“I'm sorry, Atkins,” he observed, slowly; “and I certainly do sympathize with you. But—but, as I said, 'I guess you'll have to hire another boy!'”
“What? What do you mean?”
“I mean that you're not the only woman-hater on the beach.”
“Hey? Has a woman given YOU the go by?”
“No. The other way around, if anything. Look here, Atkins! I'm not in the habit of discussing my private affairs with acquaintances, but you've been frank with me—and well, hang it! I've got to talk to somebody. At least, I feel that way just now. Let's suppose a case. Suppose you were a young fellow not long out of college—a young fellow whose mother was dead and whose dad was rich, and head over heels in money-making, and with the idea that his will was no more to be disputed than a law of the Almighty. Just suppose that, will you?”
“Huh! Well, 'twill be hard supposin', but I'll try. Heave ahead.”
“Suppose that you'd never been used to working or supporting yourself. Had a position, a nominal one, in your dad's office but absolutely no responsibility, all the money you wanted, and so on. Suppose because your father wanted you to—and HER people felt the same—you had become engaged to a girl, a nice enough girl, too, in her way. But, then suppose that little by little you came to realize that her way wasn't yours. You and she liked each other well enough, but the whole thing was a family arrangement, a money arrangement, a perfectly respectable, buy-and-sell affair. That and nothing else. And the more you thought about it, the surer you felt that it was so. But when you told your governor he got on his ear and sailed into you, and you sailed back, until finally he swore that you should either marry that girl or he'd throw you out of his house and office to root for yourself. What would you do?”
“Hey? Land sakes! I don't know. I always HAD to root, so I ain't a competent judge. Go on, you've got me interested.”
“Well, I said I'd root, that's all. But I didn't have the nerve to go and tell the girl. The engagement had been announced, and all that, and I knew what a mess it would make for her. I sat in my room, among the things I was packing in my grip to take with me, and thought and thought. If I went to her there would be a scene. If I said I had been disinherited she would want to know why—naturally. I had quarreled with the governor—yes, but why? Then I should have to tell her the real reason: I didn't want to marry her or anybody else on such a bargain-counter basis. That seemed such a rotten thing to say, and she might ask why it had taken me such a long time to find it out. No, I just COULDN'T tell her that. So, after my think was over, I wrote her a note saying that my father and I had had a disagreement and he had chucked me out, or words to that effect. Naturally, under the circumstances, marriage was out of the question, and I released her from the engagement. Good by and good luck—or something similar. I mailed the letter and left the town the next morning.”
He paused. The lightkeeper made no comment. After a moment the young man continued.