The Woman-Haters

by Joseph Crosby Lincoln

  CHAPTER XI

  BEHIND THE SAND DUNE

  "A fog last night, wasn't there?" inquired Brown. Breakfast was over,and Seth was preparing for his day's sleep.

  "Yes, some consider'ble," was the gruff answer; then, more sharply,"How'd you know? 'Twas all gone this mornin'."

  "Oh, I guessed, that's all."

  "Humph! Guessed, hey? You wa'n't up in the night, was you?"

  "No. Slept like a top all through."

  "Humph! . . . Well, that's good; sleep's a good thing. Cal'late I'llturn in and get a little myself."

  He moved toward the living room. At the door he paused and asked anotherquestion.

  "How'd you--er--guess there was fog last night?" he inquired.

  "Oh, that was easy; everything--grass and bushes--were so wet thismorning. Those boots of yours, for example," pointing to the pair thelightkeeper had just taken off, "they look as if you had worn themwading."

  His back was toward his superior as he spoke, therefore he did not seethe start which the latter gave at this innocent observation, nor thehorrified glare at the soaked boots. But he could not help noticing thechange in Seth's voice.

  "Wa--wadin'?" repeated Atkins faintly. "What's that you say?"

  "I said the boots were as wet as if you had been wading. Why?"

  "Wha--what made you say a fool thing like that? How could I go wadin' ontop of a lighthouse?"

  "I don't know. . . . There, there!" impatiently, "don't ask any morequestions. I didn't say you had been wading, and I didn't suppose youreally had. I was only joking. What IS the matter with you?"

  "Nothin' . . . nothin'. So you was just jokin', hey? Ha, ha! Yes, yes,wadin' up in a lighthouse would be a pretty good joke. I--I didn't seeit at first, you know. Ha, ha! I thought you must be off your head.Thought you'd been swimmin' too much or somethin'. So long, I'm goin' tobed."

  But now it was the helper's turn to start and stammer.

  "Wait!" he cried. "What--what did you say about my--er--swimming, wasit?"

  "Oh, nothin', nothin'. I was just jokin', same as you was about thewadin'. Ha, ha!"

  "Ha, ha!"

  Both laughed with great heartiness. The door shut between them, and eachstared doubtfully at his side of it for several moments before turningaway.

  That forenoon was a dismal one for John Brown. His troublesomeconscience, stirred by Seth's reference to swimming, was again in fullworking order. He tried to stifle its reproaches, tried to give hisentire attention to his labors about the lights and in the kitchen, butthe consciousness of guilt was too strong. He felt mean and traitorous,a Benedict Arnold on a small scale. He had certainly treated Atkinsshabbily; Atkins, the man who trusted him and believed in him, whom hehad loftily reproved for "spying" and then betrayed. Yet, in a way histreason, so far, had been unavoidable. He had promised--had even OFFEREDto teach the Graham girl the "side stroke." He had not meant to makesuch an offer or promise, but Fate had tricked him into it, and he couldnot, as a gentleman, back out altogether. He had been compelled to giveher one lesson. But he need not give her another. He need not meet heragain. He would not. He would keep the agreement with Seth and forgetthe tenants of the bungalow altogether. Good old Atkins! Good old Seth,the woman-hater! How true he was to his creed, the creed which he,Brown, had so lately professed. It was a good creed, too. Women were atthe bottom of all the world's troubles. They deserved to be hated. Hewould never, never--

  "Well, by George!" he exclaimed aloud.

  He was looking once more at the lightkeeper's big leather boots. One ofthem was lying on its side, and the upturned sole and heel were thicklycoated with blue clay. He crossed the room, picked up the boots andexamined them. Each was smeared with the clay. He put them down again,shook his head, wandered over to the rocking-chair and sat down.

  Seth had cleaned and greased those boots before he went to bed the daybefore; Brown had seen him doing it. He had put them on after supper,just before going on watch; the substitute assistant had seen him dothat, also. Therefore, the clay must have been acquired sometime duringthe evening or night just past. And certainly there was no clay at the"top of the lighthouse," or anywhere in the neighborhood except atone spot--the salt marsh at the inner end of the cove. Seth must havevisited that marsh in the nighttime. But why? And, if he had done so,why did he not mention the fact? And, now that the helper thought of it,why had he been so agitated at the casual remark concerning wading? Whatwas he up to? Now that the Daisy M. and story of the wife were no longersecrets, what had Seth Atkins to conceal?

  Brown thought and guessed and surmised, but guesses and surmises werefruitless. He finished his dishwashing and began another of the loathedhousekeeping tasks, that of rummaging the pantry and seeing whateatables were available for his luncheon and the evening meal.

  He spread the various odds and ends on the kitchen table, preparatory totaking account of stock. A part of a slab of bacon, a salt codfish, somecold clam fritters, a few molasses cookies, and half a loaf of bread. Hehad gotten thus far in the inventory when a shadow darkened the doorway.He turned and saw Mrs. Bascom, the bungalow housekeeper.

  "Good mornin'," said Mrs. Bascom.

  Brown answered coldly. Why on earth was it always his luck to be presentwhen these female nuisances made their appearance? And why couldn'tthey let him alone, just as he had determined to let them alone--in thefuture? Of course he was glad that the caller was not Miss Graham, butthis one was bad enough.

  "Morning," he grunted, and took another dish, this one containing asection of dry and ancient cake, Seth's manufacture, from the pantry.

  "What you doin'? Gettin' breakfast this time of day?" asked thehousekeeper, entering the kitchen. She had a small bowl in her hand.

  "No," replied Brown.

  "Dinner, then? Pretty early for that, ain't it?"

  "I am not getting either breakfast or dinner--or supper, madam," repliedthe helper, with emphasis. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

  "Well, I don't know but there is. I come over hopin' you might. How'sthe stings?"

  "The what?"

  "The wasp bites."

  "They're all, right, thank you."

  "You're welcome, I'm sure. Did you put the cold mud on 'em, same as Itold you to?"

  "No. . . . What was it you wanted?"

  Mrs. Bascom looked about for a seat. The rocker was at the opposite sideof the room, and the other chair contained a garment belonging to Mr.Atkins, one which that gentleman, with characteristic disregard of theconventionalities, had discarded before leaving the kitchen and hadforgotten to take with him. The lady picked up the garment, looked atit, and sat down in the chair.

  "Your boss is to bed, I s'pose likely?" she asked.

  "You mean Mr. Atkins? I suppose likely he is."

  "Um. I judged he was by"--with a glance at the garment which she stillheld--"the looks of things. What in the world ARE you doin'--cleanin'house?"

  The young man sighed wearily. "Yes," he said with forced resignation,"something of that sort."

  "Seein' what there was to eat, I guess."

  "You guess right. You said you had an errand, I think."

  "Did I? Well, I come to see if I couldn't . . . What's that stuff?Cake?"

  She rose, picked up a slice of the dry cake, broke it between herfingers, smelled of it, and replaced it on the plate.

  "'Tis cake, ain't it?" she observed; "or it was, sometime or other. Whomade it? You?"

  "No."

  "Oh, your boss, Mr.--er--Atkins, hey?"

  "Yes. Considering that there are only two of us here, and I didn't makeit, it would seem pretty certain that he must have."

  "Yes, I guess that's right; unless 'twas some that washed ashore fromNoah's Ark, and it's too dry for that. What on earth are these?" pickingup one of the molasses cookies; "stove lids?"

  Brown grinned, in spite of his annoyance.

  "Those are supposed to be cookies," he admitted.

  "Are they? Yes, yes. Mr. Atkins responsible for them?"
/>
  "No--o. I'm afraid those are one of my experiments, under Mr. Atkins'sdirections and orders. I'm rather proud of those cookies, myself."

  "You'd ought to be. There, there!" with a smile, "I guess you think I'mpretty free with my criticism and remarks, don't you? You must excuseme. Housekeepin'--'specially the cookin' part--is my hobby, as you mightsay, and I was interested to see how a couple of men got along with thejob. I mustn't set around and keep you from your work. You might want tomake some more cookies, or somethin'."

  The substitute assistant laughed aloud. "I wasn't thinking of it," hesaid; "but I shall be glad to make the attempt if it would afford youamusement."

  Mrs. Bascom laughed, too. "I guess you're better natured than I thoughtyou was," she observed. "It might amuse me some, I will admit, but Iain't got the time. I came to borrow some butter, if you've got any tospare. Down here we're as far from supplies as the feller that run theArk I was mentionin', old Noah himself."

  Brown took the bowl from her hands and went to the pantry to get thebutter. When he turned again she was standing by the door, one handhidden beneath her apron. She took the bowl with the other.

  "Much obliged," she said. "I'll fetch this back soon's the grocery cartcomes. Miss Graham made arrangements to have him drive across everySaturday. Or, rather, I arranged for it myself. Her head's too full ofpaintin' and scenery to think of much else. I tell her you can't eat anile paintin'--unless you're born a goat. Good-by."

  She went away. Brown chuckled and went on with his account of stock.

  Seth "turned out" rather early that day. At half past one he appeared inthe kitchen, partially dressed.

  "Where in time is my shirt?" he demanded impatiently.

  "Your what?"

  "My shirt. I thought I took it off out here. Could have sworn I did.Guess likely I didn't, though. Must be gettin' absent-minded."

  He was on his way back to the bedroom when his helper called.

  "You did take it off out here," he cried. "It was on that chair there. Iremember seeing it. Probably it has fallen on the floor somewhere."

  Atkins returned, grumbling that the kitchen floor was a "healthy placeto heave a shirt."

  "Where is it?" he asked after a hurried search. "I can't find itnowheres. Didn't put it in the fire, did ye?"

  "Of course I didn't. I saw it. . . . Why, I remember that woman'spicking it up when she sat down."

  "Woman? What woman?"

  "That Baskin--Buskin--whatever her name is. The housekeeper at thebungalow."

  "Was she--HERE?" Seth's question was almost a shout. His helper staredat him.

  "Yes," he answered; "she was. She came to borrow some butter."

  "To--to borrow--butter?"

  "Why, yes. You didn't think I invited her in for a morning call, didyou? Don't act as if you had been struck by lightning. It's not so veryserious. We've got to expect some trouble of that kind. I got rid of heras soon as I could."

  "You--you did?"

  "Yes, I did. You should thank me. I am on duty during the day, and Isuppose most of that sort of thing will fall on me. You're lucky. Ourneighbors aren't likely to make many calls after dark. . . . What's thematter now? Why are you looking at me like that?"

  Seth walked to the door and leaned against the post. Brown repeated hisquestion. "What IS the matter?" he asked. "You act just as you did whenI first happened into this forsak--this place. If you've got any morehideous secrets up your sleeve I'm going to quit."

  "Secrets!" Atkins laughed, or tried to. "I ain't got any secrets," hedeclared, "any more than you have."

  The latter half of this speech shut off further questioning. Brownturned hastily away, and the lightkeeper went into his bedroom andfinished dressing.

  "Find your shirt?" asked the young man an hour or so later.

  "Hey? Yes, yes; I found it."

  "In your room? That's odd. I could have sworn I saw it out here. Is thatit you're wearing?"

  "Hey? No. That was--was sort of s'iled, so I put on my other one. I--Ical'late I'll go over and work on the Daisy M. a spell, unless you needme."

  "I don't need you. Go ahead."

  The time dragged for John Brown after his superior's departure. Therewas work enough to be done, but he did not feel like doing it. Hewandered around the house and lights, gloomy, restless and despondent.Occasionally he glanced at the clock.

  It was a beautiful afternoon, just the afternoon for a swim, and he wasdebarred from swimming, not only that day, but for all the summer daysto come. No matter what Seth's new secret might be, it was surely notconnected with the female sex, and Brown would be true to the solemncompact between them. He could not bathe in the cove because Miss Grahamwould be there.

  At four o'clock he stood in the shadow of the light tower looking acrossthe cove. As he looked he saw Miss Graham, in bathing attire, emergefrom the bungalow and descend the bluff. She did not see him and, tomake sure that she might not, he dodged back out of sight. Then he sawsomething else.

  Out on the dunes back of the barn he caught a glimpse of a figuredarting to cover behind a clump of bushes. The figure was a familiarone, but what was it doing there? He watched the bushes, but they didnot move. Then he entered the house, went upstairs, and cautiouslypeered from the back attic window.

  The bushes remained motionless for some minutes. Then they stirredever so slightly, and above them appeared the head of Seth Atkins. Sethseemed to be watching the cove and the lights. For another minute hepeered over the bushes, first at the bathing waters below and then athis own dwelling. Brown ground his teeth. The light-keeper was "spying"again, was watching to see if he violated his contract.

  But no, that could not be, for now Seth, apparently sure that the coastwas clear, emerged from his hiding place and ran in a stooping postureuntil he reached another clump further off and nearer the end of thecove. He remained there an instant and then ran, still crouching, untilhe disappeared behind a high dune at the rear of the bungalow. And therehe stayed; at least Brown did not see him come out.

  What he did see, however, was just as astonishing. The landward door ofthe bungalow opened, and Mrs. Bascom, the housekeeper, stepped out intothe yard. She seemed to be listening and looking. Apparently she musthave heard something, for she moved away for some little distance andstood still. Then, above the edge of the dune, showed Seth's head andarm. He beckoned to her. She walked briskly across the interveningspace, turned the ragged, grass-grown corner of the knoll anddisappeared, also. Brown, scarcely believing his eyes, waited andwatched, but he saw no more. Neither Seth nor the housekeeper came outfrom behind that dune.

  But the substitute assistant had seen enough--quite enough. Seth Atkins,Seth, the woman-hater, the man who had threatened him with all sorts ofpenalties if he ever so much as looked at a female, was meeting one ofthe sex himself, meeting her on the sly. What it meant Brown could notimagine. Probably it explained the clay smears on the boots and Seth'sdiscomfiture of the morning; but that was immaterial. The fact, the oneessential fact, was this: the compact was broken. Seth had broken it.Brown was relieved of all responsibility. If he wished to swim in thatcove, no matter who might be there, he was perfectly free to do it. Andhe would do it, by George! He had been betrayed, scandalously, meanlybetrayed, and it would serve the betrayer right if he paid him in hisown coin. He darted down the attic stairs, ran down the path to theboathouse, hurriedly changed his clothes for his bathing suit, ran alongthe shore of the creek and plunged in.

  Miss Graham waved a hand to him as he shook the water from his eyes.

  Over behind the sand dune a more or less interesting interview wastaking place. Seth, having made sure that his whistles were heard andhis signals seen, sank down in the shadow and awaited developments. Theywere not long in coming. A firm footstep crunched the sand, and Mrs.Bascom appeared.

  "Well," she inquired coldly, "what's the matter now?"

  Mr. Atkins waved an agitated hand.

  "Set down," he begged. "Scooch down out of sight, Emeline, for
the landsakes. Don't stand up there where everybody can see you."

  The lady refused to "scooch."

  "If I ain't ashamed of bein' seen," she observed, "I don't know why youshould be. What are you doin' over here anyhow; skippin' 'round in thesand like a hoptoad?"

  The lightkeeper repeated his plea.

  "Do set down, Emeline, please," he urged. "I thought you and me'd agreedthat nobody'd ought to see us together."

  Mrs. Bascom gathered her skirts about her and with great deliberationseated herself upon a hummock.

  "We did have some such bargain," she replied. "That's why I can'tunderstand your hidin' at my back door and whistlin' and wavin' like ayoung one. What did you come here for, anyway?"

  Seth answered with righteous indignation.

  "I come for my shirt," he declared.

  "Your shirt?"

  "Yes, my other shirt. I left it in the kitchen this mornin', andthat--that helper of mine says you was in the chair along with it."

  "Humph! Did he have the impudence to say I took it?"

  "No--o. No, course he didn't. But it's gone and--and--"

  "What would I want of your shirt? Didn't think I was cal'latin' to wearit, did you?"

  "No, but--"

  "I should hope not. I ain't a Doctor Mary Walker, or whatever her nameis."

  "But you did take it, just the same. I'm sartin you did. You must have."

  The lady's mouth relaxed, and there was a twinkle in her eye.

  "All right, Seth," she said. "Suppose I did; what then?"

  "I want it back, that's all."

  "You can have it. Now what do you s'pose I took it for?"

  "I--I--I don't know."

  "You don't know? Humph! Did you think I wanted to keep it as a souveneerof last night's doin's?"

  Her companion looked rather foolish. He picked up a handful of sand andsifted it through his fingers.

  "No--o," he stammered. "I--I know how partic'lar you are--you used tobe about such things, and I thought maybe you didn't like the way thatbutton was sewed on."

  He glanced up at her with an embarrassed smile, which broadened as henoticed her expression.

  "Well," she admitted, "you guessed right. There's some things I can'tbear to have in my neighborhood, and your kind of sewin' is one of 'em.Besides, I owed you that much for keepin' me out of the wet last night."

  "Oh! I judged by the way you lit into me for luggin' you acrost thatmarsh that all you owed me was a grudge. I DID lug you, though, in spiteof your kickin', didn't I?"

  He nodded with grim triumph. She smiled.

  "You did, that's a fact," she said. "I was pretty mad at the time, butwhen I come to think it over I felt diff'rent. Anyhow I've sewed onthose buttons the way they'd ought to be."

  "Much obliged. I guess they'll stay now for a spell. You always couldsew on buttons better'n anybody ever I see."

  "Humph!" . . . Then, after an interval of silence: "What are yougrinnin' to yourself about?"

  "Hey? . . . Oh, I was just thinkin' how you mended up that Rogersyoung one's duds when he fell out of our Bartlett pear tree. He was theraggedest mess ever I come acrost when I picked him up. Yellin' like awild thing he was, and his clothes half tore off."

  "No wonder he yelled. Caught stealin' pears--he expected to be thrashedfor that--and he KNEW Melindy Rogers would whip him, for tearin' hisSunday suit. Poor little thing! Least I could do was to make his clotheswhole. I always pity a child with a stepmother, special when she'sMelindy's kind."

  "What's become of them Rogerses? Still livin' in the Perry house, arethey?"

  "No. Old Abel Perry turned 'em out of that when the rent got behind.He's the meanest skinflint that ever strained skim milk. He got marriedagain a year ago."

  "NO! Who was the victim? Somebody from the Feeble-Minded Home?"

  She gave the name of Mr. Perry's bride, and before they knew it thepair were deep in village gossip. For many minutes they discussed thehappenings in the Cape Ann hamlet, and then Seth was recalled to thepresent by a casual glance at his watch.

  "Land!" he exclaimed. "Look at the time! This talk with you has seemedso--so natural and old-timey, that . . . Well, I've got to go."

  He was scrambling to his feet. She also attempted to rise, but found itdifficult.

  "Here," he cried, "give me your hand. I'll help you up."

  "I don't want any help. Let me alone. Let me ALONE, I tell you."

  His answer was to seize her about the waist and swing her bodily toher feet. She was flushed and embarrassed. Then she laughed shortly andshook her head.

  "What are you laughin' at?" he demanded, peering over the knoll to makesure that neither John Brown nor Miss Graham was in sight.

  "Oh, not much," she answered. "You kind of surprise me, Seth."

  "Why?"

  "'Cause you've changed so."

  "Changed? How?"

  "Oh, changed, that's all. You seem to have more spunk than you used tohave."

  "Humph! Think so, do you?"

  "Yes, I do. I think bein' a lightkeeper must be good for somefolks--some kind of folks."

  "I want to know!"

  "Yes, you better be careful, or you'll be a real man some day."

  His answer was an angry stare and a snort. Then he turned on his heeland was striding off.

  "Wait!" she called. "Hold on! Don't you want your shirt? Stay here, andI'll go into the house and fetch it."

  He waited, sullen and reluctant, until she returned with the article ofapparel in one hand and the other concealed beneath her apron.

  "Here it is," she said, presenting the shirt to him.

  "Thank you," he grumbled, taking it. "Much obliged for sewin' on thebutton."

  "You're welcome. It squares us for your pilotin' me over the marsh,that's all. 'Twa'n't any favor; I owed it to you."

  He was turning the shirt over in his hands.

  "Well," he began, then stopped and looked fixedly at the garment.

  "I see you've mended that hole in the sleeve," he said. "You didn't oweme that, did you?"

  She changed color slightly.

  "Oh," she said, with a toss of her head, "that's nothin'. Just for goodmeasure. I never could abide rags on anybody that--that I had to look atwhether I wanted to or not."

  "'Twas real good of you to mend it, Emeline. Say," he stirred the sandwith his boot, "you mentioned that you cal'lated I'd changed some, wasmore of a man than I used to be. Do you know why?"

  "No. Unless," with sarcasm, "it was because I wa'n't around."

  "It ain't that. It's because, Emeline, it's because down here I'm nigherbein' where I belong than anywheres else but one place. That place is atsea. When I'm on salt water I'm a man--you don't believe it, but I am.On land I--I don't seem to fit in right. Keepin' a light like this isnext door to bein' at sea."

  "Seth, I want to ask you a question. Why didn't you go to sea when youran--when you left me? I s'posed of course you had. Why didn't you?"

  He looked at her in surprise.

  "Go to sea?" he repeated. "Go to SEA? How could I? Didn't I promise youI'd never go to sea again?"

  "Was that the reason?"

  "Sartin. What else?"

  She did not answer. There was an odd expression on her face. He turnedto go.

  "Well, good-by," he said.

  "Good-by. Er--Seth."

  "Yes; what is it?"

  "I--I want to tell you," she stammered, "that I appreciated your leavin'that money and stocks at the bank in my name. I couldn't take 'em, ofcourse, but 'twas good of you. I appreciated it."

  "That's all right."

  "Wait. Here! Maybe you'd like these." She took the hand from beneathher apron and extended it toward him. It held a pan heaped with objectsflat, brown, and deliciously fragrant. He looked at the pan and itscontents uncomprehendingly.

  "What's them?" he demanded.

  "They're molasses cookies. I've been bakin', and these are some extryones I had left over. You can have 'em if you want 'em."

&nbs
p; "Why--why, Emeline! this is mighty kind of you."

  "Not a mite," sharply. "I baked a good many more'n Miss Ruth and I candispose of, and that poor helper man of yours ought to be glad to get'em after the cast-iron pound-weights that you and he have been tryin'to live on. Mercy on us! the thoughts of the cookies he showed me thismornin' have stayed in my head ever since. Made me feel as if I waspartly responsible for murder."

  "But it's kind of you, just the same."

  "Rubbish! I'd do as much for a pig any day. There! you've got yourshirt; now you'd better go home."

  She forced the pan of cookies into his hand and moved off. Thelightkeeper hesitated.

  "I--I'll fetch the pan back to-morrer," he called after her in a loudwhisper.