Janet of the Dunes Part 22

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 G.o.d'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!

[Ill.u.s.tration: "'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 G.o.d!" he gasped, taking the photographs from her. "My G.o.d!" There could be no mistake. Both had been taken from the same negative!

Old Thornd.y.k.e 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 Thornd.y.k.e had lied once, he probably had many times. There may not have been a child; but that would have been a senseless invention--and Thornd.y.k.e was not the man to waste his energies. Perhaps the first child had died. Perhaps there had never been a marriage such as Thornd.y.k.e 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!"

CHAPTER XI

"There goes Janet like a shot from a gun!"

"Whar?" Davy and Mark were hauling oil up to the lamp. They stood upon the little balcony, and had a good view of the girl as she ran like a wild thing over the stretch of ground between the lighthouse and the wharf.

"Ho! Janet!" shouted Davy, leaning over the railing. "What's got ye?

Ain't ye goin' t' wait fur dinner--an' me?"

Janet paused, and the face she turned up to the balcony moved the hearts of both men to alarm.

"I cannot wait!" she called back. "I'm going to Cap'n Daddy!" Then a thought caused her to add, "Don't either of you come after me! I want n.o.body but my Cap'n Billy."

"Now, what's knocked her endwise?" groaned Davy, staring blankly at Mark.

"Like as not she's been gettin' a cargo that she don't fancy, up to Bluff Head." Mark's face was drawn with pity. "I come down on the train with Mr. Devant. Maybe he's set her straight 'bout that Land-lubber-of-the-Hills!"

Poor Davy, detached by his duties and environments from the common gossip of his kind, bent a puzzled look upon his companion.

"Land-lubber-of-the-Hills? What in the name o' Sin be ye talkin' of?"

"Don't you know what they say 'bout her?" asked Mark, his dull eyes fixed on the sail of the _Comrade_, as it put off from the dock.

"No. I ain't never had time, above my duties, to do more'n sleep an'

eat," David replied. "But I've got time now t' stand up fur that girl yonder, if any consarned gossip takes t' handlin' her name lightly. That girl's put in my care by Billy, an' Billy an' me have stood by each other through many a gale. An' now, Mark Tapkins, I'd like t' hear what ye've got t' say out plain an' unvarnished. I don't want no gibin'. I only got one way o' hearin' an' talkin'." Mark drew back from the calm, lowering face of the keeper.

"Nation!" he gasped, "you don't think I'm agin her, do you, Davy?"

"I ain't carin' whether ye be or no. Like as not, if she's shook ye, yer full of resentment. Them is young folks' ways. But fur or agin her, if ye can harbor scandal about Billy's Janet, ye've got t' share it with me what knows how t' strangle it fust an' last. Spit it out now!"

Mark drew himself together with a mighty effort. Recent events were wearing upon his vitality.

"They say, Janet is mixed up 'long with a feller what painted her, over on the Hills!" he spoke as guiltily as though he alone were responsible for the report.

"Who says so?" Davy's bushy eyebrows almost hid his kindly eyes.

"Well, Mrs. Jo G. fur one!"