第26章 CHAPTER VII OUT OF THE BAG(2)

She didn't begin to look as happy as she had, and that made me feel worse than ever. One time, I found her cryin' in the wash room, and I went up and put my arm round her.

"'Emeline,' I says, 'don't; please don't. Don't cry. I know I ain't the husband I'd ought to be to you, but I'm doin' my best.

I'm tryin' to do it. I ain't a genius,' I says.

"She interrupted me quick, sort of half laughin' and half cryin'.

'No, Seth,' says she, 'you ain't, that's a fact.'

"That made me sort of mad. 'No, I ain't,' I says again; 'and if you ask me, I'd say one in the house was enough, and to spare.'

"'I know you don't like Bennie,' she says.

"''Taint that,' says I, which was a lie. 'It ain't that,' I says;'but somehow I don't seem to fit around here. Bennie and me, we don't seem to belong together.'

"'He is Abner's brother,' she says, 'and I promised Abner. I can't tell him to go. I can't tell him to leave this house, his brother's house.'

"Now, consarn it, there was another thing. It WAS Abner's house, or had been afore he died, and now 'twas hers. If I ever forgot that fact, which wa'n't by no means likely to happen, Bennie D. took occasions enough to remind me of it. So I was set back again with my canvas flappin', as you might say.

"'No,' says I, 'course you can't. He's your brother-in-law.'

"'But you are my husband,' she says, lookin' at me kind of queer.

Anyhow, it seems kind of queer to me now. I've thought about that look a good deal since, and sometimes I've wondered if--if . . .

However, that's all past and by.

"'Yes,' I says, pretty average bitter, 'but second husbands don't count for much.'

"'Some of 'em don't seem to, that's a fact,' she says.

"'By jiminy,' I says, 'I don't count for much in this house.'

"'Yes?' says she. 'And whose fault is that?'

"Well, I WAS mad. 'I tell you what I CAN do,' I sings out. 'I can quit this landlubber's job where I'm nothin' but a swab, and go to sea again, where I'm some account. That's what I can do.'

"She turned and looked at me.

"'You promised me never to go to sea again, she says.

"'Humph!' says I; 'some promises are hard to keep.'

"'I keep mine, hard or not,' says she. 'Would you go away and leave me?'

"'You've got Brother Bennie,' says I. 'He's a genius; I ain't nothin' but a man.'

"She laughed, pretty scornful. 'Are you sartin you're that?' she wanted to know.

"'Not since I been livin' here, I ain't,' I says. And that ended that try of makin' up.

"And from then on it got worse and worse. There wan't much comfort at home where the inventor was, so I took to stayin' out nights.

Went down to the store and hung around, listenin' to fools' gabble, and wishin' I was dead. And the more I stayed out, the more Bennie D. laughed and sneered and hinted. And then come that ridic'lous business about Sarah Ann Christy. That ended it for good and all."

Seth paused in his long story and looked out across the starlit sea.

"Who was Sarah Ann?" asked Brown. The lightkeeper seemed much embarrassed.

"She was a born fool," he declared, with emphasis; "born that way and been developin' extry foolishness ever since. She was a widow, too; been good lookin' once and couldn't forget it, and she lived down nigh the store. When I'd be goin' down or comin' back, just as likely as not she was settin' on the piazza, and she'd hail me. I didn't want to stop and talk to her, of course."

"No, of course not."

"Well, I DIDN'T. And I didn't HAVE to talk. Couldn't if I wanted to; she done it all. Her tongue was hung on ball-bearin' hinges and was a self-winder guaranteed to run an hour steady every time she set it goin'. Talk! my jiminy crimps, how that woman could talk! I couldn't get away; I tried to, but, my soul, she wouldn't let me.

And, if 'twas a warm night, she'd more'n likely have a pitcher of lemonade or some sort of cold wash alongside, and I must stop and taste it. By time, I can taste it yet!

"Well, there wa'n't no harm in her at all; she was just a fool that had to talk to somebody, males preferred. But my stayin' out nights wasn't helpin' the joyfulness of things to home, and one evenin'-- one evenin' . . . Oh, there! I started to tell you this and I might's well get it over.

"This evenin' when I came home from the store I see somethin' was extry wrong soon's I struck the settin' room. Emeline was there, and Bennie D., and I give you my word, I felt like turnin' up my coat collar, 'twas so frosty. 'Twas hotter'n a steamer's stoke-hole outside, but that room was forty below zero.

"Nobody SAID nothin', you know--that was the worst of it; but I'd have been glad if they had. Finally, I said it myself. 'Well, Emeline,' says I, 'here I be.'

"No answer, so I tried again. 'Well, Emeline,' says I, 'I've fetched port finally.'

"She didn't answer me then, but Bennie D. laughed. He had a way of laughin' that made other folks want to cry--or kill him. For choice I'd have done the killin' first.

"'More nautical conversation, sister,' says he. 'He knows how fond you are of that sort of thing.'

"You see, Emeline never did like to hear me talk sailor talk; it reminded her too much that I used to be a sailor, I s'pose. And that inventor knew she didn't like it, and so he rubbed it in every time I made a slip. 'Twas just one of his little ways; he had a million of 'em.

"But I tried once more. 'Emeline,' I says, 'I'm home. Can't you speak to me?'

"Then she looked at me. 'Yes, Seth,' says she, 'I see you are home.'

"'At last,' put in brother-in-law, '"There is no place like home"-- when the other places are shut up.' And he laughed again.

"'Stop, Bennie,' says Emeline, and he stopped. That was another of his little ways--to do anything she asked him. Then she turned to me.

"'Seth,' she asks, 'where have you been?'

"'Oh, down street,' says I, casual. 'It's turrible warm out.'

"She never paid no attention to the weather signals. 'Where 'bouts down street?' she wanted to know.

"'Oh, down to the store,' I says.

"'You go to the store a good deal, don't you,' says she. Bennie D. chuckled, and then begged her pardon. That chuckle stirred my mad up.

"'I go where folks seem to be glad to see me,' I says. 'Where they treat me as if I was somebody.'