For a time it seemed as if Claude were indeed dead. The women chafed his
cold hands, and did all that Bastienne's skill could suggest; but their
efforts seemed unavailing, and they had almost abandoned hope, when
Marie, searching among the stores, found a case of brandy, and hastened
to moisten his lips with the liquor. Soon, to their great joy, the blood
began to come back to his cheek, and they could feel his heart beat. At
last he opened his eyes like one in a dream, and met those of Marguerite
bending over him. The nightmare he had just passed through came back to
him--the fearful struggle to reach the shore, the sound of the water in
his ears, like the ringing of innumerable bells, the feeling of despair
that had come over him as he felt himself sinking. Full consciousness
returned to him at the sound of Marguerite's voice exclaiming:
"He lives! O Mary be praised, we are saved!"
Saved indeed, but for what? An island prison in an unfrequented ocean,
where years might pass before a ship hove in sight. Night was fast
drawing in, and they were shelterless, in a dreary, unknown waste,
exposed to they knew not what dangers. They were three helpless women,
two of them tenderly nurtured and wholly unused to want or privation;
and De Pontbriand was in no condition to be of any assistance. Their
position seemed indeed desperate, and Claude cursed the bitter fate
which had made him the cause of bringing such misfortune on his beloved.
But old Bastienne came once more to the rescue. Her stolid, peasant
endurance and ready Picard wit stood the whole party in good stead. She
found a flint and steel--for De Roberval had provided for all
necessities--and with the aid of the two girls she collected brushwood
and dry branches enough to make a huge fire, the smoke of which, rising
high into the air, was visible on the horizon from the departing ship.
The sailors fell on their knees in terror at the sight, believing it
another proof that the demons were consuming their victims with
unquenchable flames.
Bastienne soon had Claude's wet clothes dried, and his strength revived
by hot stimulants. Provisions they had in plenty--of the rude fare which
was provided on ship-board in those days--and the old woman prepared a
hasty meal, of which she forced the two girls to partake. But by this
time the darkness had gathered round them, and it was impossible to do
anything further that night.
Fortunately, the time of year was a favourable one. The weather was
warm, even for June; and the storm which Roberval had predicted seemed
to have passed over, for the present at all events. The balmy air and
clear sky of a Canadian summer night made the prospect of spending it in
the open air a much less terrible one than it would otherwise have
been. They kept their fire up all night, as a protection, but they met
with no alarms, and were unmolested, save by the insects which swarmed
in the air around them, attracted by the light. Claude, worn out by
fatigue, slept the deep sleep of exhaustion, and Marguerite spent most
of the night watching by his side, while the other two women attended to
the fire.
The short June night soon gave place to the ghostly, grey twilight
before the dawn; and at last the welcome streaks of colour in the east
proclaimed to the weary watchers that daylight was again at hand. Their
first night in their island home was over.
The morning broke fair and cloudless, and the little colony of four set
about surveying their situation, and exploring their new domain. They
found it a wilderness indeed--barren, rocky, almost devoid of
vegetation, save for the coarse bracken and juniper bushes which grew in
patches, and for an occasional clump of birches, stunted pines, or firs.
No sign that any human foot save their own had ever visited it could be
discovered: and the only animals they met with were hares in abundance,
and foxes, both red and black, which scampered away in terror at their
approach, and surveyed them from a distance with bright, timid eyes.
Sea-birds in great numbers hovered about the cliffs on the shore, and
what most aroused their astonishment and interest, were the solemn,
ungainly auks, which had their abodes along the beach. These uncouth and
helpless-looking birds, disturbed in their occupation of fishing among
the rocky shallows, waddled off in alarm at the approach of the
intruders, who were irresistibly moved to laughter at their clumsy
movements. No doubt these strange creatures had in part given rise to
many a weird tale of the demon inhabitants of the island.
De Pontbriand, whose strength was wonderfully recruited by the long rest
and Bastienne's skilful treatment, set about preparing some kind of
shelter for the women before another night should descend upon them. His
soldiering experiences, and still more his adventures in the wilds of
Canada, came to his aid, and he was not long in constructing a sort of
rude wigwam, such as he had seen the Indians build wherever they pitched
their camps. Fragrant pine boughs made a luxurious couch, and the
exhausted girls were glad to throw themselves down and sleep, while
Claude kept watch by the fire outside. On the next day, and the two
following ones, he employed himself in thatching the primitive dwelling
with birch bark and whatever materials he could find which would shed
the rain from its sloping sides. For himself, he found a sheltered
hollow among the rocks, where neither wind nor rain could affect him
greatly, and their stores he disposed among the many similar rocky
caverns with which the island abounded.
His preparations were finished none too soon. The clouds which had been
hovering about for several days, finally gathered together one
afternoon, and rolled in heavy, thunderous masses up out of the southern
sky. The air grew dark and sultry, lightning flashed from the depths of
the purple cloud-bank; soon the thunder crashed overhead, and the waves
lashed themselves in fury against the shore. The storm was upon them in
all its might. It was not of long duration, but was followed by a good
deal of rain during the night, and the next morning there was a furious
gale blowing. The waves rose to such a height that the spray from their
crests was dashed over the frail shelter Claude had erected; and he saw
that something more permanent and durable must be contrived. Summer
would pass, and winter might swoop down upon them out of the desolate
north before there was any chance of their being rescued. A dwelling
which would be a protection from cold and snow and the biting blasts of
a Canadian winter, must be erected. But how? And with what materials?
Tools he had in plenty, but how to construct a dwelling out of the
stunted and wind-twisted trees, which were all the timber the island
afforded, was a conundrum he saw no prospect of solving.
As it happened, however, fortune favoured him. The very next day, as he
wandered along a high, rocky part of the shore, he saw in the shallow
water at his feet what seemed to be the hull of a vessel. Making his way
down the cliff, he found to his delight that such was indeed the case.
No doubt these were the remains of that same ill-fated craft which
Laurent, the fisherman, had seen disappear beneath the waves. The
timbers had been of good oak, and the waves, breaking them asunder as
they rolled in from the mighty expanse outside, had washed many of them
high and dry on the shore. There was abundance for a hut, and with
these, and the help of what trees he could avail himself of, he had
hopes of being able to build a more substantial habitation before the
cold weather set in.
In the meantime, his strength came rapidly back to him, and in the long,
bright summer days and glorious nights, life still seemed to hold
possibilities of joy and hope for the little party. They were supplied
with the necessaries of life--though they were careful to husband their
stores as much as possible; and Claude was able to vary their plain fare
by the addition of excellent fish, and an occasional bird--for they were
well supplied with fire-arms and ammunition. The hardy, open-air life
seemed to agree with the two girls; and all four vied with each other in
keeping up a resolute and cheerful courage, avoiding all reference to
the terrors the future might hold in store.
In the cove where the sunken brig lay, Claude had made a rude raft, and
with the assistance of Marie, whose strong young arms and bright,
courageous spirit were invaluable to him, he soon had enough planks and
timber transported to the place where they had landed. To get them
ashore, and carried to the spot he had selected as being the most
sheltered and suitable for his purpose, was no easy matter; but with
time, and the united efforts of the whole party, every obstacle was
gradually overcome. The building, although a small one, was slow in
attaining completion, and for weeks the sound of Claude's hammer and saw
disturbed the primeval quiet of the little northern island. The women
lent their help in every possible way; and watched with admiration the
skilful manner in which Claude provided against every emergency which
might befall the little dwelling; none gave a sign of the secret and
cherished hope of all their hearts, that they might never need to
complete it, or to occupy it when completed.
Thus July and August passed; and towards the end of the latter month the
"castle," as Marie had gaily designated it, was at last finished. They
transferred themselves and their belongings to its shelter, and, as it
happened, only just in time. The weather, as usual about that time of
year, suddenly changed, and a fierce gale swept across the island. For
three days the rain fell in torrents, and the mad waves rolled higher
and higher up the beach, till the spot where their summer shelter had
stood was completely covered. The nights, too, became cold and dreary;
and the dismal shrieking of the wind through the trees, and the hoarse
bellowing of the sea among the crags and caves, had a terrifying effect
that made it hard for even the brave spirits of these high-born
Frenchwomen to preserve their calm and hopeful bearing.
With the shortening days and autumn winds a sadness crept over the
little colony, and would not be shaken off. Its influence was, perhaps,
most felt by Marie, though her bright vivaciousness never failed her
when the others were present. The lovers could not be wholly unhappy
while they had each other. Their future was full of uncertainty, and the
present of difficulties and dangers, but at least they were together,
and separation had been the bitterest of their trials. With Marie it was
necessarily otherwise. She could not but feel herself alone, in a sense
which was unknown to the other two; and it became her habit, in the
mellow September days, to wander by herself along the shore, often
sitting for hours, her hands clasped on her knees, gazing in vain at the
distant, empty horizon. She had one companion--a young fox which Claude
had caught and tamed for her. The little animal had grown devotedly
attached to her, and as it grew older it became her constant attendant
in all her rambles. Marguerite could not fail to notice the long
absences of her friend, and often went in search of her, and brought her
back to join Claude and herself in whatever they might be doing; but
Marie was always gay and cheerful with her, and no suspicion of the
melancholy that was gradually creeping over her was awakened in
Marguerite's heart.
It was upon old Bastienne that the change in the climate began to tell
most plainly. The faithful old woman had borne uncomplainingly the
hardships which her young mistresses could endure without a murmur; but
her old bones had suffered from the exposure to the night dews and damp
sea air; with the chill winds of the Autumn she was attacked with
rheumatism, and lost the activity and energy which had been of such good
service to them all. She suffered much; her moans often kept the two
girls awake at night; and even Claude, who had built himself a tiny
lean-to on the sheltered side of the "castle," could hear her
complainings.
With the first frost of October the leaves took on their short-lived
autumn gorgeousness, only to wither and fall, leaving the little island
destitute of even its scanty appearance of vegetation. Winter, with its
desolating breath, was settling down upon them; and when the first early
snows came floating through the air, they realised that long dreary
months of suffering lay before them.
But one of them, at least, was to be spared the terrible ordeal.
On a calm, mild day, when the soft, blue haze of October filled the air
with its deceptive beauty, Marie had gone to one of her favourite haunts
along the cliffs--a lofty point of rock, which they had laughingly
christened her "look-out." As she sat there, gazing down at the misty,
sleeping sea below, her eye caught the gleam of a cluster of
late-blooming wild flowers, the last of the season, on a point of the
rock beneath her. A fancy seized her to get it for Marguerite. She
reached over, and had it almost in her hand, when a slight movement
behind her caused her to start a little, lose her balance, and fall
headlong over the beetling cliff. She fell upon the stones below, and
lay motionless, while the little fox, whose rustling approach among the
dry leaves had caused her hurried movement, stood on the edge above,
peering down with astonished curiosity at the silent figure of his merry
playmate. The auks and puffins, scared from their rocky perches, plunged
into the ocean, and rose at a little distance to look for the reason of
the disturbance. Seeing no further cause for alarm they gained courage
and gradually returned, and their quaint, ungainly forms stood in
wondering groups about the motionless girl, who lay with one arm
stretched in the cold water of the bay.
In the meantime her friends were awaiting Marie's return for the mid-day
meal. But she came not; and they finally went in search of her, calling
her name along the shore, but receiving no answer save the wild cry of
the gull as it circled above them, and the weird laugh of the great
diver calling to his answering mate. They knew her favourite point of
rock, and on reaching it found the little fox still standing on the
edge, and looking down. As they approached, it bounded suddenly off, and
disappeared among the bushes.
His heart sinking with a vague dread of fresh misfortune, Claude went to
the edge of the cliff, and looked over. He saw at once what had
happened. The stones at the top were loose and freshly disturbed, and
the low shrubs which fringed the rock were crushed and broken. Hastily
drawing Marguerite back, and bidding her return at once to the hut and
warn Bastienne to get restoratives and blankets in readiness, he hurried
round to the base of the cliff. The tide was rapidly rising, and the
distance was considerable. With all his haste he was only just in time.
As he rounded the projecting spur that formed one side of the bay, the
water, which had at first covered only one of Marie's arms, reached her
hair, and in a few minutes more must have risen over her face. De
Pontbriand drew the bruised and senseless form higher up the rocks, and
eagerly felt her heart. There was a faint, slow beating that told him a
feeble life still fluttered there. Raising her in his arms he bore her
with all possible speed to the hut, where every means that their
resources and skill could suggest to restore her to consciousness was
tried, and, as it seemed, in vain. At last, as the short October
afternoon faded out in a purple haze, and the sad, grey evening closed
about them, Marie opened her eyes. She was quite conscious, and seemed
to suffer no pain. But the end was evidently close at hand. She spoke
but little, and lay very quietly, with Marguerite's hand in hers. Just
before it grew too dark for them to see her, she beckoned to Claude to
approach, and as he stood beside her couch, she laid Marguerite's hand
in his, smiled peacefully as she felt the strong grasp close above it,
and, closing her eyes, with head turned a little aside, she passed away
so tranquilly that they could not have told when her last breath was
drawn.
When they realised that she was indeed dead, their grief had no words.
Old Bastienne, at the foot of the couch, recited the prayers for the
dead in a voice choked with sobs, and with the tears streaming down her
wrinkled cheeks; but Marguerite knelt in silence, dry-eyed, beside the
body of her friend, gazing into the quiet, calm face. At last Claude
raised her, and, tenderly wrapping a cloak round her, led her from the
hut, and down to the beach. They stood in silence, trembling in each
other's arms, their hearts too full for speech or tears, while the chill
October wind whistled in from the sea, and the gulls and curlews flew
screaming about their heads.