The next trial was successful, and the lantern was lighted. With it in his hand, he turned and faced his caller. They looked at each other. Mrs. Bascom drew a long breath.
"It is you," she said. "I couldn't scarcely believe it. It is really you."
Seth's answer was almost a groan. "It's you," he said. "You--down here."
This ended the conversation for another minute. Then the lady seemed to awake to the realities of the situation.
"Yes," she said, "it's me--and it's you. We're here, both of us.
Though why on earth YOU should be, I don't know."
"Me? Me? Why, I belong here. But you--what in time sent you here?
Unless," with returning suspicion, "you came because I--"
He paused, warned by the expression on his caller's face.
"What was that?" she demanded.
"Nothin'."
"Nothin', I guess. If you was flatterin' yourself with the idea that I came here to chase after you, you never was more mistaken in your life, or ever will be. You set down. You and I have got to talk. Set right down."
The lightkeeper hesitated. Then he obeyed orders by seating himself on an oil barrel lying on its side near the wall. The lantern he placed on the floor at his feet. Mrs. Bascom perched on one of the lower steps of the iron stairs.
"Now," she said, "we've got to talk. Seth Bascom--"
Seth started violently.
"What is it?" asked the lady. "Why did you jump like that? Nobody comin', is there?"
"No. No . . . But I couldn't help jumpin' when you called me that name."
"That name? It's your name, isn't it? Oh," she smiled slightly; "I remember now. You've taken the name of Atkins since we saw each other last."
"I didn't take it; it belonged to me. You know my middle name. I just dropped the Bascom, that's all."
"I see. Just as you dropped--some other responsibilities. Why didn't you drop the whole christenin' and start fresh? Why did you hang on to 'Seth'?"
The lightkeeper looked guilty. Mrs. Bascom's smile broadened. "I know," she went on. "You didn't really like to drop it all. It was too much of a thing to do on your hook, and there wasn't anybody to tell you to do it, and so you couldn't quite be spunky enough to--"
He interrupted her. "That wa'n't the reason," he said shortly.
"What was the reason?"
"You want to know, do you?"
"Yes, I do."
"Well, the 'Bascom' part wa'n't mine no more--not all mine. I'd given it to you."
"O--oh! oh, I see. And you ran away from your name as you ran away from your wife. I see. And . . . why, of course! you came down here to run away from all the women. Miss Ruth said this mornin' she was told--I don't know who by--that the lightkeeper was a woman- hater. Are you the woman-hater, Seth?"
Mr. Atkins looked at the floor. "Yes, I be," he answered, sullenly.
"Do you wonder?"
"I don't wonder at your runnin' away; that I should have expected.
But there," more briskly, "this ain't gettin' us anywhere. You're here--and I'm here. Now what's your idea of the best thing to be done, under the circumstances?"
Seth shifted his feet. "One of us better go somewheres else, if you ask me," he declared.
"Run away again, you mean? Well, I sha'n't run away. I'm Miss Ruth's housekeeper for the summer. I answered her advertisement in the Boston paper and we agreed as to wages and so on. I like her and she likes me. Course if I'd known my husband was in the neighborhood, I shouldn't have come here; but I didn't know it. Now I'm here and I'll stay my time out. What are you goin' to do?"
"I'm goin' to send in my resignation as keeper of these lights.
That's what I'm goin' to do, and I'll do it to-morrow."
"Run away again?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Why? WHY? Emeline Bascom, do you ask me that?"
"I do, yes. See here, Seth, we ain't children, nor sentimental young folks. We're sensible, or we'd ought to be. Land knows we're old enough. I shall stay here and you ought to. Nobody knows I was your wife or that you was my husband, and nobody needs to know it.
We ain't even got the same names. We're strangers, far's folks know, and we can stay strangers."
"But--but to see each other every day and--"
"Why not? We've seen each other often enough so that the sight won't be so wonderful. And we'll keep our bein' married a secret.
I sha'n't boast of it, for one."
"But--but to SEE each other--"
"Well, we needn't see each other much. Why, we needn't see each other any, unless I have to run over to borrer somethin', same as neighbors have to every once in a while. I can guess what's troublin' you; it's young Brown. You've told him you're a woman- hater, haven't you?"
"Yes, I have."
"Humph! Is he one, too?"
The lightkeeper's mouth was twisted with a violent emotion. He remembered his view of that afternoon's swimming lesson.
"He said he was," he snarled. "He pretends he is."
Mrs. Bascom smiled. "I want to know," she said. "Umph! I thought . . . However, it's no matter. Perhaps he is. Anyhow he can pretend to be and you can pretend to believe him. That'll be the easiest way, I guess. Of course," she added, "I ain't tellin' you what to do with any idea that you'll do it because I say so.
The time for that is all past and gone. But it seems to me that, for once in my life, I'd be man enough to stick it out. I wouldn't run away again."
Seth did not answer. He scowled and stared at the circle of lantern light on the stone floor. Mrs. Bascom rose from her seat on the stairs.
"Well," she observed, "I must be gettin' back to the house if I want to get any sleep to-night. I doubt if I get much, for a body don't get over a shock, such as I've had, in a minute. But I'm goin' to get over it and I'm goin' to stay right here and do my work; I'm goin' to go through with what seems to be my duty, no matter how hard it is. I've done it afore, and I'll do it again. I've promised, and I keep my promises. Good night."
She started toward the door. Her husband sprang from the oil barrel.
"Hold on," he cried; "you wait a minute. I've got somethin' to say."
She shook her head. "I can't wait," she said; "I've got to go."
"No, you ain't, neither. You can stay a spell longer, if you want to."
"Perhaps, but I don't want to."
"Why not? What are you afraid of?"