The Woman-Haters Part 17

"'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,' he says. 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--'

"He jumped as if I'd stuck a brad-awl into him. The shocked expression came across his face again, and he runs to Emeline and takes her arm.

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

"She didn't go. As I remember it now, it keeps comin' back to me that she 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 that windmill of a Christy woman was enough importance to remember. I didn't lie to you--I never did. Oh, Emeline, you know I didn't. What's the matter with you and me, anyway? We used to be all right and now we're all wrong.'

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

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

"I can see that room now, as 'twas when I said that. Us three lookin' at each 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 it wa'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 her eyes, almost a hopeful look, seem's if 'twas, and yet it couldn't have been, of course. Now she drawed a long breath.

"'I can't tell him to go, Seth,' says she. 'I promised to give him a home 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 dunnage of any kind. When I slammed the back door it seemed as if I heard her sing out my name. I waited, but I guess I was mistaken, for she didn't call it again. And--and I never set eyes on her since. No, sir, not once."

The lightkeeper stopped. John Brown said nothing, but he laid a hand 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 clear into Gloucester, put up at a tavern there till mornin', and then took the 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 to do it. You see, I'd promised her I wouldn't ever go to sea again, and so--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 been an a.s.sistant keeper when I was younger. I told him my yarn, and he told me about this job. I changed my name, pa.s.sed the examination and come directly 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. She was, last I knew. I never ask no questions. I want to forget--to forget, by time! . . . Hi hum! . . . Well, now you know what n.o.body this side of Boston knows. And you can understand why I'm willin' to be buried alive down here. 'Cause a woman wrecked my life; I'm done with women; and to this 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 for me."

He rose, evidently considering the affair settled. Brown stroked his chin.

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

"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 not in 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 to somebody. 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 fellow whose mother was dead and whose dad was rich, and head over heels in money-making, and with the idea that his will was no more to be disputed than 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 no responsibility, all the money you wanted, and so on. Suppose because your father wanted you to--and HER people felt the same--you had become engaged to a girl, a nice enough girl, too, in her way. But, then suppose that little by little you came to realize that her way wasn't yours. You and she liked each other well enough, but the whole thing was a family arrangement, a money arrangement, a perfectly respectable, buy-and-sell affair. That and nothing else. And the more you thought about it, the surer you felt that it was so. But when you told your governor 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'd throw you out of his house and office to root for yourself. What would you do?"

"Hey? Land sakes! I don't know. I always HAD to root, so I ain't a competent 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 go and tell the girl. The engagement had been announced, and all that, and I knew what a mess it would make for her. I sat in my room, among the things I was packing in my grip to take with me, and thought and thought. If I went to her there would be a scene. If I said I had been disinherited she would want to know why--naturally. I had quarreled with the governor--yes, but why? Then I should have to tell her the real reason: I didn't want to marry her or anybody else on such a bargain-counter basis. That seemed such a rotten thing to say, and she might ask why it had taken me such a long time to find it out. No, I just COULDN'T tell her that. So, after my think was over, I wrote her a note saying that my father and I had had a disagreement and he had chucked me out, or words to that effect. Naturally, under the circ.u.mstances, marriage was out of the question, and I released her from the engagement. Good by and good luck--or something similar. I mailed the letter and left the town the next morning."

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

"I landed in Boston," he said, "full of conceit and high-minded ideas of working my own way up the ladder. But in order to work up, you've got to get at least a hand-hold on the bottom rung. I couldn't get it. n.o.body wanted a genteel loafer, which was me. My money gave out. I bought a steamboat pa.s.sage to another city, but I didn't have enough left to buy a square meal. Then, by bull luck, I fell overboard and landed here. And here I found the solution. I'm dead. If the governor gets soft-hearted and gets private detectives on my trail, they'll find I disappeared from 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 here a year or so, and then, being dead and forgotten, can go back to civilization and hustle for myself. BUT a woman is at the bottom of my trouble, and I never want to see another. So, if my staying here depends upon my seeing them, I guess, as I've said twice already, 'you'll have to 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 how you feel. I like you fust-rate, and if it's a possible thing, I'll fix it so's you can stay right here long's you want to. As for women folks that do come--why, we'll dodge 'em if we can, and share responsibility if we must. But there's one thing you've GOT to understand. You're young, and maybe your woman hate'll wear off. If it does, out you go. I can't have any sparkin' or lovemakin' around these premises."

The a.s.sistant snorted contemptuously.

"If ever you catch me being even coldly familiar with a female of any age," he declared, "I hereby request that you hit me, politely, but firmly, with that axe," pointing to the kindling hatchet leaning against the door post.

Seth chuckled. "Good stuff!" he exclaimed. "And, for my part, if ever you catch me gettin' confectionery with a woman, I . . . well, don't stop to pray over me; just drown me, that's all I ask. It's a bargain.

Shake!"

So they shook, with great solemnity.

CHAPTER VIII

NEIGHBORS AND WASPS

And now affairs at the lights settled down into a daily routine in which the lightkeeper and his helper each played his appointed part.

All mysteries now being solved, and the trust between them mutual and without reserve, they no longer were on their guard in each other's presence, but talked freely on all sorts of topics, and expressed their mutual dislike of woman with frequency and point. No regular a.s.sistant was appointed or seemed likely to be, for the summer, at least. Seth and his friend, the superintendent, held another lengthy conversation over the wire, and, while Brown's uncertain status remained the same, there was a tacit understanding that, by the first of September, if the young man was sufficiently "broken in," the position vacated by Ezra Payne should be his--if he still wanted it.