The Woman-Haters Part 38

"Bascom--" he cried, "don't--"

"Don't you call me that!"

"Bascom--" The inventor was thoroughly frightened, and his voice rose almost to a shout.

The lightkeeper's wrath vanished at the sound of the name. If any native of Eastboro, if the depot master on the other side of the track, should hear him addressed as "Bascom," the fat would be in the fire for good and all. The secret he had so jealously guarded would be out, and all the 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 was to be played it must be then. This man was dangerous, and, somehow or 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 the risk.

"Very well then--Atkins," he said contemptuously. "I am not used to aliases--not having dealt with persons finding it necessary to employ them--and I forget. But before this disagreeable interview is ended I wish you to understand thoroughly why I am here. I am here to protect my sister and to remove her from your persecution. I am here to a.s.sist her in procuring a divorce."

"A divorce! A DIVORCE! Good heavens above!"

"Yes, sir," triumphantly, "a divorce from the man she was trapped into marrying and who deserted her. You did desert her, you can't deny that. So long as she remains your wife, even in name, she is liable to persecution from you. She understands this. She and I are to see a lawyer at once. That is why I am here."

Seth was completely overwhelmed. A divorce! A case for the papers to print, 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 'phoned her this morning."

"Was it YOU that 'phoned?"

"It was. Now--er--Atkins, I am disposed to be as considerate of your welfare as possible. I know that any publicity in this matter might prejudice you in the eyes of your--of the government officials. I shall not seek publicity, solely on your account. The divorce will be obtained privately, provided--PROVIDED you remain out of sight and do not interfere. I warn you, therefore, not to make trouble or to attempt to see my sister again. If you do--well, if you do, the consequences will be unpleasant for you. Do you understand?"

Seth understood, or thought he did. He groaned and leaned heavily against a tree trunk.

"You understand, do you?" repeated Bennie D. "I see that you do. Very good then. I have nothing more to say. I advise that you remain--er--in seclusion for the next few days. Good-by."

He gave a farewell glance at the crushed figure leaning against the tree. 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 depot to make sure that no one was watching, pulled his cap over his eyes, jammed his hands into his pockets, and started to walk across the fields. He had no fixed destination in mind, had no idea where he was going except that he must go somewhere, that he could not keep still.

He stumbled along, through briers and bushes, paying no attention to obstacles such as fences or stone walls until he ran into them, when he climbed over and went blindly on. A mile from Eastboro, and he was alone in a grove of scrub pines. Here he stopped short, struck his hands together, 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 thought of doubting Bennie D.'s statement concerning the divorce. Now, as his thoughts became clearer, his doubts grew. His wife had not mentioned the subject in their morning interview. Possibly she would not have done so in any event, but, as the memory of her behavior and speech became clearer in his mind, it seemed to him that she could not have kept such a 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 had hesitated. She had not said no at once, she hesitated. If she was about to divorce him, would she have acted in such a way? It hardly seemed possible.

Then came the letter and the telephone message. It was after these that she had said no with decision. Perhaps . . . was it possible that she had known of her brother-in-law's coming only then? Now that he thought of it, she had not gone away at once after the talk over the 'phone. She had waited a moment as if for him to speak. He, staggered and paralyzed by the sight of his enemy's name in that letter, had not spoken and then she . . . He did not believe she was seeking a divorce! It was all another of Bennie D.'s lies!

But suppose she was seeking it. Or suppose--for he knew the persuasive power of that glib tongue only too well--suppose her brother-in-law should persuade her to do it. Should he sit still--in seclusion, as his late adviser had counseled--and let this irrevocable and final move be made? After a divorce--Seth's idea of divorces were vague and Puritanical--there would be no hope. He and Emeline could never come together after that. And he must give her up and all his hopes of happiness, all that he had dreamed of late, would be but dreams, never realities. No! he could not give them up. He would not. Publicity, scandal, everything, he could face, but he would not give his wife up without 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 to the Lights, to go openly to the bungalow, see Emeline and make one last appeal. 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 had been steadily increasing and tossing the pinetops warningly, suddenly became a squall which brought with it a flurry of rain. He started and looked up. The sky was dark, it was late in the afternoon, and the storm he 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. Ellis was 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 forgot all 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. I got it apart all right, no trouble about that. And by good rights I've got it together again, leastways it looks so. Yet, by time," in distracted agitation, "there's a half bucket of bolts and nuts and odds and ends that ain't in it yet--left over, you might say. And I can't find any place to put one of 'em. Do you wonder I forget trifles?"

Trifles! the shoeing of Joshua a trifle! The lightkeeper had been suffering for an opportunity to blow off steam, and the opportunity was here. Benijah withered under the blast.

"S-sh-sh! sh-sh!" he pleaded. "Land sakes, Seth Atkins, stop it! I don't blame you for bein' mad, but you nor n.o.body else sha'n't talk to me that way. 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 from the sweet slumber of old age, and led him to the halter beside the forge. The lightkeeper, being out of breath, had nothing further to say at 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 to come 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. Fust time 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, and there was another feller pilotin' the team--a stranger, n.o.body I ever see 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 critter with a checked suit and a straw hat. . . . What on earth's the matter with 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 the other road. Seemed to be headin' for Denboro if they kept on as they started. . . . Seth Atkins, have you turned loony?"