Janet of the Dunes Part 29

That night, winter, in its grimmest sense, settled upon Quinton. The bay became a glistening roadway between the mainland and the dunes. Children on skates or in ice boats filled the short, cold days with laughter and fun. Sleighing parties flashed hither and yonder with never a fear of a crack or hole; and beyond the dunes the life crew kept a keener watch upon the outer bar. Chunky ice formed near sh.o.r.e, and the tides bore it inward and left it high upon the beach. Day by day it grew in height like a s.h.i.+ning, curving line of alabaster, showing where the high-water mark had been. And upon a certain threatening day, John Thomas came off and stopped at the Light to have a word with Davy.

"He didn't want me t' say anythin' t' ye, but it don't settle on my mind as jest right not t'. Billy's had a spell!"

Davy pulled up his trousers; with him a sure sign of deep emotion.

"What kind?" he asked.

"Sort o' peterin' out. He was peelin' taters in the Station, when all of a suddint he sot down kinder forcible on a chair, dropped the knife an'

tater, an' looked at me as if I'd done somethin' t' him. I ran crost t'

him an' stood by, so t' speak. Then he kinder laughed an' said, distant an' thick, 'That was comical! I felt like my works had run down!' Billy ain't what he once was."

Davy set his lips in a grim line.

"He ought t' have a lighter job!" he muttered. "How is he now?"

"Oh! he's come round. But spells is spells an' yer got t' look out.

Don't tell Janet; Billy was sot agin that, somethin' fierce."

"I don't know as Billy should want t' s.h.i.+eld her more'n common sense p'ints. I feel she ought t' know. 'T ain't pleasant t' get a knock in the back of yer head; an' that's what Janet's goin' t' get some day about Billy."

"He says she knows enough; an' he ain't goin' t' have her pestered."

"Well, t'-morrer I'm goin' on," nodded Davy, "an' Billy ain't goin' t'

honey fugle me none. Arter I cast my eye on him, I'm goin' t' give myself orders. Sighted anythin' lately?"

"A schooner got mighty near the bar 'long 'bout sundown last night.

Kinder skittish actin' hussy she was, but she turned out an' cleared off without much trouble. We was all ready fur her."

"Big sea, too!"

"Powerful! An' I tole Cap'n that I've got kind o' superst.i.tious 'bout them boats as make a near call an' then sidle off. Twict durin' my time a real thing has happened soon after. Seems like they come t' see if yer watchin'; kinder gettin' yer attention, so t' speak, an' warnin' ye that ye ain't there fur fun. I'm goin' on 'bout three this afternoon. Sky looks nasty."

"It does that!" agreed Davy, "an' it's my turn up aloft t'-night. I somehow feel more certain when I'm there myself in foul weather. Mark ain't never done anythin' t' cause me t' distrust him, but Lord! he's got that unfortnit air of makin' ye distrust yerself about him."

"Mark lacks salt!" John laughed good-naturedly. "If he an' Pa had a dash o' seasonin' in 'em, they'd be all right; they're flat, that's all."

"Like as not!" Davy said; "but flats ain't the best kind o' things t'

run on, in a storm."

So Davy held his peace regarding Billy's spell, until he could have a look at Billy himself; and all that cold, dreary day Janet worked at the small fussy things of her daily life, keeping her hands busy but having time and to spare for her active brain to wander far. She lived over again the summer, the wonderful summer. She felt the yearning for books and the quiet of the Bluff Head library. She recalled Devant with a sense of hurt and pity; but Thornly came to her memory with a radiance that grew with absence and, perhaps, forgetfulness on his part.

With the proud young womanhood that remained with the girl like a royal birthright, the knowledge of all that Thornly's renunciation of her help in his art meant brought the warm blood to her cheek and a prayer of grat.i.tude to her lips. She could afford to live and work apart; she could be glad in wors.h.i.+pping her ideal of all that was brave and manly, even though she knelt forever before an empty shrine.

Billy and Davy loomed upon her near horizon in added splendor. Ah! she had known such good men! She was very blest. And so she sang as she worked.

About noon of the winter's day, James B. slouched down to the Light and entered the living room where Janet sat darning Davy's coa.r.s.e gray socks.

"Has John Thomas gone on yet?" he asked.

"No," said Janet, "his boat is at the dock."

"I'm thinkin' of goin' on with him. Looks like a rough enough storm was comin' up, an' if anythin' should happen an' extry hand or two, over at the Station, wouldn't come amiss. Eliza Jane's been havin' feelin's in her bones that I better be over there."

Janet's eyes flashed, but the drooping lids hid them. She could not tell why, but every time James B. went over to the Station she resented it.

It seemed as if he were keeping an eye on Cap'n Billy, and it aroused her dislike and suspicion.

"Eliza Jane's bones must be troublesome for the rest of the family," she said.

"They be!" nodded James. "I told Eliza Jane t'-day, that t' be rooted out in the teeth of the kind of storm this one is like t' be, jest fur feelin's in her bones, warn't exactly fair t' me."

"Why do you go?" The girl raised her great eyes and looked full at him.

His furtive glance fell.

"'Cause Eliza Jane said t'!" he answered doggedly. "She was down t' Miss Thomas's an' when she knew John Thomas was off, she sot her mind on my goin' on with him. I kind o' hoped he was gone."

"Well, he isn't. There he goes now down to the dock. It's queer he doesn't stop and speak a minute."

James B. slouched toward the door. "Any message fur Cap'n Billy?" he said.

"Just my love, and tell him I'm coming on to-morrow or next day. Shut the door, James, the wind comes in as if it were solid."

She watched the two men make ready the little ice boat, she saw them get aboard, and almost on the instant the steadily increasing wind caught the toy-like thing and bore it with amazing speed past the Point and over toward the dunes!

Then an anxiety grew in her heart. Of late she had been subject mentally to sensations that in a measure were similar to those that affected Eliza Jane's bones. She was depressed or elated without seeming cause.

It annoyed and shamed her, but she could not control it. John Thomas's return to the Station without a word to her, his visit to his mother and Eliza Jane's prompt despatch of James B. to the dunes, grew to ominous proportions, as the lonely girl dwelt upon them.

"I wonder if my Cap'n Daddy is all right?" she thought wistfully. She was merely carrying out Billy's desire in remaining so much upon the mainland; her own inclination was for the desolate little cottage near the Station, and the loving companions.h.i.+p of Billy.

"I don't care what he says," she whispered to herself, "I'm going to go on and stay with him part of the time! I need him even if he doesn't need me." She wiped her tears upon the rough gray sock that covered her hand. "I'm just like Mark. Because I cannot do what I'm fit to do, I'm failing in everything. There is no use! I must go to Cap'n Billy, and learn to be happy with him and--nothing else!"

The determination to go to the dunes brought a sense of comfort with it, but a nervousness grew apace. It was as if, now that she had decided to go, she was in a hurry to start. She was conscious of a trembling eagerness in every act. She put her mending away; she prepared the noonday meal with vigor and intensity, selecting what she knew Davy most liked.

"This is a feast!" gloated Davy, looking around his humble board and sniffing appreciatively the steaming favorites. "Looks like ye'd caught on, Janet."

"So I have, Davy, I've gripped for sure and certain."

"Didn't tell ye, did I, that Mark is goin'?"

"Going where?" Janet laid down her knife and fork, and looked interested.

"Him an' Pa is goin' t' build, 'twixt here an' the Hills, an' open a inn. They plan t' move the old house down, an' jine it on."

"An inn?" Janet laughed.

"Them was his words. A inn! Sometimes it seems like Mark was walkin' o'

a dark night on cold, wet sand. He slaps down his foot, sort o'

careless, an' strikes phosphorus. He ain't got, what ye might call, seein' qualities, but he strikes out light! That's the way it was with him tellin' Pa 'bout sellin' crullers. The old man made a small fortin.