CHAPTER XII
The master of Bluff Head had the disconcerting impression borne 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 thawed 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 Devant 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. Devant stayed on, "if he would only go, then like as not Eliza Jane would let up on me 'bout laborin' while I'm waitin'."
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, an' once ye know the tricks, why, there ain't no danger. It's like knowin' the weak p'ints of a vessel, ye ain't goin' t' strain the weak p'ints, once ye know 'em, an' like as not the vessel'll last twice as long as a seemin' sound boat. Don't ye fret, Janet, James B. can loaf a considerable spell, if it's my goin' he's dependin' 'pon. An' no one more'n James B. will be thankfuller fur my hangin' on."
Davy's 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 Davy's shoulders.
"He said t' me!"—and Mrs. Jo G.'s catlike eyes glittered,—"he said as how t' his mind a gossiper was like a jellyfish, sort o' slimy an' transparent, an' when you went t' clutch it, it stung! I asked him right out flat footed what he meant, an' he told me t' think it over!"
More than Mrs. Jo G. thought Davy's 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 Quintonites. 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 Bluff Head. The master, feeling that at least he paid for the necessity, ate in peace; but Saxton, who fell between the aristocracy of Devant's ideas and the Quintonite ideal, suffered cruelly from his plebeian position. Only a vague hope of city life and pleasures held him to his position. And Devant was undecided as to what he should do. Thornly had not "looked him up" after seeing Katharine. Indeed, that rigid young man had sailed, within the week, for Point Comfort, and Devant, fearing to meet Katharine alone, had hurried back to Bluff Head, 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 Bluff Head.
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? Devant'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 Pimpernel?
"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 Thornly!"
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. Devant 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 Saxton.
"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." Saxton had put in his suggestion, and went his way comforted.
The coffee braced the shaken nerves, and again Devant went to his mirror as to a friend. The color of the eyes had changed. Janet's 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.
Devant 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 some one 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 Devant uneasily; "the library is yours, my child." The last words had a possible significance that was well-nigh heartbreaking 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 the latter part of it she had shared Davy's watch. Together 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 Devant. It was easier than to stand still. So they slowly turned and went toward Bluff Head.
"I know,"—the even voice fell to a whisper,—"I have just found out that—that Cap'n Billy is not my real father!"
Devant 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?"
"Cap'n 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 Cap'n Billy to save her his way,—she thought it was not fair to him, but Cap'n 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 Cap'n Billy knew, and he saved her!" The dark eyes were blazing.
"Be less hard, my child," groaned Devant, 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 Cap'n 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?" Devant 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?"
Devant leaned against a tree. Motion was no longer possible. Janet 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, Devant dared not urge his first claim of parentage. He would appeal to her 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 Cap'n Billy, and making him suffer again?" Devant 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." Devant moaned.
"Cap'n Billy did that for you, long ago. Your silence must be his reward!" Janet's face shone.
"Can you conceive," asked Devant 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 Cap'n Billy, nothing else matters!" Two large tears rolled down the uplifted face.
Devant felt himself baffled, and anger arose within him.
"Suppose," he said hoarsely, "suppose I could offer you—Thornly's love?"
The stab was cruel, and the wound smarted. Under 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!"
Devant 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 Devant 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 Cap'n 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, sitting 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 waitin' fur you," he said. "I saw you talkin' t' Mr. Devant as I came cross lots. I've got t' 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 Maud Grace!" Janet started. So it was not herself after all!
"What is the matter with her now?" she asked.
"She's gone!"
"The nation only knows!"
"Well, Mark, I never have understood your interest in Maud 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 boarder."
Janet was impatient. She wanted to get away over to the dunes, to peace and Billy.
"When Maud gets ready, she'll come home. Doesn't her mother know?"
"Janet, you've got t' stay an' listen!"
"Mark, I'm tired. I cannot help any; I want to go home."
"You've got t' listen!" Mark repeated doggedly; and as the girl took a step forward, he caught her skirt in his trembling fingers. "First I took an interest 'cause—'cause I thought I loved you, an' 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 borne in upon her,—light that had had its origin in the awakened womanhood.
"I kind o' guess you know what I mean, Janet; an' I wish t' the Lord I had let you help frum the start. There ain't another soul as I kin go t' here until it's too late t' do fur Maud Grace—not a soul but you! An' God knows, I don't understand how it is I kin hope from you; but I kin! I jest kin! You won't be hard, fur all you don't love Maud Grace much. I know true as heaven, you'll be gentle t' 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 Quinton girl; and Mrs. Jo G.'s kindness that black night when she, Janet, was born. But now there was no Cap'n Billy to pilot this sad little wreck.
"I don't know what t' do!" moaned Mark, covering his face with his thin, rough hands. "I can't bear t' think of her driftin' off, Lord knows where; an' I don't b'lieve she's got a cent, an' even if she walked t' the city, she can't never git him."
"No!" Janet was thinking quick and hard. "When did she go?"
"She went 'fore breakfast, an' she told her little sister t' tell her mother she'd gone t' you!"
"To me?"
"Yes. An' course that was just t' spar fur 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 fur anythin'. She's got the fear so many down here has—fur 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 forever! 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 't was you! As God hears me, I thought 't was you! But now this has happened 'long of the—the poor little thing, it's kinder knocked me down. I allus felt sorry fur her! You had so much an' she had, what you might say, nothin'. I allus was a master hand fur wantin' t' help, an' when I saw you driftin' off t' the Hills, I wanted t' help you, an' I thought I loved you! An' now I want t' help her. I'm poor shucks, Janet, an' 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 use' t' want me," he groaned out, "'fore the boarders come! She use' t' come up t' Pa's an' act up real pert an' comical; maybe if she hadn't, I'd 'a' noticed her more! Ah! if I'd only been content t' see it then, I might have saved her. I was only up t' Maud Grace's limit, but I was allus a-thinkin' I was more, an' then when she took t' the boarders I got mad an', an'—"
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, "'t warn't any fault of yours. I did all I could t' bring myself up to a p'int that I hoped I could reach you frum—but 't warn't in me. I was 'bout Maud Grace's limit, as I say, but I didn't want t' own to it, an' now," he gulped bravely, "'t ain't much of an offerin'! I'm a poor shote, but if I could, I'd use my wuthless life fur her. It's 'bout all I kin 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 End 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 Cap'n 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.
Davy met her at the lighthouse door.
"Ye look like ye'd been blown from kingdom come!" he said; "by gum! this is a breeze. Had yer dinner?"
"Dinner? Oh! yes. I had dinner—all I wanted. I didn't mean to be so late, Davy, I meant to get your dinner!"
"Yer kinder pale round the gills, Janet." Davy looked keenly at the drawn face. "Maybe ye eat somethin' that didn't set right on yer stummick. Better take a spoonful of Cure All, Susan Jane allus thought considerable of that. I could 'a' sworn I saw the Comrade puttin' off this mornin'. I thought ye'd taken a flyin' trip to Billy. Seen anythin' of Mark?"
"Oh! yes. I nearly forgot, Davy, but Mark may not be here to-night. He's—he's got business over at Bay End."
"How did he go?" questioned Davy, "by train?"
"No! He went in one of James B.'s boats."
"He's a tarnal idiot t' do that in the face of this gale. He ain't no shucks of a sailor. John Jones come off frum the Station t'-day, an' he ain't over careful, bein' what ye might say half fish an' half dare-devil, but John, he started right back when he left an order fur me. Mark ought t' have knowed better. Janet, what is the matter with ye? Here hold on, gal, till I get that Cure All!"
Janet held on, and smiled feebly as Davy poured the burning liquid down her throat.
"Thanks!" she whispered presently. "I was mistaken, I did not eat any dinner. Davy, I am hungry. I always need my food, Davy; you know how I am." She was laughing nervously.
"Come on, then!" commanded Davy, eyeing her critically; "I ain't never seen ye so done up by goin' without one meal before. I believe yer threatened with 'spepsy, it comes now an' then, with that imptiness in the pit of yer stummick."
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 Davy. 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 frum Greenland's icy mountains, an' ain't losin' any of its temper as it comes. The waves could be seen over the dunes, long 'fore sundown; an' jest hear that."
"What is it, Davy?" Janet pressed beside him. "It sounds like some one knocking on the glass."
"An' so 'tis, so 'tis! Least it's birds. Poor, dumb things, blown on land an' makin' fur the Light. Bein' seafarers, like as not, they know the Light is t' guide 'em, an' they come t' what they think is safety. Poor, poor things! They beat the glass as if askin' fur mercy, an' shelter, an' here I be a-listenin' t' them knockin' themselves t' death an' unable t' help. If the good God takes heed of the sparrows what falls, He ain't goin' t' overlook the gulls; but 't ain't much comfort to think on that, when He lets 'em die, die right agin the Light. Gum! we ain't had anythin' like this since Tom Davis was caught in his skimmy over by the dunes twenty-five years back; least we haven't had anythin' like it as bad so early in the Fall."
"Come down, Davy," pleaded Janet, "don't stand and hear the poor birds beat themselves to death. To-morrow 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, Davy? When his boat went over, he could have waded ashore, only he did not know where he was—and the fog hid the Light; but every one knows about Tom Davis, and if a boat did go over, a—a person would try to wade ashore. Don't you think so, Davy, remembering, as he would, Tom Davis?"
"Ye got Mark on yer mind, eh?" Davy came down to the little sitting room and turned up the lamp wick. "Well, ye bet Mark put in somewhere 'fore this gale struck him. Tom Davis was different, he didn't take no precautions, ever. He was in his ilers an' boots when he went over, an' he wasn't reefed none. He wanted t' get here quick with a fair wind—if such a foul gale could be called fair. He wanted t' take part in a show down t' the church. But his time had come; an' the curtain went down on him out there alone in his water-sogged boots an' heavy iler coat! Tom Davis was born fur misfortin as the sparks fly up'ard. Him, with them boots an' ilers on, in a gale sich as that war!"
"Davy, 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 Davy, raising his head; "it's a gull, that's what it is, Janet. A more knowin' gull than the rest!"
"Are you sure, Davy? It could not be—anybody calling, could it?"
"Gosh! no, no. What do ye suppose any one would be callin' fur?"
"Why, if he were in danger."
"'T ain't anybody on the bay, Janet. City folks is gone, an' the Quintonites ain't chancin' a pleasure trip in this gale. Get downstairs, Janet; it's just possible some one's knockin' an' callin' below."
Janet waited for no second bidding. Down the iron stairs 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.
"Any one there?" she shouted. The noise of the storm alone replied.
"Any one 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, "Any one 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 morn, for the storm was past, she recognized Mark in a yellow oiler with a sou'wester 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 t' come an' help, soon as he can. An' can you let me have a cup o' coffee, Janet? I'm most done up. The—the Comrade is bottom up round by the P'int an' I—I guess she was bein' 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 all ready; 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 t' tell. When a boat's bottom up in such a gale as was a-blowin' last night, an' only a poor, little frightened gal was at the tiller, why—why there ain't, what you might say, anythin' t' 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; "'t ain't likely any one will be troubled settlin' things fur 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, an' would have been wuss, like as not. 'T ain't easy settin' straight a botch like that. I guess this is the best way. Don't take on, Janet! Seems like she allus got the rough part, but you couldn't help that none. I guess you'd been the quickest one t' help her if she'd cried out t' 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 t' the bay. They're draggin' round by the P'int. Her father's there, an' some others. I found the Comrade 'fore daybreak an' got them up. If Davy can lend a hand, later, tell him t' come along; he was the one what found Tom Davis, they say. Davy seems to have a sense 'bout where t' look."
With his heavy oilskin coat hanging loose, and his head bowed, Mark went back to do all that could be done for poor Maud Grace.