"Well, you must hurry then. Good-by."
"But, Miss Graham," anxiously, "I shall see you again before you go.
To-morrow, at bathing time, perhaps?"
"Judging by the outlook just at present, bathing will be out of the question to-morrow."
"But I want to see you. I must."
She shook her head doubtfully. "I don"t know," she said. "I shall be very busy getting ready to leave; but perhaps we may meet again."
"We must. I--Miss Graham, I--"
She had closed the door. He ran homeward through the rain, the storm which soaked him to the skin being but a trifle compared to the tornado in his breast.
He spent the balance of the day somehow, he could not have told how. The rain and wind continued; six o"clock came, and Seth should have returned an hour before, but there was no sign of him. He wondered if Mrs. Bascom had returned. He had not seen the carriage, but she might have come while he was inside the house. The lightkeeper"s nonappearance began to worry him a trifle.
At seven, as it was dark, he took upon himself the responsibility of climbing the winding stairs in each tower and lighting the great lanterns. It was the first time he had done it, but he knew how, and the duty was successfully accomplished. Then, as Atkins was still absent and there was nothing to do but wait, he sat in the chair in the kitchen and thought. Occasionally, and it showed the trend of his thoughts, he rose and peered from the window across the dark to the bungalow. In the living room of the latter structure a light burned. At ten it was extinguished.
At half past ten he went to Seth"s bedroom, found a meager a.s.sortment of pens, ink and note paper, returned to the kitchen, sat down by the table and began to write.
For an hour he thought, wrote, tore up what he had written, and began again. At last the result of his labor read something like this:
"DEAR MISS GRAHAM:
"I could not say it this afternoon, although if you had stayed I think I should. But I must say it now or it may be too late. I can"t let you go without saying it. I love you. Will you wait for me? It may be a very long wait, although G.o.d knows I mean to try harder than I have ever tried for anything in my life. If I live I will make something of myself yet, with you as my inspiration. You know you said if a girl really cared for a man she would willingly wait years for him. Do you care for me as much as that? With you, or for you, I believe I can accomplish anything. DO you care?
"RUSSELL BROOKS."
He put this in an envelope, sealed and addressed it, and without stopping to put on either cap or raincoat went out in the night.
The rain was still falling, although not as heavily, but the wind was coming in fierce squalls. He descended the path to the cove, floundering through the wet bushes. At the foot of the hill he was surprised to find the salt marsh a sea of water not a vestige of ground above the surface.
This was indeed a record-breaking tide, such as he had never known before. He did not pause to reflect upon tides or such trivialities, but, with a growl at being obliged to make the long detour, he rounded the end of the cove and climbed up to the door of the bungalow. Under the edge of that door he tucked the note he had written. As soon as this was accomplished he became aware that he had expressed himself very clumsily. He had not written as he might. A dozen brilliant thoughts came to him. He must rewrite that note at all hazards.
So he spent five frantic minutes trying to coax that envelope from under the door. But, in his care to push it far enough, it had dropped beyond the sill, and he could not reach it. The thing was done for better or for worse. Perfectly certain that it was for worse, he splashed mournfully back to the lights. In the lantern room of the right-hand tower he spent the remainder of the night, occasionally wandering out on the gallery to note the weather.
The storm was dying out. The squalls were less and less frequent, and the rain had been succeeded by a thick fog. The breakers pounded in the dark below him, and from afar the foghorns moaned and wailed. It was a bad night, a night during which no lightkeeper should be absent from his post. And where was Seth?
CHAPTER XIV
"BENNIE D."
Seth"s drive to Eastboro was a dismal journey. Joshua pounded along over the wet sand or through ruts filled with water, and not once during the trip was he ordered to "Giddap" or "Show some signs of life." Not until the first scattered houses of the village were reached did the lightkeeper awaken from his trance sufficiently to notice that the old horse was limping slightly with the right forefoot.
"h.e.l.lo!" exclaimed Seth. "What"s the matter with you, Josh?"
Joshua slopped on, but this was a sort of three-legged progress. The driver leaned forward and then pulled on the reins.
"Whoa!" he ordered. "Stand still!"
Joshua stood still, almost with enthusiasm. Seth tucked the end of the reins between the whip socket and the dashboard, and swung out of the wagon to make an examination. Lifting the lame foot, he found the trouble at once. The shoe was loose.
"Humph!" he soliloquized. "Cal"late you and me"ll have to give Benijah a job. Well," climbing back into the vehicle, "I said I"d never give him another after the row we had about the last, but I ain"t got ambition enough to go clear over to the Denboro blacksmith"s. I don"t care. I don"t care about nothin" any more. Giddap."
Benijah Ellis"s little, tumble-down blacksmith shop was located in the main street of Eastboro, if that hit-or-miss town can be said to possess a main street. Atkins drove up to its door, before which he found Benijah and a group of loungers inspecting an automobile, the body of which had been removed in order that the engine and running gear might be the easier reached. The blacksmith was bending over the car, his head and shoulders down amidst the machinery; a big wrench was in his hand, and other wrenches, hammers, and tools of various sizes were scattered on the ground beside him.
"h.e.l.lo, Benije," grunted Seth.
Ellis removed his nose from its close proximity to the gear shaft and straightened up. He was a near-sighted, elderly man, and wore spectacles. Just now his hands, arms, and ap.r.o.n were covered with grease and oil, and, as he wiped his forehead with the hand not holding the wrench, he left a wide mourning band across it.
"Well?" he panted. "Who is it? Who wants me?"
One of the loafers, who had been a.s.sisting the blacksmith by holding his pipe while he dove into the machinery, languidly motioned toward the new arrival. Benijah adjusted his spectacles and walked over to the wagon.
"Who is it?" he asked crossly. Then, as he recognized his visitor, he grunted: "Ugh! it"s you, hey. Well, what do YOU want?"
"Want you to put a new shoe on this horse of mine," replied Seth, not too graciously.
"Is that so! Well, I"m busy."
"I don"t care if you be. I guess you ain"t so busy you can"t do a job of work. If you are, you"re richer"n I ever heard you was."
"I want to know! Maybe I"m particular who I work for, Seth Atkins."
"Maybe you are. I ain"t so particular; if I was, I wouldn"t come here, I tell you that. This horse of mine"s got a loose shoe, and I want him attended to quick."
"Thought you said you"d never trust me with another job."
"I ain"t trustin" you now. I"ll be here while it"s done. And I ain"t askin" you to trust me, neither. I"ll pay cash--cash, d"ye understand?"
The bystanders grinned. Mr. Ellis"s frown deepened. "I"m busy," he declared, with importance. "I"ve got Mr. Delancey Barry"s automobile to fix, and I can"t stop to bother with horses--specially certain kind of horses."
This sneer at Joshua roused his owner"s ire. He dropped the reins and sprang to the ground.
"See here, Benije Ellis," he growled, advancing upon the repairer of automobiles, who retreated a step or two with promptness. "I don"t care what you"re fixin", nor whose it is, neither. I guess "twill be "fixed"
all right when you get through with it, but that ain"t neither here nor there. And it don"t make no difference if it does belong to Mr. Barry.
If "twas Elijah"s chariot of fire "twould be just the same. That auto won"t be done this afternoon, and n.o.body expects it to be. Here"s my horse sufferin" to be shod; I want him shod and I"ve got the money to pay for it. When it"s winter time you"re around cryin" that you can"t earn money to pay your bills. Now, just because it"s summer and there"s city big-bugs in the neighborhood innocent enough to let you tinker with their autos--though they"ll never do it but once--I don"t propose to be put off. If you won"t shoe this horse of mine I"ll know it"s because you"ve got so much money you don"t need more. And if that"s the case, there"s a whole lot of folks would be mighty glad to know it--Henry G.
Goodspeed for one. I"m goin" up to his store now. Shall I tell him?"
This was a shot in the bull"s-eye. Mr. Ellis owed a number of bills, had owed them for a long time, and Mr. Goodspeed"s was by no means the smallest. The loafers exchanged winks, and the blacksmith"s manner became more conciliatory.
"I didn"t say I wouldn"t do it for you, Seth," he pleaded. "I"m always willin" to do your work. You"re the one that"s been complainin"."
"Ugh! Well, I"m likely to complain some more, but the complaint"s one thing, and the need"s another. I"m like Joel Knowles--he said when he couldn"t get whisky he worried along best he could with bay rum. I need a blacksmith, and if I can"t get a real one I"ll put up with an imitation. Will you shoe this horse for me?"