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Janet of the Dunes

<h3>CHAPTER XIII</h3></div> Bluff Head was closed. The master had left word with Eliza Jane Smith that after his departure the house key should be delivered to Janet with a note of explanation. The note reminded her that next to Captain Billy, he was the one upon whom she must call in case of need, and he left the library in her keeping with a list of books for study and recreation. Snow was on everything, even on the new little grave in the desolate churchyard where poor Maud Grace and her pitiful secret slept. They had found the child late in the morning of that awful day succeeding the storm. In the small clinched left hand was a bit of water-soaked paper. No one but Mark had taken heed of it, but he guessed that it was the card which was to guide the girl to the man who had deserted her. Perhaps in that last hour of struggle and fear, she had taken it from its hiding place for comfort or, perhaps, to destroy it when hope was past. But it gave no clue. It was merely a wet pulp in a thin little rigid hand! Mrs. Jo G. took her grief stolidly. It was not in her to cry out or moan, but she felt her loss and sought to explain the strange ending to the young life. "'T was this way," she said to Eliza Jane Smith, "the boarders, an' all the life of the summer, had onsettled Maud Grace considerable. She wanted company all the time. She sort o' turned t' Janet, an', like as not, that mornin' she went t' the Light t' see her. Not findin' her, an' seein' the Comrade at the dock an' John Jones's boat puttin' back t' the Station, like Davy said he had done, Maud Grace just fixed it in her mind that Janet was with John Jones, an' so she took the Comrade an' went after them. Then when the wind came up, she lost her head, an' so—" Mrs. Jo G. at this juncture hid her face in her checked apron and silently rocked back and forth. She could not think of the night and storm, the lonely, frightened girl dashed hither and yon in the little boat, without breaking down. Life near the dunes was stern and the people had learned to accept calmly the storm and danger, but, just at first, it was always hard. Mark Tapkins divided his time between his home and the Light, but no longer did he raise his eyes to Janet. Mark had got his bearings at last, and was steering his lonely way through sullen and bitter waters. Trouble had set a strange dignity upon him. Davy, seeing others downcast, rose to tuneful heights. Not only the landings, but the house, the long flight of steps, and the windswept balcony and shining Light knew his cheerful songs. "Singin' 's a might clarifyin' exercise," he said to Janet; "it opens the body an' soul, so t' speak, an' lets more'n the tune an' words out. The angels sing in glory, an' I mind how 't is said the mornin' stars sang together. So long as I've got a voice, I'm goin' t' sing, an' drown the sound of worse things." So Davy sang and guided many a sad thought into safer channels. Over at the Station the crew patiently went through their routine. The short dark days passed with the monotony that was second nature to the brave fellows. Perhaps their greatest courage was displayed in their homely, detached lives. They cooked; they slept; they drilled and patrolled the beach. They talked little to each other; but they were ready for near and far-off duty, should a signal be displayed. Small wages repaid them for their faithful endurance; they were not permitted to add to their income by other labor, and they knew that when age or weakness overtook them the government they served as faithfully as any soldier could, would discard them for younger or stronger men. Nevertheless they bore their part uncomplainingly through deadly loneliness or tragic danger. "It looks like it was goin' t' be a hard winter, settin' in so early an' so persistent," said Billy one day. Billy took more heed of the weather than did the others. The patrols tired him more now than they ever had before. "Like as not!" agreed Jared Brown; "I saw a skim of porridge ice, this side the bar, as I turned in this mornin'." Billy nodded. "Janet comin' on this winter?" "No, she's mostly goin' t' stay off. Davy needs her more'n I do, an' 't ain't no fit place over here for jest one woman." "'T ain't that!" The smoke rose high between the men. "Heard how Mark Tapkins seems t' feel Jo G.'s gal's death?" "Yes! yes!" "I thought once 't was your Janet." "Well, 't warn't." Billy felt justified in this denial, though at one time he had thought so himself. "There don't seem t' be any one likely fur Janet hereabouts. A little larnin' spiles a gal, Billy." "Is them yer sentimints?" "They be." "Well, folks differ. Janet pleases me." "Yes, but ye can't 'spect to handle Janet's craft forever. She's got t' rely 'pon her own sailin' some day." "Like as not, but when that time comes, Janet'll take the tiller without any fuss. That's the way she's built." "Like as not." Over on the mainland, James B. was comfortably happy. With the closing of Bluff Head, his unmistakable duty ended. He could take no other job while waiting for Billy's delayed surrender, and he could loaf at the village store or sleep behind his own kitchen stove in virtuous comfort. He was at peace with the world and had no desire to see Billy resign from the crew in his favor. Social functions grew apace as winter clutched the coast in real earnest. The donation party was a brilliant success—from the congregation's point of view. They had a good time and made deep inroads into the provisions they had brought, leaving the cleaning up for the minister's wife. Christmas festivities lightened the time, too, and for a space made the hard-working men and women as gay as little children. Several travelling entertainments later had shown a fraternal spirit and "stopped over" at Quinton. They were always generously patronized and left a ripple of excitement behind them. One inspired some of the young people of the place to start a dramatic society. It began with an energy that threatened to swamp all other social and religious functions. After many rehearsals a play was announced, and the entire population turned out in force. The play was given in Deacon Thomas's parlor, because that had a rear room opening into it that could be used as a stage, but one scenic touch in the stage property doomed the aspiring artists to defeat and the society to annihilation. A donkey was required in the play. No one had genius nor ambition enough to create an entire one, but a very realistic head was constructed, and this, fastened to a broomstick and thrust forward at the psychological moment, produced a startling and thrilling effect. The audience was stirred to its depth. Most of the young people were either on the stage or behind the curtain; but the few who were in the audience broke into cheers, which were quickly quelled by Deacon Thomas, whose son John had led the applause. He bent forward and gripped Deacon Farley by the shoulder. "Silas!" he said, "I don't see anythin' sinful in the speakin' part, but that animal is too much like a theayter!" That was the battle cry of defeat. The "theayter," to Quinton, was as pernicious as a bullfight would have been to a Puritan. Janet, who was accountable for the donkey head, felt a real disappointment in the downfall of the dramatic society. It had appealed to her artistic, imaginative nature. In it she saw a glimmer of enjoyment which all the other village pastimes lacked. She loved dancing, but, without knowing why, she disliked to dance with the young men of the place. With the yearning of youth for popularity and companionship she felt the growing conviction that she was outside the inner circle. Davy had closed the lips of idle gossipers, but even he was unable to open the hearts of suspicious neighbors. The girl longed to draw to herself human love and loyalty, but her every attempt failed. "Davy," she said with a deep sigh, "I reckon I'm just a bungler. Everything I do seems wrong. I'm afraid,"—and here she grew dreamy,—"I'm afraid I'm like the poor poplars. I see over the dunes. I see too much, and I frighten others." "'T ain't overwise, Janet," mused Davy through the tobacco smoke, "to get t' thinkin' what ye are an' what ye ain't. Let other folks do that. Jest be somethin'." "Yes, yes, Davy, but what? Everything I try to be, I fail in." Janet thought of the chance that lay in the distant city and wondered if she would have failed there. "Well, I allus take it," Davy replied, "that the good God gives us jest as much t' do as we're able t' do, an' He wants it well done. He ain't goin' t' chuck jobs around t' folks that ain't equal t' doin' well what they has in hand. Fur instance," Davy pointed his remark with the stem of his pipe, "ye ain't such an all-fired good housekeeper as ye might be!" "I know it, Davy." "An' yer clo'es, while they become ye like as not, have a loose look in the sewin' that might be bettered. The fact is, Janet, ye ain't pertikiler 'bout the fussin' things! An' it may be, yer way lies in perfectin' yerself in the fussin's of life." "Oh! you dear Davy!" Janet was laughing above her inclination to cry. "I do believe you are right. I'm going to pay particular attention to the little fussy things. Dear knows! if I do them all well, I'll have little time for discontent." She stood up—she and Davy were in the living room, while Mark was doing duty aloft—and flung her strong, young arms above her head. "Davy, I wish just once in my life I could—let myself go! I don't care much how, but just go! I'd like to take a ship out to sea, not the bay but the open, middle ocean, and go just where I pleased." "Ye'd get wrecked fust thing!" broke in Davy. "But I'd be doing something big until I got wrecked. Or I'd like to be alone on a great desert where I could shout and dance and sing, and no one would be there to call me mad." "But ye'd be mad, jest the same." Davy was watching the flashing face uneasily. The gossip that had drifted to him had but strengthened his love and care for Billy's girl. He was a hardy support now, protecting this free nature from outer harm and inward hurt. "No, no, Janet! Don't hanker arter the ocean nor the desert till ye know how t' handle yerself. Oceans an' deserts ain't no jokes fur greenhorns. I heard Mark say the bay was froze over. That don't happen often, so early as this." "I'm going to get my ice boat out to-morrow, Davy. Life on an ice boat is life! A sailboat is not bad with a good wind, but you always have to take the water into your reckoning then. But the ice—ah! There is nothing there but you and the wind to consider!" "An' holes!" Davy added. "You're just an old pessimist, Davy." Janet laughed. "Like as not!" Davy agreed. He hadn't an idea what a pessimist was, but he never wasted time inquiring as to the labels others attached to him. <hr style='width: 45%;' /> 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 shore, and the tides bore it inward and left it high upon the beach. Day by day it grew in height like a shining, 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' shield 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' superstitious '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 gratitude to her lips. She could afford to live and work apart; she could be glad in worshipping 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 coarse 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 companionship 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. An' now this inn will pan out, you jest mark my words. It stands t' reason folks would rather go to a inn than to a boardin' house!" Davy grinned at Janet over a cup of tea green enough and strong enough to curl any ordinary tongue. "Pa's goin' t' cook, an' Mark's goin' t' run the business," added Davy. "Well, they'll have good cooking." Janet smiled as she thought of the scheme. "Maybe they'll let me wait upon table." "Like as not they will if ye want t'. Well, 't ain't any more than fair, ye consarned little trap, but that ye should do yer turn at waitin' on Mark. Sho! just hear that gale, will ye! It's steered round an' is comin' straight off sea. By gum! If any craft drifts on t' the bar t'-night there's goin' t' be spry dancin' at the Station." Davy went to the window, and peered out. The early afternoon was bitterly cold, and darkened by wind-driven clouds, full of storm and fury. "They've got an extra hand, such as it is." Janet came and stood close by Davy. "Who?" he asked. "James B. He went on with John Thomas." "Did, did he? Well, by gum! Janet, I wish to thunder I could get Billy to give up the Life Crew an' take Mark's place here!" "Why, Davy?" There was intensity and pathos in the question, and trouble in the gentle eyes. "'Cause!" vouchsafed Davy, "jest 'cause. That's why. Fetch me a bite in the lamp, Janet, 'long 'bout sundown. I ain't comin' down, once I go up this afternoon. I ain't lookin' fur trouble. 'T ain't my way, but somehow, when such a night as this is like t' be settles down, it don't seem anythin' more'n friendly fur me t' bear the Light company." So Janet cleared the dinner away; she found little tasks to fill the darkening hours, and with eagerness prepared the tray for Davy and took it aloft at sundown. By that time the wind was almost a hurricane; and before it were driven sharp sheets of snow that cut and sounded as they sped madly landward. The tower swayed perceptibly. Davy's face was grimly careworn, and his manner forbade sociability. Janet waited a few moments; then, realizing Davy's mood, left the tray and went below. But now a trembling and inward terror possessed her. She tried to shake off the feeling with contempt for her folly. She sang, remembering Davy's philosophy, "When ye sing ye open the safety valve fur more to get out than words an' music." But this song gave relief only to sound and mental action. Early night came with eagerness, as if, for the doing of what was to be done, the black pall was alone appropriate. "Why, any one would think,"—Janet stood by the window and her teeth chattered as she spoke,—"any one would think I was that white girl at Bluff Head instead of Cap'n Billy's girl. I afraid of a storm! I, housed and safe at the Light! I, who, in many such a gale, trotted after Cap'n Billy just for pure fun. It's time I went on and got the dune tonic for my foolish nerves. Me with nerves!" Then she ran to the door and opened it slowly, pushing against it to stay the wind. "I thought!" she moaned, "I thought I heard a call!" The memory of the night that poor Maud Grace went down beyond the Point added keenness to her fancy. "It sounded like that call. Ah! as long as I live I shall remember it. I do believe it was Maud. I always shall, no matter what they say." The howling of the wind drowned the girl's words, but her strained face pressed against the opening and her senses were alert. "I hear it!" she panted, "I hear that call! Suppose, oh! suppose that it is my Cap'n Billy calling? If he were on the patrol and in danger, he would call to me. He would know I could not hear, but he would call, just for comfort!" Again the burdened wind shrieked outside. The face at the door grew ghastly and the eyes terror-filled. "There are more ways of hearing than one!" she muttered. "Cap'n Daddy, I am coming!" Who was there to stay her with word of caution? Who was there to control her as she made ready to answer the heart-call of her beloved Billy? Now that doubt had fled, a calmness possessed her. She was indifferent. First she wrote a note to Davy and placed it, open and conspicuous, beside his plate; she had laid the breakfast table half an hour before. "I've gone to Billy. Took my ice boat." That was all, but Davy would understand. Then she wrapped herself warmly, covering all with an oiler and pulling a sou'wester well down over her ears. Finally she extinguished the lamp, let herself out of the door, and ran, in the face of the gale, to the dock. There she paused. "I'd have to tack miles off my course," she muttered, "I had forgotten the direction of the wind." There was nothing to do but take to the ice, and walk and run as she could! It was an awful undertaking, but the girl did not pause. The call for help came only when she hesitated; while she acted her nerves were calm. So, with head bent forward and low, Janet set out for the dunes. Once she looked back at Davy's Light. Through the scurrying snow and sleet it shone steadily and hopefully, unaffected by the wind and fury that waged war outside. "It is like a thought of God!" she whispered, and her courage rose. Only a dune-bred girl could have withstood the force of the storm, but by pausing for breath now and again, by sliding and gaining strength walking backward, she made fair progress, and, guided by the Light, headed for the halfway house. In that she would wait and hide. If it were Billy's patrol, she would be there to see him! If not? Well, time enough for future plans! She knew Billy would disapprove her action, but she must know! Once the dunes were gained, their landward side was sheltered. Janet sat down in the long grass to rest before ascending. The snow cut her face and the thunder of the waves deafened her. After a few minutes she started on. Davy's Light was straight behind her, so the halfway house lay directly before. On, on in the dark and noise! She felt her way with hands outstretched in front of her. At the dune top, the real magnitude of the storm was apparent. On the mainland it was comparatively mild. Here wind, tide, and heavy sea were let loose and were battling in ferocious freedom. "Ah!" Janet caught her breath and staggered back, clutching the tall, dry, ice-covered grass to steady herself; but a few more steps brought her rudely against the shelter house. She pushed the door open. Neither man had as yet arrived, so there was no fire lighted in the little stove. Janet began to gather the wood and coal together in her stiff fingers; but something stayed her. She felt ill and weak. So instead, she crawled under the bench that ran across the side of the tiny hut and hid in the darkness. She began to fear Billy's displeasure. For a moment the faintness and nausea made cold and weariness sink into oblivion, and before they reasserted themselves the door was opened and some one came in. The dense darkness hid him, and Janet waited. The man struck a match and hurriedly started the fire. By the sudden blaze she saw that it was Ai Trueman, one of the crew from the farther station. Once the fire was kindled and burning, the man sat down in the corner of the bench directly over Janet's hiding place and shook his sou'wester free of the ice and snow that had collected upon it. It was not long before the door opened again. The fire was ruddily lighting the shed by this time, and Janet, from her cramped position, saw Billy. Something in his appearance made her catch her breath in alarm. It was not his ice-covered garments that glistened in the red light nor his grim, rigid face, but the strange stare of his wide-opened eyes that caused her alarm. "Bad night," said Ai, "but we've made good time." Billy had dropped upon the opposite bench, and the ice crackled upon his garments. "Petered out some?" Ai now looked at Billy. "Ye look kind o' done fur." "Take my check out o' my pocket, left-hand one,"—Billy's voice sounded far off and thin,—"an' put yours in. My hands is bit. The lids of my eyes got froze down on my cheeks an' I couldn't see, so I thawed 'em out by holdin' my hands up, an'—an' my hands caught it!" Janet dared not move. Ai exchanged checks, and then he bent over Billy. "Ye all right?" he asked doubtfully. "Sure." Billy tried to laugh, but his voice shook. "A frostbite don't count none. I'm thawed out enough now fur my own comfort. I dar n't take my eye off the bar. I tell you, Ai, if there's trouble t'-night, it's goin' t' be real trouble." "'T is that!" said Ai, and the two men stood up. "Good night, Ai." "Good night, Billy, an' let's hope fur a safe walk back." They were gone! Then Janet came from her hiding. Her sickness had passed; she was warmer and more comfortable, but she meant to keep close to Billy on that return patrol! If all went well, he would forgive her by and by. She was on the point of pushing the door open, when suddenly the full blast of the gale struck her in the face. Some one was coming back. It was Billy and he stood before her. Her face was away from the light, and her sou'wester, drawn close, misled Billy; but Janet saw his eyes wide and staring. "Ai," he panted, and his voice was thick, "I—I can't do it! The—the works are runnin' down agin. It's better t' tell ye than t' drop out there on the sand, an' no one ever know. Hurry back, man, an' watch both ways as long as ye can." Billy swayed forward and Janet caught him. She laid him upon the floor and bent above him. "My Cap'n!" she moaned, "oh! Cap'n Billy!" But Billy heeded her not. "He's dead!" The horror-filled words startled even the speaker. "Dead! my Billy!" But no, he breathed! "I must do his work, and get help!" the girl started up wildly. "He isn't dead! He shall not die!" She took his check from his pocket, and his Coston light. Then she gently moved him nearer the stove, put coal on the blaze, and loosened the heavy coat. "Now!" she muttered, and rushed out into the night and storm. The strength of ten seemed to possess her; and the calmness of desperation lent her power. The noise of the wind deadened the sound of the surf. Sometimes she found herself knee deep in icy water,—for the tide was terribly high. Then she crawled up to the dunes and felt with mittened hands for the stiff grass. Presently she came to a rock, a rare thing on that coast, and she clung to it desperately. It was as true a landmark to the girl of the Station as a mountain peak would have been to an inland traveller. "Only a mile more!" she panted, and then a memory of one of Davy's old hymns came to her: "The shadow of a mighty rock within a weary land." She recalled how she, as a little child, had often crouched beside this very rock when the summer's sun beat hot upon the sand. Summer! Was there ever such a thing as summer on this ice-bound shore? She dreaded to set forth again. A stupor was creeping over her, a stupor she had been trained to fear. She struggled to her feet, but the mad thought of summer would cling to her benumbed fancy. It fascinated and lured her dangerously. She saw the Hills rise, many colored, in the blackness. She saw Thornly's little hut with its door set open to the cool, refreshing breeze. It was a breeze then, this fierce, cruel wind. It was a gentle breeze when summer and love held part! She heard again the call of the golden whistle; and this fancy made her draw her breath in sharp gasps. She shut her stiff lids and saw Thornly coming over the sunlighted Hills with his joy-filled face, shining in the summer day! Oh! if she could but hear that golden call just once again how happy she would be! Maybe, when death came, God would let Thornly call her in that way, just as God had let Susan Jane's lover come to her upon the shining, incoming wave! But then Thornly was not her lover; she was his and that was different! "Death!" Again the girl struggled forward. She must not die! Why, Billy was there alone, in the halfway house—and Billy's duty was still unperformed. On, on once again! The wind was blowing in gusts now. It was reckoning with the near-coming day and was lessening in fury. But the sudden blasts were almost worse than the steady gale. Janet, weakened and numb, was hardly upon her way, before she was knocked from her feet by the cruel force and lay, face downward, upon the icy sand! Hurt and discouraged, she yet managed to rise. The pain roused her dulled senses and in the lull that followed a strange ghostly sound was borne seaward. She stopped and stood upright. Again it came, plaintively and persistently, rising and falling. As if the faint note had power over night and tempest, the blackness seemed to break; the snow ceased, and overhead, through a riven cloud, a pale, frightened moon peered curiously. Then the wind shrieked defiantly. But again it came, that tender, penetrating call, nearer, nearer, over the dunes, and down toward the thundering sea! Still, as if frozen where she stood, Janet waited for—she knew not what! Some one, in the dim, grayish light, was coming toward her, some one tall and strong, but well-nigh spent! The man had seen her, too. "How far am I from the Station?" he shouted. It was Thornly's voice! It was the little whistle's call that had stilled the storm, and brought hope! Janet could not answer. All power seemed gone from her. When he came close he would know her and then—why, why had he come? The girl had forgotten her disfiguring garments. Thornly was within a foot of her before he understood. Then he reeled back. The moon, for another still moment, shone full upon the ice-covered figure and the upturned face framed by the old sou'wester. "My God!" he cried and stretched out his arms, hardly knowing whether he were warding off an apparition or reaching out to the woman he was seeking so earnestly. "You!" he whispered, "you! Alone out here in all the storm and darkness!" She tried to answer, but words failed her. She smiled pitifully and put her hands in his. "I have wandered for hours!" Thornly was holding the girl closer. "Do you hear and understand, Janet? I went to the Light. I saw your note lying open on the table; I was afraid for you! I lost my way on the ice. I had only Davy's Light to guide me; I landed, heaven only knows where! But I wanted you! I've got you at last!" A fierceness shook the eager voice, that was raised above the noises of the night. "Yes!" Janet spoke low and dreamily; again the cold stilled her pain. The moon was hidden and grim darkness held them. "You—you want—me—to—help you finish—your picture!" It really was a small matter; but even in the strangeness and numbness the girl wished he had not come. He was greater and dearer when he had stayed away and sacrificed his picture for her honor, and his own. "My picture? Good Lord! What do I care for my picture? Child, I want you. Oh! I want you to help me to finish my life!" Thornly shook the girl gently. She was in his arms. She was leaning against him heavily, her icy garment striking harshly against his. How he blessed his great strength that terrible night! He reasoned that Janet had crossed the bay as he had, bent upon some errand at the Station. He had overtaken her in time, thank God! for her strength was fast failing. "I must carry you!" he cried, but his words were drowned in the wind's howling. "Here, I have my flask. Drink, Janet! Drink, dear, it will give you new life. We must make the Station together." Janet swallowed painfully, but the liquor brought relief. Clinging to Thornly, she went silently on. Between the last two dune tops, Davy's Light again shone. "Only a half mile more!" panted the girl. Thornly knew the value of making the most of what they had, and without speaking he pressed forward, holding her close. Suddenly Janet stopped and pointed stiffly seaward. "The bar!" she groaned. "See! a rocket!" Thornly strained his eyes. "Another!" the girlish voice was tense and hoarse. "They are on the outer bar. God help them! Here, get the Coston out. Strike a light! My hands are stiff. Oh! it rises! They answer! They know we have seen them. Poor souls! Come, we must run!" <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-267.jpg" alt=""'They're on the outer bar! Two rockets! I've answered!'" Page 267" title="" width-obs="333" /> "'They're on the outer bar! Two rockets! I've answered!'" Page 267</div> And she, who but a moment before was half dead from cold and exposure, now ran as if sand and heavy, icy clothing had no power to stay her. Thornly, filled with terror at this new development and fearing that the girl beside him would not be able to reach the Station, seized her more firmly and rushed forward. "Oh! the Station! Do not lift me; I can make it now!" Thornly did not relinquish his hold, and together they flung themselves against the heavy doors of the little house. The light and warmth were in their faces. A ring of startled men stood before them. "They're on the outer bar! Two rockets! I've answered!" The words came in hard, quick breaths, and Janet swayed forward. It was Thornly who bore her to a chair most distant from the red-hot stove. The men had vanished like spectres. There was a hurried noise in the further room, as the big cart, bearing the apparatus, was pushed into the night and storm. "Opposite Davy's Light between the last two dunes!" called Janet. "All right!" Some one replied from beyond, then a stillness followed. Thornly stood guard over the girl as she sat helplessly in the wooden chair. The ice was melting and dripping from her clothing; the sou'wester had fallen away from the sweet, worn face, and the pretty cheeks showed two ominous white spots that bespoke frozen flesh. "I dare not take you nearer the fire!" Thornly's voice was unsteady. His own returning circulation and consequent pain made him cruelly conscious of what he knew she was suffering. She looked up bravely and smiled. "It's pretty bad," she said with a quiver. "It hurts, doesn't it?" Then noticing for the first time that Thornly was less protected than she, for he wore only his heavy overcoat, which was crusted thick with ice, she forgot her own agony in genuine alarm. "Take off those frozen things!" she commanded; "you must be drenched through and through without an oiler. Make yourself comfortable. I must go!" "Go! In heaven's name, go where?" Thornly paused as he was taking off his cap, over which he had tied a silk muffler, and stared at the girl. "Why, to Cap'n Billy. You do not understand. He is back in the halfway house. He may be dead!" A shiver ran over Janet, and she struggled to her feet. "It is awful for me to sit here! You know nothing. I must go!" Thornly firmly held her back. "His check," she faltered, "take it out of my pocket, please. No, the left-hand pocket. That's it. Hang it there on the rack by the door. I may not return, you know." "There's no time for explanations, Janet." Thornly had followed the girl's directions mechanically, and now urged her back in the chair. "Of course I will not let you go, but I am going to Cap'n Billy. Whatever can be done, I will do. I will bring him on here, or I will stay with him there until help reaches us; but you must obey what I say and wait for us. You must trust me." She looked up at him tear blinded and pitiful. "Let me go with you," she pleaded. "I am used to it, and after all—what matters now?" Thornly seized an oilskin coat from a peg on the wall, and thrust his arms into it. "What matters?" he stopped to ask, looking at Janet with a puzzled stare. "Why, don't you know, little girl, that this is the beginning of everything for us? Can't you understand?" Over his anxiety and excitement a sense of joy flooded. "Here!" he cried, trying to cheer her, "it's going to be all right with Cap'n Billy and every one else. Give me that rear decked boat you have on your head, Janet, and you'll promise to stay here until I return?" He bent over her and drew the icy mittens from the stiff, little hands; then he raised the cold fingers to his lips, and looked into the depths of the upturned eyes. He had gone through his doubts and struggles since he had left her on the Hills; she, poor girl, had long ago relinquished her hope and love, but as she gazed now into the eyes bent above her she understood! It was the climax of their young lives. Whatever lay beyond they could not know. Whatever forces had driven them into this sanctuary they neither of them sought to question. It might be their only moment. "I will wait," Janet whispered, clinging to him, "I will wait for you—and Cap'n Daddy!" After Thornly was gone the unreality passed. The howling of the gale, and the memories that flooded the present loneliness, drove the sudden dream before them. While she stood housed and protected all that was dear to her, all that meant life to her, was out there in the storm! Cap'n Billy dying, perhaps dead, three miles beyond! The crew manfully doing their duty by the men on the outer bar! Thornly, struggling to perform a task that might be beyond his strength; while she, amid the danger and storm, stood idle! "Why!" she cried, "this is as bad as that drowsiness out on the shore. I must do something! I had no right to promise!" She ran to the window and tore aside the little curtain. Her heavy coat fell from her, and with it seemed to drop the weight and burden that had oppressed her. The sluggishness of mind and body was gone. She was herself again! "No promise must hold me from my Cap'n Daddy!" she whispered in a soft defiance. Just then the darting lanterns of the crew, far down the beach, attracted her. And through the grim, grayish light of the dying night shone Davy's Light, faithful and strong. She stood surrounded by courageous duty. Her life lesson had been one long training for duty. Was she to fail now? But what was her duty? Slowly a radiance spread from brow to chin. The livid spots on either cheek smarted into consciousness at the rush of blood that bore surrender with it. Above even Billy's claim to her faithfulness was her promise to Thornly! There was one greater, now, in her life than Cap'n Billy. "And he has undertaken my task!" She pressed her burning cheek to the frosted glass. "I will trust him, and he shall trust me!" So while Davy tended his Light, while the crew gave heart of hope to the wretched men upon the outer bar, while Thornly in the dark and storm struggled onward to the doing of a duty he had taken upon himself, Janet made ready for what might lie before. She ran to the loft above and carried down cots and blankets. She heated kettles of water and fed the huge stove until it blazed and roared; then she brought from the Captain's room the medicine chest and the liquor that were kept for emergencies. Still no one came! Janet gave herself no time for idle thought, nor did she permit her fevered fancy to run free. There was still something to do! She must provide for them who were risking their lives for others. She made strong coffee, and cut slices of bread from the massive loaves. Then suddenly, like a flash of humor in the tortured loneliness, she remembered Jared Brown's liking for tomatoes and set forth a large can. The homely tasks were steadying the strained nerves, but every time the wind rattled the doors the girl started. The hours dragged on. The gale began to sob spasmodically as the day conquered it. The grayish light outside brightened—what was that? The shed door was opening! The panting wind tore the kitchen door wide, and Janet saw three men advancing! She tried to run to them, but the body refused to respond to the eager will. She could not anticipate a knowledge that might mean so much! Thornly and Ai Trueman came into the glow of the hot kitchen, and between them they dragged Cap'n Billy! Janet saw that he was alive, and when he realized that it was she who stood before him, the old, comforting smile struggled to the poor, worn face. "Don't take on!" he panted as they placed him upon the nearest cot and began to strip his icy clothing from him; "this ain't what ye might call anythin' at all!" Janet knelt beside him. "My Cap'n!" was all she could say; "my own, dear Cap'n Daddy!" "Ye little—specimint!" Billy closed his eyes luxuriously. "They've told me what ye've done!" "I found him in the halfway house," Ai explained while Thornly mixed a hot drink for Billy. "You see, I was nearly back t' the Station when I saw that signal frum the bar. My crew had seen it, too, an' they come racin' down as I was makin' fur them. On the way back I noticed the door o' the shelter open an' a tearin' fire lightin' up the place. I stopped t' see that all was safe, an' there on the floor, actin' like all possessed, was Billy! He was fur goin' with the men, but he couldn't stand on his legs. It was somethin' fierce the way he took on. I sort o' hauled him up an' swore I'd get him down t' the shore somehow, when this gentleman," Ai waved one of Billy's boots, which he had just managed to get off, toward Thornly, "come in an' he kind o' took command, as you might say, an' ordered us on t' this here port." Janet was pressing her face against the weary one upon the pillow, and murmuring over and over in a gentle lullaby, "My Cap'n, my Cap'n!" Thornly came over to the cot and raised Billy to feed him the drink. Billy looked up and smiled feebly. "If I ain't needed here," Ai said, "I'll take a haul o' coffee an' then fetch some down t' the men." Janet started. "Oh! I forgot," she cried; "what about the wreck?" "The tide's turnin'," Ai replied from the depths of a bowl of coffee. "Like as not the ship will lift by mornin'! More frightened than hurt anyway, I guess. They've signalled us t' stand by till daybreak, but I'm thinkin' they'll hist before then!" When Ai had gone Thornly put the cup down, and placed Billy back on the pillows. The heavy eyes opened and fell upon the two faces near. Then a puzzled expression settled in the kindly gaze. "Ye've got yer chart t' sail by, my gal," he whispered, going back in memory to that night when he had told Janet of her mother. "I ain't goin' t' worry any more!" The words trailed off into unconsciousness, and Cap'n Billy swung at anchor between this port and that beyond. <hr class="major" /> <div> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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