The Woman-Haters Part 37

"Course I'll shoe him. But I can't do it this minute. I've got this consarned machine," waving a hand toward the automobile, "out of door here and all to pieces. And it's goin' to rain. Just let me put enough of it together so's I can shove it into the shop out of the wet, and then I'll tackle your job. You leave your horse and team here and go do your other errands. He'll be ready when you come back."

So on this basis the deal was finally made. Seth was reluctant to trust the precious Joshua out of his sight, but, after some parley, he agreed to do so. The traces were unfastened, and the animal was led into the shop, the carriage was backed under a shed, and the lightkeeper went away promising to be back in an hour. As soon as he had gone, Ellis dived again into the vitals of the auto.

The argument with the blacksmith had one satisfactory result so far as Seth was concerned. In a measure it afforded a temporary vent for his feelings. He was moderately agreeable during his brief stay at the grocery store, and when his orders were given and he found the hour not half over, he strolled out to walk about the village. And then, alone once more, all his misery and heartache returned. He strode along, his head down, scarcely speaking to acquaintances whom he met, until he reached the railway station, where he sat down on the baggage truck to mentally review, over and over again, the scene with Emeline and the dreadful collapse of his newborn hopes and plans.

As he sat there, the door of the station opened and a man emerged, a man evidently not a native of Eastboro. He was dressed in a rather loud, but somewhat shabby, suit of summer plaid, his straw hat was set a trifle over one ear, and he was smoking the stump of a not too fragrant cigar. Altogether he looked like a sporting character under a temporary financial cloud, but the cloud did not dim his self-satisfaction nor shadow his magnificent complaisance. He regarded the section of Eastboro before him with condescending scorn, and then, catching sight of the doleful figure on the baggage truck, strolled over and addressed it.

"I say, my friend," he observed briskly, "have you a match concealed about your person? If so, I--"

He stopped short, for Mr. Atkins, after one languid glance in his direction, had sprung from the truck and was gazing at him as if he was some 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 alarmed consternation.

"You--you--YOU?" gasped Seth.

"YOU!" repeated the stranger.

"You!" cried Seth again; not a brilliant nor original observation, but, under the circ.u.mstances, excusable, for the nonchalant person in the plaid suit was Emeline Bascom's brother-in-law, the genius, the "inventor," the one person whom he hated--and feared--more than anyone else in the world--Bennie D. himself.

There was a considerable interval during which neither of the pair spoke. Seth, open-mouthed and horror-stricken, was incapable of speech, and the inventor's astonishment seemed to be coupled with a certain nervousness, almost as if he feared a physical a.s.sault. However, as the lightkeeper made no move, and his fists remained open, the nervousness disappeared, and Bennie D. characteristically took command of the situation.

"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. Already that question was settled in his mind. The brother-in-law had found out that Emeline was living next door to the man she married, that her summer engagement was over, and he had come to take her away.

"Well?" queried the inventor sharply, "if you haven't followed me, what are 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 to employ you?"

"I'm keeper down to the lighthouses, if you want to know. But I cal'late you 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?--the Twin-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 to consider before making another remark. His sister-in-law was employed as housekeeper at some bungalow or other situated in close proximity to the Twin-Lights; that he had discovered since his arrival on the morning train. Prior to that he had known only that she was in Eastboro for the summer. Before that he had not been particularly interested in her location. Since the day, two years past, when, having decided that he had used her and her rapidly depleting supply of cash as long as was safe or convenient, he had unceremoniously left her and gone to New York to live upon money supplied by a credulous city gentleman, whom his smooth tongue had interested in his "inventions," he had not taken the trouble even to write to Emeline. But within the present month the New Yorker's credulity and his "loans" had ceased to be material a.s.sets.

Then Bennie D., face to face with the need of funds, remembered his sister and the promise given his dead brother that he should be provided with a home as long as she had one.

He journeyed to Cape Ann and found, to his dismay, that she was no longer there. After some skillful detective work, he learned of the Eastboro 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 was on his way to her and was counting the minutes until they should be together once more. And he had, as soon after his arrival in the village as possible, 'phoned to the Lights and spoken with her. Her tone, as she answered, was, he thought, alarmingly cold. It had made him apprehensive, and he wondered if his influence over her was on the wane.

But now--now he understood. Her husband--her husband, of all people--had been living next door to her all summer. No doubt she knew he was there when she took the place. Perhaps they had met by mutual agreement. Why, this was appalling! It might mean anything. And yet Seth did not look triumphant or even happy. Bennie D. resolved to show no signs of perturbation 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, interrupted him.

"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 agent had seemed to consider his calling a woman over the lighthouse wire great fun. The lightkeeper, so the agent said, was named Atkins, and was a 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 reconciled and living together, at least. Possibly their being neighbors was merely a coincidence. If so, he might not have come too late. When he next addressed his companion it was in a different tone and without the "Mister."

"Bascom--or--er--Atkins," he said sharply, "I hoped--I sincerely hoped that you and I might not meet during my short stay here; but, as we have met, I think it best that we should understand each other. Suppose we walk 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't wish--even when I remember your behavior toward my sister--to humiliate you 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 almost hypnotic command over him and still bewildered by the unexpected meeting, followed like a whipped dog. Under the shelter of the trees they paused.

"Now then," said Bennie D., "perhaps you'll tell me what you mean by decoying my sister down here in my absence, when I was not present to protect her. What do you mean by it?"

Seth stared at him uncomprehendingly. "Decoyin' her?" he repeated. "I never decoyed her. I've been here ever since I left--left you and her that night. I never asked her to come. I didn't know she was comin'. And she 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 he did not show it.

"That will do," he said. "I understand all that. But since then--since then? What do you mean by trying to influence her as you have? Answer me!"

The lightkeeper rubbed his forehead.

"I ain't tried to influence her," he declared. "She and me have scarcely seen each other. n.o.body knows that we was married, not even Miss Graham nor the young feller that's--that's my helper at the lights. You must know that. She must have wrote you. What are you talkin' about?"

She had not written; he had received no letters from her during the two years, but again the wily "genius" was equal to the occasion. He looked wise and nodded.

"Of course," he said importantly. "Of course. Certainly."

He hesitated, not knowing exactly what his next move should be. And Seth, 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 you askin' 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. Who made my business your business? Hey?"

"The welfare of my sister--"

"Never you mind your sister. You're talkin' with me now. And you ain't got me penned up in a house, neither. By jiminy crimps!" His anger boiled over, and, to the inventor's eyes, he began to look alarmingly alive. "By jiminy crimps!" repeated Seth, "I've been prayin' all these years 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.