The Ebbing Tide by Elisabeth Ogilvie Page B

not a woman, but a mass of terrors. Fantastically it seemed as if she stood completely alone, that no one else existed because no one else could understand. That group, standing around watching, asking questions, making macabre jokes—in this instant they had no relationship with her whatever. Her arms tightened around Jamie.
    A beach stone moved, close to her; it moved under someone’s foot. She became conscious that someone was standing quite near her. It was Dennis Garland. She hadn’t seen him when she came to the beach, she had no idea how long he had been standing beside her, and for a moment she had the frightening thought that he had seen what had happened to her. Then she realized that no one could have seen, and she smoothed her face out carefully, loosening the lips that had drawn tight, dropping the veil of a smile over her eyes.
    â€œHello,” she said. “Exciting, isn’t it? Nothing like this ever happened to the Island before.”
    â€œI’m sure of that,” he said. “May I take Jamie? He must be heavy.”
    She handed him over, and Jamie put his arm confidently around the man’s neck. “What’s that?” he pointed at the mine.
    â€œAn ashcan,” said Garland. “Do you want to look at an old ashcan? It’s not much fun, is it?”
    Jamie shook his head uncertainly, and pointed at the cutter. “Papa’s boat.”
    â€œI’ve got to go home and start dinner,” Joanna said abruptly. “I’d better take him . . . he thinks a visit to the beach isn’t legal if he can’t throw stones overboard.”
    â€œHe’s probably right,” Garland said with his pleasant smile, and set Jamie down. He didn’t offer to walk home too, and Joanna went quickly, before he could decide to go with her.

8
    B Y EVENING THE MINE EPISODE was closed, as far as the Navy was concerned. The cutter had gone off into the windy April sunset, taking everything but the outer shell. Someone dragged the empty cylinder over to one side of the beach, out of the way of the skiffs and dories. The mine had been harmless, after all; but discovery of the mine could be added to the other things which the Islanders took with some nonchalance and a certain pride, in this the third year of the war. At first the radio towers and the gun crew at Matinicus Rock had brought the war a little too close; the stringent regulations about boat numbers—big, bold black figures along the side and an extra set atop the cabins—the identification each man must carry, the shudder of depth charges, the patrol planes before dawn—all these things had tightened the nerves at first, and some of the people had gone ashore to stay. But those who had remained on the Island were casual now.
    Joanna felt anything but casual about the mine, and knew some of the others had been as uneasy. But they wouldn’t show it, any more than she would. Owen talked about it at supper time until it was all she could do not to flare out at him, in front of Garland, and order him to be quiet. But of course he was interested, he couldn’t know how it was forever before her mind’s eye, the black thing bobbing peacefully in the bright water . . . and then Nils’ head going down. And there was no diverting Owen, anyway. He had had a few drinks with Sigurd before he came home to supper, and if he wanted to talk, he would talk. She knew what his answer would be if she tried to change the subject.
    So she tried to eat, and said nothing, but kept busy with Jamie. Garland had little to say. He looked tired; the grayish tinge had come back into his flat cheeks, and the lines had deepened from his nostrils and the corners of his mouth. Already, in the few days he had been there, she had noticed that his eyes darkened toward night. In the daytime they were the clearest gray she had ever seen, but tonight they were almost slate-colored when he looked at her directly, and