 CHAPTER XII The master of Bluffhead had the disconcerting impression born in upon him that the getting ready for winter at Quinton had a moral and spiritual significance, as well as a physical one. He felt a cold exclusion round about him, as if the good people did not quite know what to do with him. He belonged to the summer. For him and others of his world they had braced for action, and thought out to the extent of making him feel he was not intruding while occupying his own house. But they resented his prolonged stay and necessary infringement upon their well-earned liberty. Not that Davont imposed his presence upon them. He rigidly observed a decent dignity, and he was more than willing to pay a high price for any service he required. But James B., while accepting large wages, fretted under the necessity of holding to a sure thing while a vague possibility lay outside. James B. had learned, in his secret way, that Captain Billy had been told when he went for the physical examination at Bay End in September, that his heart wasn't up to the requirement. A lesser man would have been dropped from government duty with such a handicap as that, but the physician, knowing Billy and his steady life and good record, passed him for another year. James B., like a vulture, had been hoping for a place on the crew for many a day. The hope gave an excuse for idleness. Eliza Jane knew Billy's symptoms, and was willing to countenance James B.'s indifference to other business propositions of a steady nature, while that possibility of the crew was apparent. However, there was no reason why James B. should not turn a penny in a temporary way at Bluff Head while waiting, and that Eliza Jane insisted upon. But, sighed James B., as Mr. Devont stayed on, if he would only go, then, like as not, Eliza Jane would let up on me about labouring while I'm waiting. This state of affairs became known to Janet through the tactless remarks of Mark Tapkins. She went at once to Billy to find out exactly what the doctor had said. Billy, from the highest moral position, prevaricated nobly, and left the girl with the impression that the condition of the suspected heart was really very desirable. "'It's this way,' he explained. "'All hearts is tricky, and once you know the tricks, why there ain't no danger. It's like knowing the weak points of a vessel. We ain't going to strain the weak points once you know them, and, like as not, the vessel alas twice as long as a seaman's soundboat. Don't you fret, Janet. James B. can loathe a considerable spell, if it's my going he's dependent upon. And no one more in James B. will be thankfuler for my hanging on.' Davies' funeral calls had had a beneficial effect upon the community. More than one woman said afterward that it looked as if Susan Jane's mantle had fallen upon Davies' shoulders. "'He said to me,' and Mrs. Jogee's cat-like eyes glittered, "'he said as how to his mind a gossiper was like a jellyfish, sorta slimy and transparent, and when you want to clutch it it's stung. I asked him right out flatfoot at what he meant, and he told me to think it over.' More than Mrs. Jogee thought Davies' words over, and, as a result, turned their attention to getting ready for the winter. The oyster-boats dotted the bay, the wood was piled near the kitchen doors, and the Methodist minister, with a sigh of relief, came down from the mental pinnacle upon which he had endeavored during the summer to attract strangers, and preached sermons from his heart to the hearts of the Quintenites. A donation party was in the air, too, and the needy pastor grew eloquent along generous ethical lines. Eliza Jane, in a detached and injured manner, continued to cook up at Bluffhead. The master, feeling that at least he paid for the necessity, ate in peace, but Saxton, who fell between the aristocracy of Davont's ideas and the Quintenite ideal, suffered cruelly from his plebeian position. Only a vague hope of city life and pleasures held him to his position. And Davont was undecided as to what he should do. Thornley had not looked him up after seeing Catherine. Indeed, that rigid young man had sailed within the week for point comfort, and Davont, fearing to meet Catherine alone, had hurried back to Bluffhead, there to be confronted by his past in a most crushing manner. So unlooked for and appalling was the resurrected ghost, that it had stunned him and left him unable to act. He feared to make a false move and waited for Janet to point out the way. But the girl remained upon the dunes with Billy, and the bay seemed an impassable barrier between them and Bluffhead. To go to Billy and demand the sequel to the pitiful story of Mary Andrews's life was out of the question. Mr. Thorndyke was long since dead and had left no papers nor books to help any of his clients in their affairs. While he lived, he had served them faithfully, according to his light, but he felt that in dying he cancelled all obligations. Suppose Mary Andrews had gone to Captain Billy with her secret buried from sight, who was he that he should deal the faithful man at the station a blow that might end his life, surely his trust and peace? But Janet, there was the awful doubt. Thorndyke had said there was a child. Had he spoken true? If there were a child, was it that beautiful girl of the station? What's blood ran hotly, as he thought upon his belief in heredity? Might it not be himself, instead of the poor mother who was accountable for the Pimpernal? Good God! he muttered. What would I not do for her? Train that keen mind so apt and greedy? Fit her for a high place and, in small measure, redeem the brutal past. Give her perhaps to Thornley. This thought stayed him. It might be by that power he would prevail, if only he were sure. He was standing before the mirror, tying his cravat as these thoughts ran through his tortured mind. Suddenly his hands dropped at his sides, and he strained his eyes at the reflection that met him. First it was the color of the eyes that held and amazed him, then an expression at once familiar and baffling. Was his own face, for the first time in his life, becoming known to him? Or was the face of that girl of the dunes crowding all other faces from his vision? Once when first Janet's beauty had stirred him, he had noticed her perfect ears set close to her head. The ears were shell-shaped and pink. The left ear, near the lobe, had a curious inward curve, unlike the right, a fascinating defect that added to, rather than detracted from, the beauty. It was like a challenge to attract attention. Devont now observed his own left ear. There, in coarser fashion, was the same mark. Through familiarity it had before passed unnoticed. Now it forced itself upon his consciousness like a witness for the truth. Slight as these things were, they turned the strong man weak. He dropped into a chair and rang for Saxon. "'Bring me some coffee,' he said. "'Make it yourself, and make it strong.' "'Yes, sir. And if it ain't presuming, I would like to say that there is more than the coffee what is weak, sir.' "'The cookin' here ain't what you're used to, sir. The club-table, or that at the hotel, is more nourishing.'" Saxon had put in his suggestion and went his way comforted. The coffee braced the shaken nerves, and again Devont went to his mirror as to a friend. The color of the eyes had changed. His eyes were never so pale and dull. The complexion was grayish-white, the haunting likeness was gone, but the curious curve of the left ear stood in bold evidence and called for recognition in the final reckoning. "'A thousand might have the same,' thought the troubled man, but he had never noticed it but twice in all his long life. After breakfast that day he went for a walk in the scrub-oaks. He dared not go to the lighthouse, but he saw no reason why he should not walk upon the path leading to it. The damp sodden leaves sent up a pungent odor as his feet crushed them. A smell of wood-smoke was mingled with the salt air from off-sea. It was a perfect late autumn day, with a warning of winter in its touch. Devont walked slowly with bowed head. He was pondering as to what he should do in the future. His life had never seemed more useless than it now appeared with the glaring doubt in his mind. Suddenly he was aware of someone approaching, and he raised his eyes hopefully. It was Janet and the breeze, lifting her hair from her face, left the little ear exposed. It was that upon which the man's gaze rested. Good morning, said the girl. I was coming to bluff head. Janet was the one more at ease. Her struggle had been along clearer lines. Going up to read, asked Devont uneasily. The library is yours, my child. The last words had a possible significance that was well-nigh heart-breaking to the man. No, I—I want to say something to you. I did not seem to be able to come before. A rare dignity touched the girl. Her womanhood appeared to have taken on a queenly attribute, but the language of this new womanhood was still to learn. She had spent the night at the light, and at the latter part of it she had shared Davy's watch. Later they had freshened up from the little balcony, and the calmness of the stars and David's philosophy had set their seal upon her. She was brave and tolerant. She had chosen her path, and with the courage of the dunes she was ready to tread it wherever it might lead. Shall we walk on? asked Devont. It was easier than to stand still. So they slowly turned and went toward Bluffhead. I know—the even voice fell to a whisper. I have just found out that—that Captain Billy is not my real father. Devont staggered under the blow. The terse directness, a part of the girl's nature and training, was embarrassing to the man of the world. You are sure of that? he asked, when he could control his voice. Yes. Do—do you know who your real father is? Janet looked fearlessly up into the haggard, eager face. Yes, I know. Who told you? Captain Billy told me that he is not my father. He does not know who my father is. My mother was very faithful to you and to him. He told me how she came to him afterward. She did not want Captain Billy to save her his way. She thought it was not fair to him, but Captain Billy had but one kind of love. He married her and he took care of her. You don't know how cruel these people can be to—to girls like my mother, but Captain Billy knew and he saved her. The dark eyes were blazing. Be less hard, my child, groaned Devont, turning his face away. God knows I have suffered. Janet paid small heed to the words or to the man beside her. At the last, she went on bravely, they were happy in a beautiful way for a little while. Then she died, but I was left and Captain Billy loved me and cared for me. He was father, mother, playmate, everything to me. The eyes softened and the girl turned and faced her companion. And, she breathed hoarsely, you and I must keep him from ever knowing the rest. The rest, Devont asked slowly. Yes, about you. I am not doing this only because I love him better than anything else on earth. I am doing it for my mother. It is all that she and I can do for him. Will you promise? Devont leaned against a tree. Motion was no longer possible. That stood in the path and waited. The brute instinct arose in the man's heart. This was his child. In doing for her lay the only expiation possible for him in the world. What were the claims of that man over on the dunes compared to his, should he powerfully press them? What if Captain Billy had given his life to the doing of a duty belonging to another? The tempter now took on a virtuous, unselfish guise. Think what the girl's life might be. Could any true love, even such stupid love as Billy might bear her, stand in the way? No. Billy would be the first to relinquish his hold upon her. With the calm, steady, waiting eyes upon him, Devont dared not urge his first claims of parentage. He would appeal to a reason. "'This is hardly a question for you to put to me,' he said. I must see Captain Billy and talk to him man to man.' "'What for?' there was a dangerous light in the girl's eyes. "'Because you have suffered for the wrong you did. You think you can ease your conscience by confessing to Captain Billy and making him suffer again?' Devont stared at her. "'You think it is for myself?' he asked. "'Who, then?' "'Why, for you!' "'Can you not see what it would mean to you?' Janet drew back. "'You—you want to do things for me? You who left my mother to die?' A fine scorn shook the low voice. "'My God, do not be so hard! Only because you are young and blind can you speak so heartlessly. Do you not see it is because I cannot do for her that I want now to do for you? I want it with all my soul, for her sake, as well as yours. I wish to undo, as well as I can, the bitter wrong.' Devont moaned. Captain Billy did that for you, long ago. Your silence must be his reward," Janet's face shone. "'Can you conceive?' asked Devont hoarsely. "'What you are giving up?' "'Yes. Now the shining eyes were misty. Over on the dunes, after Billy told me and I had chosen my course, I did think of the other way. Just as I used to imagine things when I was a lonely little girl, impossible things, you know. I thought of books and knowledge, and of the great beautiful world, and all the soft, pretty things that I know I should love. I did not think or imagine in my fancy that you would want to give them to me, but now that I know that it doesn't make any difference. Every time I think of my Captain Billy, nothing else matters. Two large tears rolled down the uplifted face. Devont felt himself baffled and anger rose within him. "'Suppose,' he said hoarsely, "'Suppose I could offer you Thornley's love!' The stab was cruel and the wound smarted. Over the soft brown skin the color died away and the eyes widened and deepened. "'That is no gift of yours,' she whispered proudly. "'And I know now what happens to girls like my mother and me when we forget.' Devont recoiled. Then a shame humbled and stung him. "'Do not judge him by me,' he said. "'I do not,' the words were hardly above a whisper. "'But you know, and he knows, there is a bar between us, and we must sail wide if we would not be wrecked. He would not hurt me, nor let me hurt myself. That is why he went away.' But,' and Devont was himself again, broken, beaten, but himself. "'If Captain Billy should ever leave you, should die, you understand. Will you not promise to send for me? When you are older you will judge less harshly. Will you promise to let me come next to Captain Billy?' He stretched out his hands pleadingly. Janet hesitated for a moment. Then she placed her slim brown hands in his. "'I do not know. How can I tell?' "'I thank you, but I cannot see any further than Captain Billy.' "'Good-bye.' "'Good-bye, my child!' Their hands dropped, and they went their ways. Janet was not permitted to reach the light without further trouble. The day was doomed to be freighted with heavy cares. In the depths of the scrub-oaks she came upon Mark Tapkins, breathing upon a log, and looking as nearly tragic as he, poor slow fellow, could look. When he heard Janet he raised his heavy eyes to her face. "'I've been waiting for you,' he said. "'I saw you talking to Mr. Devont as I came across lots. I've got to tell you.' "'Tell me what, Mark?' The girl thought another outburst of love was coming, and it seemed such a shabby, poor little thing in the gloom of recent happenings. And yet this roused her pity. It was so much to Mark, and it was his most sacred offering. She should not despise it. "'Bout mod grace!' Janet started. So it was not herself after all. "'What is the matter with her now?' she asked. "'She's gone!' "'Gone where?' "'The nation only knows. "'Well, Mark, I never have understood your interest in mod grace. You couldn't act more devoted if you were her lover, except in that case you would not have gone on that foolish hunt for her border.' Janet was impatient. She wanted to get away over to the dunes, to peace and billy. When mod gets ready she'll come home. Doesn't her mother know?' "'Jana, you've got to stay and listen.' "'Mark, I'm tired. I cannot help any. I want to go home.' "'You've got to listen,' Mark repeated doggedly, and as the girl took a step forward he caught her skirt and his trembling fingers. "'First I took an interest, because I thought I loved you, and I didn't want you smirched.' The words were flung out desperately, and they had the desired effect. Janet started and then stood rigidly intent. "'Smirched?' she repeated slowly. "'What do you mean?' And yet as she asked the question, light was born in upon her, light that had had its origin in the awakened womanhood. "'I kind of guess you didn't know what I mean, Janet. And I wish to the Lord I had let you help from the start. There ain't another soul as I can go to here until it's too late to do for mod grace. Not a soul but you. And God knows, I don't understand how it is I can hope from you, but I can. I just can. You won't be hard, for all you don't love mod grace much. I know true as heaven, you'll be gentle to her now when you wasn't before.' The poor fellow's face was distorted and quivering, but he had no need to hold Janet. She had come close and was resting her hand upon his bowed shoulder. "'Mark!' she whispered. "'You mean—you mean?' The man nodded, dumbly. And of course they would all turn upon her. They do not seem to know any reason for showing mercy. Oh, I do understand!' The dark eyes blazed, then softened under a mist as memory recalled the pitiful story of that other Quinten girl, and Mrs. Joe G's kindness that black night when she, Janet, was born. But now there was no Captain Billy to pilot this sad little wreck. "'I don't know what to do,' moaned Mark, covering his face with his thin, rough hands. "'I can't bear to think of her drifting off, Lord knows where. And I don't believe she's got a scent, and even if she walked to the city, she can't never get them.' "'No,' Janet was thinking quick and hard. "'When did she go?' She went up for breakfast, and she told her little sister to tell her mother she'd gone to you.' "'To me?' "'Yes, and of course that was just a spare for time.' "'Of course. Well, Mark, we must find her, and then she may stay with me.' Janet drew herself up very straight, and there was defiance in her action and expression. "'Are any of the boats gone?' "'Lord knows,' shivered Mark, but she wouldn't try a boat. She can't sail fit for anything. She's got the fear so many down here has, for the water. Don't you remember?' But the suggestion brought a new agony to the poor fellow. "'Whatever made you think of a boat?' he said. Suddenly a further knowledge, born of the new womanhood, almost blinded Janet. This simple fellow, suffering at her feet, had never loved her. She had but led him far afield in some strange fashion. He had always loved the missing, giddy girl, and this awful trouble had driven the dense fog away for ever. In the clear view Janet's heart arose in sympathy. "'You love her, Mark?' she whispered. "'Oh, I understand.' The man looked at her stupidly, clasping and unclasping his bony fingers. "'Do I?' he said, brokenly. "'I thought it was you. As God hears me, I thought it was you. But now this has happened long of the poor little thing. It's kind of knocked me down. I always felt sorry for her. You had so much, and she had what you might say nothing. I always was a master hand for wanting to help, and when I saw you drifting off to the hills, I wanted to help you, and I thought I loved you. And now I want to help her. "'I'm poor shucks, Janet, and not over-keen, but I'm fairly full of trouble now.' He bowed his head, and the big tears splashed upon his rough hands. In all the past Janet had never so respected him as she did at that moment. Almost reverently she touched the bent shoulder. "'It may not be too late, dear Mark,' she comforted. "'We'll find her, and all may be well. The best man I ever knew did what you may have to do, Mark. Forgive and forget, and let a great love have its way.' The poor fellow could not see into the future. The remorseful past and the pain-filled present engulfed him. "'She used to want me,' he groaned out. Before the borders come, she used to come up to pause and act up real pert and comical. Maybe if she hadn't, I'd have noticed her more. Ah, if I'd only been content to see it then, I might have saved her. I was only up to Maud Grace's limit, but I was always a-thinkin' I was more. And then when she took to the borders, I got mad and—and—' Janet knelt upon the leaves and bent her head upon Mark's knees. Never in her life before had she so touched him, but she knew now that he and she were out in the open where no future misunderstanding would darken their way. He needed her, and she needed him, and poor lost Maud needed them both. "'Don't take on, Janet,' Mark touched the bright head with clumsy reverent hand. "'It warn't any fault of yours. I did all I could to bring myself up to a point that I hoped I could reach you from. But it warn't in me. I was about Maud Grace's limit, as I say, but I didn't want to own to it, and now,' he gulped bravely, "'it ain't much of an offering. I'm a poor chote, but if I could, I'd use my worthless life for her. It's about all I can do.' "'And it is the greatest thing on earth, Mark,' Janet smoothed the rough hand. "'Maud will never come to you. You must bring her back, and I will help you both.' "'Go, Mark, go look at the boats. She had no money. She could not hope to walk far. In desperation she may have tried to get away by water.' Mark shook his head, but started obediently. Once he was out of sight, Janet turned into a side-path and ran like a mad thing to the lighthouse wharf. The comrade was gone, and nowhere on the bay was the white sail visible. Janet raised her eyes and looked at the autumn sky. The calmness was ruffled near the horizon by ragged little clouds. The wind is changing, she murmured. The oyster boats are coming in. There is going to be a wicked storm before nightfall. The bland sky seemed to give the lie to such reasoning, but the trained senses of the girl could not be deceived. She trembled as if the coming cold already touched her. Her eyes widened, but her lips closed in a firmer line. Away around the cove she saw Mark putting out on the bay in one of James Smith's boats. He was reefed close and was making for the inlet, up bay and way. He had discovered from afar the absence of the comrade. "'If the men see the comrade,' Janet thought, "'they will think I am aboard, and no one will worry. But, oh, poor, frightened, maud!' By two of the afternoon the autumn sky was storm-racked. The wind came up out of the sea with a fury and an icy chill. The oyster boats scurried homeward, and afar Mark's lonely sail was a mere streak of white in the dull gray. "'Nobody must see me,' Janet mused, clutching her hands close. "'If they have seen the comrade, they will think I am safe with Captain Daddy by now. If Maud's on the bay, Mark will find her and bring her home.' With that thought the girl ran to the house. Davey met her at the lighthouse door. "'He looked like he'd been blown from Kingdon Cumb,' he said. "'By gum, this is a breeze. Had your dinner?' "'Dinner? Oh, yes, I had dinner. All I wanted. I didn't mean to be so late, Davey. I meant to get your dinner.' "'You're kind of pale around the gills, Janet.' Davey looked keenly at the drawn face. "'Maybe you eat something that didn't set right in your stomach. Better take a spoonful of cure-rawl.' Susan Jane always thought considerable of that.' "'I could have sworn I saw the comrade putting off this morning. I thought you'd taken a flying trip to Billy. Seen anything of Mark?' "'Oh, yes. I nearly forgot, Davey, but Mark may not be here tonight. He's—he's got business over at Bay End.' "'How did he go?' questioned Davey. "'By train?' "'No. He went in one of James B's boats.' "'He's a tarnal idiot to do that in the face of this gale. He ain't no shucks of a sailor. John Jones comes off from the station today, and he ain't over-careful, being what you might say half fish and half daredevil. But, John, he started right back when he left an order for me.' "'Mark ought to have known better.' "'Janet, what does the matter with you?' "'Here, hold on, gal, till I get that cure-rawl.' Janet held on and smiled feebly as Davey poured the burning liquid down her throat. "'Thanks,' she whispered presently. "'I was mistaken. I did not eat any dinner. Davey, I am hungry. I always need my food, Davey. You know how I am.' She was laughing nervously. "'Come on, then,' commanded Davey, eyeing her critically. "'I ain't never seen you done up so by going without one meal before. I believe you're threatened with spepsi. It comes now and then with that emptiness in the pit of your stomach. That night Janet tried to sleep in her little room, but the fury of the storm and her heavy anxious secret forbade an instant's rest. At last, about midnight, she dressed and went up to Davey. He was standing near the entrance of the lamp, and his tired face was drawn and pitiful. "'By gum,' he ejaculated when he saw the girl, "'this wind comes straight from Greenland's icy mountains, and ain't losing any of its temper as it comes. "'The waves could be seen over the dunes, long before sundown, and just hear that.' "'What is it, Davey?' Janet pressed beside him. "'It sounds like someone knocking on the glass.' "'And so it is, so it is.' "'Least its birds,' poured dumb things, blown on land, and making for the light. "'Bein seafarers, like as not, they know the light is to guide "'em, and they come to what they think is safety. "'Poor, poor things! They beat the glass as if asking for mercy "'in shelter, and here I be a listening to them knocking "'themselves to death, and unable to help. "'If the good God takes heed of the sparrows, what falls, "'he ain't going to overlook the gulls. "'But it ain't much comfort to think on that, when he lets "'em die, die right again the light. "'Gum, we ain't had anything like this since Tom Davis was "'caught in his skimmy, over by the dunes, twenty-five years back. "'Least we haven't had anything like it as bad so early in the fall.' "'Come down, Davey,' pleaded Janet. "'Don't stand and hear the poor birds beat themselves to death. "'Tomorrow they will lie thick in the garden. "'Oh, it is a fearful gale.' "'And Tom Davis was so near the dunes that night, wasn't he, Davey? "'When his boat went over, he could have waited ashore. "'Only he did not know where he was. "'And the fog hid the light. "'But everyone knows about Tom Davis, and if a boat did go over, a person would try to wait ashore. "'Don't you think so, Davey, remembering as he would, Tom Davis?' "'You got Mark on your mind, eh?' Davey came down to the little sitting-room and turned up the lamp-wick. "'Well, you bet Mark put in somewhere for this gale, struck him. Tom Davis was different. He didn't take no precautions, ever. He was in his oilers and boots when he went over, and he wasn't reefed none. He wanted to get here quick with a fair wind, if such a foul gale could be called fair. He wanted to take part in a show down to the church. But his time had come, and the curtain went down on him, out there alone, in his water-sogged boots and heavy oiler coat. Tom Davis was born from misfortune as the sparks fly upward. Him with them boots and oilers on in a gale such as that war. "'Davey, what was that?' Janet clung to the keeper, her eyes dark and fear-filled. "'It sounded most like a human call now, didn't it?' said Davey, raising his head. "'It's a gull, that's what it is, Janet, a more-knowing gull than the rest.' "'Are you sure, Davey? It could not be anybody calling, could it?' "'Gosh, no, no. What do you suppose anyone would be calling for?' "'Why, if he were in danger.' "'Tained anybody on the bay, Janet. City folks is gone, and the Quintonites ain't chance in a pleasure-trip in this gale. Get downstairs, Janet. It's just possible someone's knocking and calling below.' Janet waited for no second bidding. Down the iron stair she ran, and never paused until she reached the lower door. This she opened cautiously and braced herself against it to keep out further entrance of the terrific wind. "'Anyone there?' she shouted. The noise of the storm alone replied. "'Anyone outside?' again she called. A soft something fell at her feet with a dull thud. It was a gull, broken-winged, its life beaten out against the glass of the light. Once again she shouted, "'Anyone there?'' On the wind came that strange weird call that had frightened her in the tower. It rose and fell piteously and passed on with the blast. "'I never heard that before to-night,' Janet murmured as she forced the door shut. It is new and awful.' She went into the living-room and lighted the fire. She would not try to sleep again. She made some coffee and carried it up to Davy. She dared not stay alone. For the first time in her life she was afraid and thoroughly unnerved. That morning before Davy had come from the lamp there was a knocking on the outer door and a pushing as well. Janet, coming down the stairs with the empty tray, saw the door open, and in the light of the gray still mourn, for the storm was passed, she recognized Mark in a yellow oiler with a salwester nearly hiding his wet and ashen face. "'You found her?' the words broke from Janet like a sob. "'Not yet.' Mark's voice was slow and weak. "'We want Davy to come and help as soon as he can. And can you let me have a cup of coffee, Janet?' "'I'm most done up.' The comrade is bottom up round by the point, and I guess she was being beaten toward home. But—but—' Janet dropped the tray and ran to Mark. She drew him into the room and pushed him toward a chair. "'Sit down,' she said brokenly. "'Sit down. You look as if you would drop.' "'See, I have the coffee already. It will take but a minute.' She hurried the preparation, and after she saw Mark gulp the strong hot drink, she asked quietly, but with awe in her voice. "'Can you tell me now, Mark?' "'There ain't much to tell. When a boat's bottom up in such a gale as was a blowin' last night, and only a poor little frightened gal was at the tiller, why—why there ain't what you might say anything to tell.' Mark stared dully before him. He was tired and soul-weary. "'She's got away fast enough this time, Janet,' he went on drearily. It ain't likely any one will be troubled settin' things for her now.' "'Don't—don't, Mark!' Janet was crouching by his chair, her tear-filled eyes looking wildly at his dull, vacant face. "'We—you and I were trying, you know.' "'Yes, but it was uphill work, and would have been worse, like as not. It ain't easy settin' straight a botch like that. I guess this is the best way.' "'Don't take on, Janet. Seems like she always got the rough part, but you couldn't help that none.' I guess you'd been the quickest one to help her if she'd cried out to you. But even you couldn't have helped much.' Janet heard again in fancy the weird call of the night. "'No, I could not help,' she shuddered. "'Where are you going, Mark?' "'Back to the bay. They're draggin' round by the point. Her father's there, and some others. I found the comrade for a daybreak, and got them up. If Davey can lend a hand later, tell him to come along. He was the one what found Tom Davis, they say. Davey seems to have a sense about where to look.' With his heavy oil-skin coat hanging loose, and his head bowed, Mark went back to do all that could be done, for poor mod-grace. End of Chapter 12 Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 13 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 13 Bluffhead was closed. The Master had left word with Eliza Jane Smith that after his departure the house key should be delivered to Janet with a note of explanation. The note reminded her that next to Captain Billy he was the one upon whom she must call in case of need, and he left the library in her keeping with a list of books for study and recreation. Snow was on everything, even on the new little grave in the desolate churchyard, where poor mod-grace and her pitiful secret slept. They had found the child late in the morning of that awful day succeeding the storm. In the small clenched left hand was a bit of water-soaked paper. No one but Mark had taken heed of it, but he guessed that it was the card which was to guide the girl to the man who had deserted her. Perhaps in that last hour of struggle and fear she had taken from its hiding-place for comfort, or perhaps to destroy it when hope was past. But it gave no clue. It was merely a wet pulp in a thin little rigid hand. Mrs. Joe G. took her grief stolidly. It was not in her to cry out or moan, but she felt her loss and sought to explain the strange ending to the young life. "'Twas this way,' she said to Eliza Jane Smith. The borders in all the life of the summer had unsettled mod-grace considerable. She wanted company all the time. She sort of turned to Janet, and like as not, that morning she went to the light to see her. Not finding her and seeing the comrade at the dock, and John Jones's boat putting back to the station, like Davy said he had done, mod-grace just fixed it in her mind that Janet was with John Jones, and so she took the comrade and went after them. Then when the wind came up she lost her head, and so Mrs. Joe G. at this juncture hid her face in her checked apron and silently rocked back and forth. She could not think of the night and storm, the lonely frightened girl dashed hither and yon in the little boat without breaking down. Life near the dunes was stern, and the people had learned to accept calmly the storm and danger, but just at first it was always hard. Mark Tapkins divided his time between his home and the light, but no longer did he raise his eyes to Janet. Mark had got his bearings at last and was steering his lonely way through sullen and bitter waters. Trouble had set a strange dignity upon him. Davy, seeing others downcast, rose to tuneful heights. Not only the landings, but the house, the long flight of steps, and the windswept balcony and shining light knew his cheerful songs. Singin's a mighty clarifying exercise, he said to Janet. It opens the body and soul, so to speak, and lets more in the tune and words out. The angels sing in glory, and I mind how it is said the morning stars sang together. So long as I've got a voice I'm going to sing and drown the sound of worse things. So Davy sang and guided many a sad thought into safer channels. Over at the station the crew patiently went through the routine. The short dark days passed with the monotony that was second nature to the brave fellows. Perhaps their greatest courage was displayed in their homely, detached lives. They cooked, they slept, they drilled and patrolled the beach. They talked little to each other, but they were ready for near and far off duty, should a signal be displayed. Small wages repaid them for their faithful endurance. They were not permitted to add to their income by other labour, and they knew that when age or weakness overtook them, the government they served as faithfully as any soldier could, would discard them for younger or stronger men. Nevertheless, they bore their part uncomplainingly through deadly loneliness or tragic danger. It looks like it was going to be a hard winter, setting in so early and so persistent, said Billy one day. Billy took more heed of the weather than did the others. The patrols tired him more now than they ever had before. Like as not, agreed Jared Brown, I saw a skim of porridge ice this side the bar as I had turned in this morning. Billy nodded. Janet coming on this winter? No, she's mostly going to stay off. Davy needs her more than I do, and it ain't no fit place over here for just one woman. It ain't that, the smoke rose high between the men. Heard how Mark Tapkin seemed to feel, Joe G's gal's death? Yes, yes. I thought once it was your Janet. Well, it weren't. Billy felt justified in this denial, though at one time he had thought so himself. There don't seem to be anyone likely for Janet hereabouts. A little learnin' spoils a gal, Billy. Is them your sentiments? They be. Well, folks differ. Janet pleases me. Yes, but you can't expect to handle Janet's craft forever. She's got to rely upon her own saline some day. Like as not, but when that time comes Janet'll take the tiller without any fuss. That's the way she's built. Like as not, over on the mainland James B. was comfortably happy. With the closing of Bluff Head his unmistakable duty ended. He could take no other job while waiting for Billy's delayed surrender, and he could loaf at the village store or sleep behind his own kitchen stove in virtuous comfort. He was at peace with the world and had no desire to see Billy resign from the crew in his favor. Social functions grew apace as winter clutched the coast in real earnest. The donation party was a brilliant success, from the congregation's point of view. They had a good time and made deep inroads into the provisions they had brought, leaving the cleaning up for the minister's wife. Christmas festivities lightened the time, too, and for a space made the hardworking men and women as gay as little children. Several traveling entertainments later had shown a fraternal spirit and stopped over at Quinton. They were always generously patronized and left a ripple of excitement behind them. One inspired some of the young people of the place to start a dramatic society. It began with an energy that threatened to swamp all other social and religious functions. After many rehearsals a play was announced and the entire population turned out in force. The play was given in Deacon Thomas's parlor, because that had a rear room opening into it that could be used as a stage. But one scenic touch in the stage property doomed the aspiring artists to defeat and the society to annihilation. A donkey was required in the play. No one had genius nor ambition enough to create an entire one, but a very realistic head was constructed and this, fastened to a broomstick and thrust forward at the psychological moment, produced a startling and thrilling effect. The audience was stirred to its depth. Most of the young people were either on the stage or behind the curtain, but the few who were in the audience broke into cheers, which were quickly quelled by Deacon Thomas, whose son John had led the applause. He bent forward and gripped Deacon Farley by the shoulder. Silas, he said, I don't see anything sinful in the speaking part, but that animal is too much like a theater. That was the battle cry of defeat. The theater, to Quinton, was as pernicious as a bullfight would have been to a Puritan. Janet, who was accountable for the donkey head, felt a real disappointment in the downfall of the dramatic society. It had appealed to her artistic imaginative nature. In it she saw a glimmer of enjoyment which all the other village pastimes lacked. She loved dancing, but without knowing why, she disliked to dance with the young men of the place. With the yearning of youth for popularity and companionship, she felt the growing conviction that she was outside the inner circle. Davy had closed the lips of idle gossipers, but even he was unable to open the hearts of suspicious neighbors. The girl longed to draw to herself human love and loyalty, but her every attempt failed. Davy, she said with a deep sigh, I reckon I'm just a bungler. Everything I do seems wrong. I'm afraid, and here she grew dreamy, I'm afraid I'm like the poor poplars. I see over the dooms. I see too much, and I frighten others. It ain't over wise, Janet, mused Davy through the tobacco smoke, to get to think in what you are and what you ain't. Let other folks do that. Just be something. Yes, yes, Davy, but what? Everything I try to be, I fail in. Janet thought of the chance that lay in the distant city and wondered if she would have failed there. Well, I always take it, Davy replied, that the good God gives us just as much to do as we're able to do, and he wants it well done. He ain't going to chuck jobs around to folks that ain't equal to doing well what they has in hand. For instance, Davy pointed his remark with the stem of his pipe, he ain't such an all-fired good housekeeper as you might be. I know it, Davy. And your clothes, while they become you like as not, have a loose look in the so-in that might be bettered. The fact is, Janet, you ain't particular about the fussin' things, and it may be your way lies in perfecting yourself in the fussins of life. Oh, you dear Davy! Janet was laughing above her inclination to cry. I do believe you are right. I'm going to pay particular attention to the little fussy things. Dear knows, if I do them all well, I'll have little time for discontent. She stood up, she and Davy were in the living-room while Mark was doing duty aloft, and flung her strong young arms above her head. Davy, I wish just once in my life I could let myself go. I don't care much how, but just go. I'd like to take a ship out to sea, not the bay, but the open middle ocean, and just go where I pleased. It'd get wrecked, first thing, broken, Davy. But I'd be doing something big until I got wrecked. Or I'd like to be alone on a great desert where I could shout and dance and sing, and no one would be there to call me mad. But you'd be mad just the same. Davy was watching the flashing face uneasily. The gossip that had drifted to him had but strengthened his love and care for Billy's girl. He was a hearty support now, protecting this free nature from outer harm and inward hurt. No, no, Janet, don't hanker after the ocean or the desert till you know how to handle yourself. Oceans and deserts ain't no jokes for greenhorns. I heard Mark say the bay was froze over. That don't happen often so early as this. I'm going to get my ice boat out tomorrow, Davy. Life on an ice boat is life. A sailboat is not bad with a good wind, but you always have to take the water into your reckoning, then. But the ice, ah, there's nothing there but you and the wind to consider. And holes, Davy added. You're just an old pessimist, Davy, Janet laughed. Like as not, Davy agreed. He hadn't an idea what a pessimist was, but he never wasted time inquiring as to the labels others attached to him. That night, winter, in its grimest sense, settled upon Quinton. The bay became a glistening roadway between the mainland and the dunes. Children on skates or in ice boats filled the short cold days with laughter and fun. Slaying parties flashed hither and yonder with never a fear of a crack or hole, and beyond the dunes the life-crew kept a keener watch upon the outer bar. Chunky ice formed near shore, and the tides bore it inward and left it high upon the beach. Day by day it grew in height like a shining, curving line of alabaster showing where the high-water mark had been, and upon a certain threatening day John Thomas came off and stopped at the light to have a word with Davy. He didn't want me to say anything to you, but it don't settle on my mind as just right not to. Billy's had a spell. Davy pulled up his trousers, with him a sure sign of deep emotion. What kind, he asked. Sort of, peterin' out. He was peeling taters in the station, when all of a sudden he sat down kind of forcible on a chair, dropped the knife and tater, and looked at me as if I'd done something to him. I ran cross to him and stood by, so to speak. Then he kind of laughed and said distant and thick, that was comical. I felt like my works had run down. Billy ain't what he once was. Davy set his lips in a grim line. He ought to have a lighter job, he muttered. How is he now? Oh, he's come around. But spells are spells, and you've got to look out. Don't tell Janet. Billy was sod against that, some fierce. I don't know as Billy should want to shield her more in common sense points. I feel she ought to know. It ain't pleasant to get a knock in the back of your head, and that's what Janet's going to get some day about Billy. He says she knows enough, and he ain't going to have her pestered. Well, tomorrow I'm going on, not at Davy, and Billy ain't going to honey-fugal me none. After I cast my eye on him, I'm going to give myself orders. Sighted anything lately? A schooner got mighty near the bar, long about sundown last night. Kind of skittish act and hussy she was, but she turned out and cleared off without much trouble. We was all ready for her. Big C, too. Powerful. And I told Captain that I've got kind of superstitious about them boats as making near call and then sidle off. Twice during my time a real thing has happened soon after. Seems like they come to see if you're watching. Kind of getting your attention, so to speak, and warning you that you ain't there for fun. I'm going on about three this afternoon. Sky looks nasty. It does that, agreed Davy. And it's my turn up aloft tonight. I somehow feel more certain when I'm there myself in foul weather. Mark ain't never done anything to cause me to distrust him, but Lord, he's got that unfortunate air of making you distrust yourself about him. Mark lacks salt, John laughed, good-naturedly. If he and Pa had a dash of seasoning in them, they'd be all right. They're flat, that's all. Like is not, Davy said. But flats ain't the best kind of things to run on in a storm. So Davy held his peace regarding Billy's spell until he could have a look at Billy himself. And all that cold, dreary day Janet worked at the small fussy things of her daily life, keeping her hands busy but having time and to spare for her active brain to wander far. She lived over again the summer, the wonderful summer. She felt the yearning for books and the quiet of the Bluffhead Library. She recalled Devont with a sense of hurt and pity, but thornly came to her memory with the radiance that grew with absence and, perhaps, forgetfulness on his part. With the proud young womanhood that remained with the girl like a royal birthright, the knowledge of all that thornly's renunciation of her help in his artment brought the warm blood to her cheek and a prayer of gratitude to her lips. She could afford to live and work apart. She could be glad in worshiping her ideal of all that was brave and manly, even though she knelt forever before an empty shrine. Billy and Davy loomed upon her near horizon in added splendor. Ah! she had known such good men! She was very blessed, and so she sang as she worked. About noon of the winter's day, James B. slouched down to the light and entered the living-room where Janet sat, darning Davy's coarse-gray socks. "'Has John Thomas gone on yet?' he asked. "'No,' said Janet. His boat is at the dock.' I'm thinking of going on with him. Looks like a rough enough storm was coming up, and if anything should happen, an extra hand or two over at the station wouldn't come amiss. Eliza Jane's been having feelings in her bones that I'd better be over there.' Janet's eyes flashed, but the drooping lids hid them. She could not tell why, but every time James B. went over to the station, she resented it. It seemed as if he were keeping an eye on Captain Billy, and it aroused her dislike and suspicion. "'Eliza Jane's bones must be troublesome for the rest of the family,' she said. "'They be,' nodded James. I told Eliza Jane today that to be rooted out in the teeth of the kind of storm this one is like to be, just for feelings in her bones, weren't exactly fair to me. "'Why do you go?' the girl raised her great eyes and looked full at him. His furt of glance fell. "'Cause Eliza Jane said to,' he answered doggedly. She was down to Miss Thomas's, and when she knew John Thomas was off, she set her mind of my going on with him. I kinda hoped he was gone.' "'Well, he isn't. There he goes now down to the dock. It's queer he doesn't stop and speak a minute.' James B. slouched toward the door. "'Any message for Captain Billy?' he said. "'Just my love, and tell him I'm coming on to-morrow or next day.' Shut the door, James. The wind comes in as if it were solid.' She watched the two men make ready the little ice boat. She saw them get aboard, and almost on the instant the steadily increasing wind caught the toy-like thing and bore it with amazing speed past the point and over toward the dunes. Then an anxiety grew in her heart. Of late she had been subject mentally to sensations that in a measure were similar to those that affected Eliza Jane's bones. She was depressed or elated without seeming cause. It annoyed and shamed her, but she could not control it. John Thomas's returned to the station without a word to her, his visit to his mother and Eliza Jane's prompt dispatch of James B. to the dunes grew to ominous proportions as the lonely girl dwelt upon them. "'I wonder if my Captain Daddy is all right,' she thought wistfully. She was merely carrying out Billy's desire in remaining so much upon the mainland. Her own inclination was for the desolate little cottage near the station and the loving companionship of Billy. "'I don't care what,' he says,' she whispered to herself. "'I'm going to go on and stay with him part of the time. I need him, even if he doesn't need me.' She wiped her tears upon the rough gray sock that covered her hand. "'I'm just like Mark, because I cannot do what I'm fit to do. I'm failing in everything. There is no use. "'I must go to Captain Billy and learn to be happy with him and nothing else.' The determination to go to the dunes brought a sense of comfort with it, but a nervousness grew apace. It was as if, now that she had decided to go, she was in a hurry to start. She was conscious of a trembling eagerness in every act. She put her mending away. She prepared the new-day meal with vigor and intensity, selecting what she knew Davy most liked. "'This is a feast,' bloated Davy, looking around his humble board and sniffing appreciatively the steaming favorites. "'Looks like you'd caught on, Janet.' "'So I have, Davy. I've gripped for sure and certain.' "'Didn't tell you, did I, that Mark is going.' "'Going where?' Janet laid down her knife and fork and looked interested. "'Him and Pa is going to build, twixed here in the hills, and open an inn. They plan to move the old house down and join it on.' "'An inn?' Janet laughed. "'Then was his words an inn. Sometimes it seems like Mark was walking on a dark night on cold wet sand. He slaps down his foot, sort of careless and strikes phosphorus. He ain't got what you might call sea-in qualities, but he strikes out light. That's the way it was with him telling Pa about selling crawlers. The old man made a small fortune. "'And now this inn will pan out. You just mark my words. It stands to reason folks would rather go to an inn than to a boarding-house.' Davy grinned at Janet over a cup of tea, green enough and strong enough to curl any ordinary tongue. "'Pa's going to cook, and Mark's going to run the business,' added Davy. "'Well, they'll have good cooking,' Janet smiled, as she thought of the scheme. "'Maybe they'll let me wait upon table.' "'Like as not. They will, if you want to.' "'Well, it ain't any more than fair, you consarn little trap, but that you should do your turn at waiting on Mark. "'Shell, just hear that gale, will you? It steered around and is coming straight off sea. By gum! If any craft drifts on to the bar tonight, there's going to be a spry dancing at the station.' Davy went to the window and peered out. The early afternoon was bitterly cold and darkened by wind-driven clouds, full of storm and fury. "'They've got an extra hand, such as it is,' Janet came and stood close by Davy. "'Who?' "'James B. He went on with John Thomas.' "'Did, did he? Well, by gum. Janet, I wished a thunder I could get Billy to give up the life-crew and take Mark's place here.' "'Why, Davy?' There was intensity and pathos in the question and trouble in the gentle eyes.' "'Cause,' about safe to Davy. "'Just cause. That's why.' "'Fetch me a bite in the lamp, Janet, long about sundown. I ain't coming down once I go up this afternoon. I ain't looking for trouble. "'Tain my way, but somehow, when such a night as this is like to be settles down, it don't seem anything more unfriendly for me to bear the light company.' So Janet cleared the dinner away, she found little tasks to fill the darkening hours, and with eagerness prepared the tray for Davy and took it aloft at sundown. By that time the wind was almost a hurricane, and before it were driven sharp sheets of snow that cut and sounded as they sped madly landward. The tower swayed perceptibly. Davy's face was grimly careworn, and his manner forbade sociability. Janet waited a few moments, then realizing Davy's mood left the tray and went below. But now a trembling and inward terror possessed her. She tried to shake off the feeling with contempt for her folly. She sang, remembering Davy's philosophy. "'When you sing, you open the safety valve for more to get out than words and music.' But this song gave relief only to sound and mental action. Early night came with eagerness, as if for the doing of what was to be done the black pall was alone appropriate. "'Why, any one would think,' Janet stood by the window and her teeth chattered as she spoke. "'Anyone would think I was that white girl at Bluffhead instead of Captain Billy's girl. I, afraid of a storm. I, housed and safe at the light. I, who in many such a gale, trotted after Captain Billy just for pure fun. "'It's time I went on and got the dune tonic for my foolish nerves. Me with nerves!' Then she ran to the door and opened it slowly, pushing against it to stay the wind. "'I thought,' she moaned, "'I thought I heard a call.' The memory of the night that poor Maude Grace went down beyond the point added keenness to her fancy. It sounded like that call. "'Ah, as long as I live, I shall remember it. I do believe it was Maude. I always shall, no matter what they say.' The howling of the wind drowned the girl's words, but her strained face pressed against the opening and her senses were alert. "'I hear it,' she panted. "'I hear that call. Suppose—oh, suppose that it is my Captain Billy calling. If he were on the patrol and in danger, he would call to me. He would know I could not hear, but he would call just for comfort.' Again the burdened wind shrieked outside. The face at the door grew ghastly in the eyes, terror-filled. "'There are more ways of hearing than one,' she muttered. "'Captain Daddy, I am coming.' Who was there to stay her with word of caution? Who was there to control her as she made ready to answer the heart-call of her beloved Billy?' Now the doubt had fled a calmness possessed her. She was indifferent. First she wrote a note to Davy and placed it open and conspicuous beside his plate. She had laid the breakfast-table half an hour before. "'I've gone to Billy. Took my ice-boat.' That was all, but Davy would understand. Then she wrapped herself warmly, covering all with an oiler, and pulling Esau Wester well down over her ears. Finally she extinguished the lamp, led herself out of the door, and ran in the face of the gale to the dock. There she paused. "'I'd have to tack miles off my course,' she muttered. I had forgotten the direction of the wind. There was nothing to do but take to the ice and walk and run as she could. It was an awful undertaking, but the girl did not pause. The call for help came only when she hesitated. While she acted her nerves were calm. So, with head bent forward and low, Janet set out for the dunes. Once she looked back at Davy's light. Through the scurrying snow and sleet it shone steadily and hopefully, unaffected by the wind and fury that waged war outside. "'It is like a thought of God,' she whispered, and her courage rose. Only a dune-bred girl could have withstood the force of the storm, but by pausing for breath now and again, by sliding and gaining strength walking backward, she made fair progress, and guided by the light, headed for the halfway house. In that she would wait and hide. If it were Billy's patrol she would be there to see him. If not, well, time enough for future plans. She knew Billy would disapprove her action, but she must know. Once the dunes were gained their landward side was sheltered. Janet sat down in the long grass to rest before ascending. The snow cut her face and the thunder of the waves deafened her. After a few minutes she started on. Davy's light was straight behind her, so the halfway house lay directly before. On, on in the dark and noise, she felt her way with hands outstretched in front of her. At the dune-top the real magnitude of the storm was apparent. On the mainland it was comparatively mild. Here wind, tide, and heavy sea were let loose and were battling in ferocious freedom. Ah! Janet caught her breath and staggered back, clutching the tall, dry, ice-covered grass to steady herself. But a few more steps brought her rudely against the sheltered house. She pushed the door open. Neither man had as yet arrived, so there was no fire lighted in the little stove. Janet began to gather the wood and cold together in her stiff fingers, but something stayed her. She felt ill and weak. So instead she crawled under the bench that ran across the side of the tiny hut and hid in the darkness. She began to fear Billy's displeasure. For a moment the faintness and nausea made cold and weariness sink into oblivion, and before they reasserted themselves the door was opened and someone came in. The dense darkness hid him and Janet waited. The man struck a match and hurriedly started the fire. By the sudden blaze she saw that it was I, Truman, one of the crew from the farther station. Once the fire was kindled and burning the man sat down in the corner of the bench directly over Janet's hiding place and shook his cell wester free of the ice and snow that had collected upon it. It was not long before the door opened again. The fire was rudely lighting the shed by this time, and Janet, from her cramped position, saw Billy. Something in his appearance made her catch her breath in alarm. It was not his ice-covered garments that glistened in the red light, nor his grim rigid face, but the strange stare of his wide opened eyes that caused her alarm. Bad night, said I, but we've made good time. Billy had dropped upon the opposite bench and the ice crackled upon his garments. Petered out some? I now looked at Billy. He looked kind of a dunfer. Take my check out of my pocket, left-hand one. Billy's voice sounded far off and thin. And put yours in. My hands is bit. The lids of my eyes got froze down in my cheeks and I couldn't see, so I thought them out by holding my hands up and my hands caught it. Janet dared not move. I exchanged checks and then he bent over Billy. Y'all right? he asked doubtfully. Sure, Billy tried to laugh, but his voice shook. Frostbite don't count none. I'm thawed out enough now for my own comfort. I'd daren't take my eye off the bar. I tell you I, if there's trouble tonight, is going to be real trouble. Tis that, said I, and the two men stood up. Good night, I. Good night, Billy, and let's hope for a safe walk back. They were gone. Then Janet came from her hiding. Her sickness had passed. She was warmer and more comfortable, but she meant to keep close to Billy on that return patrol. If all went well he would forgive her by and by. She was on the point of pushing the door open when suddenly the full blast of the gale struck her in the face. Someone was coming back. It was Billy and he stood before her. Her face was away from the light and her cell wester drawn close misled Billy, but Janet saw his eyes wide and staring. I, he panted and his voice was thick. I, I can't do it. The, the works are running down again. It's better to tell you than to drop out there in the sand and no one ever know. Hurry back, man, and watch both ways as long as you can. Billy swayed forward and Janet caught him. She laid him upon the floor and bent above him. My captain, she moaned. Oh, Captain Billy! But Billy heated her not. He's dead. The horror-filled words startled even the speaker. Dead, my Billy! But no, he breathed. I must do his work and get help. The girls started up wildly. He isn't dead. He shall not die. She took his check from his pocket and his cast and light. Then she gently moved him nearer the stove, put coal on the blaze, and loosened the heavy coat. Now she muttered and rushed out into the night and storm. The strength of ten seemed to possess her and the calmness of desperation lent her power. The noise of the wind deadened the sound of the surf. Sometimes she found herself knee-deep in icy water, for the tide was terribly high. Then she crawled up to the dunes and felt with mittened hands for the stiff grass. Presently she came to a rock, a rare thing on that coast, and she clung to it desperately. It was as true a landmark to the girl of the station as a mountain peak would have been to an inland traveller. Only a mile more, she panted, and then a memory of one of Davy's old hymns came to her. The shadow of a mighty rock within a weary land. She recalled how she, as a little child, had often crouched beside this very rock when the summer's sun beat hot upon the sand. Summer! Was there ever such a thing as summer on this ice-bound shore? She dreaded to set forth again. A stupor was creeping over her. A stupor she had been trained to fear. She struggled to her feet, but the mad thought of summer would cling to her benumbed fancy. It fascinated and lured her dangerously. She saw the hills rise, many-coloured in the blackness. She saw Thornley's little hut with its door set open to the cool, refreshing breeze. It was a breeze then, this fierce, cruel wind. It was a gentle breeze when summer and love held part. She heard again the call of the golden whistle, and this fancy made her draw her breath in sharp gasps. She shut her stiff lids and saw Thornley coming over the sun-lighted hills, with his joy-filled face shining in the summer day. Oh! if she could but hear that golden call just once again, how happy she would be! Maybe when death came, God would let Thornley call her in that way, just as God had let Susan Jane's lover come to her upon the shining, incoming wave. But then Thornley was not her lover. She was his, and that was different. Death! Again the girl struggled forward. She must not die. Why, Billy was there alone in the half-way house, and Billy's duty was still unperformed. On, on, once again. The wind was blowing in gusts now. It was reckoning with the near-coming day, and was lessening in fury. But the sudden blasts were almost worse than the steady gale. Janet, weakened and numb, was hardly upon her way, before she was knocked from her feet by the cruel force, and lay face downward upon the icy sand. Hurt and discouraged she yet managed to rise. The pain roused her dull senses, and in the lull that followed a strange ghostly sound was born seaward. She stopped and stood upright. Again it came, plaintively and persistently, rising and falling. As if the faint note had power overnight and tempest, the blackness seemed to break, the snow ceased, and overhead through a riven cloud, a pale, frightened moon peered curiously. Then the wind shrieked defiantly. But again it came, that tender, penetrating call, nearer, nearer over the dunes, and down toward the thundering sea. Still, as if frozen where she stood, Janet waited for—she knew not what. Someone, in the dim grayish light, was coming toward her. Someone tall and strong, but well nigh spent. The man had seen her, too. How far am I from the station? he shouted. It was Thornley's voice. It was the little whistle's call that had stilled the storm and brought hope. Janet could not answer. All power seemed gone from her. When he came close he would know her, and then, why, why had he come? The girl had forgotten her disfiguring garment. Thornley was within a foot of her before he understood. Then he reeled back. The moon, for another still moment, shown full upon the ice-covered figure and the upturned face framed by the old southwestern. My God! he cried, and stretched out his arms, hardly knowing whether he were warding off an apparition or reaching out to the woman he was seeking so earnestly. You! he whispered. You! alone out here in all the storm and darkness! She tried to answer, but words failed her. She smiled pitifully and put her hands in his. I have wandered for hours! Thornley was holding the girl closer. Do you hear and understand, Janet? I went to the light. I saw your note lying open on the table. I was afraid for you. I lost my way on the ice. I had only Davy's light to guide me. I landed. Heaven only knows where. But I wanted you. I've got you at last. A fierceness shook the eager voice that was raised above the noises of the night. Yes! Janet spoke low and dreamily. Again the cold stilled her pain. The moon was hidden and grim darkness held them. You! you want me to help you finish your picture? It really was a small matter, but even in the strangeness and numbness the girl wished he had not come. He was greater and dearer when he had stayed away and sacrificed his picture for her honor and his own. My picture! Good Lord! What do I care for my picture? Child! I want you! Oh! I want you to help me to finish my life! Thornley shook the girl gently. She was in his arms. She was leaning against him heavily, her icy garment striking harshly against his. How he blessed his great strength that terrible night! He reasoned that Janet had crossed the bay as he had, bent upon some errand at the station. He had overtaken her in time, thank God, for her strength was fast failing. I must carry you! he cried, but his words were drowned in the wind's howling. Here! I have my flask. Drink, Janet! Drink, dear! It will give you new life! We must make the station together! Janet swallowed painfully, but the liquor brought relief. Clinging to Thornley, she went silently on. Between the last two dune tops Davy's light again shone. Only a half-mile more, panted the girl. Thornley knew the value of making the most of what they had, and without speaking he pressed forward, holding her close. Suddenly Janet stopped and pointed stiffly seaward. The bar! she groaned. See! a rocket! Thornley strained his eyes. Another! the girl's voice was tense and hoarse. They are on the outer bar! God help them! Here! get the constant out! Strike a light! my hands are stiff! Oh! it rises! they answer! They know we have seen them! Poor souls! Come! we must run! And she, who but a moment before was half-dead from cold and exposure, now ran as if sand and heavy icy clothing had no power to stay her. Thornley, filled with terror at this new development, and fearing that the girl beside him would not be able to reach the station, seized her more firmly and rushed forward. Oh! the station! do not lift me! I can make it now! Thornley did not relinquish his hold, and together they flung themselves against the heavy doors of the little house. The light and warmth were in their faces. A ring of startled men stood before them. They're on the outer bar! Two rockets! I've answered! The words came in hard quick breaths, and Janet swayed forward. It was Thornley who bore her to a chair most distant from the red-hot stove. The men had vanished like specters. There was a hurried noise in the further room, as the big cart bearing the apparatus was pushed into the night and storm. Opposite Davy's light, between the last two dunes, called Janet. All right! Someone replied from beyond. Then a stillness followed. Thornley stood guard over the girl as she sat helplessly in the wooden chair. The ice was melting and dripping from her clothing. The southwestern had fallen away from the sweet worn face, and the pretty cheeks showed two ominous white spots that bespoke frozen flesh. I dare not take you nearer the fire! Thornley's voice was unsteady. His own returning circulation and consequent pain made him cruelly conscious of what he knew she was suffering. She looked up bravely and smiled. It's pretty bad, she said with a quiver. It hurts, doesn't it? Then noticing for the first time that Thornley was less protected than she, for he wore only his heavy overcoat, which was crusted thick with ice, she forgot her own agony and genuine alarm. Take off those frozen things, she commanded. You must be drenched through and through without an oiler. Make yourself comfortable. I must go. Go! In heaven's name, go where! Thornley paused as he was taking off his cap, over which he had tied a silk muffler and stared at the girl. Why, to Captain Billy, you do not understand. He is back in the halfway house. He may be dead! A shiver ran over Janet and she struggled to her feet. It is awful for me to sit here. You know nothing. I must go! Thornley firmly held her back. His check! she faltered. Take it out of my pocket, please. No, the left-hand pocket. That's it. Hang it there on the rack by the door. I may not return, you know. There's no time for explanations, Janet. Thornley had followed the girl's directions mechanically and now urged her back in the chair. Of course I will not let you go, but I am going to Captain Billy. Whatever can be done I will do. I will bring him on here, or I will stay with him there until help reaches us. But you must obey what I say and wait for us. You must trust me. She looked up at him, tear-blinded and pitiful. Let me go with you, she pleaded. I am used to it, and, after all, what matters now? Thornley seized an oil-skin coat from a peg on the wall and thrust his arms into it. What matters? he stopped to ask, looking at Janet with a puzzled stare. Why, don't you know, little girl, that this is the beginning of everything for us? Can't you understand? Over his anxiety and excitement a sense of joy flooded. Here, he cried, trying to cheer her. It's going to be all right with Captain Billy and everyone else. Give me that rear-decked boat you have in your head, Janet, and you'll promise to stay here until I return. He bent over her and drew the icy mittens from the stiff little hands. Then he raised the cold fingers to his lips and looked into the depths of the upturned eyes. He had gone through his doubts and struggles since he had left her on the hills. She, poor girl, had long ago relinquished her hope and love, but as she gazed now into the eyes bent above her, she understood. It was the climax of their young lives. Whatever lay beyond, they could not know. Whatever forces had driven them into their sanctuary, they neither of them sought to question. It might be their only moment. I will wait, Janet whispered, clinging to him. I will wait for you and Captain Daddy. After Thorny was gone, the unreality passed. The howling of the gale and the memories that flooded the present loneliness drove the sudden dream before them. While she stood housed and protected, all that was dear to her, all that meant life to her, was out there in the storm. Captain Billy dying, perhaps dead, three miles beyond. The crew, manfully doing their duty by the men in the outer bar. Thorny, struggling to perform a task that might be beyond his strength, while she, amid the danger and storm, stood idle. Why, she cried, this is as bad as that drowsiness out on the shore. I must do something. I had no right to promise. She ran to the window and tore aside the little curtain. Her heavy coat fell from her, and with it seemed to drop the weight and burden that had oppressed her. The sluggishness of mind and body was gone. She was herself again. No promise must hold me from my Captain Daddy, she whispered, in a soft defiance. Just then the darting lanterns of the crew, far down the beach, attracted her, and through the grim grayish light of the dying night, shown Davies light, faithful and strong. She stood surrounded by courageous duty. Her life lesson had been one long training for duty. Was she to fail now? But what was her duty? Slowly a radiant spread from brow to chin. The livid spots on either cheek smarted into consciousness at the rush of blood that bore surrender with it. Above even Billy's claim to her faithfulness was her promise to Thornley. There was one greater now in her life than Captain Billy. And he has undertaken my task. She pressed her burning cheek to the frosted glass. I will trust him, and he shall trust me. So while Davie tended his light, while the crew gave heart of hope to the wretched men upon the outer bar, while Thornley in the dark and storm struggled onward to the doing of a duty he had taken upon himself, Janet made ready for what might lie before. She ran to the loft above and carried down cots and blankets. She heated kettles of water and fed the huge stove until it blazed and roared. Then she brought from the captain's room the medicine chest and the liquor that were kept for emergencies. Still no one came. Janet gave herself no time for idle thought, nor did she permit her fevered fancy to run free. There was still something to do. She must provide for them who were risking their lives for others. She made strong coffee and cut slices of bread from the massive loaves. Then suddenly, like a flash of humor in the tortured loneliness, she remembered Jared Brown's liking for tomatoes and set forth a large can. The homely tasks were steadying the strained nerves, but every time the wind rattled the doors the girl started. The hours dragged on. The gale began to sob spasmodically as the day conquered it. The grayish light outside brightened. What was that? The shed door was opening. The panting wind tore the kitchen door wide and Janet saw three men advancing. She tried to run to them, but the body refused to respond to the eager will. She could not anticipate a knowledge that might mean so much. Thorneley and I Truman came into the glow of the hut kitchen, and between them they dragged Captain Billy. Janet saw that he was alive, and when he realized that it was she who stood before him, the old comforting smile struggled to the poor worn face. Don't take on, he panted as they placed him upon the nearest cot and began to strip his icy clothing from him. This ain't what you might call anything at all. Janet knelt beside him. My Captain, was all she could say. My own dear Captain Daddy. You little specimen! Billy closed his eyes luxuriously. They've told me what you've done. I found him in the halfway house, I explained, while Thorneley mixed a hot drink for Billy. You see, I was nearly back to the station when I saw that signal from the bar. My crew had seen it too, and they come racing down as I was making for them. On the way back I noticed the door of the shelter open, and a tear in fire lightened up the place. I stopped to see that all was safe, and there on the floor, acting like all possessed, was Billy. He was forgoing with the men, but he couldn't stand on his legs. It was something fierce the way he took on. I sort of hauled him up and swore I'd get him down to the shore somehow, when this gentleman, I waved one of Billy's boots, which he had just made it to get off, toward Thorneley. Come in, and he kind of took command, as you might say, and ordered us on to this here port. Janet was pressing her face against the weary one upon the pillow, and murmuring over and over in a gentle lullaby. My Captain! My Captain! Thorneley came over to the cot and raised Billy to feed him the drink. Billy looked up and smiled feebly. If I ain't needed here, I said, I'll take a haul of coffee and then fetch some down to the men. Janet started. Oh, I forgot! she cried. What about the wreck? The tide's turning, I replied, from the depths of a bowl of coffee. Like as not, the ship will lift by morning. More frightened than hurt, anyway, I guess. They've signaled us to stand by till daybreak, but I'm thinkin' they'll hiss before then. When I had gone, Thorneley put the cup down and placed Billy back in the pillows. The heavy eyes opened and fell upon the two faces near. Then a puzzled expression settled in the kindly gaze. You've got your chart to sail by, my gal! he whispered, going back in memory to that night when he had told Janet of her mother. I ain't gonna worry any more. The words trailed off into unconsciousness, and Captain Billy swung at anchor between this port and that beyond.