 8 Susan Jane's Funeral cast all other events into the shade. It was the all-important topic of conversation and interest. David alone really grieved for her. The others had suffered too keenly from Susan's tongue and complaints to feel any honest sorrow in her passing. Her giving them the opportunity for so comfortable in gratifying a funeral was, perhaps, the one thing she could have done to cause them to respect her memory. Janet saw poor departed Susan in a belated halo of romance, and Janet was in the mood to be deeply touched. She no longer saw Susan old, helpless, and ugly, full of small meannesses or sour criticism. She saw her only as the young girl, little older than herself, for whom long ago William Henry had always a smile and a gentle nickname. It was beautiful to the troubled-touched girl of the dunes to think that the old lover came back for his sweetheart and paused, before claiming his treasure, to thank poor Davy for his years of patient love and service. And he understands, I know, Janet murmured, placing some autumn flowers near Susan Jane. He is glad that dear Davy could have the joy that seemed to us all a burden. That's the way it is when the former things have passed away. The girl's tears fell among the flowers. Such things do not matter, then, but here they do. Oh, they matter most of all. Mrs. Joe G., her borders gone, and her body weary from the summer strain, gathered her neglected social charms together for Susan Jane's funeral. There would be a reunion of all Quinton that day. There would be a repast worthy of the minister's donation. Eliza Jane Smith had offered her services as housekeeper, pro tem. And a mercy, too, snapped Mrs. Joe G., lapping a plaid shirt waist over her scrawny chest. Janet's bout as useful as such times as a flounder. Lord save us! How I have fell away this season! We've cleared two hundred dollars, and about all my heft! Mod Grace! Yes, ma! Mod Grace appeared, bleached out and thin, her eyes red from weeping, and her voice shaky. What in land's name is the matter with you? Mrs. Joe G. paused to gaze at the sodden face of the girl she had sacrificed much for during the season. Susan Jane, faltered Mod. You ain't mourning for her, are you? No, ma'am, but I don't want to get to her burying. I ain't got no appetite for corpses. They always make me faint. Well, you're going, faint or no faint. So look after the children and get them ready. Land of love, I should think the sound of the stillness up at the light, or Susan Jane's clatter, would about knock David out. I will say for him that he's earned his reward. Do stop snivelling, Mod Grace. You look as if you, instead of me, had frizzled over the cook's stove all summer. It's bad enough to think you didn't land a bow, without looking as if you felt it. That Janet's going on hasn't served her neither, but she ain't gonna gloat over you while you've got a ma working steery astray. You get into your best clothes and perk up a bit. You can boss it over Janet. Her name is a sound and symbol, or soon will be. She's got her mother in her strong. It's sort of rung out of me since Janet's acted up so, though I had meant to keep my own knowledge. I don't know if she's done anything much, ma. Just traipsed on the hill some and turned her nose up at borders mostly. Mr. Fitch said, a weak color flushed Mod's face for an instant, Mr. Fitch said she felt herself high and mighty. But that ain't no crime. Mr. Fitch's name was one with which to conjure in the Gordon household. Like as not, he was running after her. Mrs. Joe G. was adjusting her memorial pin, a dreary piece of jewelry, composed of the hair from the heads of several dead and gone relatives. But Janet wasn't after his kind. She was a model. The woman whispered this information, glancing hurriedly at the small children whom Mod was now getting into their clothes. What's that? whispered the girl in return. The hints about Janet were gathering force in order to break after the excitement of the funeral was over. But Mod, with anxieties of her own, had heated them but slightly until now. It's a thing no Quintenite ain't gonna stand for, quivered Mrs. Joe G. Tain't proper. I guess Captain Billy had better have kept her over to the station. But what is it? insisted Mod. Her voice almost drowned in the shriek of one of the twins, whose long thin hair she had jerked by way of emphasis. Under cover of the scream, the mother replied, Tain't fit to talk about for a self-respecting girl. But I don't want you should have anything to do with Janet after today. Spell it, pleaded Mod, shaking her younger sister into a sobful semi-silence. F-I-G-G-E-R, spelled Mrs. Joe G. in an ominous murmur. Mod graces flat, expressionless face took on a really imbecile blankness. Figure, she repeated over and over, figure, that's worse to understand than Model. I don't see why you can't talk plain talk, Ma. Cos I told you, whisper or shoutin', Tain't the thing for plain talk. But I wanted to give you a weapon in case Janet takes to crowin' over you, and she ain't above it. She's worse off than you be. With this Mrs. Joe G. marshalled her host and set out for the light. It was late in the day, after poor Susan Jane had been laid away in the little graveyard back of the White Church, that David slowly mounted the lighthouse stairs, pausing as usual upon every landing. There was no song upon his lips now. For the first time in thirty years Davy felt that song was impossible. All smiling and many colored, the landscape spread before him at every opening, but the man sighed without the laugh. The higher up I get, he panted, it seems I feel heavier-hearted. I ain't got nothing now, nor ever more shall have. I've had my turn, and when I've reached other side I can't expect poor William Henry to share her with me. Thirty years I had her, and of course I can't complain. I ought to be thankful William Henry didn't begrudge me them years. And I am thankful. Yes, I am thankful. And somehow I believe the good God ain't going to let my heaven be blighted. In some way he's going to set it straight for us three over there. Maybe Susan Jane'll kind of hanker after the care I gave. Maybe she's got kind of used to it. And maybe, since there ain't any marriage, or given in marriage, maybe she'll have love enough for us both. This conclusion brought a joy with it that radiated the honest face. That's the way out! he murmured, standing upon the little balcony and facing a sunset so gorgeous that the world seemed full of glory. It's come to me as plain as William Henry come three nights back. It's borne in upon me that most all of life's riddles get answered when you get up high enough to leave hampering things below. Downstairs the loss of Susan Jane kills everything but the heart ache. But up here, Davy walked around the light and looked tenderly at the land and sun-touched bay. Up here, where Susan Jane never came, I can see clear, being accustomed to having it out alone with God, so to speak, for the last ten years. And now the sun was gone. It's glad some farewell to Davy and the light made the smile gather on the wrinkled face. Your turn'll come, he said smilingly in the old words. Your turn'll come. Then he went down to the little waiting-room, lighted his own lamp, and took the book of poems from the table. He was ready for his next duty. He was soon lost to all but the swinging thought in the ringing lines. Davy was himself again. Then suddenly he was aware of a hand upon his shoulder. So tense were his nerves that had he looked up and seen either William Henry or Susan Jane, he would not have been surprised. But it was Janet, and her eyes were full of brooding love. Davy, she said, do you remember how I used to play Hungry Man with you when I was a little girl? I do that, Janet, the cheerful old face beamed. Have you had any supper, you used to ask? Have you had any supper, Mr. Hungry Man? Let's play now, the girl laughed gently. Have you had any supper, Mr. Hungry Man? Why, I can see you just as plain as plain, Davy. You used to stand inside the lamp, and the lenses made you long and thin and dreadfully starved looking. But once I got outside the glass, I plumped up quick enough, Davy returned. He saw the look in Janet's eyes that called for bravery in him. She was pale and pitiful, and he turned comforter at once. It's all dependent upon the position you take, how you look to others. Once you get outside of most things, you straight away freshen up and get likelier looking. You've had no supper tonight, Mr. Hungry Man? Janet put her face close to Davy's. I ain't sufferin' for food, Janet. You never own to any suffering, Davy, but look here. She ran to the landing and brought in a large tray, neatly spread with food. It isn't leavings, she explained, placing the dishes before him. Eliza Jane's cooking is for company, mine for Davy and me. I made the biscuits myself. Aren't they flaky? They are that, not at Davy. Flaky don't do them justice. They're flakes. And that coffee. By gum, Janet, that smells like coffee. Davy, it is coffee. The girl was glowing, and her eyes shone blue in the lamp light. I'm going to eat with you, Davy," she drew up a stool. Eat and talk. Davy fell too with a suddenly awakened appetite. But Janet watched him above her clasped hands. Presently she said, Davy, who is going to—to? She was about to say, keep house for you, but recalling Susan Jane's helplessness, she said instead, Who is going to keep you from being awfully lonely now? Why, Janet, Davy's full mouth hampered his speech. I reckon I'll have to stay lonely straight on to the end. I've had my life. Davy, will you share me with Captain Billy? Davy gulped his mouthful and tilted his chair back. I'm a masterful hand at sharing folks, Janet. But someone's side's Billy may have something to say as to this bargain. There's Mark now. No, Davy, there's no one. And that's the end of it. I'm a—well, a failure in getting anything to do from strangers. And so I thought if you would let me, I'd share with you and Billy, and by working very hard I'd make my board and keep. The sweet face quivered. Ain't the paint and business paid, Janet? Davy, during sleep-filled days and lonely nights up aloft, had caught no drifting gossip to disturb him. No, it hasn't paid, the girl drooped forward wearily. Billy said you was helping a woman painter. The women have all gone now, Davy. That's the worst of foreign trade, comforted David. You can't depend on it. No, but I mean to be a good housekeeper, Davy. I'm going to make you and my Captain Billy daddy just cozy. I reckon I'm better fitted for home trade. Like is not, Janet. Like is not. Most women are, if they only get convinced for it's too late. Well, I'll be powerful thankful to have you around. Tained any way for a man to live without the woman's touch. Sometimes I've fancied that's what makes women restless. Men don't credit them with enough importance. You've eaten a fine supper, Mr. Hungry Man. Davy had eaten it all. And now I'm going downstairs to make things homey. I wish the sun rose earlier. Good night, Davy. She bent and kissed his seemed and rugged cheek. Good night, Janet. God bless you. At every window on the way down, the girl stopped to look out at the stars that were thick in the early autumn gloaming. She was aware of a lack of joy in life. One has to know sorrow and trouble to recognize and classify it clearly. Knowledge was coming slowly to Janet. Hope had buoyed her up. The hope that Thorneley would let her prove that she was stronger and braver than that silly creature he had once thought her. But, as time dragged on, and no call came from the hut upon the hills, Hope died. Then she had seen Thorneley drive past her one day with that white girl from Bluff Head. The pale, exquisite face had suddenly grown scarlet at the sight of Janet by the wayside, and Thorneley had stared right ahead, taking no heed. Since that day the lack of joy had grown apace. She had gone to the hut upon the hills and hung the tiny whistle upon the door latch. She would never call him again. She had not looked for the key she had not thought of entering. No longer had she a right there. Billy had deferred his explanations to the girl after his visit to the hut. The sudden death of Susan Jane had postponed the day. At the foot of the lighthouse stairs Janet paused and held her breath. Someone was moving about the rooms. Someone with a candle, for the flickering shadows rose and fell upon the inner chamber wall. The room in which Susan Jane had died. No fear of a robber, stirred Janet. The time had not come when Quinton must fear that. It could not be Mark Tapkins. He might be foolish enough to use his off-night, haunting the light. His actions were curious of late, but had it been Mark he would have been sitting patiently in the outer steps. Janet waited a minute and then went noiselessly into the sitting-room and tiptoed to the bedroom door. Then she started back, nearly dropping the tray of empty dishes. The intruder was Maude Grace. She held a lighted candle and she was hunting, evidently, for something, for she looked under the bed, in each drawer, in the closet, and at last she got down upon the floor and thrust her hand beneath the bed-clothes. It was not her actions alone that startled Janet, but the dumb look of misery upon the pale, stupid face. Maude Grace! The crouching girl gave a muffled cry and then sat upright, clasping her hands closely. What are you looking for? It seemed an odd way to put the question. It sounded as if Maude were in her own room and had only misplaced some article of clothing. Her money! the words were clear and hard. Susan Jane's box! I know what you think, Janet. You think I'm a thief, but I've got to have money and I'll pay it back. Come out in the sitting-room, Maude. I'll light the lamp and then we can talk. The calmness of tone and words gave the girl upon the floor courage to rise and go into the next room. There she sat down in Susan's old rocker and waited until Janet made a light. Then they faced each other, Janet taking her place upon the horse-hair sofa. You're just as bad as me! cried Maude, suddenly. The steady look Janet bent upon her angered and repelled her. You ought to understand how it is. I don't know what you mean," Janet replied. But I'm not bad enough to steal a dead woman's money. Maude turned a bluish-white and her misery-filled eyes fell. I had to have money. I daren't ask Pa or Ma. I can't tell anybody, but I've got to have money to go away. I could have sent it back somehow once I got away. Where are you going? Janet's voice had the ring of scorn in it, though she tried to think kindly. Ah, you needn't put on them heirs! Maude was trying to keep the tears back. You ain't any too good with your modelin' and you, you, a figure! This did not have the desired or anticipated effect upon Janet. She looked puzzled. Somehow you sound as if you were talking in your sleep, Maude Grace, she said. You don't seem to have any sense, but you've got to explain about the money. At this Maude sprang from the chair and flung herself beside Janet. She must have help, and this girl, doubted by all the moral village folks, was her one hope in a desolate hour. I've got to go after him, she sobbed. After him? Janet could not free herself from the clinging arms. Yes, Mr. Fitch. Ah, Janet, if you was good like all the rest, you couldn't understand. But all day I've been thinkin' how you would stand up for me, if you know'd. He made love to me, Mr. Fitch did, and now he's gone, and he don't write, and I know he's never comin' back. Something tells me. And, oh Janet, I've got to have him. I have, I have. I only meant to take the money till I got to him. I found his card in his bedroom after he went. He didn't tell me true where he lived, but the card's all right, and I've got to go. The girl's thin voice was hoarse with emotion. She clung closer, and her breath came hard and quick. A loathing filled Janet as she listened, a loathing made bitter by the insinuation of her similarity to this poor, cringing creature beside her. You don't want him if he doesn't want you, do you?" she asked, slowly. I do that. Mod's tone was doggedly miserable. Even if he is trying to get away from you, the memory of the weak, boyish border at Mrs. Joe G's added force to this question. Yes. Then shame on you, Mod Grace. I wouldn't say such a thing as that if I were to die. Maybe, the wretched girl groaned, maybe you ain't just like me. Somehow I can't think you are, but Janet, it's worse than dying, this is. I've got to go. The poor pleading face was raised to Janet, but its dumb agony met no understanding emotion. A stir outside caused both girls to tremble with fright. I've heard every word you've said, Mark Tapkin stood in the doorway opening upon the porch. I was a-setting out there, sort of watchin' and thinkin' of other things and not noticein' what was passin' till all of a sudden to me that I had been a-listenin' and takin' in what wasn't intended for me. I'm glad I did," his slow face lifted proudly. I'm glad I was used, so to speak, for this end. Mod Grace, you ain't got any call to bother Janet no more. I understand you." His eyes rested upon the forlorn girl, and she shrank as before fire. I understand, and this is man's work. You come along home, and to-morrow you give me that cardy-hism, and I'll travel up to town and fetch him back. Mark, Janet was on her feet, her eyes blazing. You mustn't help her in this foolish business. You have no right to interfere. You have no right here. She shall not make herself so ridiculous as to send for a man who is trying to get away. Mark looked at her gently, patiently. Shoo! Janet! he soothed. You leave things you don't understand to them as does. I'm going to fetch that fellow back. I know his kind. The city breeds him. Maybe the brace and heir down here will help him. Come along, Maude Grace. It's natural enough for me to take you home from Janet's. Janet made no further effort to change Mark's intention, and he and Maude went away together. When Janet heard them close the garden gate, she went into the bedroom, took the money-box that poor Maude had so diligently sought, from the top shelf of the closet, and put it in a bureau drawer. Then she turned the key in the drawer for the first time in all the years. End of chapter 8 Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 9 Of Janet of the Dunes This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline Janet of the Dunes By Harriet T. Comstock Chapter 9 Well, it's a relief to me, Dick, to know that you do know. Mr. Devont shrugged his shoulders and laughed lightly. Catherine and I have had a sneaking desire to ask you if you'd found us out, but we waited for you to make the first move. I'm slow to move in any game, thornly replied. I rather think it comes from my chest training. When a child begins that pastime, as you might say in his cradle, with such a teacher as father, it's apt to influence his character. Exactly. Have a cigar, Dick. It's beastly lonely to puff alone. Thanks, no. I've smoked too much in my hut in the hills. Being alone always drives me to a cigar. The two men sat in the library at Bluffhead. A fire of driftwood crackled on the hearth, and a stiff wind roared around the house. Of course we had no right to enter your studio. Mr. Devont spoke slowly between the puffs of smoke. Except the right that says all is fair in love and war. I admit that I was shaking in my boots that day for fear you might come in upon us. Catherine was braver than I. You must own, Dick, that you hadn't treated the girl quite fair. I do not grant that, Mr. Devont. I think Catherine had no cause for complaint. Good Lord! A doctor's wife might quite as well feel herself aggrieved because her husband's dissecting room is closed to her. Come now, Dick! Devont threw his head back and laughed. It's carrying the thing too far when you liken the Pempernal to a disagreeably defunct subject. It all goes to the making of one's art. That is what I mean. It belongs to the art, and need not be dragged into public to satisfy a woman's morbid curiosity. Or a man's? The laugh was gone from the face of the older man. Or a man's, since you insist. Thornley looked into the depths of the rich glow upon the grate and took small heat of his companion's changed expression. And your model gave us away? I beg pardon, Thornley drew himself together. What did you say? I said your model, the Pempernal, told you. It must have given the little thing a bad half-hour to be found out. It killed her childhood, the young man returned. It died hard, and it wasn't pleasant for me to witness, but, thank God, the woman in her saved her soul from utter annihilation. Somehow I have always wanted you and Catherine to know this. Thank you. You have told Catherine? No, I'm leaving to-morrow. I'm going to tell Catherine to-morrow night. I waited for her to speak first to me. I hoped she would to the last. All might have been different if she only had. Perhaps Catherine is generous enough to forgive you unheard, ventured Devont. No woman has a right to forgive a man in such a case if she suspects what Catherine did. The keen eyes drew together darkly. How do you know what Catherine thought, Dick? The older man was growing anxious. A woman thinks only one thing when she strikes that kind of a blow, Mr. Devont. The effect of the blow upon the object was proof enough of its character. I happen to be in it the death, you know. Dick, you're a man of the world. This sort of sentiment is not worthy of your intelligence. Catherine is a loving girl, and naturally a bit jealous of you and your dissecting room. You must realize she had cause for surprise that day. Why, the little devil looked like a siren, and the bare feet in the net were breathtaking. I think, under all the circumstances, for Catherine to overlook it in silence proves her a large-hearted woman. Or an indifferent-determined one. Dick! You're rather more deeply, Mr. Devont, than you have perhaps imagined. This means much to me. I have never had but one ideal of womanhood that I have cared to bring into my inner life. My mother set my standard high. Your mother was an unusual woman, my boy. The unusual is what I have always admired. You are too young to be so unelastic. I'm too young to forego my ideal, Mr. Devont. Presently, Saxon entered the room with a tray of glasses and a bottle. After he was gone, Mr. Devont took up the subject anxiously. I was your father's friend, Dick. Your mother's too, for that matter. I do not want you to do a mad thing in the heat of resentment. Catherine Ogden is a rare woman, a woman who will be the one thing needful to make your success in life secure. Her fortune will place you above the necessity of struggling. You can paint as genius moves and give the public only your best. She is beautiful. She loves you, is proud of you, and knows the world, the world that may be yours, in every detail. She is your ideal, my boy, your ideal, lost for a moment in the fog. Thornly listened and suddenly Janet Simily recurred to him. It comes to me just as Davy's light comes of an early morning when the fog lifts. The memory brought a tugging of the heartstrings. You have scattered the fog, Mr. Devont, he answered. I own. I was in rather a mist, but you bring things out most distinctly. And you will not go to Catherine at once? You see, I am presuming upon old friendship and a sincere liking for you. I only wish there were a night train. Thornly gave vent to a long relieved breath. You hold to your purpose, Dick? I feel that but for me this might not have occurred. I should have restrained the child that day. I shall tell Catherine all, Mr. Devont. I am sure she will ask me to release her from a tie that can be only galling for us both. You will be playing the fool, Dick. A note of anger rang in the deep voice. A fool and something worse. Gentlemen, do not play fast and loose with a woman like Catherine Ogden. I am sorry you judge me so harshly, thornly flushed. I should hardly think myself worthy the name of man if I followed any other course. To marry Catherine with this between us would be sheer folly. To refer to it must in itself bring about the result I expect. I have no desire to enter Catherine's world, and she has no intention of adopting mine. She has always believed I would use my success as a step to mount to her. That her world is less than mine has never occurred to her. But if the girl loves you? She does not love me. Had she loved me she must have spoken since, that day. Mr. Devont arose uneasily and walked about the room. Then he came back and drew his chair close to thornly's. Will you take a glass of my wine? He asked huskily. Thornly was about to decline, but changed his mind. Thanks, I will, he said, instead, and the two sipped the pork together. Dick, this has shaken me a bit. I feel that I have an ignoble share in the whole affair. I'm getting to be an old man. I can claim certain privileges on that score, and if life means anything past forty, it means sharing its experiences with a friend. I'm going to speak of something that has never passed my lips for nearly twenty years. You are very kind, Mr. Devont," thornly said his glass down and thrust his hands in his pockets. I appreciate your friendliness, but please do not give yourself pain. If life means anything under forty, it means getting your knocks at first hand. He tried to smile pleasantly, but his face fell at once into gloomy, set lines. I'm afraid," Mr. Devont went on, keeping his eyes upon his companion's face and guiding himself thereby, I'm afraid some quixotic idea of defending this little Pimpernel of ours moves you to take this step. Believe me, nothing you can do in that direction, unless indeed you have gone too far already, can avail if you seek the girl's happiness. A deep flush rose to thornly's cheeks, but the proud uplift of the head renewed hope in the older man's heart. You say," he continued, toying with his glass, that to drag Catherine from her world would be ruinous to her. To drag this child of the dunes from her world would be, to put it none too harshly, hell! I've looked the girl's antecedents up since that day on the hills. I've had my bad moments, I can assure you. It's like trying to draw water out of an empty well to get anything against their own from these people down here. But I had hopes of the girl's mother. I pin my faith to ancestry, and I am willing to build on a very small foundation, providing the soil is good. But the mother in no wise accounts for the daughter. She was a simple, uneducated woman, with rather an unpleasant way of shunning her kind. James B. Smith, my gardener, permitted me to ring this from him. He doesn't fancy Captain Billy Morgan, thinks him rather a sap-head. He hinted at a necessity for the marriage of this same Billy and the girl's mother. It's about the one sin the Quintenites know as a sin. They come as near going back upon each other for that transgression as they ever come to anything definite. The girl is the offspring of a stupid surfman and a nondescript sort of woman. She is not the product of any known better stock. She is, well, a freak of nature. You cannot transplant that kind of flower, Dick. The roots are hid in shallow soil of a peculiar kind. If you planted her in, well, in even your artistic world, she would either die, shrivel up, and be finished, or she might spread her roots and finish you. I've seen more than one such case. Thorneley shook himself, as if doubtful what he should reply to this man who, above all else, in his own fashion, was trying to prove himself a friend. Thank you again, Mr. Devont, he said at last, haltingly. I suppose all men as old as you are sincere when they try to help us younger chaps by knocking us senseless in an hour of danger. But it's better to let us see and know the danger. We'll recognize it the next time. All I can say is that I have formed no plans for after tomorrow night. I've got to get out into the open if I can. I rather imagine my art must satisfy me in the future. Devont went over to a desk between two bookcases, opened it, and took something from a private drawer. What do you think of this? He asked, handing Thorneley an old photograph. I should say, the younger man looked keenly at the picture, I should say that it was an almost ideal face of a certain type. Of a certain type, yes. Devont came closer and leaned over his companion's shoulder. The coloring, of course, is lacking. I never saw such glorious hair and eyes. The eyes gave promise of a nobility the woman nature utterly lacked. That girl, Dick, has wrecked my life! Thorneley handed the photograph to Devont. He felt as if he were in some way reading a private letter. Your life does not seem a wrecked life, he said confusedly. In a vague way he wished to repress a confidence that he felt, once told, might wield an influence over his own acts, and this his independence resented. You have always appeared a thoroughly contented, successful man. Devont laughed bitterly. Then he idly placed the photograph in a book and closed the covers upon the exquisite face. Thorneley hoped that would end the matter, but his companion was bent upon his course. He stretched his feet toward the fire and looked into the heart of the glow with sad, brooding eyes. Happy, he ejaculated. Happy! It is only youth that estimates happiness by superficialities. A smile, a laugh, a full pocketbook. You think they mean happiness? They are often the outward expression. Or counterfeits. Have you ever read Pair de Gint, Dick? Yes, Ibsen has a gloomy charm for me. I read all he writes in about the same way a child reads goblin tales. I enjoy the shivers. You remember the woman who gave Pair a permission to marry the one pure love of his life, but stipulated that she should forever sit beside them? Yes, Thorneley smiled grimly. That was a devilishly Ibsen-like idea. It was a truer touch than the young can understand. Those ghostly women of an early folly often sit beside a man and the later pure love of his life. Some men are able to ignore the gray specters and get a deal of comfort from the saner reality of mature years. I never could. That girl, he touched the closed book as if it were the grave that concealed her, has always come between me and later desires for a home and closer ties. Her wonderful eyes, that looked so much and meant so little, have held me by a power that death and years have never conquered. She died then? Thorneley could no longer shield himself from the undesired knowledge. He must hear the end. Yes, she came from near here, poor little soul. I can never get rid of the impression that her death was hurried, not only by trouble, but sheer homesickness. You cannot fit these slow, quiet natures into the city's whirlpool. I was a young fellow down for the summer. I was ensnared by her beauty and hadn't sense enough to see the danger. She followed me to the city, took a place in a shop, and was about as wretched as a seagull in a desert. I was full enough to think at a noble act to befriend her, and so I complicated matters. My father must have found out, though I was never sure of that. Father was a man who kept a calm exterior under any emotion, but he sent me abroad, and I, not knowing that he had discovered anything, dared not confess. I meant to come back at a year's end and set all straight in some way. Good God, set things straight! How we poor devils go through the world knocking down things, like so many ten pins, and solacing ourselves with the fancy that when we finish the game we'll set the pins in place again. We never get that chance, Dick, take my word for it. Whatever the plan of life is, it isn't for us to set up the game. We may play fair, if it is in us, but once we get through, we need not hope for any going back process. When I returned at the end of two years, I could not find her. It wasn't love that set me upon the search for her, Dick. I always knew that, but I think it was the one decent element that has ever kept me from going to the deepest depths. I got discouraged, finally, and took our old family lawyer into my confidence. Did you look down here? Thornly asked slowly. The tale had clutched him in a nightmarish way that shook his nerves. They didn't come back here, my boy, once they tread the path of that poor child. They simplify morality in Quinton, along with all else, and the one unpardonable sin suffices for them. They grade their society by their attitude toward that. But old Thorndyke took this place into consideration as a beginning, for he aided me in my search when he was convinced of my determination. And you never found her? Thornly was leaning forward, with hands close clasped before him, his face showing tense in the red glow of the fire. Thorndyke did. Ah! Yes, the poor little thing had been rescued after a fashion. Soon after I left her, a fellow who had always had a liking for her, a chap who had worked in the shop with her, was willing to marry her, and she consented. You wouldn't think she could quite with those eyes, but she did. The man was good to her, but the city and other things were too much, and she lived only a short time. There was a child. I wanted to do something for it. I had a passion of remorse then, but Thorndyke told me that the child's best interest lay in my letting her alone. She was respected and comfortable. For me to interfere would be to throw dishonor upon the dead mother and a cloud upon the child. All had been buried and forgotten in the mother's grave. About all I could do to better the business was to keep my hands off, and that I did. Devont's head drooped upon his chest, and Thornly felt a kind of pity that stirred a new liking for the man. You think the lawyer told you the true facts? He asked. True in every particular? Devont started up and turned deep eyes upon the questioner. Great heavens, yes! You do not know Thorndyke. He was about as cast iron and old puritan as ever survived the times. He was devoted to our family and served us to his life's end as counselor and friend. But not for the hope of heaven would he have lied. No, that's why I confided in Thorndyke. I could not have trusted anyone else. I knew he would never respect me afterward. He never did. But he served me as no one else could, and I bore his contempt with positive gratitude. But you could never forget? Thornly spoke almost affectionately. The older man looked up. No, and as I grow older I thank God I never could. We ought not forget such things as that. We ought to expiate them as long as we live. I have grown to take a kind of joy in the hurt of the memory, a kind of savage exultation in the suffering. So perhaps can I wipe out the wrong in this life and get the strength of a better sort for the next trial on beyond, if there is another trial? I suppose every man wants to show and live the best that is in him. Not many get the chance here, from what I see. I reckon that is why we old fellows have an interest in the younger ones. It goes against the grain, if we have a sneaking regard for you, to see you quench the divine spark with the same galling water we've gone through. Going, Dick? For the other had risen, and was holding out his hand in a confused but eager fashion. Yes, Mr. Devont, and thank you. You're not an old man. I sincerely wish that you might some day, well, you stand, not forget exactly, but get another trial here. Too late for that, Dick. Can't you stay overnight? No, I'm going to the hills. I have some last things to do there. And tomorrow, Dick, I'm going to Catherine. The two men looked keenly into each other's eyes. I'll meet you then at the train, my boy, at 7.50. I've business in the city. I always put up at the Holcomb. Look me up after you've seen Catherine. Good night, Mr. Devont, and again, thank you. Devont walked with Thornley to the outer door and then to the windswept piazza. It's sharp tonight, he said. I'll soon have to give up bluff head. Davy's light has gutted all its own way to-night, not a star or moon to rival its beauty. A time back I fancied one evening that the light failed me. It was only for a few moments, I imagined it, but it gave me quite a jog. I suppose it was the state of my nerves. One can rely upon Davy. He's a great philosopher in his way. His lamp is his duty, his lamp and that poor crippled wife of his who has just died. Davy is one of the few men I've met, Dick, who seems to have played the game fair and has never tried to comfort himself with the hope of going back. I'm ready for the next duty, he said to me the other day with his old rugged face shining. There's always another duty ready at hand when you drop one as finished. The master of bluff head watched the straight young figure fade into the night. Then he turned again to Davy's light. The weight of a dead duty, he muttered. That's what anchors a man. It isn't in the order of things to trust a man with a new duty when he failed with the last. There isn't any light to guide a man that's anchored by a dead duty. Then Davant went back into his lonely house and sat down before the dulling fire to think it out about Thornley. He'll never go to anyone but me after he's seen Catherine, he thought. He may not come to me. It all depends upon how deep the thing is gone. But in case he needs any one, I'd better be on hand. I may serve as a buffer, and that's better than not serving at all. End of Chapter 9. Recording by Roger Maline. Chapter 10 of Janet of the Dunes. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline. Janet of the Dunes by Harriet T. Comstock. Chapter 10. Janet had conquered the art of crocheting in order that she might construct a Tamashanter cap. It had been a difficult task, and the result was far from satisfying. Dropped stitches and uneven rows were in evidence all over the creation of dark red with its bushy little knot on top. But Janet had an eye for the impressionistic touch, and as she glanced in the mirror of Susan Jane's bureau, the general effect was gratifying. Under the dull red, the splendid dusky gold of the girl's hair shone exquisitely. Janet had trained the rebellious locks at last to an upper tendency, and the mass was knotted loosely beneath the artistic headgear. The eye for color had never been lacking in this girl of the Dunes. Nature had taught her true, but Thornley had, later, assisted nature. And no French modest could more accurately have chosen the shade of reddish-brown to suit the complexion that had Janet selected from the village store her coarse flannel for blouse and skirt. The skirt was long now, and the heavy shoes were worn religiously through heat and cold. There was to be no more absolute freedom for Janet of the Dunes. David had come down from his light, heavy-eyed and weary. Mark Tapkins's absence caused extra duty for David, but the man would ask for no other helper. It would seem like disloyalty to Mark. Janet took a turn now and again to relieve David, and that helped considerably. The girl had borne her share the previous night, but her face showed no trace of the vigil. Sprucing, David paused. Tired as he was, the girl's beauty caught and held him. Some, I've set your breakfast out on the table, David, and the coffee is on the stove. You're getting to be a master-handed cookin', Janet. I don't believe Pot Tapkins can beat your coffee. Expecting Mark back? There was a double interest in this question. I haven't heard a word, Davey. Going visiting? No, Davey. Nobody seems to want me to come visiting. The summer's doings have sort of rent quinton asunder, and in some way I've managed to fall in the crack. I don't know what I've done. She smiled a crooked little smile and gave the artistic tam a new angle. But I'm rather frozen out. This is Joe G.'s Amelia made a face at me yesterday. I shouldn't have noticed it, for the creature's hideous anyway, but she called an explanation after me. I've made a snoot at you, she screamed, and would have said more, but Maude Grace pulled her in. No, Davey, I'm going up to Bluffhead. It's empty, Davey said, moving between stove and table clumsily. Eliza Jane's there, and James B. I wonder if they're going to shut the house for the winter? Asked Janet. Like as not, Davey nodded and spoke from the depths of his coffee cup. Janet bethought her of the cellar window and the old unbroken calm, and she sighed yearningly. Hi, Davey. She came behind his chair and snuggled her soft cap against his cheek. I'm going up to have a good reading spell, then after dinner let us, you and I, if Mark should happen back, go over to the station to see Captain Billy. Something's the matter with my Captain Daddy. He's keeping off land like an ocean steamer. Davey, he's got a cargo aboard. Take my word for it that he doesn't want us to know about. Like as not, he's taken to pirate ways, and we've got to get aboard, Davey, sure and certain. Bye, gum, ejaculated David. What an eye you've got for signals, Janet. I've been doubting Billy's actions for some time, and if Mark comes back, I'll join you going over to the dunes. What's Mark called to the city, he asked suddenly? You'll have to ask Mark. The girl was halfway down the garden path, as she answered. Probably following the city trade. Not much, muttered Davey, going into the sleeping room. Mark's got his stomach full of city once for all. He hates it worse than Pison. Down the sunlit path went the girl to the oak thicket which lay between the light and the road that stretched from the village to bluff head. Not a soul was in sight, and the crisp air and glorious view gave a new kind of joy to Janet that was distinct from pleasure. She felt that, even if trouble crushed her, she would always be able to know this satisfaction of the senses. She paused at the entrance of the woods and looked back. The path was strewn with a carpet of leaves. Here and there a tall poplar stood majestically above its stunted comrades of pine and scrub oaks, but looked gaunt and bare while under the humbler brothers bore a beauty of blood-red leaves or the constant green. Janet smiled, recalling an old belief of her childhood. She had asked Pa Tapkins once why the oaks were so very little. Pa Tapkins had his explanation ready. It had borne part in his boyhood and was a fully confirmed fact in later life. It all comes of the poplars being such liars, Janet. Never trust no poplar. When things was only sand and beginnings in these parts all trees sprung up together, but the poplars, being snoopier than common, shot up considerable and took a look around. Lordy, what did they see but the ocean of roaring and making as if it was coming straight over the dunes? And the poplars passed the word down to the little oaks, what was just getting their barrens. It scared him so it gave him a setback from the first. But them tall liars wasn't content with stating truths day after day when the sea lay smiling like a baby. They handed down a bigger whopper than what they did when they first saw the water. Nearer, nearer it's coming. That's what they said, mingled long with powerful yarns as to how the monster looked. Naturally the scared oaks didn't take no interest in shooting up when they thought they was so soon to be eaten. So they got the habit of crouching low and dependent on the poplars for information. They got a notion, too, of turning away from the sea. Sorta sought their faces again it, so to speak. The pines every once so often shamed them till they blushed deep red. That comes long about spring and fall. But no amount of shame had ever started them into springing up and seeing for themselves, and given the poplars the lie. Don't ye place no dependence on a poplar, Janet? They be shivery, whisperin' critters. They turn pale when there ain't nothin' in the matter. They keep their shade to themselves, just plain miserly, and they pry too much. Ain't proper, tis most human-like! Janet recalled the old fancy now, leaning against the tall poplar which, indeed, was whispering in nervous fashion to the blushing scrub oaks clustered close. Someone was coming up the road from the station. In the far distance the girl heard the panting shriek of the engine of the morning train from the city. Could that shambling, weary figure approaching be Mark? Why, he looked older than potapkins. Janet waited until he was abreast of her. His hands were plunged in his pockets. His shabby valise slung over his shoulder, and his head was bowed upon his chest. Mark! she cried cheerily. You look just worn out! The man raised his dull face, and an awakening of interest and hope lit it. Mornin', Janet! he replied, and came to the tree. Davey managed pretty good. I was kept longer than any reason. I hope Davey ain't petered out. No, I helped some. Did you get Mod Grace's young man, Mark? The amusement in the laughing voice made Mark shiver. All the pleasure dropped from his face like a mask. I found where he was all right, but I got there a day too late. He was off for—for—for where? There was no finding out. He's just clear gone and vanished. Well, I'm glad of it. I think Mod Grace ought to be ashamed of herself to want him when he did not want her. I'm out and out thankful she cannot have her way. The effect of this speech upon Mark was stupendous. His jaw dropped, and a slow fire seemed to gleam in his pale eyes. Part of his nature rose in gladness because the girl could speak in that fashion. She had no knowledge within her to cause her to falter or stand abashed. The tired man in the poor fellow cried out to this strong, brave creature to aid him, understandingly, where his own knowledge and slowness of nature made him a coward. And so they stood looking in each other's eyes. I don't see why, Mark, you should try to help, Mod. She's silly and has acted like an idiot with every manborder her mother has had. She's turned her back upon you. This maybe will teach her a lesson. Like as not, it will. Mark's words came with almost a groan. Like as not, it will. What strength was in him conquered. This girl, so detached from him, must keep her childish faith. Whatever was to be born and suffered, he, in his bungling fashion, must bear it and suffer alone. He knew the Quintenites, poor fellow. He knew there was work for him to do, but he would do it alone. Where you going, Janet? Mark took up his burden of duty with a sigh. He was awake to life and its meaning at last, and the reality steadied him. On an errand. Where? That's Talon, the girl laughed mockingly. And Mark, as soon as you can, go up to the light. I'll soon be back. Davy and I are going on a pirate hunt this afternoon. Of what kind of a hunt? Pirate is going to be great fun. Davy needs a change. Mark watched the brilliant figure vanish around the curve of the road. That any being on earth could be so glad some puzzled him vaguely. Bluff head, he muttered. Well, ain't as bad as the hills, but it's all bad and muddling, and I don't feel equal to tackling it. Dear Lord knows I don't. I hate to have a job what I know from the start I'm going to botch, but the Lord's got to take the consequences if he calls upon me. Twernt any of my doings, Lord knows that. Bluff head was closed, whether for the season or not Janet did not care. From the region of the barns James B.'s voice came singing a hymn, but Eliza Jane had either gone for the day or for altogether. Janet ran around to the cellar window, keeping the house between her and the barns. The window still swayed inward to her touch. The long skirts and new womanhood retarded movement somewhat, but the agile body had not forgotten its cunning. In a minute or two Janet stood in the vacant library. She drew in long breaths. Eliza Jane had aired the room well, but there was a hint of tobacco smoke still. Upon a stand was a vase of goldenrod, yellow and vivid amid the rich colouring. Some people leave a house a great deal lonelier than others, whispered the girl, it will never be quite the same. Devont's presence, his vital personality, seemed near and potent. She and he had been reading a book together in that early summertime before guests had appeared to disturb the quiet happiness. She would go back to the book and begin alone what they had eagerly pursued in company. Janet went to the bookcase. The book was gone and its neighbours were leaning over the vacant space endeavouring to conceal its absence. Failing to find the volume, the girl went to the table and took up, one by one, the magazines and books which covered it. Ah! she said suddenly. I have you! Under a pile, near Devont's leather chair, was what she sought, a copy of Bacon's essays. Devont had taken a curious interest in leading this untutored girl into all manner of paths and by-paths. It was a never-failing delight to him to watch her crude but keen gripping of the best from each. Alone now and with a shadow across the path where once companionship and pleasure had borne part, she took the essays to the deep window, raised the sash, and nestled down to what comfort was hers. As was ever the case, the subject caught her fancy and in seeking the pearl she forgot the effort. Presently she was aware of a key grating in the lock of the hall door. Eliza Jane was perhaps returning, or more likely James B. had an errand inside. Janet raised her eyes. From her nook she could see distinctly through the hall. The outer door opened and in came Mr. Devont. He had apparently walked from the station and was unexpected by the caretakers. He had been without doubt on the train with Mark, but had taken a longer path from the station or had dallyed by the way. For a moment Janet feared he might be followed by the girl she most dreaded, or thornly, perhaps both. But Devont was alone. He closed the door after him, hung his coat and hat upon the rack, and came directly to the library. His keen eyes saw Janet at once. "'History is never tired of repeating itself,' he cried with a laugh. Outwardly he was rarely taken off his guard. "'The surest way of getting you here,' he went on, "'is evidently for me to go away. "'Don't you like me any more?' he lounged against the heavy table and folded his arms. He was looking at the lovely face beneath the vivid cap. The first impression of the girl's beauty was always puzzlingly startling. Devont had noticed that sensation before. After a moment it grew less confusing. "'I like you,' Janet dropped her eyes, recalling the day upon the girls. Devont had met her repeatedly since that morning and had always been jovial and easy in his manner, but the recollection intruded itself at every meeting. "'Perhaps you like me at a distance, but object to my company?' "'I object to some of them.' A wan smile flitted across the uplifted face. "'Well, I am alone now,' Devont nodded cheerfully. "'Alone and likely to be. "'I'm going to remain all winter, perhaps, Janet. "'You must teach me ice-boat sailing and let me into all the other debaucheries of the place.' He came near the window and looked out toward the barns. Then he called, "'Mr. Smith!' James B. showed his rough red head at the barn door. "'Yes,' he called back. "'I ran down to-day instead of to-morrow. "'If Mrs. James B. can come up this afternoon and get me a dinner, I'll be much obliged.' "'I'm sorry,' James B. expected, rated musingly. "'But he's gone to get beach-plums.' "'All right,' Devont returned cheerfully. "'I'll starve, then. Saxton won't be down until to-morrow.' "'That so?' James B. had returned to his work unconcernedly. "'Why, this is dreadful!' Janet could but smile at Devont's indifferent face. "'I suppose you couldn't cook for yourself, even if you were starving. "'I wonder if I might do something for you now?' "'Take no trouble,' Devont waved her back. "'I took precautions before I left town, and Mrs. James B. will be over as soon as she hears I'm home. "'I'm getting initiated.' "'What are you reading, Janet?' "'The essays. "'I found the place where we left off. "'They're rather dry, but I like them.' "'When you do not like a really good thing,' Devont said, going to his easy-chair, "'read it until you do. "'Bring the book here, child. "'I haven't read aloud since you and I were alone before.' Janet arose, and as she did so something dropped at her feet. She stooped to pick it up, looking a bit surprised and confused, and slipped it into her blouse. "'What was that?' Devont asked. "'My,' Janet paused. "'It was my mother's picture. "'I always carry it in my waist now. "'I dropped it.' "'May I see it?' "'Captain Daddy said, how long ago it seemed, "'that I had better not show it. "'It seems as though she belonged just to Captain Billy and me. "'But then you are different. "'I think Captain Billy would not mind if you saw her. "'She was so pretty.' Janet came to the table, laid the book upon it, and then drew two photographs from her blouse. "'Why?' she exclaimed, turning pale and stepping back. "'Why, I'm—I'm—' "'Why, something has happened. "'Look here.' She extended her hands, and in both was the likeness of the dead past. "'Identical they were. "'Both well-preserved and arisen to face this man and young girl "'at God's own time.' "'How shriveled the memory of the grim error was! "'How weird and pitiful it arose against the youth and beauty "'of the vital creature who with outstretched arms "'challenged him to explain the black mystery!' "'This is my mother. "'I must have dropped one picture from the book. "'What do you know of my mother?' "'It was only a palpitating question, "'but to Devont it bore the awful condemnation "'of outraged girlhood.' "'My God!' he gasped, taking the photographs from her. "'My God!' "'There could be no mistake. "'Both had been taken from the same negative.' "'Old Thorndike had lied then. "'This girl, with her memory haunting elusive beauty, was,' "'he sank back and stared at her. "'No, it could not be. "'Whatever the meaning was, "'he dared not think that she was his daughter. "'If Thorndike had lied once, he probably had many times. "'There may not have been a child, "'but that would have been a senseless invention, "'and Thorndike was not the man to waste his energies. "'Perhaps the first child had died. "'Perhaps there had never been a marriage, "'such as Thorndike had said. "'That might easily have happened, "'and then the mother could have drifted back to the dunes "'with her pitiful secret hidden forever. "'Her marriage with Captain Billy, in that case, "'might have resulted quite naturally. "'So dense was the darkness that Davant dared not move. "'He was afraid he might bring down upon this innocent girl "'a shame that in no wise concerned her. "'How came you to have a picture of my mother?' "'Janet's eyes were gray-black. "'An answer she would have, and her heart demanded truth. "'She saw Davant's panic, and it filled her with sensations "'born upon the instant. "'I knew her when she was a girl. "'A girl like that,' he nodded toward the photographs "'as they lay side by side upon the table "'where Janet had placed them. "'Where?' the relentless voice was hard and cold. "'Here and later in the city. "'Did,' Janet paused and bent forward, "'her tense face burning and eager. "'Did you love her?' "'Why this question was rung from her, "'the girl could not have told. "'It was in her heart and would have its way.' "'No!' Davant's voice was husky, "'but he would save the future from the clutch of the past "'if it were in his power to do so. "'But she loved you.' "'For the life of him the man could not face his accuser. "'His eyes dropped.' "'I know. I know. You need not tell me.' "'That is the reason she let you keep her picture.' She swayed. "'For the first time in her vigorous young life, "'Janet felt faint.' Davant sprang toward her. "'Don't, please!' she cried, "'recovering herself almost at once and turning toward the door. "'I'm going to my Captain Billy.' "'Janet!' he tried to stay her. "'He had much to say if only he knew how to say it. "'She might be going to—what?' "'An awful danger seemed to Janet her innocent feet, "'but his early sin forbade his interference.' "'I'm going to my Captain Billy.' "'There was no backward glance.' "'Davant heard the outer door close. "'Then he sank in his chair and bowed his head upon the two photographs. "'Where your mother went before you,' he groaned. "'Poor little Flotsam and Jetsam.' "'End of Chapter 10.' "'Recording by Roger Maline.' "'Janet of the Dunes.' "'Janet of the Dunes.' "'By Harriet T. Comstock.' "'Japter 11.' "'There goes Janet like a shot from a gun.' "'Wire!' Davy and Mark were hauling oil up to the lamp. They stood upon the little balcony and had a good view of the girl as she ran like a wild thing over the stretch of ground between the lighthouse and the wharf. "'Oh, Janet!' shouted Davy, leaning over the railing. "'What's got you? Ain't you going to wait for dinner and me?' Janet paused, and the face she turned up to the balcony moved the hearts of both men to alarm. "'I cannot wait,' she called back. "'I'm going to Captain Daddy.' Then a thought caused her to add, "'Don't either of you come after me. I want nobody but my Captain Billy.' "'Now what's knocked her in wise?' groaned Davy, staring blankly at Mark. "'Like as not, she's been getting a cargo that she don't fancy up to Bluff Head.' Mark's face was drawn with pity. "'I come down on the train with Mr. Devont. Maybe he set her straight about that landlubber of the hills.' Poor Davy, detached by his duties and environments from the common gossip of his kind, bent a puzzled look upon his companion. "'Landlubber of the hills?' "'What in the name of sin be you talking of?' "'Don't you know what they say about her?' asked Mark, his dull eyes fixed on the sail of the comrade as it put off from the dock. "'No, I ain't never had time above my duties to do more and sleep and eat,' David replied. "'But I've got time now to stand up for that girl yonder if any concerned gossip takes to handle in her name lightly.' "'That girl's put in my care by Billy, and Billy and me have stood by each other through many a gale. "'And now, Mark Tapkins, I'd like to hear what you got to say out plain and unvarnished. "'I don't want no jibin. "'I only got one way of hearing and talking,' Mark drew back from the calm, lowering face of the keeper. "'Nation,' he gasped. "'You don't think I'm again her, do you, Davey?' "'I ain't carein' whether you be or know, like is not if she's shook ya, you're full of resentment. "'Them as young folks ways. "'But fur or again her, if you can harbor scandal about Billy's Janet, you've got to share it with me what knows how to strangle it first and last. "'Spit it out now!' Mark drew himself together with a mighty effort. Recent events were wearing upon his vitality. "'They say Janet is mixed up along with a feller what painted her over on the hills. "'He spoke as guiltily as though he alone were responsible for the report.' "'Who says so?' Davey's bushy eyebrows almost hid his kindly eyes. "'Well, Mrs. Joe G., for one, you can knock a woman down. "'Ain't there's someone else that I can begin on?' "'Well, it's kind of common talk, floatin' round like eelgrass up the creek. "'I suppose it sunk into some kind of bottom of fact as to who started the rumor, but it's just slippin' around now on top.' "'Tis, eh? Well, taint the first time I've clutched eelgrass and tore it from its muddy bottom?' "'That gal,' Davey pointed a trembling finger duneward where the comrade was bobbing over the roughening water, "'that gal ain't going to be soiled by any slime if I know it. She belongs to Billy and me, and by thunder we can sail her bark for her when her little hand grows tired on the tiller.' Mark was wiping his eyes. Davey had made him feel himself a black guard, but he could not see just where he had erred. Davey, however, took small heed of Mark. "'I'm goin' down to get dinner,' he said suddenly. "'And I ain't gonna follow her, cause she's goin' to Billy and there ain't no call I should inflict myself on him. "'But I'm goin' visitin' in the village this afternoon,' he nodded ominously. "'I'm gonna pay up some of my funeral calls. "'I hope I ain't gonna cause any more funerals, but it all depends on how bad the disease is.' Mark's inclination was to hold Davey back from his march of devastation, but he felt his impotence. "'Once you put Davey on the scent,' he whimpered as he listened to the Keeper's departing footsteps. "'You might as well give up. Davey's a terrible one for runnin' down the game. "'Nation, I hope he won't fall foul a mod Grace and flinger at her mother.' The cold perspiration rose to Mark's forehead. "'Nation, I wish I hadn't mentioned Mrs. Joe G. "'I wished at Gracious I'd laid the hull-blamed business to paw, for paw can stand it bein' so soft like.' Janet reached the dunes in good time, but the distance had never seemed so long before. The throbbing, hurt heart outstripped the faithful little comrade, doing its best before the favoring wind. Every tack seemed a mile, and a fever rose in the blood of the silent girl at the tiller. She had time to think. She had time to grow old during that passage. One figure stood out alone from the confused tangle, her mother. Around that form much centered. She must know all, all about her mother. She must not break upon Billy with her startling news. Billy was so easily driven into an impenetrable silence. She must draw him out by old familiar methods and not frighten him into caution. By the time the comrade was fastened to the station wharf, the girl had got herself well in hand. The men of the crew who were not sleeping were engaged indoors, a lonely stillness brooded over all. Janet went up to the government house and looked in at the open door facing the ocean. "'Where's Captain Billy?' she asked. The two men, preparing food at the table, raised their eyes with no surprise, and Captain Jared Brown replied, "'Eisterin!' Then with a huge clasp knife he opened a can of tomatoes, raised it to his lips, and drained the contents. Tomatoes were Jared's only dissipation. "'Has he been gone all day?' Janet waited until the empty can was set down. "'The better part of it!' The man wiped his lips with the back of his hand. "'Does he have a patrol tonight?' "'No, no!' Jared began to show an interest. "'I'm going to surprise him. Don't let on, Jared, if you see him. Who is in the lookout?' "'John Thomas!' Janet went to the stairway. "'John Thomas!' she called up. "'Don't let on to Captain Billy that I'm here. "'I don't report no derelicts!' shouted John from aloft. John Thomas was an unsmiling humorist and the idol of the undemonstrative crew. He had seen the girl's approach and was ready with his answer. Then Janet went across the sand hill to Billy's little house. Inside all was as neat and trim as a ship's cabin. Billy ate with the men at the station, but the tiny kitchen was ready for Janet whenever she came, as also was the orderly bed chamber beyond the living-room. Billy kept to his lean-to when away from the government-house. The rooms were too stifling for the girl. She could not bear the loneliness that only empty houses have. She went out and sat upon the sand dune on the ocean side. It was never lonely in the big open world. Presently small things caught and held her excited mind. Far out a sail was passing beyond the bar and away where. Then a gull swooped low in wide free circles and passed wither. Closer at hand the stiff grass stirred by the wind made perfect circles upon the white sand. Deeper and deeper the grass cut until there were little ditches and then the sand fell in and the patient grass, guided by the unseen power, began again. Janet's unrest found peace in these small happenings. This was home. Safety and Billy would soon come and gather her into the strong stillness of love. I told him I was afraid of the city-folks, and he laughed, she whispered. But they've caught, or they have nearly caught, Billy's poor fish. She flung her head up with an air of defiance. Whatever came she must meet it as Billy had taught her to meet the storms of childish passion. Suddenly she became aware of a sound behind her. She turned and there was Billy. The surprise was taken by surprise. My Captain! Janet rushed to him and flung her arms about him. Oh, there! he cried. I'm all over oysters, Janet, oysters and eel grass and water. Never mind, Captain Daddy, you are you. I am never going to leave you. I've come home. In her raptures she had shaken Billy's hat off and now stooped to pick it up. I'm going to be an oysterer myself, or some other man thing that will help. But, Captain Daddy, I'm going to tie up close to you. Billy was in no wise deceived by this loving outburst. He had kept guiltily away from the girl with the knowledge he knew he must impart to her some day. Mark Tapkins had informed him of the artist's departure and that, together with Susan Jane's death and funeral, had given Billy, never before cowardly, a time of grace. But he knew that his girl had come to him in some trouble. Every expression of the dear face was known to him and he was ready to throw out the line of help as soon as the signal was sure. Janet, he said, I'll fetch a mess of something from the station and we'll take it together. You lay out the table, same as you used to. You might happen to like to fry up some oysters. I've had uncommon luck and you all is sought considerable store by the first oysters. The very thought of them makes me hungry. Hurry, Captain Daddy, I want you right close. Billy was not gone long and when he returned the two made ready the evening meal. They tried to be gay but between the attempts at merriment each was watching the other. The sun went down behind the hills and Davy's light sprang to its duty on the point. Billy got up stiffly, lighted the little glass lamp and set it upon the table amid the dishes of food from which neither he nor Janet had ravenously eaten. We must rid up, said Billy, eyeing the disorder. Once you're done with food, taint a pleasant sight hanging around. When this was finished Janet drew her chair close. Captain Daddy, no longer could the girl hold herself in check. Captain Daddy, I've got something to tell you. Billy's heart smote him as he looked at the pretty head bowed now upon the folded arms. He put out his rough hand and smoothed the ruddy hair. Steady, he murmured, taint no use to lose heart, Janet. I done wrong not to give you a clearer chart to sail by, but you'll get into smooth waters again, please God. How little he realized her true trouble. Janet tried to still her sobs, but they eased the strain and she sobbed on while Billy made the most of the time to take up his neglected task. It was just the kind of shoal your little bark was like to steer for, he went on, never raising his hand from her dear head. And I ought to have told you. I always have thought that most of us would keep off rocks and shoals if we know there was there. Janet, I've got to tell you something about your mother. It ought to come to you from a woman, God knows, but there ain't no likely woman to hand. And I must do my best. She, your mother, was powerful frayed. You might wreck yourself on the same kind of reef what she struck. She wanted you should be a boy long of that fear, but she doubted if you were a girl. It was to tell you in time if I saw danger. And, Janet, I ain't done my duty. Billy's voice was hoarse from intense feeling. Captain Daddy, Janet's voice shook with sobs. Don't you blame yourself? You're the one perfect thing I have in my life. I know it now. I always knew it, and I never wanted to leave you. Shutting your eyes from danger ain't strength given, Janet. Keep a watch out and be ready. That's what life means. His voice drew the girl from the shelter of her arms. She looked steadily at him through wet lashes. Janet, your mother sunk long a lovin' a man, a man, well, him on the hills. What? The girl bent forward and the fire of her passion dried the tears from the troubled eyes. She would hold her news back. Billy had the right of way. Yes, yes, Billy let go his grip of the present. He forgot the girl opposite and her personal claim upon him. She was back in his own youth and in arms to defend the one woman of his love, while of necessity he must use her against herself. It ain't no harm in lovin' if love on both sides means right. Mary, that was her name, Mary was cursed, yes, cursed with a handsome face and a lovin' little heart which she didn't know how to steer true. That's what she always struck to later, that education would have teached her to know better. She was the heartsomest gal that ever was raised in these parts. Her and Susan Jane was about as friendly as any and I will say for Susan Jane that with all her cantankerousness she stood by Mary. David and me never sought our fancy on any one but Susan Jane and Mary. And David and me weren't doomed to happiness. Least not in our own way, though it was to give to us both to help when everything else failed. Mary, she went to the city and took a place in a store. She had ambitions to soar and be something different. Once or twice she came home all dressed up to kill and lookin' just like nothing but a picture. And once I went to the city just to see her. I took special care of my get-up, knowin' how much Mary sought by such things. I thought I was all right till I reached the town. Then it broke on me like a clap of thunder that I was about as out of place there as a whale in a freshwater lake. Mary was real upset about my comein' unexpected and lookin' so different to city-folks. And she out and out told me it warn't no use. She was bein' courted by a city-man as was rich and was gonna make a real lady of her. Poor Billy's weather-beaten face twitched under the lash of the old memory which had never lost its power over him. Janet did not take her eyes from him nor did she break the spell by a word of hurry or question. Presently Billy went on. And then she came back here. Davy, he brought her across the bay after dark one evening. No one on the mainland knew. When I went on the midnight patrol she met me and told me. Told you what? No longer could Janet hold the question back. She knew Billy's method of going around a dangerous spot and her womanhood and daughterhood demanded all about him in the city. The past misery shook Billy's voice. He didn't marry her. He went away and left her. The poor little wrecked soul came back here, havin' no other harbor in all God's world. And she knew she could trust me in the love I always had for her. Her faith steered her true. She didn't want to let me take the course I laid out. She said it wasn't fair to me. Lord, not fair to me! She never would tell me his name. She wanted to forget everything. It made her shiver to talk even of the city. She didn't want no help along with him who had deserted her and I never pestered her none. Then I married her. Davy, he backed me up and he and Susan Jane went to bay end and saw us married. Susan Jane kept her visitin' over at the light till I took her. Common easy like to the parson. And most folks never guessed the real truth. And then we came over here for a little while, such a little while. I never seen a more grateful critter than she was. She never seemed to take into account the joy it was for me to serve her and chirp her up. I fixed the little place for her and I took my traps to the lean to so as to give her plenty of room, and by and by, like it sometimes happens after a stormy loweren day, the sun burst through and toward the close the glory seemed right startlin'. I can see her face a-shinin' now every time I shut my eyes. And she grew that wise and far-seeing that it made me uneasy. It weren't natural and she's such a soft little thing. Billy passed his rough hand over his dry, hot lips. Then you come and she slipped her morons. The two were staring dumbly, sufferingly at each other. Billy saw the agony he had awakened and his heart sank within him. After a moment of silent doubt, Janet arose and stood in front of Billy, laying her cold hands upon his shoulders. There was no need for her news now. My Captain, she whispered, with a fervor Billy had never heard in her voice before. My Captain, I am a woman, a woman like my mother. Tell me, as true as heaven, am I your Janet and hers? Billy's deep eyes pleaded for mercy, but the woman before him would not relent. There was a heart-rendering pause then. No, you ain't. God help us, you ain't. But he's let me love you like you was, and that's been my reward. Janet shut her eyes for a moment and clung to Billy. In that space of time it was given to her to see a way to redeem the past. When she opened her eyes, the misery was gone. She was smiling, and there was no mist between her and Billy. She went beside him and drew his shaggy head upon her strong breast, as a mother might have done. Then she bent and kissed him. Dear, dear Captain Daddy, I see it all. My mother was wondrous wise when she took you for her pilot. Oh, my Daddy, for you are my father. In all the world there never was such a father. We'll cling close, Daddy, won't we, dear? Nobody shall ever come between us. Promise that. Oh, promise it. As God hears, never. Poor Billy broke under the load of love and gratitude, and bowed his head upon the table. But the girl, her face glowing with a strange radiance, did not loosen her hold. She bent with him. Had Billy been more worldly wise, he might have suspected that this vehemence had root in something beside filial love. But Billy was never one to question a gift from God. Whenever his simple soul, chastened by suffering and earnest endeavour, took courage, he always thanked Heaven and returned to his common tasks. When he looked up now, the old com had settled upon his face. And so, Janet, he said, you can tell me free and easy about that painter chap over to the hills. The girl started. I know all about him, soothed Billy, and I don't hold it again, you, that you let me think it was a woman painter. Them as young folks ways, and you didn't lie, Janet, you just didn't tell straight out. But mark and me, we had our eyes upon you, and was looking out for your interest. Billy paused for breath. In your future dealing with the painter man, Janet, just do according to your new light. I ain't going to worry or fret. You always was one to act clear-headed if you had hold of facts. Janet dropped upon Billy's knee and hid her face against his. From such a shelter she could speak more freely. But, oh, how different the confession was from what at once might have been. It was the first time I ever deceived you, Captain Daddy. I hated myself for it. But, Daddy, he never cared for me in that way, dear. He cares only for his beautiful pictures. He used me to help him with them. It was I who did not know the difference, just at first. Even after I knew I wanted to have a share. Daddy, dear, women cannot help in that way. More's the pity, or mercy. I see it all very, very clearly now. But, dear, here a kind of fierceness shook the low voice. He is not like the one who broke my mother's heart. You and I must remember that. When I wanted to help him, no matter what anyone thought, he would not let me. He saved me from myself. I understand it now, and I shall bless him while I live. I flung myself at him, Daddy, but he went away because he was too noble to hurt me. He did that? Billy held the girl close and smiled radiantly. Yes, yes, he did that. Billy recalled his and Mark's visit to the hut, and a feeling of shame stilled all further confession. He, as well as Janet, was beginning to understand. It seems like the clouds has lifted, Janet, and I'm thinking there'll never be no more betwixt us. Never, dear, dear Daddy! The girl hugged him to her. I ain't been so happy and carefree for years, Janet. It seems like we've cleared the decks, not for action so much as smooth sailing. That's it, Daddy, smooth sailing. Just you and I to the very end. Come, Janet, we must get to bed. We'll sleep on all this new happiness. Your room's ready. It was her room first. She said over and again that it was a safe harbor. And so it is, Janet, so it is, and always shall be for whatever was hers. Good night, child, and God bless you. If you're only fair-minded, you can see that you don't get any more storms on your voyage than is good for you. That night, Janet lay wide-eyed and sleepless upon her mother's bed. Her fancy wandered far, and her young blood coursed hotly through her veins. But always she came trustfully back to the thought of Billy's patient love and courage. And it gave her heart to face the future, whatever it might be. End of chapter 11. Recording by Roger Maline.