The Woman-Haters Part 42

"Set down," ordered her husband sharply. "You set down and keep down."

She stared, gasped, and resumed her seat. Seth gazed straight ahead into the blackness. He swallowed once or twice, and his hands tightened on the spokes of the wheel.

"That--that feller there," nodding grimly toward the groaning figure at the pumps, "told me himself that him and you had agreed to get a divorce from me--to get it right off. He give me to understand that you expected him, 'twas all settled and that was why he'd come to Eastboro. That's what he told me this afternoon on the depot platform."

Mrs. Bascom again sprang up.

"Set down!" commanded Seth.

"I won't."

"Yes, you will. Set down." And she did.

"Seth," she cried, "did he--did Bennie tell you that? Did he? Why, I never heard such a--I never! Seth, it ain't true, not a word of it. Did you think I'd get a divorce? Me? A self-respectin' woman? And from you?"

"You turned me adrift."

"I didn't. You turned yourself adrift. I was in trouble, bound by a promise I give my dyin' husband, to give his brother a home while I had one. I didn't want to do it; I didn't want him with us--there, where we'd been so happy. But I couldn't say anything. I couldn't turn him out. And you wouldn't, you--"

She was interrupted. From beneath the Daisy M.'s keel came a long, sc.r.a.ping noise. The little schooner shook, and then lay still. The waves, no longer large, slapped her sides.

Mrs. Bascom, startled, uttered a little scream. Bennie D., knocked to his knees, roared in fright. Seth alone was calm. Nothing, at that moment, could alarm or even surprise him.

"Humph!" he observed, "we're aground somewheres. And in the Harbor.

We're safe and sound now, I cal'late. Emeline, go below where it's dry and stay there. Don't talk--go. As for you," leaving the wheel and striding toward the weary inventor, "you can stop pumpin'--unless," with a grim smile, "you like it too well to quit--and set down right where you be. Right where you be, I said! Don't you move till I say the word.

WHEN I say it, jump!"

He went forward, lowered the jib, and coiled the halliards. Then, lantern in hand, he seated himself in the bows. After a time he filled his pipe, lit it by the aid of the lantern, and smoked. There was silence aboard the Daisy M.

The wind died away altogether. The fog gradually disappeared. From somewhere not far away a church clock struck the hour. Seth heard it and smiled. Turning his head he saw in the distance the Twin-Lights burning steadily. He smiled again.

Gradually, slowly, the morning came. The last remnant of low-hanging mist drifted away. Before the bows of the stranded schooner appeared a flat sh.o.r.e with a road, still partially covered by the receding tide, along its border. Fish houses and anch.o.r.ed dories became visible. Behind them were hills, and over them roofs and trees and steeples.

A step sounded behind the watcher in the bows. Mrs. Bascom was at his elbow.

"Why, Seth!" she cried, "why, Seth! it's Eastboro, ain't it? We're close to Eastboro."

Seth nodded. "It's Eastboro," he said. "I cal'lated we must be there or thereabouts. With that no'theast breeze to help us we couldn't do much else but fetch up at the inner end of the Back Harbor."

She laid her hand timidly on his arm.

"Seth," she whispered, "what should we have done without you? You saved our lives."

He swung about and faced her. "Emeline," he said, "we've both been awful fools. I've been the biggest one, I guess. But I've learned my lesson--I've swore off--I told you I'd prove I was a man. Do you think I've been one tonight?"

"Seth!"

"Well, do you? Or," with a gesture toward the "genius" who was beginning to take an interest in his surroundings, "do you like that kind better?"

"Seth," reproachfully, "I never liked him better. If you had--"

She was interrupted by her brother-in-law, who came swaggering toward them. With the sight of land and safety, Bennie D.'s courage returned; also, his old a.s.surance.

"Humph!" he observed. "Well, sister, we are safe, I really believe.

In spite of," with a glare at the lightkeeper, "this person's insane recklessness and brutality. Now I will take you ash.o.r.e and out of his presence."

Seth rose to his feet.

"Didn't I tell you," he demanded, "not to move till I said the word?

Emeline, stay right here."

Bennie D. stared at the speaker; then at his sister-in-law.

"Sister," he cried, in growing alarm, "sister, come! come! we're going ash.o.r.e, I tell you. What are you waiting for?"

Seth put his arm about the lady.

"She is goin' ash.o.r.e," he said. "But she's goin' with me, and she's goin' to stay with me. Ain't you, Emeline?"

The lady looked up into his face and then down again. "If you want me, Seth," she said.

Bennie D. sprang forward. "Emeline," he shrieked, "what do you mean? Are you going to leave me? Have you forgotten--"

"She ain't forgot nothin'," broke in Seth. "But YOU'RE forgettin' what I told you. Will you go aft there and set down, or shall I make you?"

"But--but, Emeline--sister--have you forgotten your promise to your dying husband? To my brother? You promised to give me a home as long as you owned one."

Then Seth played his trump.

"She don't own any home," he declared triumphantly. "She sold her house, and she ain't got any home--except the one I'm goin' to give her. And if you ever dare to show your head inside of THAT, I'll--I'll heave you over both lights. If you think I'm foolin', just try and see. Now then, Emeline."

And, with his wife in his arms, Seth Atkins--Seth Atkins Bascom--CAPTAIN Seth Atkins Bascom--swung over the rail and waded to land.

CHAPTER XVI

THE EBB TIDE

"John Brown," his long night's vigil over, extinguished the lights in the two towers, descended the iron stairs, and walked across the yard into the kitchen. His first move, after entering the house, was to ring the telephone bell and endeavor to call Eastboro. He was anxious concerning Atkins. Seth had not returned, and the subst.i.tute a.s.sistant was certain that some accident must have befallen him. The storm had been severe, but it would take more than weather to keep the lightkeeper from his post; if he was all right he would have managed to return somehow.

Brown rang the bell time and time again, but got no response. The storm had wrecked the wires, that was certain, and that means of communication was cut off. He kindled the fire in the range and tried to forget his anxiety by preparing breakfast. When it was prepared he waited a while and then sat down to a lonely meal. But he had no appet.i.te, and, after dallying with the food on his plate, gave it up and went outside to look about him.

The first thing he looked at was the road from the village. No sign of life in that direction as far as he could see. Then he looked at the bungalow. Early as it was, a thread of blue smoke was ascending from the chimney. Did that mean that the housekeeper had returned? Or had Ruth Graham been alone all through the miserable night? Under ordinary circ.u.mstances he would have gone over and asked if all was well. He would have done that, even if Seth were at home--he was past the point where the lightkeeper or their compact could have prevented him--but he could not muster courage to go now. She must have found the note he had tucked under the door, and he was afraid to hear her answer. If it should be no, then--well, then he did not care what became of him.

He watched the bungalow for a time, hoping that she might come out--that he might at least see her--but the door did not open. Auguring all sorts of dismal things from this, he moped gloomily back to the kitchen. He was tired and had not slept for thirty hours, but he felt no desire for bed. He could not go to bed anyway until Atkins returned--and he did not want to.