The Woman-Haters Part 31

"Thank you," he grumbled, taking it. "Much obliged for sewin' on the b.u.t.ton."

"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 s.h.i.+rt 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 owe me that, did you?"

She changed color slightly.

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

"'Twas real good of you to mend it, Emeline. Say," he stirred the sand with his boot, "you mentioned that you cal'lated I'd changed some, was more 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 nigher bein' where I belong than anywheres else but one place. That place is at sea. 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 is next door to bein' at sea."

"Seth, I want to ask you a question. Why didn't you go to sea when you ran--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 you I'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 turned to 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, of course, but 'twas good of you. I appreciated it."

"That's all right."

"Wait. Here! Maybe you'd like these." She took the hand from beneath her ap.r.o.n and extended it toward him. It held a pan heaped with objects flat, brown, and deliciously fragrant. He looked at the pan and its contents uncomprehendingly.

"What's them?" he demanded.

"They're mola.s.ses cookies. I've been bakin', and these are some extry ones I had left over. You can have 'em if you want 'em."

"Why--why, Emeline! this is mighty kind of you."

"Not a mite," sharply. "I baked a good many more'n Miss Ruth and I can dispose 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 this mornin' have stayed in my head ever since. Made me feel as if I was partly responsible for murder."

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

"Rubbis.h.!.+ I'd do as much for a pig any day. There! you've got your s.h.i.+rt; now you'd better go home."

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

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

CHAPTER XII

THE LETTER AND THE 'PHONE

The cookies appeared on the table that evening. Brown noticed them at once.

"When did you bake these?" he asked.

Atkins made no reply, so the question was repeated with a variation.

"Did you bake these this afternoon?" inquired the subst.i.tute a.s.sistant.

"Humph? Hey? Oh, yes, I guess so. Why? Anything the matter with 'em?"

"Matter with them? No. They're the finest things I've tasted since I came here. New receipt, isn't it?"

"Cal'late so."

"I thought it must be. I'll take another."

He took another, and many others thereafter. He and his superior cleared the plate between them.

Brown was prepared for questions concerning his occupation of the afternoon and was ready with some defiant queries of his own. But no occasion arose for either defiance or cross-examination. Seth never hinted at a suspicion nor mentioned the young lady at the bungalow.

Brown therefore remained silent concerning what he had seen from the attic window. He would hold that in reserve, and if Atkins ever did accuse him of bad faith or breach of contract he could retort in kind.

His conscience was clear now--he was no more of a traitor than Seth himself--and, this being so, he felt delightfully independent. If trouble came he was ready for it, and in the meantime he should do as he pleased.

But no trouble came. That day, and for many days thereafter, the lightkeeper was sweetness itself. He and his helper had never been more anxious to please each other, and the house at Twin-Lights was--to all appearances--an abode of perfect trust and peace. Every day, when Seth was asleep or out of the way, "working on the Daisy M.," the a.s.sistant swam to the cove, and every day he met Miss Graham there! During the first week he returned from his dips expecting to be confronted by his superior, and ready with counter accusations of his own. After this he ceased to care. Seth did not ask a question and was so trustful and unsuspecting that Brown decided his secret was undiscovered. In fact, the lightkeeper was so innocent that the young man felt almost wicked, as if he were deceiving a child. He very nearly forgot the meeting behind the sand dune, having other and much more important things to think of.

July pa.s.sed, and the first three weeks of August followed suit. The weather, which had been glorious, suddenly gave that part of the coast a surprise party in the form of a three days' storm. It was an offsh.o.r.e gale, but fierce, and the lighthouse buildings rocked in its grasp.

Bathing was out of the question, and one of Seth's dories broke its anchor rope and went to pieces in the breakers. Atkins and Brown slept but little during the storm, both being on duty the greater part of the time.

The fourth day broke clear, but the wind had changed to the east and the barometer threatened more bad weather to come. When Seth came in to breakfast he found his helper sound asleep in a kitchen chair, his head on the table. The young man was pretty well worn out. Atkins insisted upon his going to bed for the forenoon.