NEIGHBORS AND WASPS
And now affairs at the lights settled down into a daily routine in
which the lightkeeper and his helper each played his appointed part.
All mysteries now being solved, and the trust between them mutual and
without reserve, they no longer were on their guard in each other's
presence, but talked freely on all sorts of topics, and expressed their
mutual dislike of woman with frequency and point. No regular assistant
was appointed or seemed likely to be, for the summer, at least. Seth and
his friend, the superintendent, held another lengthy conversation over
the wire, and, while Brown's uncertain status remained the same, there
was a tacit understanding that, by the first of September, if the young
man was sufficiently “broken in,” the position vacated by Ezra Payne
should be his--if he still wanted it.
“You may change your mind by that time,” observed Seth. “This ain't no
place for a chap with your trainin', and I know it. It does well enough
for an old derelict like me, with nobody to care a hang whether he lives
or dies, but you're different. And even for me the lonesomeness of it
drives me 'most crazy sometimes. I've noticed you've been havin' blue
streaks more often than when you first came. I cal'late that by fall
you'll be headin' somewheres else, Mr. 'John Brown,'” with significant
emphasis upon the name.
Brown stoutly denied being “bluer” than usual, and his superior did not
press the point. Seth busied himself in his spare time with the work on
the Daisy M. and with his occasional trips behind Joshua to the village.
Brown might have made some of these trips, but he did not care to.
Solitude and seclusion he still desired, and there were more of these
than anything else at the Twin-Lights.
The lightkeeper experimented with no more dogs, but he had evidently not
forgotten the lifesaving man's warning concerning possible thieves, for
he purchased a big spring-lock in Eastboro and attached it to the door
of the boathouse on the little wharf. The lock was, at first, a good
deal more of a nuisance than an advantage, for the key was always being
forgotten or mislaid, and, on one occasion, the door blew shut with
Atkins inside the building, and he pounded and shrieked for ten minutes
before his helper heard him and descended to the rescue.
June crawled by, and July came. Crawled is the proper word, for John
Brown had never known days so long or weeks so unending as those of that
early summer. The monotony was almost never broken, and he began to find
it deadly. He invented new duties about the lights and added swimming
and walks up and down the beach to his limited list of recreations.
The swimming he especially enjoyed. The cove made a fine bathing place,
and the boathouse was his dressing room, though the fragrance of the
ancient fish nets stored within it was not that of attar of roses. A
cheap bathing suit was one of the luxuries Atkins had bought for him, by
request, in Eastboro. Seth bought the suit under protest, for he scoffed
openly at his helper's daily bath.
“I should think,” the lightkeeper declared over and over again, “that
you'd had salt water soak enough to last you for one spell; a feller
that come as nigh drownin' as you done!”
Seth did not care for swimming; the washtub every Saturday night
furnished him with baths sufficient.
He was particular to warn his helper against the tide in the inlet: “The
cove's all right,” he said, “but you want to look out and not try to
swim in the crick where it's narrow, or in that deep hole by the end of
the wharf, where the lobster car's moored. When the tide's comin' in or
it's dead high water, the current's strong there. On the ebb it'll snake
you out into the breakers sure as I'm settin' here tellin' you. The
cove's all right and good and safe; but keep away from the narrer part
of the crick.”
Swimming was good fun, and walking, on pleasant days, was an aid in
shaking off depression; but, in spite of his denials and his attempts at
appearing contented, the substitute assistant realized that he was far
from that happy condition. He did not want to meet people, least of all
people of his own station in life--his former station. Atkins was a
fine chap, in his way; but . . . Brown was lonely . . . and when one
is lonely, one thinks of what might have been, and, perhaps, regrets.
Regrets, unavailing regrets, are the poorest companions possible.
The lightkeeper, too, seemed lonely, which, considering his years
of experience in his present situation, was odd. He explained his
loneliness one evening by observing that he cal'lated he missed the
painting chaps.
“What painting chaps?” asked Brown.
“Oh, them two young fellers that always used to come to the
cottage--what you call the bungalow--across the cove there, the ones I
told you about. They was real friendly, sociable young chaps, and I kind
of liked to have 'em runnin' in and out. Seems queer to have it July,
and they not here to hail me and come over to borrow stuff. And they was
forever settin' around under white sunshades, sloppin' paint onto paper.
I most wish they hadn't gone to Europe. I cal'late you'd have liked 'em,
too.”
“Perhaps,” said the helper, doubtfully.
“Oh, you would; no perhaps about it. It don't seem right to see the
bungalow all shuttered up and deserted this time of year. You'd have
liked to meet them young painters; they was your kind.”
“Yes, I know. Perhaps that's why I shouldn't like to meet them.”
“Hey? . . . Oh, yes, yes; I see. I never thought of that. But 'tain't
likely they'd know you; they hailed from Boston, not New York.”
“How did you know I came from New York? I didn't tell you that.”
“No, you didn't, that's a fact. But, you said you left the city where
you lived and came to Boston, so I sort of guessed New York. But that's
all right; I don't know and I don't care. Names and places you and me
might just as well not tell, even to each other. If we don't tell them,
we can answer 'don't know' to questions and tell the truth; hey?”
One morning about a week later, Brown, his dish washing and sweeping
done, was busy in the light-room at the top of the right hand tower,
polishing the brass of the lantern. The curtains were drawn on the
landward side, and those toward the sea open. Seth, having finished his
night watching and breakfast, was audibly asleep in the house. Brown
rubbed and polished leisurely, his thoughts far away, and a frown on his
face. For the thousandth time that week he decided that he was a loafer
and a vagabond, and that it would have been much better for himself,
and creation generally, if he had never risen after the plunge over the
steamer's rail.
He pulled the cloth cover over the glittering lantern and descended the
iron stair to the ground floor. When he emerged into the open air, he
heard a sound which made him start and listen. The sound was the distant
rattle of wheels from the direction of the village. Was another “picnic”
coming? He walked briskly to the corner of the house and peered down the
winding road. A carriage was in sight certainly, but it was going, not
coming. He watched it move further away each moment. Someone--not the
grocer or a tradesman--was driving to the village. But where had he
been, and who was he? Not Seth, for Seth was asleep--he could hear him.
The driver of the carriage, whoever he was, had not visited the lights.
And, as Atkins had said, there was nowhere else to go on that road.
Brown, puzzled, looked about him, at the sea, the lights, the house,
the creek, the cove, the bluff on the other side of the cove, the
bungalow--ah! the bungalow!
For the door of the bungalow was open, and one or two of the shutters
were down. The carriage had brought some person or persons to the
bungalow and left them there. Instantly, of course, Brown thought of the
artists from Boston. Probably they had changed their minds and decided
to summer at Eastboro after all. His frown deepened.
Then, from across the cove, from the bungalow, came a shrill scream,
a feminine scream. The assistant started, scarcely believing his ears.
Before he could gather his wits, a stout woman, with a checked apron in
her hand, rushed out of the bungalow door, looked about, saw him, and
waved the apron like a flag.
“Hi!” she screamed. “Hi, you! Mr. Lighthouseman! come quick! do please
come here quick and help us!”
There was but one thing to do, and Brown did it instinctively. He raced
through the beach grass, down the hill, in obedience to the call. As he
ran, he wondered who on earth the stout woman could be. Seth had said
that the artists did their own housekeeping.
“Hurry up!” shrieked the stout woman, dancing an elephantine fandango in
front of the bungalow. “Come ON!”
To run around the shore line of the cove would have taken a good deal of
time. However, had the tide been at flood there would have been no other
way--excepting by boat--to reach the cottage. But the tide was out, and
the narrowest portion of the creek, the stream connecting the cove with
the ocean, was but knee deep. Through the water splashed the substitute
assistant and clambered up the bank beyond.
“Quick!” screamed the woman. “They'll eat us alive!”
“Who? What?” panted Brown.
“Wasps! They're in there! The room's full of 'em. If there's one thing
on earth I'm scart of, it's . . . Don't stop to talk! Go IN!”
She indicated the door of a room adjoining the living room of the little
cottage. From behind the door came sounds of upsetting furniture and
sharp slaps. Evidently the artists were having a lively time. But they
must be curious chaps to be afraid of wasps. Brown opened the door and
entered, partly of his own volition, partly because he was pushed by the
stout woman. Then he gasped in astonishment.
The wasps were there, dozens of them, and they had built a nest in the
upper corner of the room. But they were not the astonishing part of the
picture. A young woman was there, also; a young woman with dark hair and
eyes, the sleeves of a white shirtwaist rolled above her elbows, and a
wet towel in her right hand. She was skipping lightly about the room,
slapping frantically at the humming insects.
“Mrs. Bascom,” she panted, “don't stand there screaming. Get another
towel and--”
Then she turned and saw Brown. For an instant she, too, seemed
astonished. But only for an instant.
“Oh, I'm so glad you came!” she exclaimed. “Here! take this! you must
hit quick and HARD.”
“This” was the towel. The assistant took it mechanically. The young lady
did not wait to give further orders. She rushed out of the room and shut
the door. Brown was alone with the wasps, and they were lively company.
When, at last, the battle was over, the last wasp was dead, the nest was
a crumpled gray heap over in the corner, and the assistant's brow was
ornamented with four red and smarting punctures, which promised to
shortly become picturesque and painful lumps. Rubbing these absently
with one hand, and bearing the towel in the other, he opened the door
and stepped out into the adjoining room.
The two women were awaiting him. He found them standing directly in
front of him as he emerged.
“Have you--have you killed them?” begged the younger of the pair.
“Be they all dead?” demanded the other.
Brown nodded solemnly. “I guess so,” he said. “They seem to be.”
“Oh, I'm so glad!” cried the dark haired girl. “I'm--we--are so much
obliged to you.”
“If there's any critters on earth,” declared the stout woman, “that I
can't stand, it's wasps and hornets and such. Mice, I don't mind--”
“I do,” interrupted her companion with emphasis.
“But when I walked into that room and seen that nest in the corner I was
pretty nigh knocked over--and,” she added, “it takes consider'ble to do
that to ME.”
The assistant looked at her. “Yes,” he said, absently, “I should think
it might. That is, I mean--I--I beg your pardon.”
He paused and wiped his forehead with the towel. The young lady burst
into a peal of laughter, in which the stout woman joined. The laugh was
so infectious that even Brown was obliged to smile.
“I apologize,” he stammered. “I didn't mean that exactly as it sounded.
I'm not responsible mentally--yet--I guess.”
“I don't wonder.” It was the stout woman who answered. The girl had
turned away and was looking out the window; her shoulders shook. “I
shouldn't think you would be. Hauled in bodily, as you might say, and
shut up in a room to fight wasps! And by folks you never saw afore and
don't know from Adam! You needn't apologize. I'd forgive you if you
said somethin' a good deal worse'n that. I'm long past the age where I'm
sensitive about my weight, thank goodness.”
“And we ARE so much obliged to you.” The girl was facing him once more,
and she was serious, though the corners of her mouth still twitched.
“The whole affair is perfectly ridiculous,” she said, “but Mrs. Bascom
was frightened and so was I--when I had time to realize it. Thank you
again.”
“You're quite welcome, I'm sure. No trouble at all.”
The assistant turned to go. His brain was beginning to regain a little
of its normal poise, and he was dimly conscious that he had been absent
from duty quite long enough.
“Maybe you'd like to know who 'tis you've helped,” observed the stout
woman. “And, considerin' that we're likely to be next-door neighbors
for a spell, I cal'late introductions are the proper thing. My name's
Bascom. I'm housekeeper for Miss Ruth Graham. This is Miss Graham.”
The young lady offered a hand. Brown took it.
“Graham?” he repeated. “Where?” Then, remembering a portion of what Seth
had told him, he added, “I see! the--the artist?”
“My brother is an artist. He and his friend, Mr. Hamilton, own this
bungalow. They are abroad this summer, and I am going to camp here for a
few weeks--Mrs. Bascom and I. I paint a little, too, but only for fun.”
Brown murmured a conventionality concerning his delight at meeting the
pair, and once more headed for the door. But Mrs. Bascom's curiosity
would not permit him to escape so easily.
“I thought,” she said, “when I see you standin' over there by the
lights, that you must be one of the keepers. Not the head keeper--I
knew you wa'n't him--but an assistant, maybe. But I guess you're only a
visitor, Mister--Mister--?”
“Brown.”
“Yes, Mr. Brown. I guess you ain't no keeper, are you?”
“I am the assistant keeper at present. Yes.”
“You don't say!” Mrs. Bascom looked surprised. So, too, did Miss Graham.
“You don't look like a lighthouse keeper,” continued the former. “Oh, I
don't mean your clothes!” noticing the young man's embarrassed glance at
his wet and far from immaculate garments. “I mean the way you talk and
act. You ain't been here long, have you?”
“No.”
“Just come this summer?”
“Yes.”
“I thought so. You ain't a Cape Codder?”
“No.”
“I was sure you wa'n't. Where DO you come from?”
Brown hesitated. Miss Graham, noticing his hesitation, hastened to end
the inquisition.
“Mr. Brown can't stop to answer questions, Mrs. Bascom,” she said. “I'm
sure he wants to get back to his work. Good morning, Mr. Brown. No doubt
we shall see each other often, being the only neighbors in sight. Call
again--do. I solemnly promise that you shall have to fight no more
wasps.”
“Say!” The stout woman took a step forward. “Speakin' of wasps . . .
stand still a minute, Mr. Brown, won't you. What's them lumps on your
forehead? Why, I do believe you've been bit. You have, sure and sartin!”
Miss Graham was very much concerned. “Oh, no!” she exclaimed; “I hope
not. Let me see.”
“No, indeed!” The assistant was on the step by this time and moving
rapidly. “Nothing at all. No consequence. Good morning.”
He almost ran down the hill and crossed the creek at the wading place.
As he splashed through, the voice of the housekeeper reached his ears.
“Cold mud's the best thing,” she screamed. “Put it on thick. It takes
out the smart. Good and thick, mind!”
For the next hour or two the lightkeeper's helper moved about his
household tasks in a curious frame of mind. He was thoroughly angry--or
thought he was--and very much disturbed. Neighbors of any kind were
likely to be a confounded nuisance, but two women! Heavens! And the
stout woman was sure to be running in for calls and to borrow things. As
for the other, she seemed a nice girl enough, but he never wanted to see
another girl, nice or otherwise. Her eyes were pretty, so was her hair,
but what of it? Oh, hang the luck! Just here he banged his swollen
forehead on the sharp edge of the door, and found relief in profanity.
Seth Atkins was profane, also, when he heard the news. Brown said
nothing until his superior discovered with his own eyes that the
bungalow was open. Then, in answer to the lightkeeper's questions, came
the disclosure of the truth.
“Women!” roared Seth. “You say there's two WOMEN goin' to live there? By
Judas! I don't believe it!”
“Go and see for yourself, then,” was the brusque answer.
“I sha'n't, neither. Who told you?”
“They did.”
“They DID? Was you there?”
“Yes.”
“What for? I thought you swore never to go nigh a woman again.”
“I did, but--well, it wasn't my fault. I--”
“Yes? Go on.”
“I went because I couldn't help myself. Went to help some one else, in
fact. I expected to find Graham and that other artist. But--”
“Well, go ON.”
“I was stung,” said Mr. Brown, gloomily, and rubbed his forehead.