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Janet of the Dunes

<h3>CHAPTER VIII</h3></div> 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. <hr style='width: 45%;' /> 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. <hr class="major" /> <div> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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