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Janet of the Dunes

<h3>CHAPTER XIV</h3></div> A southwest wind howled around the little hut upon the Hills. The season was in one of its humorous moods, for the day was almost summer-like in spite of the wind's noisy insistence. Between the tops of the highest dunes the white crested heads of the waves could be seen at times; and the deep, solemn tones announced that there was "a heavy sea on." The nearer water of the bay, in imitation of its mighty neighbor, echoed in mildest tones its restlessness, and tossed its feathery foam high upon the pebbly beach. Thornly had found the first May pinks by the roadside that morning, and Mark Tapkins had mentioned, in passing, that Cap'n Billy was soon coming off. By these signs, and the singing in his heart, he knew the spring had come. He was sitting before the easel upon which rested "The Pimpernel," finished at last! The work had been his salvation through the long weeks of waiting since that night upon the beach. Alternately exulting and despairing, he had painted in a frenzy born of starved desire and memory-haunted love. Only once had he seen Janet alone since that eventful night, for Billy's dangerous illness claimed her every thought and hour. But that once, while Davy sat beside his friend, she had walked with Thornly upon the sands and had told him her life story. Very simply she had spoken, watching, meanwhile, the effect upon her listener. He had been startled and shaken by the recital, and for a time Janet had misunderstood him. "You must go away and think it over," she had said; "I am not the same girl, you see!" "Great heavens, Janet!" Thornly had exclaimed when once he recovered from his surprise. "Do you think anything can make a difference now? Why, you are dearer a thousand times in ways you cannot realize, for I know Mr. Devant better than you do, and I am glad for him." Janet shook her head. "Cap'n Billy must never know," she whispered. "There may never be a chance, but in any case he shall never have that hurt." "It would be an added joy, little girl," Thornly insisted, but Janet would not consider it. "So please go now," she had pleaded finally. "Go and think and think. Perhaps by and by—who can tell? Just now it must be only my Cap'n Daddy." Thus with the courage and patience of her nature the girl had set aside her own love and yearning; and Thornly took to the Hills and the unfinished picture of "The Pimpernel." The glorious face upon the canvas changed and assumed character according as the master's mood swayed him. One day it would shine forth with the sweet questioning of joyous girlhood. Then Thornly, remembering how the question had been answered on a certain summer day when ignorance died and knowledge was born, wiped away the expression while his heart grew heavy within him. Then he would paint her as he recalled her on that black night upon the beach when, her uplifted face touched by the fleeting rays of the white moon, she had asked him if he needed her to help him finish his picture. No! no! He could not paint her so. That was no face for a flower wreath—and the flowers he must have! Again he painted her as he had last seen her. The love light shining in her eyes while courageously she put her joy from her until her duty to Billy was ended, and her lover had had time to think. Thornly had thought! Never in his life had he thought so deeply and intensely, and from out the thought and love the soul of Janet had evolved and become fixed upon the canvas. "It is a masterpiece!" cried the artist in the man, as he gazed upon the glorious face. "It is my woman!" responded the man in the artist. "My Spirit of the dunes with the strength of the Hills and the mystery of the sea." A sudden knock shattered the ecstasy. "Come!" called Thornly and turned to meet his guest. Mark Tapkins awkwardly entered. Mark had been a great resource to Thornly lately. Unconsciously he had been a link between Janet and the Hills. In his slow, dull fashion he repeated all he saw and heard at the Station, and Thornly, trusting to Tapkins's uncomprehending manner, sent messages to the dunes that he knew Janet's keener wit would interpret and understand. But Thornly had still something to learn about Tapkins. "Any news this morning?" he said cheerily, pushing a stool toward Mark. "She's come off," said Tapkins with his eyes fixed upon "The Pimpernel." "Is already off?" Thornly's color rose. "You know you said they were coming soon." "They've come! Her an' Billy is down t' Davy's." "And Billy, how is he?" asked Thornly. "Middlin'. But he ain't complainin' none. Say, Mr. Thornly, I don't know as you understand why I've been runnin' here so much lately? You see I wanted, so t' speak, t' git the lay o' the land 'twixt you an'—her!" Tapkins kept his eyes upon the vivid face, only by its inspiration could he hold to his purpose. "Have you got it, Tapkins?" Thornly bent closer and gazed at his visitor keenly. "I seem t' sense it," was the low reply. "Travel an' city ways, Mr. Thornly, make men understand each other." The old foolish conceit added dignity to the evident purpose with which Mark was struggling. "Now, over t' the Station the crew think you're a 'vestigator!" So they had been talking him over, those quiet, apparently unobservant men! "What do they think I'm investigating, Tapkins?" Thornly's gaze contracted, and he clasped his hands rigidly around his knees. He felt as if he were before a bar of justice and he must weigh the evidence against himself. "The sand bar," Mark replied. "Every once so often some fellers come down here with a fool notion o' cuttin' down the sand bar, an' dredge deep enough to make a inlet int' the bay." "Perhaps they may, some day, Tapkins." Thornly felt that along this line he might sooner reach his friend's purpose in calling for the second time that day. "It's not a bad idea, you know. It would sweeten the waters of the bay, carry off the stagnant growth and let in a lot of new life. But you do not think I'm an investigator, eh, Mark?" Tapkins turned suddenly and faced his host. "Not that kind, Mr. Thornly," he said, in a tone that brought, again, the color to Thornly's face. "An' what's more," Tapkins continued, "I don't think same as you do 'bout the inlet, nuther, Mr. Thornly. Nater is pretty much alike in sand bars, an' folks, an' what not! God Almighty knows what He's about when He piles up them dunes what divides ocean an' bay; an' folks an' folks!" "Go on, Tapkins!" This was worthy of Cap'n Davy. The sojourn at the Light had had its influence upon the assistant keeper. Mark gulped and turned his gaze upon the picture. "'T ain't no good tryin' t' mix things, Mr. Thornly. That's what the crew tells them fellers 'bout the bar. They don't listen none. They work like beavers, an' we hold off an' have our laugh. Then they go away real pleased after they've cut through, but nation! 't ain't any time 't all 'fore the sand's piled up agin. It's awful foolish workin' agin Nater." "Just what kind of an investigator do you take me for, Tapkins?" Thornly felt he must know the worst, and at once. The look Mark cast upon him was full of trouble. He did not want to wrong this man he had grown to like, but a sense of duty lashed him on. "The Lord knows, Mr. Thornly," he faltered, "I don't want t' make any mistakes. It's turrible confusin' when you try t' label folks. The same acts mean different 'cordin' t' the handlin', an' a good man an' a bad man bear a powerful likeness t' each other on the outside, sometimes. Once I didn't speak out t' a friend when I ought t', an'—an', well, there was, what you might say, a wreck! I ain't goin' t' hold back another time. Mr. Thornly, you're stayin' on down here, 'cause you have some sort o' idee o' openin' up a inlet 'twixt sich folks as you an' Mr. Devant an'—her!" Mark waved his cap toward the easel. "'T ain't no use, Mr. Thornly, s'pose you did cut through an' clean an' honest, too, don't you see a little craft like that one couldn't sail out int' deep waters? an' the Lord knows, big craft like you an' him would get stranded in no time down here. Folks is separated fur a good reason. 'T ain't a question o' one bein' better nor the other," Tapkins raised his head proudly, "it's jest a case o' difference. Cuttin' down barriers ain't goin' t' do nothin' but cause waste o' time in buildin' 'em up agin." Never before in his life had Mark spoken so eloquently nor so lengthily. A dimness rose in Thornly's eyes, and a respect for the awkward fellow grew in his heart. He arose and stood before Tapkins, his hand resting protectingly upon "The Pimpernel." "You're one of the best fellows I've ever met, old man!" he said, "and you've lived pretty deep; but there is another point of view about those sand bars of yours. There is going to be an inlet all right, some day, over on the dunes! When that time comes, beside sweetening the waters of the bay and doing all the rest, something else is going to happen and don't you forget it! Craft from outside will come in and not get stranded, either; and what's more, some craft of yours that is stronger and better fitted than you know of is going to sail out into the open, test its strength and not get wrecked! Sand bars are for nothing in the world, Tapkins, but for conquering. Take my word for that. It all depends upon who tackles the job of the inlet, see?" Mark got upon his feet and took the hand that was suddenly stretched out to meet his. Thornly held the poor fellow's tear-filled eyes by the radiance of his own. "We understand each other, old man," he continued. "I am going, please God, to cut through a barrier that has no right to exist. I'm going to let as brave and trusty a little craft as ever sailed go out into the broad waters where she belongs. Do you catch on, Tapkins?" "I do that!" murmured Mark, and he dropped Thornly's hand. "I'll watch out, Mr. Thornly. It's my way t' watch, an' I'm learnin' one thing over an' over. In this life there's plenty t' learn if you've got—power!" Mark had done his duty and departed. Thornly watched him from the open door until he shambled from sight. Then a new doubt arose. While he had waited alone upon the Hills, working and loving without distrust of the future, they, these patient conservatives of Quinton, had discussed him from every point of view and were ready when he pressed his claim to judge him. How different from his old world was this one of the dunes! What different standards existed from those which swayed Katharine Ogden and her kind! Unless he met their demands, he could mean nothing to them. How far had time and discussion influenced Janet? Might she not fear to try the larger life with him; she who had, without a quiver, discarded Devant with his claims and yearnings? For a moment the day seemed chilly and the sky darker. But Thornly was not one to hold back when even the slightest hope beckoned. He would not wait for her to call him, he would go to her! He closed the door and strode down the sandy road. He passed the new inn at the foot of the Hills, and returned the salute that Pa Tapkins waved to him with a kettle from the kitchen window. As he neared the bay the salt smell of the water seemed to give him strength. There was James B.'s little boat at his wharf and Eliza Jane in the doorway of the low, vine-covered house. "You jest better be goin' on!" she called to James B., who was loitering on the village side of the garden. "I ain't more'n jest come off!" James B. answered. "I ain't any more'n had time t' swaller my dinner." "Well, what more do you want?" snapped his wife. "You go on now, an' do what I tell you. An' there ain't no use t' turn the P'int t' the village, nuther. I kin see your sail till you reach the Station, an' if you don't go straight on, I kin reach the village store 'fore you kin. So 't ain't no use, James B." James B. evidently agreed with her, for he turned and went disconsolately toward the wharf. Thornly smiled and his old cheerfulness returned. He was seeing these people, slowly, through Janet's eyes. They were so brave, patient, and humorous. They were so human and faulty and lovable. Among them she, poor little wayfarer, had got her life lesson—how would she apply it now? Before him rose Davy's Light, its glistening head ready for duty when the night should come. Some one was waving from the balcony up aloft! Some one had been watching the road from the Hills! Thornly's heart beat quicker. Was it Davy? Just then the playful wind caught the loosened, ruddy hair of the watcher above, and Thornly hastened his steps. The rooms of the lighthouse were empty, and silence brooded over all. Thornly mounted the winding stairs and, as if Davy's personality pervaded the way, his heart lightened perceptibly at each landing. In the little room below the lamp, Janet met him. "We're freshening up," she said with the old half-shy laugh, "Davy, Cap'n Daddy, and I. Come!" Thornly stretched out his hands toward her. "Janet!" he whispered. "One moment, little girl!" She turned a full look upon him. A look of love, of question, of joy! "Not yet. Come!" she repeated, and paused at the foot of the steps for him to join her. On the sheltered side of the tower, in an easy-chair, sat Cap'n Billy. Davy was hovering over him, good-naturedly scolding him for the exertion he had made in getting to the balcony. "The next time, Billy, that ye take it in t' yer head t' come up here, by gum! I'm goin' t' hist ye up from the outside, same as if ye war ile! How are ye, Mr. Thornly?" he cried, turning quickly. "Take a seat on the railin'. 'T ain't what ye might call soft an' yieldin', but there's plenty of it, there bein' no beginnin' or endin'." He laughed and sighed in quite the old way. Billy's sickness had brought back the sigh. Thornly bent over Billy in greeting, and then seated himself where he could look into all three faces. Janet sank upon a stool at Cap'n Billy's feet. "You know why I have waited, Cap'n Billy, for this day?" he said. He could not resort to lesser means, when simple directness would be better understood. Davy plunged his hands into his pockets and clutched the courage that was supposed to lie there along with the pipe and tobacco. Cap'n Billy with quaint dignity put his thin, brown hand upon Janet's bowed head, and answered in kind. "I do that, Mr. Thornly. Out there on the beach arter I come in t' consciousness, I done a heap o' thinkin', an' t'-day I told Davy I knowed ye would come, an' I wanted t' freshen up on the balcony 'fore we talked over the present and—the past!" "Can't we let the past go, Cap'n?" Thornly asked gently. "You know it can never matter to me. The future is all that I want." Billy shook his head. "Them's good heartsome words!" Davy broke in, tugging energetically at his pockets. "An' spoke like a man, by gum! Let well enough alone, Billy. You an' Janet is goin' t' stay right on at the Light, an' we'll start in fresh from now!" When had Davy been a coward before? But Billy's "works" might take to running down again, and that fear quelled Davy's daring. But again Billy shook his head. "'Course the government ain't goin' t' take on an old feller like me," he said, "'specially when he has t' be towed in himself when he's most needed t' lend a hand; an' I ain't above takin' a place in the Light, Davy, when I pull myself up sufficient, but I want once an' fur all t' clar the air 'bout Janet." His troubled eyes looked pleadingly across the sunny bay toward the Station that had been his resting place and home for so long. "The old see mighty clar, Mr. Thornly," he said, turning his gaze to the present. "An' as ye git near port it's amazin' how the big things, the real things, hold yer thoughts an' longin's. I ain't done my whole duty by my little gal, an' the fact shadders my days." "Don't say that, Cap'n Daddy!" Janet pressed closer to him. "You have done your own duty and the duty of the whole world by me!" "That's like ye, Janet, t' say them words; but ye don't know all! That's whar I've wronged ye." Davy saw that he must take a hand in what was going on. It would ease Billy and spare Janet. "We've got, so t' speak," he commenced with grim determination, "t' open up the grave of the Past." He was always poetical when emotion swayed him. "Ye see, Mr. Thornly, t' put it plain an' square, me an' Billy knows that ye have some idee o' Janet, an' Billy ain't goin' t' let ye take her under no false pretences. As t' givin' our consent t' ye payin' yer respects, so t' speak, t' Janet, me an' Billy don't know, 'cordin t' law, as we have any right fur givin' or holdin' our consent. An' now ye have it straight an' fair!" "Thank you, Cap'n Davy," Thornly replied, "but, I repeat, the past can never mean anything to me." "But ye see, Mr. Thornly," Billy clung to his purpose, "this girl, properly speakin', don't b'long t' me. She drifted in t' port early, an' from, as ye may say, a wreck; I kept her, an' loved her, God knows, as if she war my own. But she ain't!" This confession brought the beads of perspiration to Billy's brow, but Thornly's unmoved expression calmed him. "My Cap'n Daddy!" Janet turned her face to the agitated one above her. "I've told Mr. Thornly this already, and he does not care!" Billy drew a long, relieved sigh. "I only want Janet," Thornly hastened to say. "Whether she belongs rightfully to you or not, Cap'n Billy, you have trained her into exactly the kind of woman I would have her!" "That's the kind o' talk!" ejaculated Davy, and he drew out his pipe, lighted it and inwardly gave thanks that they had all passed the bar so successfully. "But that ain't enough!" Billy insisted, shattering Davy's calm. "I knowed who Janet's mother was, but I never knowed her father. I never tried t' find out. I allus war afraid I would somehow, an' that's what's clutchin' me now. I ain't acted wise or square. It comes t' me lately when I look at Janet, an' see how much she favors some one what I don't know, that I ain't only cheated her, but I've cheated some man out o' his own, no matter how ye look at it. She might 'a' been the means, so t' speak, o' bringin' him t' grace; an' times is when I've wondered if Janet won't blame me some day." "Never! never! my own Cap'n Daddy!" Janet reassured him, but her eyes were troubled. An old doubt rose to take sides with Billy against her own determination. "That's what ye say, not knowin', my girl." Poor Billy's wrinkled face twitched. "If yer true father be among the livin', an' sufferin' has eaten int' his soul, then don't ye see, I've stood 'twixt him an' his chance of somewhat undoin' a bitter wrong? It ain't no light matter t' take the settlin' o' things out o' God Almighty's hand. I wish I'd hunted him up! 'T was my plain duty t' have done that, I see it now. I wish I'd given my gal the choice 'tween him an' me! It's a growin' trouble as time passes." The slow tears were rolling down Billy's suffering face. Janet had no comfort for him now. In her ignorance she had pushed aside her chance to give him what his honest soul had longed for. Recalling Mr. Devant's words, she bowed her head upon Billy's knee in contrition, and pressed her lips against his work-worn hand. Thornly stepped beside the crouching girl and laid a firm hand upon Billy's shoulder. He must give no shock, but his time had come to take another duty of Janet's upon himself. "Cap'n Billy," he said slowly, and Davy eyed him closely, "I know Janet's—other father!" The sun crept around the tall tower. The wind fell into a lull after its day of play. A silence held the little group for a moment, and then Thornly went on: "He has suffered a lifetime of remorse. He is a lonely, sad man." "Ye hear that, Janet?" whispered Billy hoarsely, but his yearning eyes were fixed upon the little house across the bay. "Yes, my Cap'n, I hear," came in muffled tones. How much the dear voice sounded like that one which years ago had so named him! "An', God willin', ye kin have a choice, my girl, even now! I ain't goin' t' stand 'twixt ye an' a open course. Ye've got his blood as well as hers! Ye must choose yerself, Janet, an' do it just an' honest like I've tried t' show ye how!" "Cap'n Billy,"—Thornly pressed the thin shoulder firmer, the real test was coming now,—"our little girl has had her chance. She knows her father; he came and offered her a life of luxury and pleasure—and she chose you!" "Gawd!" burst from Davy, and his pipe lay shattered upon the floor. Billy breathed quicker, but the habit of a lifetime helped him bear this crowning bliss. To such as he it sometimes happens that an inner sense prepares the soul for its mounts of vision. In the silence that followed, Billy struggled in memory from that long-ago time when his love was young, to this hour when he was to know! "An' he—is?" He spoke waveringly like a child feeling out into the darkness for an object he knows is there. Thornly waited for what his love trusted. "Mr. Devant, my Cap'n Daddy!" The answer was in Janet's voice. "I—I sort o' sensed it!" whispered Billy. "An' ye chose me when ye had sich a chance?" Wonder thrilled through the question. Was he to know more joy? "Yes, my own Daddy. I chose you because I loved you! I never even wanted you to know. But Mr. Thornly knew you better than I. You are nobler than I thought." "An' ye loved me like that?" A shining joy broke over Billy's face, a joy that drove pain and remorse before it. "Do ye hear that, Davy? An' ye once said God couldn't pay me fur what I done! Why, man, God paid me all along the way, an' now He's added more'n I ever earned!" The weak voice rose rapturously. "Mr. Thornly, I want that ye should send fur Mr. Devant. I ain't goin' t' prove unworthy o' the Lord's trust in me!" "Daddy! Daddy!" broke from Janet. Billy stayed her with a look. "No, my gal. This ain't no matter fur ye! This be man's work!" "Right you are, Cap'n!" Thornly grasped the old hand. Davy drew near and looked upon his friend as if he were seeing him for the first time in years. "By gum!" he said. "An' that's what has been draggin' on ye all these years! Why, Billy, you an' me is goin' t' take a new lease o' life!" "We are that!" nodded Billy. Then he turned to Thornly. "I ain't never goin' t' doubt a man like you, Mr. Thornly," he said, "but ye see I could only train Janet one way, havin', as ye know, no other 'sperience. I ain't use t' sich waters as ye sail, an' Janet ain't much wiser. I'm thinkin'," he paused and tried to see his way, "I'm thinkin', Mr. Devant might help ye on this tack. Sort o' steer this little craft, so t' speak, till it's able to keep upright." Quietly the girl by Billy's knee arose. She stood just where the westering sun touched her with a golden glow. Thornly drew his lips in sharply as he looked at her, and even Billy and Davy were awed by what they in no wise comprehended. "Daddy dear," said the sweet voice, "I am going to be very fond of Mr. De—of my father, by and by. We are going to be great friends, I know, and that will make you glad. But I must always be your girl! I am not afraid to sail out upon the broad middle ocean. I used to tell Davy that I longed to go; but I want no other help than your chart, my Cap'n, and my Davy's Light!" Her lifted eyes were tear-filled as they rested in turn upon the two rugged faces. Then she looked at Thornly and her tears were dried as desire grew to trust and perfect understanding; he opened his arms to her and she came to him gladly. "And my love, my Pimpernel!" he whispered as his lips pressed the soft, ruddy hair. The birds twittered among the nooks and corners of Davy's Light. The bay sparkled, and across the dunes the ocean's voice spoke in the deep cadences of a mighty organ's tone. "An' there was glory over all the land," Davy chanted as he turned to his evening duty. "A flood o' glory." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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