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!
[Illustration: "'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!"