Susan Jane's funeral cast all other events into the shade. It was the
all-important topic of conversation and interest. David alone really
grieved for her; the others had suffered too keenly from Susan's tongue
and complaints to feel any honest sorrow in her passing. Her giving them
the opportunity for so comfortable and gratifying a funeral was,
perhaps, the one thing she could have done to cause them to respect her
memory. Janet saw poor departed Susan in a belated halo of romance, and
Janet was in the mood to be deeply touched. She no longer saw Susan old,
helpless, and ugly, full of small meannesses and sour criticism: she saw
her only as the young girl, little older than herself, for whom long ago
William Henry had always a smile, and a gentle nickname. It was
beautiful, to the trouble-touched girl of the dunes, to think that the
old lover came back for his sweetheart and paused, before claiming his
treasure, to thank poor Davy for his years of patient love and service.
"And he understands, I know," Janet murmured, placing some autumn
flowers near Susan Jane, "he is glad that dear Davy could have the joy
that seemed to us all a burden. That's the way it is when the 'former
things have passed away,'"--the girl's tears fell among the
flowers,--"such things do not matter then; but here they do! Oh, they
matter most of all!"
Mrs. Jo G., her boarders gone and her body weary from the summer's
strain, gathered her neglected social charms together for Susan Jane's
funeral. There would be a reunion of all Quinton that day. There would
be a repast worthy the minister's donation. Eliza Jane Smith had offered
her services as housekeeper _pro tem_.
"An' a mercy, too!" snapped Mrs. Jo G., lapping a plaid shirt waist over
her scrawny chest. "Janet's 'bout as useful at such times as a flounder.
Lord save us! how I have fell away this season! We've cleared two
hundred dollars, an' about all my heft. Maud Grace!"
"Yes, Ma!" Maud Grace appeared, bleached out and thin, her eyes red from
weeping and her voice shaky.
"What in land's name is the matter with you?" Mrs. Jo G. paused to gaze
at the sodden face of the girl she had sacrificed much for during the
season.
"Susan Jane!" faltered Maud.
"You ain't mournin' fur her, are you?"
"No, ma'am. But I don't want t' go t' her buryin'. I ain't got no
appetite fur corpses, they always make me faint."
"Well, you're goin', faint or no faint! So look after the children, an'
get them ready. Land of love! I should think the sound of the stillness
up at the Light, after Susan Jane's clatter, would 'bout knock David
out. I will say fur him, that he's earned his reward. Do stop
snivellin', Maud Grace! You look as if you, 'stead of me, had frizzled
over the cook stove all summer! It's bad enough to think you didn't land
a beau, without lookin' as if you felt it! That Janet's goin's on hasn't
served her neither, but she ain't goin' t' gloat over you while you've
got a ma what can steer you straight. You get int' your best clothes and
perk up a bit; you can boss it over Janet. Her name is a soundin' cymbal
or soon will be! She's got her mother in her strong. It's sort o' wrung
out of me, since Janet's acted up so, though I had meant t' keep my own
knowledge."
"I don't know as she's done anything much, Ma; jest trapsed on the Hills
some an' turned her nose up at boarders mostly. Mr. Fitch said,"--a
weak color flushed Maud's face for an instant,--"Mr. Fitch said she felt
herself high an' mighty. But that ain't no crime." Mr. Fitch's name was
one with which to conjure in the Gordon household.
"Like as not he was runnin' after her!" Mrs. Jo G. was adjusting her
memorial pin, a dreary piece of jewelry, composed of the hair from the
heads of several dead and gone relatives; "but Janet wasn't after his
kind. She was a modil!" The woman whispered this information, glancing
hurriedly at the small children whom Maud was now getting into their
clothes.
"What's that?" whispered the girl in return. The hints about Janet were
gathering force in order to break after the excitement of the funeral
was over. But Maud, with anxieties of her own, had heeded them but
slightly until now.
"It's a thing no Quintonite ain't goin' t' stand fur!" quivered Mrs. Jo
G. "'T ain't proper. I guess Cap'n Billy had better have kept her over
to the Station."
"But what is it?" insisted Maud, her voice almost drowned in the shriek
of one of the twins, whose long thin hair she had jerked by way of
emphasis. Under cover of the scream, the mother replied:
"'T ain't fit t' talk about 'fore a self-respectin' girl. But I don't
want you should have anything t' do with Janet after t'-day."
"Spell it!" pleaded Maud, shaking her younger sister into a sobful
semi-silence.
"F-i-g-g-e-r!" spelled Mrs. Jo G. in an ominous murmur. Maud Grace's
flat, expressionless face took on a really imbecile blankness.
"Figger!" she repeated over and over. "Figger! That's worse t'
understand than modil. I don't see why you can't talk plain talk, Ma!"
"'Cause I told you. Whisper or shoutin', 't ain't the thing fur plain
talk; but I wanted t' give you a weapon in case Janet takes t' crowin'
over you--an' she ain't above it. She's wuss off than you be!" With
this, Mrs. Jo G. marshalled her host, and set out for the Light.
* * * * *
It was late in the day, after poor Susan Jane had been laid away in the
little graveyard back of the white church, that David slowly mounted the
lighthouse stairs, pausing as usual upon every landing. There was no
song upon his lips now. For the first time in thirty years, Davy felt
that song was impossible. All smiling and many-colored the landscape
spread before him at every opening, but the man sighed without the
laugh.
"The higher up I git," he panted, "it seems I feel heavier hearted. I
ain't got nothin' now, nor ever more shall have. I've had my turn, an'
when I reach t' other side I can't expect poor William Henry t' share
her with me. Thirty years I had her, an' course I can't complain. I
ought t' be thankful William Henry didn't begrudge me them years. An' I
am thankful! Yes, I am thankful, an' somehow I believe the good God
ain't goin' t' let my heaven be blighted. In some way, He's goin' t' set
it straight fur us three over there! Maybe Susan Jane'll kind o' hanker
arter the care I gave. Maybe she's got kinder use t' it; and maybe,
since there ain't any marriage, or givin' in marriage, maybe she'll have
love enough fur us both!"
This conclusion brought a joy with it that radiated the honest face.
"That's the way out!" he murmured, standing upon the little balcony and
facing a sunset so gorgeous that the world seemed full of glory. "It's
come t' me as plain as William Henry come three nights back. It's borne
in upon me, that most all of life's riddles get answered, when ye get
up high enough t' leave hamperin' things below. Downstairs the loss of
Susan Jane kills everything but the heartache; but up here," Davy walked
around the Light, and looked tenderly at the land and sun-touched bay,
"up here, where Susan Jane never came, I can see clearer, bein'
accustomed t' havin' it out alone with God, so t' speak, fur the last
ten years!"
And now the sun was gone! Its gladsome farewell to Davy in the Light
made the smile gather on the wrinkled face.
"Your turn'll come," he said smilingly in the old words, "your turn'll
come." Then he went down to the little waiting room, lighted his own
lamp, and took the book of poems from the table.
He was ready for his next duty! He was soon lost to all but the swinging
thought in the ringing lines. Davy was himself again! Then, suddenly, he
was aware of a hand upon his shoulder. So tense were his nerves that had
he looked up and seen either William Henry or Susan Jane, he would not
have been surprised. But it was Janet, and her eyes were full of
brooding love.
"Davy," she said, "do you remember how I used to play 'hungry man' with
you, when I was a little girl?"
"I do that, Janet!" The cheerful, old face beamed. "'Have ye had any
supper?' yer use t' ask, 'have ye had any supper, Mr. Hungry Man?'"
"Let's play now!" The girl laughed gently. "_Have_ you had any supper,
Mr. Hungry Man? Why, I can see you just as plain as plain, Davy! You
used to stand inside the lamp and the lenses made you long and thin and
dreadfully starved looking."
"But once I got outside the glass I plumped up quick enough!" Davy
returned. He saw the look in Janet's eyes that called for bravery in
him. She was pale and pitiful, and he turned comforter at once.
"It's all dependin' upon the position ye take, how ye look t' others.
Once ye get outside of most things, ye straightway freshen up an' get
likelier lookin'!"
"You've had no supper to-night, Mr. Hungry Man!" Janet put her face
close to Davy's.
"I ain't sufferin' fur food, Janet."
"You never own to any suffering, Davy, but look here!" She ran to the
landing and brought in a large tray, neatly spread with food. "It isn't
leavings," she explained, placing the dishes before him; "Eliza Jane's
cooking is for company, mine for Davy and me! I made the biscuits
myself. Aren't they flaky?"
"They are _that_!" nodded Davy; "flaky don't do them justice; they're
flakes. An' that coffee! By gum! Janet, that smells like coffee!"
"Davy, it is coffee!" The girl was glowing, and her eyes shone blue in
the lamplight. "I'm going to eat with you, Davy,"--she drew up a
stool,--"eat and talk." Davy fell to with a suddenly awakened appetite,
but Janet watched him above her clasped hands. Presently she said:
"Davy, who is going to--to--" She was about to say, "keep house for
you," but, recalling Susan Jane's helplessness, she said instead, "who
is going to keep you from being awfully lonely, now?"
"Why, Janet,"--Davy's full mouth hampered his speech,--"I reckon I'll
have t' stay lonely straight on t' the end. I've had my life."
"Davy, will you share me with Cap'n Billy?" Davy gulped his mouthful and
tilted his chair back.
"I'm a masterful hand at sharin' folks, Janet, but some one 'sides Billy
may have something t' say as t' this bargain. There's Mark, now."
"No, Davy, there is no one, and that's the end of it! I'm a--well, a
failure in getting anything to do from strangers, and so I thought if
you would let me, I'd share with you and Billy, and by working very hard
I'd make my board and keep." The sweet face quivered.
"Ain't the paintin' business paid, Janet?" Davy, during sleep-filled
days and lonely nights up aloft, had caught no drifting gossip to
disturb him.
"No, it hasn't paid!" The girl drooped forward wearily.
"Billy said ye was helpin' a woman painter."
"The women have all gone now, Davy."
"That's the wust of foreign trade," comforted David. "Ye can't depend on
it."
"No, but I mean to be a good housekeeper, Davy. I am going to make you
and my Cap'n Billy Daddy just cosy. I reckon I'm better fitted for
_home_ trade."
"Like as not, Janet, like as not. Most women are, if they only get
convinced 'fore it's too late. Well, I'll be powerful thankful t' have
ye around. 'T ain't any way fur a man t' live, without the woman's
touch. Sometimes I've fancied that's what makes women restless. Men
don't credit them with 'nough importance."
"You've eaten a fine supper, Mr. Hungry Man!"--Davy had eaten it
all,--"and now I'm going downstairs to make things homey. I wish the sun
rose earlier; good night, Davy!" She bent and kissed his seamed and
rugged cheek.
"Good night, Janet, an' God bless ye!"
At every window on the way down the girl stopped to look out at the
stars that were thick in the early autumn gloaming. She was aware of a
lack of joy in life--one has to know sorrow and trouble to recognize and
classify it clearly. Knowledge was coming slowly to Janet. Hope had
buoyed her up, the hope that Thornly would let her prove that she was
stronger and braver than that silly creature he had once thought her,
but, as time dragged on and no call came from the hut upon the Hills,
hope died. Then she had seen Thornly drive past her one day with that
white girl from Bluff Head. The pale, exquisite face had suddenly grown
scarlet at the sight of Janet by the wayside, and Thornly had stared
right ahead, taking no heed! Since that day the lack of joy had grown
apace.
She had gone to the hut upon the Hills and hung the tiny whistle upon
the door latch. She would never call him again! She had not looked for
the key; she had not thought of entering. No longer had she a right
there.
Billy had deferred his explanations to the girl after his visit to the
hut; the sudden death of Susan Jane had postponed the day.
At the foot of the lighthouse stairs Janet paused and held her breath.
Some one was moving about the rooms! Some one with a candle, for the
flickering shadows rose and fell upon the inner chamber wall. The room
in which Susan Jane had died! No fear of a robber stirred Janet, the
time had not come when Quinton must fear that. It could not be Mark
Tapkins. He might be foolish enough to use his "off night" haunting the
Light--his actions were curious of late--but had it been Mark, he would
have been sitting patiently on the outer steps. Janet waited a minute
and then went noiselessly into the sitting room, and tiptoed to the
bedroom door. Then she started back, nearly dropping the tray of empty
dishes. The intruder was Maud Grace. She held a lighted candle, and she
was hunting, evidently, for something, for she looked under the bed, in
each drawer, in the closet; and at last she got down upon the floor and
thrust her hand beneath the bedclothes! It was not her actions, alone,
that startled Janet, but the dumb look of misery upon the pale, stupid
face.
"Maud Grace!"
The crouching girl gave a muffled cry and then sat upright, clasping her
hands closely.
"What are you looking for?" It seemed an odd way to put the question. It
sounded as if Maud were in her own room and had only misplaced some
article of clothing.
"Her money!" The words were clear and hard. "Susan Jane's box! I know
what you think, Janet, you think I'm a thief! But I've got--to--have
money, an' I'll pay it back!"
"Come out in the sitting room, Maud. I'll light the lamp and then we can
talk."
The calmness of tone and words gave the girl upon the floor courage to
rise and go into the next room. There she sat down in Susan's old rocker
and waited until Janet made a light. Then they faced each other, Janet
taking her place upon the horsehair sofa.
"You're just as bad as me!" cried Maud suddenly. The steady look Janet
bent upon her angered and repelled her. "You ought t' understand how 't
is."
"I don't know what you mean," Janet replied, "but I'm not bad enough to
steal a dead woman's money."
Maud turned a bluish white and her misery-filled eyes fell.
"I had t' have money. I darn't ask Pa or Ma; I can't tell anybody, but
I've got t' have money to go away. I could have sent it back, somehow,
once I got away!"
"Where are you going?" Janet's voice had the ring of scorn in it, though
she tried to think kindly.
"Ah! you needn't put on them airs!" Maud was trying to keep the tears
back. "You ain't any too good with your modillin', an' you--you--a
figger!"
This did not have the desired or anticipated effect upon Janet. She
looked puzzled.
"Somehow you sound as if you were talking in your sleep, Maud Grace,"
she said, "you don't seem to have any sense. But you've got to explain
about the money!"
At this Maud sprang from the chair and flung herself beside Janet. She
must have help; and this girl, doubted by all the moral village folks,
was her one hope in a desolate hour.
"I've got t' go after him!" she sobbed.
"After him?" Janet could not free herself from the clinging arms.
"Yes, Mr. Fitch. Ah! Janet, if you was good like all the rest, you
couldn't understand, but all day I've been thinkin' how you would stand
up fur me if you knowed! He made love t' me, Mr. Fitch did, an' now he's
gone, an' he don't write, an' I know he's never comin' back. Somethin'
tells me. An' oh! Janet, I've got t' have him! I have, I have! I only
meant t' take the money till I got to him. I found his card in his
bedroom after he went. He didn't tell me true where he lived, but the
card's all right. An' I've got t' go!" The girl's thin voice was hoarse
with emotion. She clung closer, and her breath came hard and quick.
A loathing filled Janet as she listened, a loathing made bitter by the
insinuation of her similarity to this poor, cringing creature beside
her.
"You don't want him if he doesn't want you, do you?" she asked slowly.
"I do that!" Maud's tone was doggedly miserable.
"Even if he is trying to get away from you?" The memory of the weak,
boyish boarder at Mrs. Jo G.'s added force to this question.
"Yes!"
"Then, shame to you, Maud Grace! I wouldn't say such a thing as that if
I were to die!"
"Maybe"--the wretched girl groaned--"maybe you ain't just like me.
Somehow I can't think you are; but, Janet, it's worse than dyin', this
is. I've got t' go!"
The poor, pleading face was raised to Janet, but its dumb agony met no
understanding emotion. A stir outside caused both girls to tremble with
fright.
"I've heard every word you've said!" Mark Tapkins stood in the doorway
opening upon the porch. "I was a settin' out there, sort a-watchin' an'
thinkin' o' other things an' not noticin' what was passin', till all of
a suddint it come t' me, that I had been a listenin' an' takin' in what
wasn't intended fur me. I'm glad I did!" His slow face lifted proudly.
"I'm glad I was used, so t' speak, fur this end. Maud Grace, you ain't
got any call t' bother Janet no more. I understand you!" His eyes rested
upon the forlorn girl and she shrank as before fire. "I understand, an'
this is man's work. You come along home, an' t'-morrer you give me that
card of his'n, an' I'll travel up t' town, an' fetch him back!"
"Mark!" Janet was on her feet, her eyes blazing, "you mustn't help her
in this foolish business. You have no right to interfere. You have no
right here! She shall not make herself so ridiculous as to send for a
man who is trying to get away!"
Mark looked at her gently, patiently.
"Sho! Janet," he soothed, "you leave things you don't understand t' them
as does. I'm goin' t' fetch that feller back. I know his kind, the city
breeds 'em! Maybe the bracin' air down here will help him. Come along,
Maud Grace, it's nateral enough fur me t' take you home frum Janet's."
Janet made no further effort to change Mark's intention; and he and Maud
went away together.
When Janet heard them close the garden gate, she went into the bedroom,
took the money box, that poor Maud had so diligently sought, from the
top shelf of the closet, and put it in a bureau drawer; then she turned
the key in the drawer for the first time in all the years.