"Quick! get up, Ellenor, you must have overslept yourself!" cried
Jean Cartier one morning in August, as he woke his daughter with a
loud knocking on the partition between the attic bedrooms of the
cottage.
"It's all right, father," the girl called in reply, "I've been up
there's a long time, but I am putting the roses round my hat. The
breakfast will be ready as soon as you're down."
Jean dressed in particularly old clothes, and Mrs. Cartier chose out
the shabbiest skirt she possessed, for they were preparing for a day
of hard work on the beach. But, to their surprise, when they came
down to breakfast, Ellenor wore a pretty gown of dark red stuff. She
explained, carelessly, that indeed _she_ would not make herself a
fright before all the countryside; and if the gown was spoilt, well,
it couldn't be helped. Her parents said nothing, for Ellenor's
temper was more uncertain than ever, and they dreaded an outbreak;
but Mrs. Cartier had her suspicions.
After breakfast the three started for Rocquaine Bay, where a lively
scene was being played, for it was the time of _vraicing_ or
sea-weed harvest. Lines of carts were ranged above high-water mark,
and the patient horses were decked with flowers. The beach and sands
swarmed with people all smiling and gay, and for the most part
wearing nosegays. Rich and poor from two parishes chatted, laughed
and worked hard with sickles at cutting the _vraic scie_ from the
low rocks. Very soon, the beach was dotted with heaps of sea-weed,
each marked by a pebble, bearing the owner's name in chalk. The more
adventurous waded across the _cols_ or causeways to rocks at some
distance from the shore and found rich stores of golden weed.
Amongst these adventurous spirits was Ellenor. She had persuaded one
of the farmers to take her on his horse to a high group of rocks,
hidden from the beach by Rocquaine Tower, and here she worked
undisturbed, and in full possession of a wonderful growth of
_vraic_.
She took off her hat, and her hair curled about her forehead in damp
little rings, for the sun was scorching. A dusky red glowed in her
tan cheeks; her eyes, shining with excitement and the joy of work,
followed the skilled movements of the sickle she swung to and fro,
and she was entirely absorbed in gathering in the precious _vraic_.
But, all at once, she paused. She heard, distinctly, the splash of
horse's feet. Someone was coming to interrupt her and share her
harvest. She would not have it! She had first thought of these
rocks! She would fight for her rights!
The splashing came nearer. She did not turn round. A scrambling
sound followed; then she heard heavy steps mount the rocks.
"Ellenor," said a well-known voice, "what luck to find you quite
alone here!"
It was Dominic Le Mierre, and it was the first time the two had met
alone since his wedding day. He took her hand and smiled into her
eyes, which filled with tears.
"You cheated me," she said, "you told me you were not going to marry
her."
He laughed and stooped to kiss her.
"You silly girl! If I had told you I'd never have got so many kisses
from you, and you wouldn't have liked that, eh! What difference does
this marriage make to you and me, I'd like to know! Besides, don't
pretend to be so good all of a sudden. Didn't you choose me at my
wedding feast, and didn't I kiss you before everybody? Not that I
remember it too well, for I had had a little drop, but I've been
told of it since."
"Ah, I was mad that night--mad with jealousy!"
"Go on being mad!" he cried, "how well you look in that red gown,
though it's a common rag besides the fine clothes of my
milk-and-water wife. Bah, what a fool she is! Don't you know I
married her for money and for her good family? But she is like a
silly baby. Her pretty face doesn't touch me. She might stare at me
for ever with her eyes of blue china, and my blood would lie quiet
like a stagnant pond. As for you, witch, your eyes burn into me and
set me in a blaze. And I vow you'll have to meet me pretty often.
Where shall we agree to see each other to-morrow night?"
"Nowhere," she replied sulkily.
"I like that! What new trick are you up to now, pretending you don't
want to meet me?"
"I _do_ want to meet you!" she cried passionately, "but I've got a
little bit of pride left, and I'm decided not to meet a married man
on the sly!"
He scowled and crushed her hands in his.
"You know your character is gone as it is. You're talked of all over
the parishes, people say you're mad after me--so, I'd just like to
know what difference not meeting me will make."
"I'm decided not to do it."
"Very well, my fine lady, we'll see about that. Ah, you little fool,
you've wasted the time and now I must go back, my horse is already
up to his knees in water. And how will _you_ get back, I'd like to
know!"
"Perrin Corbet is coming to fetch me. Look, here he is."
A quarter of an hour later, all the _vraicqueurs_ were gathered
together on the beach to eat their meal in common. Every woman had
brought _gache_, biscuits and special _vraicquing_ cakes: while the
rich farmers had provided a plentiful supply of cider which had been
brought down in little barrels swung to the carts. It was a merry
time, and Blaisette Le Mierre was looked upon as the queen of the
feast. Very few spoke to Ellenor, for she was shunned as a marked
character. Only Perrin paid her every attention, and saw that she
had everything of the best. As for Dominic, it appeared as if he did
not even see her: and people said he had been persecuted and waylaid
by Miss Ellenor, for it was evident he did not care a straw for such
a girl.
After the meal, some of the men carted away the _vraic_ to the farms
over the cliffs, where it would be used to enrich the land. Others,
with the help of the women, spread out the sea-weed, which was
stored in heaps on the beach to dry. This, later on, would be used
for fuel, and would give out its peculiar pungent smell, so dear
and memory-stirring to all Channel Islanders.
So the _vraicquing_ festival ended; and that night Ellenor sobbed
herself to sleep, a passionate weary creature, too proud to bend to
God and turn to goodness.
It was November; and one evening as Perrin Corbet was crossing a
hill on his return home from fishing, he thought he heard a low
moaning. He stopped and listened. Was it the cry of a sea-gull
flying into shelter from the storm which was approaching? Was it,
perhaps, the spirit of some drowned fisherman haunting his house?
No--it was the voice of a living woman in distress! He waited, and
gradually traced the sound to a huge cromlech on the hill. He
stopped at the entrance.
"It is I, Perrin Corbet!" he said quietly, "is anyone in trouble?"
"Yes, yes!" answered an eager voice, "come in and speak to
me--Ellenor."
"My dear girl," went on the fisherman's even voice, "what are you
doing here?"
"I've been hiding, there's an hour, from Dominic Le Mierre. Ah, it
is no use, I must tell you all, for you never scold me and look
black at me, like all the rest do. I said I wouldn't meet him now
he's married, but the more I keep out of his way, the more it seems
he finds me out."
"Then you don't care for him no more, like all Torteval said you
did?"
"Care for him! Care! I love him with all my soul!"
"And him such a black character, and a smuggler! There's times and
times I've seen him again to the cliffs with queer fellows; and
others have seen him, too. But nobody likes to give him up to the
constables, except me, and I've settled it that I'll tell what he
is after. He deserves it, the way he treats you. And it will be a
fine way of disgracing him. I'll risk that he'll bewitch me."
A dead silence followed his words. Then Ellenor's hand stole into
his, and Ellenor's voice said softly,
"Perrin, is it you love me yet?"
He lifted her hand and kissed it.
"I love you better than even my mother. I love you next best to
God."
"And yet, Perrin, I am not a good girl."
"Don't dare to say that to me! You _are_ good when you are not
thinking of that scoundrel. It's him that has made people speak
about you like they do! But, listen, Ellenor, if you was the
blackest of the black, I'd love you, because it's you, and because I
was made to love you, once and for ever."
She burst into a passion of tears.
"That's how I love him! He's the blackest of the black--a liar, a
smuggler, a cheat to his wife and to me, too fond of his glass,
cruel to the poor, mad for money, pretending to be pious of a
Sunday; and yet, yet, I love him, because it's him, and because I
was made to love him, once and for ever."
"My God! how you hurt me!" cried poor Perrin, clasping her hand
closer in his.
She cried quietly for a little while, and Corbet did not try to
check her tears. His tender love made him wise and gentle as his own
mother. At last she was quite still, and presently she said,
"Perrin, if you love me, I'll be your wife some day."
"Do you really mean it? It seems too good to be true. I can't take
it in, as you see. And yet if it does come to pass, there'll be no
man prouder than me in the whole of Guernsey!"
"But, if I am to be your wife, there'll be a condition."
"Condition! You can make a hundred, dear Ellenor."
"I don't know if you'll agree to this one, however!"
"Of course I will! I promise you beforehand."
"Promise! Promise! Quickly!"
He laughed gaily, wild with joy at her sweet mood and at the fair
prospect the future held for him.
"I promise I'll agree gladly to your condition, whatever it is."
"Then listen to it. You have promised you'll never give up Monsieur
Le Mierre to the constables."
Perrin was silent for a long time; then he said, in a voice hoarse
with emotion,
"It seems I am a very stupid chap, and it takes me a little while to
see what a woman is driving at. But though you are too clever for
me, Ellenor, and caught me in a fine trap, I can make out the
reason, the only reason, why you will be my wife. It is to save Le
Mierre from disgrace."
"Yes," she replied, "it is; and there is yet one more reason. I
can't live to Les Casquets any longer. I'm too unhappy. Mother is
always telling me what people say about me; no other tune do I hear
all day long."
"Well, it's quite plain you don't care a _double_ for me; but,
still, I can take care of you, give you a home and thus stop the
wagging of all the tongues in the parish. But, Ellenor, there is one
thing I must speak about. I am willing to know you don't love me;
willing to know you've given your heart to another man, and him a
scoundrel. But, I couldn't stand it if you had meetings with him
when you will be my wife, the daughter of my dear old mother. I'd
kill you, I believe. God forgive me, if such a thing happened."
"You needn't be afraid," she said in a dreary, colourless voice,
"since now I am always getting out of his way. There is left a
little pride in me yet. I can't bring such disgrace on my father.
But every day I cry because I can't see him."
"Well, I am satisfied! After all we know what each other means. And
now, when will it be, this wedding of ours?"
He tried to speak gaily, poor Perrin, but it was sad work. He
succeeded at last in persuading her to agree to be married on
Christmas Day: and then, fearful that she would change her mind, he
said he would take her home at once, for it was getting late.
As they descended the hill and crossed the bay, Perrin pointed out
the gleaming of a light on Lihou, an islet within a stone's throw of
Guernsey.
"It seems that Le Mierre is living there just now to work at the
iodine. His wife is with him. She is very delicate, it would appear,
and not very happy, poor pretty Blaisette!"
"Does he beat her?"
"So people say. I can believe anything bad of Le Mierre."
"It is not surprising. How bad I must be to love such a man! Perrin,
why didn't God let me--_make_ me, love you instead?"
Was this sad gentle voice in reality Ellenor's? Was this nestling
hand hers? Did it really creep through his arm?
"My girl, we must not dictate to God about what He does! I confess I
don't understand half He lets happen to us. But I couldn't question
it."
"Poor Perrin!" she went on softly, "to care for me, of all the girls
in the two parishes."
"I wouldn't change you for the Queen on her throne?"
He caught her to his breast and folded her to his heart. In the
heaven of his faithful love she felt, at least, safe from her own
lurid passion, and at rest from the biting remarks of her little
world.