THE WOMAN AT SEVEN BROTHERS.Best horror stories for adults.Read online

I tell you sir, I was innocent. I didn’t know any more about the world at twenty-two than some do at twelve. My uncle and aunt in Duxbury brought me up strict; I studied hard in high school, I worked hard after hours, and I went to church twice on Sundays, and I can’t see it’s right to put me in a place like this, with crazy people. Oh yes, I know they’re crazy—you can’t tell me. As for what they said in court about   nding her with her husband, that’s the Inspector’s lie, sir, because he’s down on me, and wants to make it look like my fault.

No, sir, I can’t say as I thought she was handsome—not at   rst. For one thing, her lips were too thin and white, and her color was bad. I’ll tell you a fact, sir; that   rst day I came o   to the Light I was sitting on my cot in the store-room (that’s where the assistant keeper sleeps at the Seven Brothers), as lonesome as I could be, away from home for the   rst time, and the water all around me, and, even though it was a calm day, pounding enough on the ledge to send a kind of a woom-woom-woom whining up through all that solid

rock of the tower. And when old Fedderson poked his head down from the living-room with the sunshine above making a kind of bright frame around his hair and whiskers, to give me a cheery, “Make yourself to home, son!” I remember I said to myself: “He’s all right. I’ll get along with him. But his wife’s enough to sour milk.” That was queer, because she was so much under him in age—’long about twenty-eight or so, and him nearer   fty. But that’s what I said, sir.

Of course that feeling wore o  , same as any feeling will wear o   sooner or later in a place like the Seven Brothers. Cooped up in a place like that you come to know folks so well that you forget what they do look like. There was a long time I never noticed her, any more than you’d notice the cat. We used to sit of an evening around the table, as if you were Fedderson there, and me here, and her somewhere back there, in the rocker, knitting. Fedderson would be working on his Jacob’s-ladder, and I’d be reading. He’d been working on that Jacob’s-ladder a year, I guess, and every time the Inspector came o   with the tender he was so astonished to see how good that ladder was that the old man would go to work and make it better. That’s all he lived for.

If I was reading, as I say, I daren’t take my eyes o   the book, or Fedderson had me. And then  he’d begin—what the Inspector said about him. How surprised the member of the board had been, that time, to see everything so clean about the light. What the Inspector had said about Fedderson’s being stuck here in a second-class light—best keeper on the coast. And so on and so on, till either he or I had to go aloft and have a look at the wicks.

He’d been there twenty-three years, all told, and he’d got used to the feeling that he was kept down unfair—so used to it, I guess, that he fed on it, and told himself how folks ashore would talk when he was dead and gone—best keeper on the coast—kept down unfair. Not that he said that to me. No, he was far

too loyal and humble and respectful, doing his duty without complaint, as anybody could see.

And all that time, night after night, hardly ever a word out of the woman. As I remember it, she seemed more like a piece of furniture than anything else— not even a very good cook, nor over and above tidy. One day, when he and I were trimming the lamp, he passed the remark that his  rst wife used to dust the lens and take a pride in it. Not that he said a word against Anna, though. He never said a word against any living mortal; he was too upright.

I don’t know how it came about; or, rather, I do know, but it was so sudden, and so far away from my thoughts, that it shocked me, like the world turned over. It was at prayers. That night I remember Fedderson was uncommon long-winded. We’d had a batch of newspapers out by the tender, and at such times the  old  man  always made  a  long watch  of  it,  getting the  world straightened out. For one thing, the United States minister to Turkey was dead. Well, from him and his soul, Fedderson got on to Turkey and the Presbyterian college there, and from that to heathen in general. He rambled on and on, like the surf on the ledge, woom-woom-woom, never coming to an end.

You know how you’ll be at prayers sometimes. My mind strayed. I counted the canes in the chair-seat where I was kneeling; I plaited a corner of the table- cloth between my   ngers for a spell, and by and by my eyes went wandering up the back of the chair.

The woman, sir, was looking at me. Her chair was back to mine, close, and both our heads were down in the shadow under the edge of the table, with Fedderson clear over on the other side by the stove. And there were her two eyes hunting mine between the spindles in the shadow. You won’t believe me, sir, but I tell you I felt like jumping to my feet and running out of the room—it was so queer.

I don’t know what her husband was praying about after that. His voice didn’t mean anything, no more than the seas on the ledge away down there. I went to work to count the canes in the seat again, but all my eyes were in the top of my head. It got so I couldn’t stand it. We were at the Lord’s prayer, saying it singsong together, when I had to look up again. And there her two eyes were, between the spindles, hunting mine. Just then all of us were saying, “Forgive us our trespasses—” I thought of it afterward.

When we got up she was turned the other way, but I couldn’t help seeing her cheeks were red. It was terrible. I wondered if Fedderson would notice, though I might have known he wouldn’t—not him. He was in too much of a hurry to get at his Jacob’s-ladder, and then he had to tell me for the tenth time what the Inspector’d said that day about getting him another light—Kingdom Come, maybe, he said.

I made some excuse or other and got away. Once in the store-room, I sat down on my cot and stayed there a long time, feeling queerer than anything. I read a chapter in the Bible, I don’t know why. After I’d got my boots o   I sat with them in my hands for as much as an hour, I guess, staring at the oil-tank and its lopsided shadow on the wall. I tell you, sir, I was shocked. I was only twenty-two remember, and I was shocked and horri  ed.

And when I did turn in,  nally, I didn’t sleep at all well. Two or three times I came to, sitting straight up in bed. Once I got up and opened the outer door to have a look. The water was like glass, dim, without a breath of wind, and the moon just going down. Over on the black shore I made out two lights in a village, like a pair of eyes watching. Lonely? My, yes! Lonely and nervous. I had a horror of her, sir. The dinghy-boat hung on its davits just there in front of the door, and for a minute I had an awful hankering to climb into it, lower away, and row o  , no matter where. It sounds foolish.

Well, it seemed foolish next morning, with the sun shining and everything as usual—Fedderson sucking his pen and wagging his head over his eternal “log,” and his wife down in the rocker with her head in the newspaper, and her breakfast  work still waiting. I guess that  jarred it out  of  me  more  than anything else—sight of her slouched down there, with her stringy, yellow hair and her dusty apron and the pale back of her neck, reading the Society Notes. Society Notes! Think of it! For the   rst time since I came to Seven Brothers I wanted to laugh.

I guess I did laugh when I went aloft to clean the lamp and found everything so free and breezy, gulls   ying high and little whitecaps making under a westerly. It was like feeling a big load dropped o   your shoulders. Fedderson came up with his dust-rag and cocked his head at me,

“What’s the matter, Ray?” said he.

“Nothing,” said I. And then I couldn’t help it. “Seems kind of out of place for

Society Notes,” said I, “out here at Seven Brothers.”

He was the other side of the lens, and when he looked at me he had a thousand eyes, all sober. For a minute I thought he was going on dusting, but then he came out and sat down on a sill.

“Sometimes,” said he, “I get to thinking it may be a mite dull for her out here. She’s pretty young, Ray. Not much more’n a girl, hardly.”

“Not much more’n a girl!” It gave me a turn, sir, as though I’d seen my aunt in short dresses.

“It’s a good home for her, though,” he went on slow. “I’ve seen a lot worse ashore, Ray. Of course if I could get a shore light—”

“Kingdom Come’s a shore light.”

He looked at me out of his deep-set eyes, and then he turned them around the light-room, where he’d been so long.

“No,” said he, wagging his head. “It ain’t for such as me.”

I never saw so humble a man.

“But look here,” he went on, more cheerful. “As I was telling her just now, a month from yesterday’s our fourth anniversary, and I’m going to take her ashore for the day and give her a holiday—new hat and everything. A girl wants a mite of excitement now and then, Ray.”

There it was again, that  “girl.” It gave me the   dgets, sir. I had to do something about it. It’s close quarters for last names in a light, and I’d taken to calling him Uncle Matt soon after I came. Now, when I was at table that noon I spoke over to where she was standing by the stove, getting him another help of chowder.

“I guess I’ll have some, too, Aunt Anna,” said I, matter of fact.

She never said a word nor gave a sign—just stood there kind of round- shouldered, dipping the chowder. And that night at prayers I hitched my chair around the table, with its back the other way.

You  get awful  lazy in a lighthouse, some ways. No matter  how  much tinkering you’ve got, there’s still a lot of time and there’s such a thing as too much reading. The changes in weather get monotonous, too, by and by; the light burns the same on a thick night as it does on a fair one. Of course there’s the ships, north-bound, south-bound—wind-jammers, freighters, passenger- boats full of people. In the watches at night you can see their lights go by, and wonder what they are, how they’re laden, where they’ll fetch up, and all. I used to do that almost every evening when it was my   rst watch, sitting out on the walk-around up there with my legs hanging over the edge and my chin propped on the railing—lazy. The Boston boat was the prettiest to see, with her three tiers of port-holes lit, like a string of pearls wrapped round and round a woman’s neck—well away, too, for the ledge must have made a couple of hundred fathoms o   the Light, like a white dog-tooth of a breaker, even on the darkest night.

Well, I was lolling there one night, as I say, watching the Boston boat go by, not thinking of anything special, when I heard the door on the other side of the tower open and footsteps coming around to me.

By and by I nodded toward the boat and passed the remark that she was fetching in uncommon close to-night. No answer. I made nothing of that, for oftentimes  Fedderson wouldn’t  answer,  and  after  I’d  watched  the  lights crawling on through the dark a spell, just to make conversation I said I guessed there’d be a bit of weather before long.

“I’ve noticed,” said I, “when there’s weather coming on, and the wind in the northeast, you can hear the orchestra playing aboard of her just over there. I make it out now. Do you?”

“Yes. Oh—yes—! I hear it all right!”

You can imagine I started. It wasn’t him, but her. And there was something in the way she said that  speech, sir—something—well—unnatural.  Like a hungry animal snapping at a person’s hand.

I turned and looked at her sidewise. She was standing by the railing, leaning a little outward, the top of her from the waist picked out bright by the lens behind her. I didn’t know what in the world to say, and yet I had a feeling I ought not to sit there mum.

“I wonder,” said I, “what that captain’s thinking of, fetching in so handy to- night. It’s no way. I tell you, if ’twasn’t for this light, she’d go to work and pile up on the ledge some thick night—” She turned at that and stared straight into the lens. I didn’t like the look of her face. Somehow, with its edges cut hard all around and its two eyes closed down to slits, like a cat’s, it made a kind of mask.

“And then,” I went on, uneasy enough—“and then where’d all their music be of a sudden, and their goings-on and their singing—”

“And dancing!” She clipped me o   so quick it took my breath.

“D-d-dancing?” said I.

“That’s dance-music,” said she. She was looking at the boat again. “How do you know?” I felt I had to keep on talking.

Well, sir—she laughed. I looked at her. She had on a shawl of some stu   or other that shined in the light; she had it pulled tight around her with her two hands in front at her breast, and I saw her shoulders swaying in tune.

“How do I know?” she cried. Then she laughed again, the same kind of a laugh. It was queer, sir, to see her, and to hear her. She turned, as quick as that, and leaned toward me. “Don’t you know how to dance, Ray?” said she.

“N-no,” I managed, and I was going to say “Aunt Anna,” but the thing choked in my throat.

I tell you she was looking square at me all the time with her two eyes and moving with the music as if she didn’t know it. By heavens, sir, it came over me of a sudden that she wasn’t so bad-looking, after all. I guess I must have sounded like a fool.

“You—you see,” said I, “she’s cleared the rip there now, and the music’s gone. You—you hear?”

“Yes,” said she, turning back slow. “That’s where it stops every night—night after night—it stops just there—at the rip.”

When she spoke again her voice was di erent. I never heard the like of it, thin and taut as a thread. It made me shiver, sir.

“I hate ’em!” That’s what she said. “I hate ’em all. I’d like to see ’em dead. I’d love to see ’em torn apart on the rocks, night after night. I could bathe my hands in their blood, night after night.”

And do you know, sir, I saw it with my own eyes, her hands moving in each other above the rail. But it was her voice, though. I didn’t know what to do, or what to say, so I poked my head through the railing and looked down at the

water. I don’t think I’m a coward, sir, but it was like a cold—ice-cold—hand, taking hold of my beating heart.

When I looked up   nally, she was gone. By and by I went in and had a look at the lamp, hardly knowing what I was about. Then, seeing by my watch it was time for the old man to come on duty, I started to go below. In the Seven Brothers, you understand, the stair goes down in a spiral through  a well against the south wall and  rst there’s the door to the keeper’s room and then you come to another, and that’s the living-room, and then down to the store- room. And at night, if you don’t carry a lantern, it’s as black as the pit.

Well, down I went, sliding my hand along the rail, and as usual I stopped to give a rap on the keeper’s door, in case he was taking a nap after supper. Sometimes he did.

I stood there, blind as a bat, with my mind still up on the walk-around. There was no answer to my knock. I hadn’t expected any. Just from habit, and with my right foot already hanging down for the next step, I reached out to give the door one more tap for luck.

Do you know, sir, my hand didn’t fetch up on anything. The door had been there a second before, and now the door wasn’t there. My hand just went on going through the dark, on and on, and I didn’t seem to have sense or power enough to stop it. There didn’t seem any air in the well to breathe, and my ears were drumming to the surf—that’s how scared I was. And then my hand touched the   esh of a face, and something in the dark said, “Oh!” no louder than a sigh.

Next thing I knew, sir, I was down in the living-room, warm and yellow-lit, with Fedderson cocking his head at me across the table, where he was at that eternal Jacob’s-ladder of his.

“What’s the matter, Ray?” said he. “Lord’s sake, Ray!”

“Nothing,” said I. Then I think I told him I was sick. That night I wrote a letter to A.L. Peters, the grain-dealer in Duxbury, asking for a job—even though it wouldn’t go ashore for a couple of weeks, just the writing of it made me feel better.

It’s hard to tell you how those two weeks went by. I don’t know why, but I felt like hiding in a corner all the time. I had to come to meals, but I didn’t look at her, though, not once, unless it was by accident. Fedderson thought I was still ailing and nagged me to death with advice and so on. One thing I took care not to do, I can tell you, and that was to knock on his door till I’d made certain he wasn’t below in the living-room—though I was tempted to.

Yes, sir; that’s a queer thing, and I wouldn’t tell you if I hadn’t set out to give you the truth. Night after night, stopping there on the landing in that black pit, the air gone out of my lungs and the surf drumming in my ears and sweat standing cold on my neck—and one hand lifting up in the air—God forgive me, sir! Maybe I did wrong not to look at her more, drooping about her work in her gingham apron, with her hair stringing.

When the Inspector came o   with the tender, that time, I told him I was through. That’s when he took the dislike to me, I guess, for he looked at me kind of sneering and said, soft as I was, I’d have to put up with it till next relief. And then,  said he, there’d be a whole house-cleaning at Seven  Brothers, because he’d gotten Fedderson the berth at Kingdom Come. And with that he slapped the old man on the back.

I wish you could have seen Fedderson, sir. He sat down on my cot as if his knees had given ’way. Happy? You’d think he’d be happy, with all his dreams come true. Yes, he was happy, beaming all over—for a minute. Then, sir, he began to shrivel up. It was like seeing a man cut down in his prime before your eyes. He began to wag his head.

“No,” said he. “No, no; it’s not for such as me. I’m good enough for Seven

Brothers, and that’s all, Mr. Bayliss. That’s all.”

And for all the Inspector could say, that’s what he stuck to. He’d   gured himself a martyr so many years, nursed that injustice like a mother with her rst-born, sir; and now in his old age, so to speak, they weren’t to rob him of it. Fedderson was going to wear out his life in a second-class light, and folks would talk—that was his idea. I heard him hailing down as the tender was casting o  :

“See you to-morrow, Mr. Bayliss. Yep. Coming ashore with the wife for a spree. Anniversary. Yep.”

But he didn’t sound much like a spree. They had robbed him, partly, after all. I wondered what she thought about it. I didn’t know till night. She didn’t show up to supper, which Fedderson and I got ourselves—had a headache, he said. It was my early watch. I went and lit up and came back to read a spell. He was nishing o    the  Jacob’s-ladder,  and  thoughtful,  like a  man  that’s  lost a treasure. Once or twice I caught him looking about the room on the sly. It was pathetic, sir.

Going up the second time, I stepped out on the walk-around to have a look at things. She was there on the seaward side, wrapped in that silky thing. A fair sea was running across the ledge and it was coming on a little thick—not too thick. O   to the right the Boston boat was blowing, whroom-whroom! Creeping up on us, quarter-speed. There was another fellow behind her, and a sherman’s conch farther o  shore.

I don’t know why, but I stopped beside her and leaned on the rail. She didn’t appear to notice me, one way or another. We stood and we stood, listening to the whistles, and the longer we stood the more it got on my nerves, her not noticing me. I suppose she’d been too much on my mind lately. I began to be put out. I scraped my feet. I coughed. By and by I said out loud:

“Look here, I guess I better get out the fog-horn and give those fellows a toot.”

“Why?” said she, without moving her head—calm as that.

“Why?” It gave me a turn, sir. For a minute I stared at her. “Why? Because if she don’t pick up this light before very many minutes she’ll be too close in to wear—tide’ll have her on the rocks—that’s why!”

I couldn’t see her face, but I could see one of her silk shoulders lift a little, like a shrug. And there I kept on staring at her, a dumb one, sure enough. I know what brought me to was hearing the Boston boat’s three sharp toots as she picked up the light—mad as anything—and swung her helm a-port.  I turned away from her, sweat stringing down my face, and walked around to the door. It was just as well, too, for the feed-pipe was plugged in the lamp and the wicks were popping. She’d have been out in another   ve minutes, sir.

When I’d   nished, I saw that woman standing in the doorway. Her eyes were bright. I had a horror of her, sir, a living horror.

“If only the light had been out,” said she, low and sweet.

“God forgive you,” said I. “You don’t know what you’re saying.” She went down the stair into the well, winding out of sight, and as long as I could see her, her eyes were watching mine. When I went, myself, after a few minutes, she was waiting for me on that   rst landing, standing still in the dark. She took hold of my hand, though I tried to get it away.

“Good-by,” said she in my ear.

“Good-by?” said I. I didn’t understand.

“You heard what he said to-day—about Kingdom Come? Be it so—on his own head. I’ll never come back here. Once I set foot ashore—I’ve got friends in Brightonboro, Ray.”

I got away from her and started on down. But I stopped. “Brightonboro?” I

whispered back. “Why do you tell me?” My  throat was raw to the words, like a

sore.

“So you’d know,” said she.

Well, sir, I saw them o   next morning, down that new Jacob’s-ladder into the dinghy-boat, her in a dress of blue velvet and him in his best cutaway and derby—rowing away, smaller and smaller, the two of them. And then I went back and sat on my cot, leaving the door open and the ladder still hanging down the wall, along with the boat-falls.

I don’t know whether it was relief, or what. I suppose I must have been worked up even more than I’d thought those past weeks, for now it was all over I was like a rag. I got down on my knees, sir, and prayed to God for the salvation of my soul, and when I got up and climbed to the living-room it was half past twelve by the clock. There was rain on the windows and the sea was running blue-black under the sun. I’d sat there all that time not knowing there was a squall.

It was funny; the glass stood high, but those black squalls kept coming and going all afternoon, while I was at work up in the light-room. And I worked hard, to keep myself busy. First thing I knew it was   ve, and no sign of the boat yet. It began to get dim and kind of purplish-gray over the land. The sun was down. I lit up, made everything snug, and got out the night-glasses to have another look for that boat. He’d said he intended to get back before   ve. No sign. And then, standing there, it came over me that of course he wouldn’t be coming o  —he’d be hunting her, poor old fool. It looked like I had to stand two men’s watches that night.

Never mind. I felt like myself again, even if I hadn’t had any dinner or supper. Pride came to me that night on the walk-around, watching the boats go by— little boats, big boats, the Boston boat with all her pearls and her dance-music. They couldn’t see me; they didn’t know who I was; but to the last of them,

they depended on me. They say a man must be born again. Well, I was born again. I breathed deep in the wind.

Dawn broke hard and red as a dying coal. I put out the light and started to go below. Born again; yes, sir. I felt so good I whistled in the well, and when I came to the   rst door on the stair I reached out in the dark to give it a rap for luck. And then, sir, the hair prickled all over my scalp, when I found my hand just going on and on through the air, the same as it had gone once before, and all of a sudden I wanted to yell, because I thought I was going to touch   esh. It’s funny what their just forgetting to close their door did to me, isn’t it?

Well, I reached for the latch and pulled it to with a bang and ran down as if a ghost was after me. I got up some co  ee and bread and bacon for breakfast. I drank the co  ee. But somehow I couldn’t eat, all along of that open door. The light in the room was blood. I got to thinking. I thought how she’d talked about those men, women, and children on the rocks, and how she’d made to bathe her hands over the rail. I almost jumped out of my chair then; it seemed for a wink she was there beside the stove watching me with that queer half- smile—really, I seemed to see her for a   ash across the red table-cloth in the red light of dawn.

“Look here!” said I to myself, sharp enough; and then I gave myself a good laugh and went below. There I took a look out of the door, which was still open, with the ladder hanging down. I made sure to see the poor old fool come pulling around the point before very long now.

My boots were hurting a little, and, taking them o  , I lay down on the cot to rest, and somehow I went to sleep. I had horrible dreams. I saw her again standing in that blood-red kitchen, and she seemed to be washing her hands, and the surf on the ledge was whining up the tower, louder and louder all the time, and what it whined was, “Night after night—night after night.” What woke me was cold water in my face.

The store-room was in gloom. That scared me at   rst; I thought night had come, and remembered the light. But then I saw the gloom was of a storm. The   oor was shining wet, and the water in my face was spray,   ung up through the open door. When I ran to close it, it almost made me dizzy to see the gray-and-white breakers marching past. The land was gone; the sky shut down heavy overhead; there was a piece of wreckage on the back of a swell, and the Jacob’s-ladder was carried clean away. How that sea had picked up so quick I can’t think. I looked at my watch and it wasn’t four in the afternoon yet.

When I closed the door, sir, it was almost dark in the store-room. I’d never been in the Light before in a gale of wind. I wondered why I was shivering so, till I found it was the    oor below me shivering, and the walls and stair. Horrible crunchings and grindings ran away up the tower, and now and then there was a great thud somewhere, like a cannon-shot in a cave. I tell you, sir, I was alone, and I was in a mortal fright for a minute or so. And yet I had to get myself together. There was the light up there not tended to, and an early dark coming on and a heavy night and all, and I had to go. And I had to pass that door.

You’ll say it’s foolish, sir, and maybe it was foolish. Maybe it was because I hadn’t eaten. But I began thinking of that door up there the minute I set foot on the stair, and all the way up through that howling dark well I dreaded to pass it. I told myself I wouldn’t stop. I didn’t stop. I felt the landing underfoot and I went on, four steps,  ve—and then I couldn’t. I turned and went back. I put out my hand and it went on into nothing. That door, sir, was open again.

I left it be; I went on up to the light-room and set to work. It was Bedlam there, sir, screeching Bedlam, but I took no notice. I kept my eyes down. I trimmed those seven wicks, sir, as neat as ever they were trimmed; I polished the brass till it shone, and I dusted the lens. It wasn’t till that was done that I

let myself look back to see who it was standing there, half out of sight in the well. It was her, sir.

“Where’d you come from?” I asked. I remember my voice was sharp. “Up Jacob’s-ladder,” said she, and hers was like the syrup of   owers.

I shook my head. I was savage, sir. “The ladder’s carried away.” “I cast it o  ,” said she, with a smile.

“Then,” said I, “you must have come while I was asleep.” Another thought came on me heavy as a ton of lead. “And where’s he?” said I. “Where’s the boat?”

“He’s drowned,” said she, as easy as that. “And I let the boat go adrift. You wouldn’t hear me when I called.”

“But look here,” said I. “If you came through the store-room, why didn’t you wake me up? Tell me that!” It sounds foolish enough, me standing like a lawyer in court, trying to prove she couldn’t be there.

She didn’t answer for a moment. I guess she sighed, though I couldn’t hear for the gale, and her eyes grew soft, sir, so soft.

“I couldn’t,” said she. “You looked so peaceful—dear one.”

My cheeks and neck went hot, sir, as if a warm iron was laid on them. I didn’t know what to say. I began to stammer, “What do you mean—” but she was going back down the stair, out of sight. My God sir, and I used not to think she was good-looking!

I started to follow her. I wanted to know what she meant. Then I said to myself,  “If I don’t go—if I wait here—she’ll come back.” And I went to the weather side and stood looking out of the window. Not that there was much to see. It was growing dark, and the Seven Brothers looked like the mane of a running horse, a great, vast, white horse running into the wind. The air was a- welter with it. I caught one peep of a   sherman, lying down   at trying to

weather the ledge, and I said, “God help them all to-night,” and then I went hot at sound of that “God.”

I was right about her, though. She was back again. I wanted her to speak rst, before I turned, but she wouldn’t. I didn’t hear her go out; I didn’t know what  she was up  to  till I saw her  coming outside on  the  walk-around, drenched wet already. I pounded on the glass for her to come in and not be a fool; if she heard she gave no sign of it.

There she stood, and there I stood watching her. Lord, sir—was it just that I’d never had eyes to see? Or are there women who bloom? Her clothes were shining on her, like a carving, and her hair was let down like a golden curtain tossing and streaming in the gale, and there she stood with her lips half open, drinking, and  her  eyes half  closed, gazing straight away over  the  Seven Brothers, and her shoulders swaying, as if in tune with the wind and water and all the ruin. And when I looked at her hands over the rail, sir, they were moving in each other as if they bathed, and then I remembered, sir.

A cold horror took me. I knew now why she had come back again. She wasn’t a woman—she was a devil. I turned my back on her. I said to myself: “It’s time to light up. You’ve got to light up”—like that, over and over, out loud. My hand was shivering so I could hardly   nd a match; and when I scratched it, it only   ared a second and then went out in the back draught from the open door. She was standing in the doorway, looking at me. It’s queer, sir, but I felt like a child caught in mischief.

“I—I—was going to light up,” I managed to say,  nally. “Why?” said she. No, I can’t say it as she did.

“Why?” said I. “My God!”

She came nearer, laughing, as if with pity, low, you know. “Your God? And who is your God? What is God? What is anything on a night like this?”

I drew back from her. All I could say anything about was the light.

“Why not the dark?” said she. “Dark is softer than light—tenderer—dearer than light. From the dark up here, away up here in the wind and storm, we can watch the ships go by, you and I. And you love me so. You’ve loved me so long, Ray.”

“I never have!” I struck out at her. “I don’t! I don’t!”

Her voice was lower than ever, but there was the same laughing pity in it. “Oh yes, you have.” And she was near me again.

“I have?” I yelled.  “I’ll show you! I’ll show you if I have!”

I got another match, sir, and scratched it on the brass. I gave it to the   rst wick, the little wick that’s inside all the others. It bloomed like a yellow  ower. “I have?” I yelled, and gave it to the next.

Then there was a shadow, and I saw she was leaning beside me, her two elbows on the brass, her two arms stretched out above the wicks, her bare forearms and wrists and hands. I gave a gasp:

“Take care! You’ll burn them! For God’s sake—”

She didn’t move or speak. The match burned my   ngers and went out, and all I could do was stare at those arms of hers, helpless. I’d never noticed her arms before. They were rounded and graceful and covered with a soft down, like a breath of gold. Then I heard her speaking close to my ear.

“Pretty arms,” she said. “Pretty arms!”

I turned. Her eyes were   xed on mine. They seemed heavy, as if with sleep, and yet between their lids they were two wells, deep and deep, and as if they held all the things I’d ever thought or dreamed in them. I looked away from them, at her lips. Her lips were red as poppies, heavy with redness. They moved, and I heard them speaking:

“Poor boy, you love me so, and you want to kiss me—don’t you?”

“No,” said I. But I couldn’t turn around. I looked at her hair. I’d always thought it was stringy hair. Some hair curls naturally with damp, they say, and

perhaps that was it, for there were pearls of wet on it, and it was thick and shimmering around her face, making soft shadows by the temples. There was green in it, queer strands of green like braids.

“What is it?” said I.

“Nothing but weed,” said she, with that slow, sleepy smile.

Somehow or other I felt calmer than I had any time. “Look here,” said I. “I’m going to light this lamp.” I took out a match, scratched it, and touched the third wick. The   ame ran around, bigger than the other two together. But still her arms hung there. I bit my lip. “By God, I will!” said I to myself, and I lit the fourth.

It was   erce, sir,   erce! And yet those arms never trembled. I had to look around at her. Her eyes were still looking into mine, so deep and deep, and her red lips were still smiling with that queer, sleepy droop; the only thing was that tears were raining down her cheeks—big, glowing round, jewel tears. It wasn’t human, sir. It was like a dream.

“Pretty arms,” she sighed, and then, as if those words had broken something in her heart, there came a great sob bursting from her lips. To hear it drove me mad. I reached to drag her away, but she was too quick, sir; she cringed from me and slipped out from between my hands. It was like she faded away, sir, and went down in a bundle, nursing her poor arms and mourning over them with those terrible, broken sobs.

The sound of them took the manhood out of me—you’d  have been the same, sir. I knelt down beside her on the   oor and covered my face.

“Please!” I moaned. “Please! Please!” That’s all I could say. I wanted her to forgive me. I reached out a hand, blind, for forgiveness, and I couldn’t   nd her anywhere. I had hurt her so, and she was afraid of me, of me, sir, who loved her so deep it drove me crazy.

I could see her down the stair, though it was dim and my eyes were   lled with tears. I stumbled after her, crying, “Please! Please!” The little wicks I’d lit were blowing in the wind from the door and smoking the glass beside them black. One went out. I pleaded with them, the same as I would plead with a human being. I said I’d be back in a second. I promised. And I went on down the stair, crying like a baby because I’d hurt her, and she was afraid of me—of me, sir.

She had gone into her room. The door was closed against me and I could hear her sobbing beyond it, broken-hearted. My heart was broken too. I beat on the door with my palms. I begged her to forgive me. I told her I loved her. And all the answer was that sobbing in the dark.

And then I lifted the latch and went in, groping, pleading. “Dearest—please! Because I love you!”

I heard her speak down near the   oor. There wasn’t any anger in her voice;

nothing but sadness and despair.

“No,” said she. “You don’t love me, Ray. You never have.” “I do! I have!”

“No, no,” said she, as if she was tired out.

“Where are you?” I was groping for her. I thought, and lit a match. She had got to the door and was standing there as if ready to   y. I went toward her, and she made me stop. She took my breath away. “I hurt your arms,” said I, in a dream.

“No,” said she, hardly moving her lips. She held them out to the match’s light for me to look and there was never a scar on them—not even that soft, golden down was singed, sir. “You  can’t hurt  my body,” said she, sad as anything. “Only my heart, Ray; my poor heart.”

I tell you again, she took my breath away. I lit another match. “How can you be so beautiful?” I wondered.

She answered in riddles—but oh, the sadness of her, sir. “Because,” said she, “I’ve always so wanted to be.”

“How come your eyes so heavy?” said I.

“Because I’ve seen so many things I never dreamed of,” said she. “How come your hair so thick?”

“It’s the seaweed makes it thick,” said she smiling queer, queer. “How come seaweed there?”

“Out of the bottom of the sea.”

She talked in riddles, but it was like poetry to hear her, or a song. “How come your lips so red?” said I.

“Because they’ve wanted so long to be kissed.”

Fire was on me, sir. I reached out to catch her, but she was gone, out of the door and down the stair. I followed, stumbling. I must have tripped on the turn, for I remember going through the air and fetching up with a crash, and I didn’t know anything for a spell—how long I can’t say. When I came to, she was there, somewhere, bending over me, crooning, “My love—my love—” under her breath like, a song.

But then when I got up, she was not where my arms went; she was down the stair again, just ahead of me. I followed her. I was tottering and dizzy and full of pain. I tried to catch up with her in the dark of the store-room, but she was too quick for me, sir, always a little too quick for me. Oh, she was cruel to me, sir. I kept bumping against things, hurting myself still worse, and it was cold and wet and a horrible noise all the while, sir; and then, sir, I found the door was open, and a sea had parted the hinges.

I don’t know how it all went, sir. I’d tell you if I could, but it’s all so blurred— sometimes it seems more like a dream. I couldn’t   nd her any more; I couldn’t hear her; I went all over, everywhere. Once, I remember, I found myself hanging out of that door between the davits, looking down into those big

black seas and crying like a baby. It’s all riddles and blur. I can’t seem to tell you much, sir. It was all—all—I don’t know.

I was talking to somebody else—not her. It was the Inspector. I hardly knew it was the Inspector. His face was as gray as a blanket, and his eyes were bloodshot, and his lips were twisted. His left wrist hung down, awkward. It was broken coming aboard the Light in that sea. Yes, we were in the living- room. Yes, sir, it was daylight—gray daylight. I tell you, sir, the man looked crazy to me. He was waving his good arm toward the weather windows, and what he was saying, over and over, was this:

“Look what you done, damn you! Look what you done!” And what I was saying was this:

“I’ve lost her!”

I didn’t pay any attention to him, nor him to me. By and by he did, though. He stopped his talking all of a sudden, and his eyes looked like the devil’s eyes. He put them up close to mine. He grabbed my arm with his good hand, and I cried, I was so weak.

“Johnson,” said he, “is that it? By the living God—if you got a woman out here, Johnson!”

“No,” said I. “I’ve lost her.” “What do you mean—lost her?”

“It was dark,” said I—and it’s funny how my head was clearing up—“and the door was open—the store-room door—and I was after her—and I guess she stumbled, maybe—and I lost her.”

“Johnson,” said he, “what do you mean? You sound crazy—downright crazy. Who?”

“Her,” said I. “Fedderson’s wife.” “Who?”

“Her,” said I. And with that he gave my arm another jerk.

“Listen,” said he, like a tiger. “Don’t try that on me. It won’t do any good— that kind of lies—not where you’re going to. Fedderson and his wife, too—the both of ’em’s drowned deader ’n a door-nail.”

“I know,” said I, nodding my head. I was so calm it made him wild.

“You’re crazy! Crazy as a loon, Johnson!” And he was chewing his lip red. “I know, because it was me that found the old man laying on Back Water Flats yesterday morning—me! And she’d been with him in the boat, too, because he had a piece of her jacket tore o  , tangled in his arm.”

“I know,” said I, nodding again, like that.

“You know what, you crazy, murdering fool?” Those were his words to me, sir. “I know,” said I, “what I know.”

“And I know,” said he, “what I know.”

And there you are, sir. He’s Inspector. I’m—nobody.