When Charles arrived at St Malo he found that his messenger, Etienne
Brule, had reached the town in safety, and that De Roberval's horse was
being well looked after in Cartier's stables. No pursuit was attempted,
and it became evident that Etienne's master would make no effort to
bring him back.
In fact, De Roberval, who knew that La Pommeraye was the soul of honour,
and that no one would believe him capable of a falsehood, felt that his
own wisest course would be silence. He knew that at the least move on
his part La Pommeraye would be able to turn all tongues against him; and
if the young man had, as he had hinted, any influence with the Duke of
Guise, he would undoubtedly call down upon him the heavy hand of the
great minister, who had already no love for the ambitious little
nobleman.
Charles, too, was kept silent by what he had learned. His old sunny
smile had left him, and when he spoke, his once full, mellow voice had a
hard, metallic ring. Cartier scarce recognised him, and his questions
received but scant answers, which kept him from enquiring further.
"De Pontbriand may still live," said Charles. "Mdlle. de Roberval may
still live, and I must restore them to France, or make sure that they
are dead. If I find them not, God help De Roberval!"
"God help him in any case!" said Cartier to himself. "Your spirit will
never rest till it has spilt the little tyrant's blood. But when," he
added, "do you expect to start for the New World?"
"At once."
"Nay, that's impossible. You would have some difficulty in getting
sailors to venture out on the Atlantic at this season."
"If I cannot get men to accompany me," said Charles, "Etienne and I will
go alone;" and as he spoke, Etienne, who was standing by in Cartier's
orchard, where the conversation took place, nodded assent, and muttered
a determined "Ay, that we will!" He, too, was thinking of his fair young
mistress, who had always seemed to him like one of the blessed saints;
and when he pictured her pining for her home through the dreary autumn
and torturing winter in Canada, he would gladly have risked the voyage
single-handed.
It was no easy matter to get a vessel. Roberval had returned, and
Charles had no longer his former excuse. It was rumoured at court that
the lovers had been punished for flaunting immorality; and to tell why
he wanted the ship would be to drag the names of Claude and Marguerite
through the mire. This he would not do. He would not even let himself
think of what De Roberval had told him. It was not--it could not be
true! It was true that he had awakened from his dream; he knew that he
could never win Marguerite. What he had learned from Etienne and from
her uncle had banished that wild hope; and all the little circumstances
in their lives, which had before passed unnoticed, now rose before him
to show him how blind and foolish he had been. But he loved her none the
less--rather the more. And when he thought of what she and her lover
must have endured on that desolate island, in the great northern ocean,
his brain beat and his heart throbbed till he thought he must surely go
mad. To save himself, he felt he must start on his journey as soon as
possible.
But there were difficulties in the way. Cartier had disposed of his
ships, and taken up his permanent residence at Limoilou. To purchase a
new vessel would cost money; and Charles, ever prodigal, had but small
means that he could call his own. On Cartier he depended for help; but
that shrewd seaman knew how the enterprise must end, and instead of
putting his hand into his money-bag, he did his utmost to dissuade La
Pommeraye from his purpose.
Finding, however, that his friend had determined on the journey, he at
length got several St Malo merchants to join with him in fitting out a
small craft of fifty tons, ostensibly for the fur trade. The vessel was
an old one, but had several times weathered the Atlantic, and a number
of her old crew expressed themselves willing to join La Pommeraye if he
would offer them a sufficient wage. He had hard work, however, in
getting together six trusty fellows, who, with Etienne and himself,
would undertake the winter journey. But by the beginning of December all
was ready, and the little vessel, amid shaking of heads and prophecies
of misfortune from the knowing ones, steered away for the Channel, and
out towards the Atlantic, where even then a storm was raging.
But they were to meet with disappointment at the very beginning of their
voyage. The masts creaked and groaned; the planks quivered; the oakum
became loose in the seams; and on the second day out it was found that
the vessel had sprung a leak. Pump as they would, they could not lessen
the water in the hold; and though La Pommeraye would fain have held on
his way, discretion compelled him to turn his vessel's head about, and
run for the port he had just left.
When he reached harbour, the deck of the ship was almost to the water's
edge. There was nothing to do but to run her ashore. When the water was
pumped out of her, it was found that she was in a badly strained
condition, and that several planks in her hull were completely
worm-eaten. She had to be drawn up high and dry, and carpenters set to
work to give her a thorough overhauling. By the time she was again ready
for sea, the January snows had begun to whiten the fields about St Malo.
Nothing daunted, La Pommeraye determined to venture again, and Etienne
stood by him; but when they came to look for their crew, they found that
the fellows had all fled St Malo, and could not be found. No other men
were willing to take their places; and through the winter, La Pommeraye,
like one distraught, went up and down the streets seeking seamen. But
none would join his expedition. The inhabitants of the town came to look
upon him as mad, and wondered what evil influence there could be in the
New World dragging him to it. Even the merchants regretted the money put
into the venture; but Cartier would not let them withdraw.
It was not until spring that the _Marie_, for so the little craft was
called, was ready for sea, fully manned once more. Just when the March
showers were beginning to rejuvenate the earth she drew away from the
town; and Cartier, who stood on the wall watching her go forth, wondered
what the end would be. It could only be tragic. No company could live
through two dreary winters on a lonely island without losing some of
their number, and he doubted not that all were dead. He half regretted,
as he watched his friend's sail drop down beneath the horizon, that he
had not gone with him. But the three disappointments the New World had
already given him made him dread its shores, and he shuddered as he
thought of the gruesome tidings which must await La Pommeraye on that
lonely northern isle. He shuddered, too, as he thought of De Roberval.
Fate is sometimes slow-footed, but he felt certain that it must at last
rush with unerring speed to the destruction of the man who had wrecked
so many lives.
La Pommeraye kept on every stitch of canvas his little ship would carry,
and after four weeks' sailing, before a favouring breeze, the southern
coast of Newfoundland was reached. So far, they had had no trying
weather, and their hearts beat high with hope that their journey would
end without mishap. They ran into the harbour of St John, replenished
their almost empty water-casks, and then started on their final trip
towards the Isle of Demons.
But April is a treacherous month. It had been up to this time
summer-like, with a hot sun and gentle southern breezes. Now the wind
shifted to the north; the clouds crept across the sky leaden and low; a
heavy snowfall descended upon them; and it seemed that winter was
returning. Charles was only the more anxious to reach the island, and
crowded on canvas. But the bending masts and crashing seas finally made
him reef his sails, and his little ship for several days beat her
difficult way northward. La Pommeraye himself spent most of his time in
the crosstrees, keeping an anxious lookout for his destination. It
seemed to him that he would never reach it; and the storm, which had
increased instead of diminishing as the days went on, threatened to
swamp his vessel. The sailing-master besought him to turn about and run
for the harbour of St John. He saw that he would be compelled to do so;
but before giving the command, he once more went aloft and scanned the
broken, misty horizon. His keen eye soon discerned a dark spot, which
appeared and disappeared as the _Marie_ rose and fell on the waves.
Nearer it drew, and to his unutterable joy he saw a pillar of smoke rise
from it, and, growing in volume, spread in a mighty cloud over the
waters.
"It is they! They live!" shouted La Pommeraye, and sliding down a
backstay, seized his sailing-master's arm, and pointed to the hopeful
signal.
The sailors saw it, too. They knew the island, and crossed themselves
fearfully as they gazed upon what they believed to be the smoke of the
pit. To all except Etienne and La Pommeraye it seemed as if they were
rushing recklessly upon destruction. As if to buttress their fears, the
stormy north-east wind blew with redoubled fury, and wave after wave
swept over the ship, threatening to crush in their decks. The island was
now within a mile of them, and the pillar of smoke still rose, beckoning
them onward. But La Pommeraye's hopes were to be dashed to the ground. A
wave mightier than its fellows broke against the high bows, and catching
the _Marie_ amidships, sent tons of water on her decks. Before she could
recover and throw it off, a succession of similar waves rolled in upon
her, and all seemed lost.
"Our only hope," cried the sailing-master, "is to 'bout ship, and run
before the wind. No vessel could anchor in this storm, even if we did
reach yon island; and unless the gale lessens, we must sooner or later
be swamped."
There was nothing else for it, and La Pommeraye unwillingly consented.
The little craft was with difficulty brought about. Every scrap of
canvas was lowered, and she went scudding along under bare poles, with
the huge seas climbing high about her lofty poop, seeking to drown her.
When Marguerite saw the vessel which had been bearing down upon her
begin to recede, her heart failed her altogether. They had seen her
signal, and yet they were deserting her. For months she had watched in
vain; at last her hope seemed about to be realised; and when she saw it
vanish she was left more desolate than ever. Gladly at that moment would
she have welcomed death; and indeed it could not long delay now. Her
ammunition was exhausted; she was living principally on the eggs of the
shore birds and the fish which she was once more able to procure
occasionally. But such precarious means could not last long; it was only
a question of time.
She sat on the cliff, unheeding the storm which beat about her head and
scattered the embers of her fire. The anguish of her position forced
itself upon her. To be left on the island meant a slow and torturing
death; and yet, had she been rescued, she must have left behind her all
that she had loved. She prayed that she might die at once.
But Heaven had ordered otherwise. Life and hope were to return to her;
her imprisonment was nearly over.
La Pommeraye's vessel drove before the gale until the high cliffs of St
John's harbour loomed up before her. They were a welcome sight, for the
little craft had been so strained by the struggle against the storm,
that she had sprung a leak, and it was with difficulty that the sailors
kept the water in the hold from gaining on them. But within the harbour
the waters were comparatively calm; and when the anchor was cast, a
careful examination showed that the leak was immediately above the
water-line, and could be easily remedied. All through the night the wind
howled through the rigging; and all through the night La Pommeraye,
unable to rest, paced the deck like a caged tiger. On the following
morning the storm still raged, and it was not till the next day that
they were able to make for the open sea. The wind had now shifted to the
south, and a gentle breeze was rippling the surface of the giant rollers
over which they plunged on their northward way.
Four days had elapsed since Marguerite had seen the vessel disappear;
and four terrible days she had spent, roaming like one demented over her
island prison. All day she heard the voices of the demons calling from
every cliff and cave, and at night they beat upon the walls of her
cabin, and seemed to keep up a fierce, demoniacal laughter over the
graves on the hillside. Had it not been for Francois, she would have
rushed into the great green waves which rolled up on the shore, bent on
her own destruction; but the presence of the faithful creature, who
followed her about from cliff to cliff, as she looked east and west,
north and south, over the waste of waters; who sat by with pathetic
wonder as she lay stretched at length upon her loved ones' graves; who
guarded her through the darkness while the demons were howling above her
abode--saved her from herself. She longed for death; she would have
shrunk from the thought of leaving the island where Claude lay, but the
principle of life which would not die demanded that she should save
herself if it were possible. And while she prayed for death to come, she
strained her eyes in the hope of seeing some approaching sail.
At last the storm abated. The waves still climbed the island reaches,
but the warm breeze told her that the time of danger was past. A hope
which would not be crushed out whispered to her that the vessel she had
seen had been on its way to the island, and as the storm went down, the
same wild hope suggested to her that it would come back. Till darkness
fell she gazed, and when day broke she stood on the "lookout," scanning
the far horizon. At last she was rewarded. A dim, white speck stood out
against the clear sky. Swiftly it approached. Gradually the white sails
showed distinct, then the black hull appeared, and there, before her,
lay a vessel of her own land--a vessel from La Belle France. She moved
not, nor spoke, and by her side sat Francois on his haunches, as
motionless as herself. A cannon boomed from the ship, and its echoes
awoke a myriad birds, which flew screaming across the waves, or plunged
into the ocean. It was a strange sound to Marguerite--a voice from her
old home, calling her back to life.
With joy La Pommeraye had sighted once more the rocky point of land upon
the horizon. But a keen pang of disappointment seized him when he looked
in vain for the signal which had told him there was yet life on the
island. Could they have perished in the storm? Could his approach, when
they were on the verge of the grave, have served only to tantalise them,
and make the end the harder? Such thoughts beat in his brain, as he
vainly watched for any sign of life.
At last Etienne touched his arm.
"Look, Monsieur, they live! There stand two figures on yonder cliff."
As he spoke, all eyes turned towards the projecting spur, and as the
keen-visioned sailors caught sight of Marguerite and her uncouth
companion, they fell on their knees and crossed themselves in holy awe.
La Pommeraye quickly had the sails run down and the anchor dropped; and
before Marguerite could leave her station, the gun boomed forth its
welcome.
Down to the beach she went to meet the approaching boat, and even La
Pommeraye was awed when he saw her figure coming towards him.
Her clothes had been patched and mended till it was impossible to mend
them any longer, and they now hung in tatters about her. Her hair, once
so black and glossy, was streaked with white, and her face wore the look
of one who has known all that life has to give of joy and of sorrow, and
who has walked in the presence of death as with a friend. By her side
shambled the young bear, a shaggy, ferocious-looking monster, enough of
itself to strike terror to the hearts of the amazed sailors. The men in
the boat lost their courage, and their nerveless hands refused to grasp
the oars. But the stern, commanding voice of La Pommeraye restored
their presence of mind. The boat's keel grated on the rocks, and La
Pommeraye leaped ashore and fell on his knees before the pale ghost of
the woman he had loved so faithfully, and followed through half the
world.
"Mademoiselle!" he said, but he could get no further. His heart had
risen in his throat, and was choking him. She, too, stood like one
stunned, her knees trembling, her brain swimming. She would have fallen,
but that she took his extended hand to support herself.
The bear had been growling uneasily at her side, and when he saw La
Pommeraye's hand touch his mistress, he gave a savage growl, and was
about to spring upon the intruder. Marguerite bade him down, and the
obedient creature crouched at her feet.
"Mademoiselle has a strange guardian," said La Pommeraye, who had risen
at the animal's approach.
"He has kept me alive, Monsieur. But for him I should have gone mad, or
cast myself into the sea."
"Where are your companions?"
La Pommeraye shuddered as he asked the question, but he could keep it
back no longer.
"It is well with them," she answered calmly; "they sleep behind yonder
hill."
"Dead?" exclaimed La Pommeraye, beneath his breath.
"All dead," was her quiet reply.
"And yet you live! How long have you endured the loneliness of this
dreary spot?"
"Claude died before the snows fell, and since then Francois and I have
lived I know not how. I have tried to die, but Heaven has been too
kind."
La Pommeraye turned away his head, and the sobs he could no longer
restrain shook him from head to foot. He struggled for self-control. At
last he turned to her, and took her hand to lead her to the boat.
"Your old servant, Etienne Brule, is with me," he said. "He waits in the
boat for you. He will look after you while I collect whatever may be in
your hut."
But she drew back a little from him.
"Monsieur, I cannot----" and for the first time her voice faltered. "I
cannot leave my dead!"
Even at that moment Charles was conscious of a fierce throb at his
heart, as he realised that the woman he loved had irrevocably, for life
and for death, given her life to his friend.
As she spoke she turned, and led him past the hut, and up the hill to
the little group of graves. The hour of utter separation had come, and
she could say nothing. La Pommeraye felt that a word from him would be
sacrilege. Silent she stood there, torn between the fearful pang of
parting, and the realisation that she must go. At last her will
conquered, and she turned to La Pommeraye, saying simply: "I am ready,
Monsieur."
Of the fourth who slept in that lonely hillside cemetery she said not a
word. The young life had come into being, and had passed away again,
there, in this desert spot, amidst the trackless wastes of ocean,
unknown to any save the two whose souls it had for ever linked
indissolubly. Why should the world be told? The island would keep her
secret; and no one in France should ever learn that her child and
Claude's lay at rest in his father's grave.
She kneeled and kissed the stones which marked the spot; and then,
without one backward look, she followed La Pommeraye to the hut.
There was little to take with her--the bearskin rug which had been her
salvation through the bitter winter, and one or two precious personal
trifles which were all that were left of her dead. La Pommeraye's heart
was bursting within him as he saw how she had lived, and guessed what
she must have endured. In silence they went down to the shore.
"Poor Francois!" Marguerite said, throwing her arms about the neck of
the faithful beast. "Poor Francois!" and there was a world of meaning in
her tone.
Soon they were ready to leave the island; and the wondering sailors, who
knew nothing of her story--for Etienne had kept a sacred
silence--shuddered as she stepped into the boat.
When the bear saw his mistress deserting him he leaped into the water,
and tried to swim after her. Becoming wearied with the effort, however,
he was obliged to give it up and swim back to the shore, where he paced
up and down the beach with his rolling, awkward gait, his eyes fixed on
the retreating boat.
As the ship sailed away, the sailors could see his white form standing
in melancholy solitude on the highest point of the cliff. When the
vessel was but a speck in the distance, he turned his eyes shoreward,
and saw a seal basking in the sun. Stealthily he crept down the cliff
and along the shore, his huge claws sank into the neck of the
unsuspecting beast, and with savage delight he tore it in pieces.