"Oh, it was simple enough. I didn't really know; I only guessed.
You weren't a real lightkeeper, that was plain. And you weren't used to washing dishes or doing housework--that," with the irrepressible curl of the corners of her lips, "was just as plain.
When you told me that fib about meeting my brother here last summer I was sure you had met him somewhere, probably at college. So in my next letter to him I described you as well as I could, mentioned that you were as good or a better swimmer than he, and asked for particulars. He answered that the only fellow he could think of who fitted your deion was 'Russ' Brooks--Russell, I suppose--of New York; though what Russ Brooks was doing as lightkeeper's assistant at Eastboro Twin-Lights he DIDN'T know. Neither did I.
But then, THAT was not my business."
The substitute assistant did not answer: he could not, on such short notice.
"So," continued the girl, "I felt almost as if I had known you for a long time. You and Horace were such good friends at college, and he had often told me of you. I was very glad to meet you in real life, especially here, where I had no one but Mrs. Bascom to talk to; Mr.
Atkins, by reason of his aversion to my unfortunate sex, being barred."
Mr. Brown's--or Mr. Brooks'--next speech harked back to her previous one.
"I'll tell you while I'm here," he began.
"You needn't, unless you wish," she said. "I have no right to know"--adding, with characteristic femininity, "though I'm dying to."
"But I want you to know. As I told Atkins when I first came, I haven't murdered anyone and I haven't stolen anything. I'm not a crook running from justice. I'm just a plain idiot who fell overboard from a steamer and"--bitterly--"hadn't the good luck to drown."
She made no comment, and he began his story, telling it much as he had told it to the lightkeeper.
"There!" he said in conclusion, "that's the whole fool business.
That's why I'm here. No need to ask what you think of it, I suppose."
She was silent, gazing at the breakers. He drew his own conclusions from her silence.
"I see," he said. "Well, I admit it. I'm a low down chump. Still, if I had it to do over again, I should do pretty much the same. A few things differently, but in general the very same."
"What would you do differently?" she asked, still without looking at him.
"For one thing, I wouldn't run away. I'd stay and face the music.
Earn my living or starve."
"And now you're going to stay here?"
"No longer than I can help. If I get the appointment as assistant keeper I'll begin to save every cent I can. Just as soon as I get enough to warrant risking it I'll head for Boston once more and begin the earning or starving process. And," with a snap of his jaws, "I don't intend to starve."
"You won't go back to your father?"
"If he sees fit to beg my pardon and acknowledge that I was right-- not otherwise. And he must do it of his own accord. I told him that when I walked out of his office. It was my contribution to our fond farewell. His was that he would see me damned first. Possibly he may."
She smiled.
"You must have been a charming pair of pepper pots," she observed.
"And the young lady--what of her?"
"She knows that I am fired, cut off even without the usual shilling.
That will be quite sufficient for her, I think."
"How do you know it will? How do you know she might not have been willing to wait while you earned that living you are so sure is coming?"
"Wait? She wait for me? Ann Davidson wait for a man without a cent while he tried to earn a good many dollars? Humph! you amuse me."
"Why not? You didn't give her a chance. You calmly took it for granted that she wanted only money and social position and you walked off and left her. How do you know she wouldn't have liked you better for telling her just how you felt. If a girl really cared for a man it seems to me that she would be willing to wait for him, years and years if it were necessary, provided that, during that time, he was trying his best for her."
"But--but--she isn't that kind of a girl."
"How do you know? You didn't put her to the test. You owed her that. It seems to me you owe it to her now."
The answer to this was on his tongue. It was ready behind his closed lips, eager to burst forth. That he didn't love the Davidson girl, never had loved her. That during the past month he had come to realize there was but one woman in the wide world for him. And did that woman mean what she said about waiting years--and years-- provided she cared? And did she care?
He didn't utter one word of this. He wanted to, but it seemed so preposterous. Such an idiotic, outrageous thing to ask. Yet it is probable that he would have asked it if the young lady had given him the chance. But she did not; after a sidelong glance at his face, she hurriedly rose from the rock and announced that she must be getting back to the house.
"I have some packing to do," she explained; "and, besides, I think it is going to rain."
"But, Miss Graham, I--"
A big drop of rain splashing upon his shoe confirmed the weather prophecy. She began to walk briskly toward the bungalow, and he walked at her side.
"Another storm," she said. "I should think the one we have just passed through was sufficient for a while. I hope Mrs. Bascom won't get wet."
"She has gone to the village, hasn't she?"
"Yes. She has received some message or other--I don't know how it came--which sent her off in a hurry. A livery carriage came for her. She will be back before night."
