He naturally expected his superior to be surprised. As a matter offact, he was the surprised party. Seth reached out, drew the bungalowhousekeeper toward him, and put his arm about her waist. Then hesmiled; and the smile was expressive of pride, triumph, and satisfactionabsolute.

  "ATKINS!" gasped Brooks.

  "My name ain't Atkins," was the astonishing reply; "it's Bascom. Andthis," indicating by a tightening of his arm the blushing person at hisside, "is the lady I married over five year ago."

  After the stories had been told, after both sides had told theirs andexplained and been exclaimed over and congratulated, after the very lastquestion had been asked and answered, Brown--or Brooks--asked one more.

  "But this other fellow," he queried, "this brother-in-law--By George,it is perfectly marvelous, this whole business!--where is he? What hasbecome of him?"

  Seth chuckled. "Bennie D.?" he said. "Well, Bennie D. is leavin'Eastboro on the noon train. I paid his fare and give him fifty dollarsto boot. He's goin' somewhere, but he ain't sartin where. If you askedme, I should say that, in the end, he'd most likely have to gowhere he's never been afore, so far's I ever heard--that's to work.Now--seein' as the important business has been talked over andsettled--maybe you'll tell me about the lights, and how you got alonglast night."

  But the lighthouse subject was destined to be postponed for a fewminutes. The person in whose care the Lights had been left during thepast twenty hours or so looked at the speaker, then at the other personspresent, and suddenly began to laugh.

  "What are you laughing at?" asked Miss Graham. "Why, Russell, what isit?"

  Russell Agnew Brooks, alias "John Brown," ex-substitute assistant atEastboro Twin-Lights, sank into a chair, shaking from head to heel.

  "It is hysterics," cried Ruth, hastening to his side. "No wonder, poordear, considering what he has been through. Hush, Russell! don't, youfrighten me. What IS it?"

  Her fiance waved a reassuring hand. "It--it's all right," he gasped."I was just laughing at . . . Oh," pointing an unsteady finger at thelightkeeper, "ask him; he knows."

  "Ask him?" repeated the bewildered young lady. "Why, Mr. Atkins--Bascom,I mean--what. . . ."

  And then Seth began to laugh. Leaning against the doorpost, he at firstchuckled and then roared.

  "Seth!" cried his wife. "Seth, you old idiot! Why, I never see two suchloons in my life! Seth, answer me! What are you two laughin' at?"

  Seth Atkins Bascom wiped the tears from his eyes. "I cal'late," hepanted, "I rather guess--Ho, ho!--I rather guess we're both laughin' atwoman-haters."