HOW RACHEL CARRÉ WENT BACK TO HER FATHER
"You paid off some of your old score up there, last night, George," said
one of the men who had stood watching the boat which carried Martel back to
Guernsey.
"Just a little bit," said Hamon, as he rubbed his hand gently over a big
bruise on the side of his head. "He's a devil to fight and as strong as an
ox;" and they turned and followed the Sénéchal and Philip Carré through the
tunnel.
"Good riddance!" said a woman in the crowd, taking off her black sun-bonnet
and giving it an angry shake before putting it on again. "We don't want any
of that kind here,"--with a meaning look at the big fishermen behind, which
set them grinning and winking knowingly.
"Aw then, Mistress Guilbert," said one, lurching uncomfortably under her
gaze, with his hands deep in his trouser pockets. "We others know better
than that."
"And a good thing for you, too. That kind of work won't go down in Sercq,
let me tell you. Ma fé, no!" and the crowd dribbled away through the tunnel
to get back to its work again.
The Sénéchal was busy planting late cabbages and time was precious. The
grave-faced fisherman, who had stood behind the crowd, tramped up the
narrow road by his side.
"Well, Carré, you're rid of him. I hope for good," said the Sénéchal.
"Before God, I hope so, M. le Sénéchal! He has a devil."
"How goes it with Mistress Rachel this morning?"
"She says little."
"But thinks the more, no doubt. She has suffered more than we know, I
fear."
"Like enough."
"I never could understand why she threw herself away on a man like that."
"It was not for want of warning."
"I am sure. Well, she has paid. I hope this ends it."
But the other shook his head doubtfully, and as they parted at the
crossways, he said gloomily, "She'll know no peace till he's under the sea
or the sod." And the Sénéchal nodded and strode thoughtfully away towards
Beauregard, while Carré went on to Havre Gosselin.
When he reached the cottage at the head of the chasm, he lifted the latch
and went in. He was confronted by a small boy of three or so, who at sound
of the latch had snatched a stick from the floor, with a frown of vast
determination on his baby face--an odd, meaningful action.
At sight of Philip Carré, however, the crumpled face relaxed instantly, and
the youngster launched himself at him with a shout of welcome.
At sound of the latch, too, a girlish figure had started up from the
lit-de-fouaille in the corner by the hearth--the great square couch built
out into the room and filled with dried bracken, the universal lounge in
the Islands, and generally of a size large enough to accommodate the entire
family.
This was Carré's daughter, Rachel, Martel's wife. Her face was very comely.
She was the Island beauty when Martel married her, and much sought after,
which made her present state the more bitter to contemplate. Her face was
whiter even than of late, at the moment, by reason of the dark circles of
suffering round her eyes and the white cloth bound round her head. She sat
up and looked at her father, with the patient expectancy of one who had
endured much and doubted still what might be in store for her.
Carré gripped the small boy's two hands in his big brown one, and the
youngster with a shout threw back his body and planted his feet on his
grandfather's leg, and walked up him until the strong right arm encircled
him and he was seated triumphantly in the crook of it. Whatever the old man
might have against his son-in-law there was no doubt as to his feeling for
the boy.
"He is gone," he said, with a grave nod, in response to his daughter's
questioning look. "But I misdoubt him. You had much better come with me to
Belfontaine for a time, Rachel."
She shook her head doubtfully.
"He's an angry man, and if he should get back--" said her father.
"In his right mind he would be sorry--"
"I misdoubt him," he said again, with a sombre nod. "I shall have no peace
if you are here all alone...."
But she shook her head dismally, with no sign of yielding.
"It has been very lonely," he said. "You and the boy--"
And she looked up at him, and the hunger of his face seemed to strike her
suddenly. She got up from the fern-bed and said, "Yes, we will come. My
troubles have made me selfish."
"Now, God be praised! You lift a load from my heart, Rachel. You will come
at once? Put together what you will need and we will take it with us."
"And the house?"
"It will be all safe. If you like I will ask George Hamon to give an eye to
it while you are away. Perhaps--" Perhaps she would decide to remain with
him at Belfontaine, but experience had taught him to go one step at a time
rather than risk big leaps when he was not sure of his footing.
So, while she gathered such things as she and the boy would need for a few
days' stay, he strode back down the sunny lane to La Vauroque, to leave
word of his wishes with Hamon's mother.
And Philip Carré's heart was easier than it had been for many a day, as
they wound their way among the great cushions of gorse to his lonely house
at Belfontaine. And the small boy was jumping with joy, and the shadow on
his mother's face was lightened somewhat. For when one's life has broken
down, and untoward circumstances have turned one into a subject for
sympathetic gossip, it is a relief to get away from it all, to dwell for a
time where the clacking of neighbourly tongues cannot be heard, and where
sympathy is all the deeper for finding no expression in words. At
Belfontaine there was little fear of oversight or overhearing, for it lay
somewhat apart, and since his daughter's marriage Philip Carré had lived
there all alone with his dumb man Krok, who assisted him with the farm and
the fishing, and their visitors were few and far between.
Now that jumping small boy was myself, and Rachel Carré was my mother, and
Philip Carré was my grandfather. But what I have been telling you is only
what I learned long afterwards, when I was a grown man, and it had become
necessary for me to know these things in explanation of others.