It was winter, always a time for enjoyment in the days of old
Guernsey, when evening after evening, people met together at the
_Veilles_, to knit and sing and to tell stories of witchcraft and
weird tales of the sea.
Colomberie Farm was glowing with warmth and light, and swarming with
company on the evening of the twenty-first of December, for it was
the special festival of _longue veille_. The spotless wooden table
in the middle of the sanded floor was piled high with woollen goods
of every kind, which had been knitted by men and women at former
_veilles_. The dark blue of "jerseys" and "guernseys" were an
effective background for stacks of white woollen stockings and
scarlet caps.
"My good," said Mrs. Cartier, of Les Casquets Cottage, "there's
never yet bin so many things for the Christmas Eve market! It's that
we must have worked well! What do you say, mesdames?"
A torrent of agreement, poured out in Norman-French, swallowed up
her small pipe; and Mesdames from all the countryside gathered
closer round the table to inspect the good work and pack it up for
transmission to market. Mesdames were comely and rosy, excellent and
thrifty housewives, delighted at the thought of the gold and silver
that the warm cosy garments represented.
The men of the company stood idly by, flirting and smoking and
provoking giggles and pretty foolish speeches from the girls, who
queened it openly on these occasions. Even the elderly men, seated
on wooden stools in the deep recess of the wide chimney, turned
their withered nut-cracker faces from the glow of the _vraicq_ fire,
to smile leniently on "les jeunes gens."
A few serious groups of born story-tellers and eager listeners sat
on the floor where the flickering light of the _crasset_ shadowed
and then brightened the healthy beauty of the girls and the warm tan
of fishermen's faces. Everybody was happy, and gaiety and laughter
held the night.
But to one girl, joy meant so much that she had crept away with it
to the dark staircase, spiral and stone, that rose from the wide
entry to the top of the house. She sat on the third step from the
floor, and from her position she commanded a full view of half the
kitchen. Her eyes, deep and dark with excitement, yet almost
blinding in their gaze of rapture, rested on the face of Dominic Le
Mierre who sat on the _jonquiere_ in the corner of the hearth. He
was alone and appeared to be absorbed in watching the group of
story-tellers under the _crasset_. His sombre handsome face wore an
expression of extreme boredom. He had said, a few moments ago to
Ellenor Cartier, the girl on the stairs, that he detested the
_veilles_, but that he was bound to be present, as master of
Orvilliere Farm. He had added, moreover, a remark that had flooded
Ellenor's heart with the joy that had caused her to creep away by
herself into the darkness.
It was her presence, he assured her, with a stare into her trusting
eyes, that drew him to Colomberie Farm to-night, otherwise he would
have been out fishing beyond Pleinmont Point. Dominic had chuckled
to himself many times during the past months when he reviewed his
position towards Ellenor. Since the meeting in the Haunted House, he
had seen her not a few times, and he had rivetted round her a chain
which linked her closely to himself. He had exerted the masterful
fascination which was his to bring her completely under his power.
Love is a stronger motive than even hate. He made Ellenor love him
that he might be sure she would keep secret his dealings with
smugglers. He felt absolutely certain that if once she cared for him
she would be loyal, even to death. Therefore he fanned the flame of
the liking she had openly avowed into a wide spreading blaze, which
might burn up her peace and contentment, for all he cared, he said
to himself, with a derisive laugh.
In spite of scorn and derision, however, he felt an interest in her
which was quite foreign to his selfish and exploiting nature. With
admirable perseverance he crushed every rising of this interest and
stamped it under foot. But it proved strangely unconquerable, and it
rose again and again, vital and conflicting, to taunt him with its
indestructibility. He certainly could not have told himself why he
liked to meet this girl so often on the sly and why he liked to kiss
her red lips and make her eyes shine into his. But the fact that he
_did_ like the meetings and _did_ look forward to the kisses, was
quite a dominant factor in his life. Still, these things were apart:
ambition, money, reputation were more to the master of Orvilliere
Farm than all the girls in creation. He had not the slightest
intention of marrying a peasant girl, but he did intend to have a
rich well-born wife--a pretty one, if possible.
As he sat on the _jonquiere_, he watched keenly, in a business-like
spirit, the gay gestures and pretty dimples of Blaisette Simon, who
was the most eager listener of the story-telling group. He had often
thought of her as a possible wife. But she was such a universal
flirt, that, hitherto, he had received no special encouragement.
To-night, however, he felt inclined to exert the full power of
attraction which he was quite capable of appreciating and using. All
women, whether they avow it or not, love to find their master and
bend to him; and Dominic was of the very essence of virility.
Indeed, one outspoken girl of Torteval parish said she would rather
be beaten by Le Mierre than be kissed by a man all gentleness and
kindness.
In a few minutes, Blaisette had left the story-tellers and joined
Dominic on the _jonquiere_. She had not the faintest idea how it was
she had risen to go to him, but his welcome was of the most
delightful, his voice was tender and deep, his eye spoke eloquently
of her beauty. Blaisette had never known him in such a compelling
mood. Her foolish, weak little head was turned; his gross flattery
was nectar to her greedy vanity. He was generally so taciturn, so
cold, so aloof. And Blaisette plumed herself on being the cause of
this wonderful unbending of his. By supper time they had advanced
into the thick of a serious flirtation: and more than one person
remarked on the absorbed couple on the _jonquiere_.
Of course Ellenor saw it all, at first with unconcern, then with
growing alarm. The rapture died out of her face, which stiffened
into tragic lines of misery and jealousy. Every blush and pretty
gesture of Blaisette's called forth a new expression in the large
clear eyes of the watcher on the stairs. Hitherto it had not entered
into her head that Dominic might make her his wife; but, likewise,
she had never yet pictured a Madame Orvilliere who would take up the
master's time and prevent the stolen meetings that were so dear to
her. Now, as she watched Dominic's marked attentions to Blaisette,
as she saw him, more than once, lay his hand on hers, she realized
the meaning of the scene in the chimney corner. He would marry the
rich girl. She turned sick and giddy with jealousy. Rising, she
groped her way into the garden, and, without cloak or hat, she ran
down the quiet lanes and along the high road to the moorland of
Pleinmont, where her little home received her with its homely air of
comfort. She crept up to her attic bedroom, and when her father and
mother returned home, she would give no account of her sudden
disappearance from the _veille_.
"I've brought your cloak and hat," whined Mrs. Cartier, "you must be
mad to go home without them! But, there, one never knows what you
will do next."
"Leave the girl alone," broke in the father's voice, "she was tired
out, she had done the best part of the packing up--it was Blaisette
herself told us that. And, Monsieur Le Mierre, he said you were a
hard-working girl and would make a good servant, if I'd let you go
out. He laughed when he said this, did Monsieur, and it's my belief
he'll marry Blaisette before long. It looks as if they meant to keep
company. Well, good-night, my girl! I must be off fishing in an
hour!"
Christmas Day, not in the least typical, dawned over the heights of
Pleinmont in pale gold and soft grey; and the hours that followed
were mild and cloudy as those of a day in Spring. The inmates of Les
Casquets Cottage ate their humble Christmas dinner of a small piece
of beef and a rough kind of raisin pudding; then Jean and his wife
composed themselves to the unusual luxury of an afternoon sleep.
Ellenor was too restless to stay at home. She wandered over the
cliffs and insensibly she made, at last, for the Haunted House.
She threw herself on the grass at the back of the grim, gaunt
building, and she tried to collect the miserable, wandering thoughts
which were forever haunting her--thoughts of Dominic and Blaisette.
All at once, a musical whistle startled her, and Le Mierre himself
came up the cliff, a fish basket slung over his shoulder.
"You here, Ellenor!" he cried, sitting down beside her, "on
Christmas Day and all alone! Where, then, are all your beaux?"
"You know quite well I've got none, and don't want none, Monsieur,"
she replied sulkily.
"Come, come, do you expect me to believe that of a pretty girl like
you?"
"Pretty!" she echoed scornfully, "it's your Blaisette Simon that's
as pretty as a wax doll. It isn't me, Monsieur, with my black
looks!"
He laughed and put his arm round her. At his touch she trembled and
a lovely colour rose in her pale face. Then, with slow, and as if
involuntary, movement, her head nestled against his shoulder.
"That's right!" he said, "now you are a sensible girl. Let's be
happy while we can. So you call Blaisette _mine_, do you! What a
foolish Ellenor to be jealous of her. She's quite different from
you, can't you see that she doesn't set a man's blood on fire like
you do, witch?"
"That's all very well, Monsieur, but you told father to the _veille_
that I would make a good servant and he thought perhaps you would
wish to engage me for when you marry Blaisette, and I saw you with
her on the _jonquiere_!"
"Well, _sorciere_, is it that I must speak only to you? And what if
I _do_ marry Blaisette?"
With a quick look into his amused eyes, she lifted her head from his
shoulder and withdrew from his careless embrace. But it was only for
a moment. In abandonment of grief and devotion she flung herself
against his breast.
"I don't care," she sobbed, "if you marry Blaisette! I don't care
if, even, I come to be your servant, but, for the sake of God, love
me the best."
He smiled triumphantly over her hidden face and lightly kissed her
dark hair.
"Good, there you shew sense! But, tell me, you can't be really
jealous if you're willing for me to marry Blaisette? Why, you might
even let out about what goes on in this Haunted House, just to vex
me. And how do I know you won't do it, even yet?"
"I'd die first!" she cried, looking up proudly.
"That's settled then! And now let me tell you a secret, just to
reward you. I am not even thinking of marriage with Blaisette Simon.
Come, how many kisses will you give me for that piece of news?"
So heaven opened for Ellenor, and the rest of Christmas Day was
spent in going over and over again every word he had said to her
behind the Haunted House. She was unusually amiable at home, and her
father, who was devoted to her, rejoiced in the sunshine of her
ready smiles and bright ways.
This mood lasted but a few days. On New Year's Day she went to
Colomberie Farm to help in the kitchen, for there was much to be
done in the way of preparing refreshments for the constant string of
guests who came to bring greetings and presents to the pretty
Blaisette, the rich, desirable heiress.
Ellenor's duty was to take fresh relays of cake and wine into the
best parlour: and towards the end of the afternoon, when it was
dusk, and the lamps were not yet lit, she entered the room suddenly,
intent on business. There were only two people seated by the fire.
One was Blaisette, a vision of dainty prettiness in a new blue gown;
the other was Dominic Le Mierre.
He held the girl's hand in his. He was bending forward to kiss her
as Ellenor entered the room. From the heaven of the last few days,
she fell into a hell of jealousy and bitter hatred of Blaisette. At
once she turned and fled from the room. It was all very well to
speak of his marriage with another girl, when she herself was in his
arms. It was another thing to see him kiss the pink and white face
of her rival. She could not bear it. Once more she rushed from
Colomberie Farm in bitter despair and unreasoning grief.