CHAPTER X
Janet had conquered the art of crocheting in order that she might construct a Tam o' Shanter 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 upward 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 Thornly had, later, assisted Nature; and no French modiste could more accurately have chosen the shade of reddish brown to suit the complexion than 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.
"Sprucin'?" Davy paused. Tired as he was, the girl's beauty caught and held him.
"Some. I've set your breakfast out on the table, Davy, and the coffee is on the stove."
"Yer gettin' t' be a master hand at cookin', Janet. I don't b'lieve Pa Tapkins can beat yer coffee. Expectin' Mark back?" There was a double interest in this question.
"I haven't heard a word, Davy."
"Goin' visitin'?"
"No, Davy; 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. Mrs. Jo 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 Maud Grace pulled her in. No, Davy, I'm going up to Bluff Head."
"It's empty," Davy said, moving between stove and table clumsily.
"Eliza Jane's there, and James B. I wonder if they are going to shut the house for the winter?" asked Janet.
"Like as not," Davy 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.
"Good bye, Davy." 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 Cap'n Billy. Something's the matter with my Cap'n Daddy. He's keeping off land like an ocean steamer. Davy, 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, Davy, sure and certain."
"By gum!" ejaculated David, "what an eye ye've got fur signals, Janet! I've been doubtin' Billy's actions fur some time an', if Mark comes back, I'll jine ye goin' over t' the dunes. What's Mark's call t' 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 Davy, going into the sleeping room; "Mark's got his stomick full of city once fur all. He hates it worse'n pisen."
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 pines and scrub oaks, but looked gaunt and bare, while 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 come of the poplars bein' sich liars, Janet. Never trust no poplar! When things was only sand an' beginnin's in these parts, all the trees sprung up together. But the poplars, bein' snoopier than common, shot up considerable an' took a look around. Lordy! what did they see but the ocean a-roarin' an' makin' as if it was comin' straight over the dunes! An' the poplars passed the word down t' the little oaks, what was jest gettin' their bearin's. It scared 'em so it gave 'em a setback from the fust. But them tall liars wasn't content with statin' truths, day after day, when the sea lay smilin' like a babby; they handed down a bigger whopper than what they did when they fust saw the water. 'Nearer! nearer! it's comin',' that's what they said, mingled 'long with powerful yarns as to how the monster looked! Naterally the scared oaks didn't take no interest in shootin' up, when they thought they was so soon t' be eaten, so they got the habit of crouchin' low an' dependin' on the poplars fur information. They got a notion, too, of turnin' away from the sea. Sort o' sot their faces agin it, so t' speak. The pines, every onct so often, shamed 'em till they blushed deep red,—that comes 'long 'bout spring an' fall,—but no 'mount o' shamin' ever started them int' springin' up an' seein' fur themselves an' givin' 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' the matter; they keep their shade t' themselves, jest plain miserly; an' they pry too much. 'T ain't proper; 't is '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 clustering close. Some one 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 Pa Tapkins! 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. "Davy managed pretty good? I was kept longer than any reason. I hope Davy ain't petered out."
"No. I helped some. Did you get Maud 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 fur—fur—"
"For where?"
"There was no findin' out. He's jest clear gone an' vanished."
"Well, I'm glad of it! I think Maud 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. But 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 Maud. She's silly and has acted like an idiot with every man boarder 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 borne and suffered, he, in his bungling fashion, must bear it and suffer alone. He knew the Quintonites, poor fellow! He knew there was work for him to do, but he would do it alone!
"Whar you goin', 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."
"Whar?"
"That's telling!" 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."
"A what kind of a hunt?"
"Pirate. It's 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 gladsome puzzled him vaguely.
"Bluff Head!" he muttered; "well, 't ain't as bad as the Hills, but it's all bad an' muddlin', an' I don't feel equal t' tacklin' it. The dear Lord knows I don't. I hate t' have a job what I know from the start I'm goin' t' botch, but the Lord's got t' take the consequences if He calls 'pon me. 'T warn't any of my doin's, the 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 golden rod, yellow and vivid amid the rich coloring.
"Some people leave a house a great deal lonelier than others," whispered the girl; "it will never be quite the same."
Devant's presence, his vital personality seemed near and potent. She and he had been reading a book together in that early summer time 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 neighbors were leaning over the vacant space endeavoring 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 Devant's leather chair, was what she sought, a copy of Bacon's Essays. Devant had taken a curious interest in leading this untutored girl into all manner of paths and bypaths. 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. Devant. 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 dallied by the way. For a moment Janet feared he might be followed by the girl she most dreaded or Thornly,—perhaps both. But Devant 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. Devant had noticed that sensation before; after a moment it grew less confusing.
"I like you." Janet dropped her eyes, recalling the day upon the Hills. Devant 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;" Devant 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. expectorated musingly,—"but she's gone t' get beach plums."
"All right," Devant 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 Devant'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,"—Devant 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," Devant 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, looked a bit surprised and confused, and slipped it into her blouse.
"What was that?" Devant 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?"
"Cap'n Daddy said"—how long ago it seemed—"that I had better not show it, it seems as though she belonged just to Cap'n Billy and me. But then you are different. I think Cap'n 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 shrivelled 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!
"'What do you know of my mother?'"
"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 Devant 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 Thorndyke 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 Thorndyke had lied once, he probably had many times. There may not have been a child; but that would have been a senseless invention—and Thorndyke was not the man to waste his energies. Perhaps the first child had died. Perhaps there had never been a marriage such as Thorndyke 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 Cap'n Billy, in that case, might have resulted quite naturally. So dense was the darkness that Devant dared not move. He was afraid he might bring down upon this innocent girl a shame that in nowise 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 Devant'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 wrung from her, the girl could not have told. It was in her heart and would have its way.
"No." Devant'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. Devant sprang toward her.
"Don't, please!" she cried, recovering herself almost at once and turning toward the door; "I'm going to my Cap'n 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 yawn at her innocent feet, but his early sin forbade his interference.
"I'm going to my Cap'n Billy!" There was no backward glance. Devant 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!"