Janet of the Dunes Part 17

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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d, 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 gla.s.s 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 appet.i.te, 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' G.o.d 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 cla.s.sify 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.