It was Spring. Dominic Le Mierre still played a double game and
there was no talk of an engagement between Blaisette and himself. He
met Ellenor secretly; and was often at Colomberie Farm, where he was
a welcome visitor, not only to the daughter, but to the father, who
valued the advice and skill of the master of Orvilliere in all
things pertaining to the management of the farm. Now, in the
springtime, the countryside was stirring into new life, and masters
and men alike were full of enthusiasm over the tilling of the soil
and the expectation of good crops to come. Monsieur Le Mierre had
sent round word to his neighbours that on a certain day in March he
would hold the working festival of _La Grand' Querrue_, or _The
Grand Plough_. That meant the combination of these neighbours into a
band of all day workers, for the purpose of deeply trenching a
certain field in preparation for the cultivation of parsnips. The
large expensive plough to be used was the joint property of Le
Mierre and his richer neighbours, and it was, naturally, available
for each in turn. Every master brought his men and his horses and
bullocks to the fray, and at seven o'clock in the morning the work
and jollity began.
The field to be ploughed lay at the base of cliffs covered with the
tender grass and golden gorze bushes of early Spring. Deep purple
scentless violets clustered in sheltered nooks, where granite,
ivy-covered boulders rose grimly along the slopes and little ravines
of the cliffs. Primroses, many of them milk white, starred the
grass; and wild blue hyacinths grew tall and graceful in damp
patches shaded by stunted trees. But the special field in question
lay bare to the sky, surrounded by low hedges, and of a rich red
brown colour.
Six bullocks and sixteen horses drew the large plough, and Dominic
Le Mierre was captain of the team. He looked his very best, for the
work drew out the strength and will of the man. The pose of his
body, the skill of his movements, the carriage of his head, marked
him as the typical worker of the fields, a very king of farmers. His
energy and vitality inspired the other men, and no one could believe
it was time for _mi-matin_ when ten o'clock chimed out from the
church behind the cliffs. But when the spell of work was broken, the
men found they were very hungry, and fell upon the bread and butter,
cheese and strong coffee, with tremendous appetites. These good
things were brought down in large baskets from Orvilliere; and the
men scattered in little groups as they ate and drank, discussed
farming, or looked out over the wide sea just beyond the field, and
wondered if fishing would pay this year.
Suddenly Le Mierre gave the call for a return to work, and again the
glorious ploughing went forward till noon. Then the cattle were
unharnessed and allowed to feed, two men being left in charge of
them. The rest of the workers climbed the hill to Orvilliere, where
a substantial dinner was provided. There was cabbage soup, a
_palette_ or big boiled ham, a piece of pork, a round of beef and
other things loved of Guernseymen, not forgetting copious draughts
of island cider. Two o'clock saw the men once more at the ploughing,
and the afternoon dragged a little till four o'clock, when the
housekeeper and the maids from Orvilliere appeared, bringing each
her large basket of _mirelevee_. This meant tea and currant cake,
and probably cider. A halt was called. Once more the men grouped
themselves into unconscious picturesquesness, and ate and drank to
their fill. But at this _al fresco_ meal a delightful air of
familiarity and coquetry made itself felt by the presence of the
rosy maidens from Orvilliere; above all by the appearance of
Blaisette Simon, who brought down a special batch of cakes, made and
cooked by herself. Le Mierre was at her side at once and a pretty
flirtation sprang up, for the master was in an excellent temper and
the girl was marvellously taken by the handsome power and devilry of
the captain of the work. Never had she seen him look half so well,
she said to herself. Ah, if he proposed, she would not feel inclined
to refuse him! She leant over the hedge and looked out to sea, and
he stood close beside her, his blue jerseyed shoulder brushing the
stray gold of her hair. Lovers they seemed, even if lovers in
reality they were not.
So thought Ellenor Cartier as she watched them from the little cove
below the field. She stood, a solitary figure against the sky, on
the rough arm of a little harbour where she waited for the return of
her father from fishing. She had been watching for the red sail of
his boat since three o'clock, but she had turned many times to send
hungry, lingering looks at the field, above all at the prominent
figure of Le Mierre. When Blaisette came, in the glory of a new gown
and a pink sunbonnet, it seemed to Ellenor that life was harder than
she could bear, for she was shut out from the _Grand Plough_. Her
father had not been asked to help, he was too much beneath the rank
of Le Mierre; therefore no excuse could be framed to admit her into
the enchanted field. Jealousy sharpened her eyesight, she thought
she could see the white hand of Blaisette slip through Dominic's
arm. It was too much. She turned away and looked out to sea, blinded
by tears.
The red sail of Cartier's boat fluttered in the breeze that blew
from the land, and with swift grace the little craft came into
harbour. Ellenor dashed the tears from her eyes and smiled down at
the men in the boat as they fastened it to a hook in the breakwater
and climbed up beside her. Her father was her friend, her refuge,
her comfort; and something of his influence over her seemed to
belong to the other man, his mate. Perrin Corbet was tall and
angular, without the slightest pretention to good looks, but with a
fund of good nature and humour in his grey eyes, and when he smiled
back at Ellenor a shy tenderness glorified his plain face into
something far beyond mere beauty of feature.
The men and Ellenor crossed the sandy cove and climbed the winding
cliff path which led directly past the _Grand Plough_. Jean and
Perrin lingered to watch the splendid action of Le Mierre, as, once
more, he led the line of animals: but Ellenor walked on and never
even glanced to see if Blaisette were still in the field. She did
not wait for the men and kept a little ahead of them as she mounted
the cliff to the moorland above. Her head was bent, her arms hung
down listlessly.
Suddenly, round a bend in the path, a number of children appeared in
evident high glee. They stopped when they reached the men and
explained, all speaking at once, that they were going to see _La
Grand' Querrue_. Perrin, who loved children, listened patiently to
the shrill little voices and patted the innocent faces.
"But we can't go on yet!" exclaimed the eldest of the group, "we are
waiting for little Marie, she stopped to tie up her shoe. Ah, there
she is!"
Perrin looked up and saw that Ellenor had lifted little Marie in her
arms and was bringing her to the other children. The golden haired
baby nestled her head against the girl's breast: and her chubby arm
was thrown round Ellenor's neck. The two made a sweet picture. The
girl's sombre face was softened by contrast with the lovely little
head pressed confidingly against her. The eternal wonder of mother
and child is seen whenever a woman has a baby in her arms, and
though Perrin could not have explained the thrill that swept over
him, he knew in his heart that the sight of the two together moved
him to an intense longing, an intense reverence. In his nature was
none of the coarse fibre which so often marks the men whose lives
are all action, danger and privation. When Ellenor kissed little
Marie and put her down with a gentleness unusual to herself,
Perrin's thoughts rang of what she would be as a mother. His heart
throbbed suddenly as he dared to drag to light a long-hidden
secret--kept hitherto from himself. He loved her. He had loved her
from childhood, when he, a big clumsy boy, had taken her part, and
fought her battles, at the parish school. He wanted her for his
wife. He wanted her for the mother of his children.
Ah, what a picture rose before him as his thoughts painted rapidly!
A little cottage on the moorland; a rose red _vraic_ fire; Ellenor
seated in a low chair, beside her a cradle; on her lap, a little
baby, with wide sad eyes like hers. He saw himself enter the cottage
and fling his net into a corner; he felt her kiss on his lips,
and....
"Wake up, Corbet! Not a word have you spoken since we left those
children--and what with you as glum as a fish and Ellenor gone in
front, its precious dull for me!"
Cartier slapped his friend on the back, and Perrin exerted himself
to chat and laugh. Then, all at once, Jean broke into the talk of
parish gossip.
"Look here, _mon gars_, I'm not happy about Ellenor. She is unhappy,
worse and worse each day; and so bad tempered. You know she never
gets on with her mother, poor girl; but now, even at me she snaps,
and, God knows, I love her well, and she loves me."
Perrin was silent.
"Does she treat you properly?" went on Cartier.
"Well, to tell you the truth, she is not very polite at times, but I
would not blame her. She always looks so sad, and, as you say, worse
than ever just now. Perhaps she's _ensorchelai_, who can say!"
"I've thought of that--perhaps I'll get her to tell me. Well, this
is your way--so a bientot, Perrin, a bientot!"
Corbet made his way to his home, a cottage not far from the
outskirts of the moorland at whose edge stood the Haunted House. He
lived with his mother, a widow and an invalid. She hardly ever left
the cottage, but she made it a palace of happiness to her son. Her
lovely placid old face brooded over his every want and his every
look. She lived the life of a saint and had brought up her son to
fear God and none else. Perrin's religious life was a deep reality
to him: he never spoke of it, but in it he moved, at home, in the
conscious joy of the presence of God.
Every night, when his mother had gone to bed in her tiny attic, he
knelt long beside the _jonquiere_ in the corner of the hearth: and
every night he prayed for Ellenor, naming her softly after the
beloved word "mother."
But this night. _Ellenor_ was first on his lips. Why was she
unhappy? Why was she so unkind to the father she loved? Ah, if one
could see right through her dark eyes into her sorrowful heart, one
might have a chance of comforting her! But, as it was, one felt
useless and blundering.
His head bent lower. Broken words came from his lips. A deep
mysterious silence held the man in awe. It was as though One stood
beside him while he prayed. And to that One he spoke of Ellenor.
At that very hour she was running quickly along the high road to
Orvilliere. The moon, full and soft as pearl, rode high in the
cloudless sky. The stars glinted like silver fires. But the beauty
of the night was lost upon Ellenor. It seemed to her as if she would
never reach her destination. At last, at last, she was at the top of
the valley which sloped to the farm! As she ran down hill, she could
hear the sound of music and the ring of laughter. The _Grand Plough_
supper, the _finale_ of the day's work and feasting, was evidently
in full swing. When she reached the house she crept up to one of the
windows and peered in. The hired fiddler and man with the flute and
the man with the "serpent" sat on the _jonquiere_. The kitchen was
full of people, eating and drinking round a long table covered with
great pieces of meat and puddings of every description.
At the head of the table was Dominic Le Mierre, evidently the worse
for drink, which, however had not made him idiotic, but which had
maddened him into wild and extravagant excitement. Beside him was
Blaisette Simon, dressed in a quaint muslin gown which accentuated
her childlike and piquante beauty. Her father, easy-going Mess'
Simon, looked on smilingly at the orgie around him, and seemed not
in the least disturbed when Dominic drew his arms round Blaisette
and kissed her repeatedly. She gave an affected little scream and
pretended to be shocked, but Dominic laughed all the louder, and
cried to all the guests to drink her health.
And all the while, Ellenor looked on with wide eyes of jealousy. In
the presence of Dominic she forgot all goodness, all restraint, she
only longed passionately to be in the place of Blaisette. Not in the
least knowing what she did, she opened the house door and entered
the kitchen. At first she was not noticed, so great was the noise
and misrule. Suddenly Blaisette caught sight of her, and pointed her
out to Dominic with a foolish giggle.
"I've been told she's mad after you," she whispered, "and it seems
it's true since she has forced her way into here!"
Dominic was not only furious, but fearful of disclosures. He rose
unsteadily to his feet, and pointed at Ellenor.
"Be off with you!" he cried, "how dare you come here, you
_impudante_!"
The girl of Les Casquets Cottage stood as if turned to stone. She
did not know what she had expected when she entered the room.
Blind, mad impulse had moved her to a mad act. But this was like
death to her, this harsh voice, this volley of rough words. When she
did not move, Dominic reeled down the room, and taking her by the
shoulders, he pushed her into the entrance hall and locked the
kitchen door.
When she came to herself, she never dreamt of blaming Dominic.
"It's all _her_ fault!" she said to herself, climbing the hill
swiftly, "it's every bit her fault; and as sure's as she's alive,
I'll pay her out!"