The Woman-Haters Part 27

"I know some one lied; I heard 'em. They denied seein' Sarah Ann, and I saw 'em with her--with my own eyes I saw 'em. . . . But there, there,"

she added; "this is enough of such talk. I'm goin' now."

"I didn't lie; I forgot."

"All right, then, you forgot. I ain't jealous, Seth. I wa'n't even jealous then. Even then I give you a chance, and you didn't take it--you 'forgot' instead. I'm goin' back to the bungalow, but afore I go let's understand this: you're to stay here at the lights, and I stay where I am as housekeeper. We don't see each other any oftener than we have to, and then only when n.o.body else is around. We won't let my Miss Graham nor your Brown nor anybody know we've ever met afore--or are meetin'

now. Is that it?"

Seth hesitated. "Yes," he said, slowly, "I guess that's it. But," he added, anxiously, "I--I wish you'd be 'specially careful not to let that young feller who's workin' for me know. Him and me had a--a sort of agreement and--and I--I--"

"He sha'n't know. Good-by."

She fumbled with the latch of the heavy door. He stepped forward and opened it for her. The night was very dark; a heavy fog, almost a rain, had drifted in while they were together. She didn't seem to notice or mind the fog or blackness, but went out and disappeared beyond the faint radiance which the lantern cast through the open door. She blundered on and turned the corner of the house; then she heard steps behind her.

"Who is it?" she whispered, in some alarm.

"Me," whispered the lightkeeper, gruffly. "I'll go with you a ways."

"No, of course you won't. I'm goin' alone."

"It's too dark for you to go alone. You'll lose the way."

"I'm goin' alone, I tell you! Go back. I don't want you."

"I know you don't; but I'm goin'. You'll fetch up in the cove or somewheres if you try to navigate this path on your own hook."

"I sha'n't. I'm used to findin' my own way, and I'm goin' alone--as I've had to do for a good while. Go back."

She stopped short. Seth stopped, also.

"Go back," she insisted, adding scornfully: "I don't care for your help at all. I'm partic'lar about my company."

"I ain't," sullenly. "Anyhow, I'm goin' to pilot you around the end of that cove. You sha'n't say I let you get into trouble when I might have kept you out of it."

"Say? Who would I say it to? Think I'm so proud of this night's cruise that I'll brag of it? WILL you go back?"

"No."

They descended the hill, Mrs. Bascom in advance. She could not see the path, but plunged angrily on through the dripping gra.s.s and bushes.

"Emeline--Emeline," whispered Seth. She paid no attention to him. They reached the foot of the slope and suddenly the lady realized that her shoes, already wet, were now ankle deep in water. And there seemed to be water amid the long gra.s.s all about her.

"Why? What in the world?" she exclaimed involuntarily. "What is it?"

"The salt marsh at the end of the cove," answered the lightkeeper. "I told you you'd fetch up in it if you tried to go alone. Been tryin' to tell you you was off the track, but you wouldn't listen to me."

And she would not listen to him now. Turning, she splashed past him.

"Hold on," he whispered, seizing her arm. "That ain't the way."

She shook herself from his grasp.

"WILL you let me be, and mind your own business?" she hissed.

"No, I won't. I've set out to get you home, and I'll do it if I have to carry you."

"Carry me? You? You DARE!"

His answer was to pick her up in his arms. She was no light weight, and she fought and wriggled fiercely, but Seth was big and strong and he held her tight. She did not scream; she was too anxious not to wake either the subst.i.tute a.s.sistant or Miss Graham, but she made her bearer all the trouble she could. They splashed on for some distance; then Seth set her on her feet, and beneath them was dry ground.

"There!" he grumbled, breathlessly. "Now I cal'late you can't miss the rest of it. There's the bungalow right in front of you."

"You--you--" she gasped, chokingly.

"Ugh!" grunted her husband, and stalked off into the dark.

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'll turn in and get a little myself."

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

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

"Oh, that was easy; everything--gra.s.s and bushes--were so wet this morning. Those boots of yours, for example," pointing to the pair the lightkeeper had just taken off, "they look as if you had worn them wading."

His back was toward his superior as he spoke, therefore he did not see the start which the latter gave at this innocent observation, nor the horrified glare at the soaked boots. But he could not help noticing the change 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' on top of a lighthouse?"