It was the night of Christmas Eve and the snow fell thick and fast.
This weather, so unusual in the Channel Isles, had delayed Perrin
Corbet in the little town of Saint Pierre Port, and it was past ten
o'clock when he reached home. His mother had gone to bed, but not
before she had prepared her son's supper and left the little kitchen
the picture of comfort. After his meal, Perrin turned the lamp low,
lit his pipe, and sat down in his mother's arm-chair before the
_vraicq_ fire. The wind moaned in the huge chimney, with a cradling
sound, but Perrin was not in the least inclined to sleep. To-morrow
would be his wedding day. He could not realize it; he could not
believe he would so soon reach the height of joy. He tried to
picture to-morrow. Ellenor, in the white gown she had described to
him, would stand before the altar, and he, her devoted lover, would
take her hand and declare, before God and before the world, that she
was to be his wife.
Then, the rest of the day would be spent in quiet joy at Les
Casquets Cottage, with his mother as the only guest of the Cartiers.
He pictured the moment when he would say, taking out his watch,
"Now, mother, now, Ellenor, it is time for us to go home."
He would light the lantern, and with those two women, so dear, so
precious, he would return to this very cottage, henceforth to be a
palace to him, since Ellenor, his queen, would be his wife. He would
deal so tenderly with her, for she had suffered much, his poor
Ellenor! He would never reproach her if she seemed to fret after
Dominic. She could not uproot, all at once, such a deep love. He
would lead her gently back to the ways of religion which she had
deserted. He would remind her, one quiet evening, that she was of
those who were admitted to The Holy Supper of the Lord, for had she
not been confirmed at the same time as he had? And, please God, she
would listen to him. Perhaps, in days to come, she would learn to
love him a little. Perhaps that joy would be his when baby hands
clasped his rough brown fingers and a rosy baby mouth kissed his
adoring lips!
His pipe was out; and his head was bent as he dreamed of the morrow,
his wedding day. For a moment, the wind had ceased its moaning and a
deep stillness enfolded the cottage.
Suddenly, a sharp tap rang through the kitchen. Perrin started, his
dreams scattered. He listened, breathless, his island blood frozen,
his Celtic temperament at once calling up visions of the
supernatural.
Again the tap sounded on the window; and this time, a familiar voice
re-assured Perrin.
"Let me in, Corbet, quick, I bring bad news."
In a moment Cartier stood in the kitchen and cried breathlessly,
"Have you seen Ellenor? She hasn't been home since early this
afternoon!"
The ruddy colour left Perrin's tanned face.
"My God, no, I haven't seen her! What, then, can have happened?"
Then, with graphic, trembling words, Jean told how Ellenor had gone
to Saint Pierre to buy some finery for her wedding bonnet; how, hour
after hour, when the snow was thick and the wind howled over the
moorland, she had been anxiously looked for; how, at last, in
despair, he had said to his wife that he would go to Perrin, for
they must be off to look for Ellenor all the way to Saint Pierre
Port.
At once, Corbet went upstairs, and, waking his mother, told her the
story of his girl's mysterious disappearance.
"We'll go round to Les Casquets and bring Mrs. Cartier over here,
mother. She's a poor creature, and she can't be left alone. Who can
tell when Cartier and I will be back!"
It was two o'clock before the men started to walk to Saint Pierre
Port. It was brilliant moonlight at four o'clock, and the gusts of
snow had died away with the wind; but the men searched, in vain, for
any trace of Ellenor. As soon as it was dawn, the two parishes were
roused, and those who were kind helped to look for the missing girl.
The rest shrugged their shoulders and said that Christmas Day was
not meant to be wasted in such a search, for such a queer wild girl
as Ellenor Cartier. At last a child found in a hedge a paper bag: it
contained a spray of artificial flowers, a few drenched roses. The
child's mother guessed this must be the finery Ellenor had gone to
buy, for everyone knew the pitiful story by now. But the hedge was
ominously near Rocquaine Bay. What did this mean?
After three days of minute search, the band of men gave up in
despair; and Jean and Perrin went back to the routine of daily work
in dogged and patient despair. The fisherman wondered if Le Mierre
had heard the news, shut up in Lihou Island, where his wife lay very
ill of small-pox, which was raging in different parts of Guernsey.
Finally Jean unburdened his mind to his friend and talked with him
of Ellenor's infatuation for Dominic. Would it be that she had
drowned herself to be rid of the torture of her life?
Perrin was haunted perpetually by this idea: it was with him by day
and by night. He went about like a man who was half asleep, and
people began to complain that he did not even nod to his
acquaintances when he met them. So the Christmas season passed and
it was the last day of the Old Year. The cold and the snow
disappeared, and the weather was mild and calm as Perrin rowed
homewards about four o'clock in the afternoon. He had been to pull
up his lobster pots which had been put down not far from Lihou
island. Buried in thought, he did not notice how close he was rowing
to the reef of rocks off the north of the island, till a loud cry
startled him and he saw that someone was signalling to him from a
jutting rock close to his boat. It was a woman. It was Ellenor
Cartier.
Mad with joy, Perrin brought his boat into a tiny creek, moored it
and scrambled up the rocks to the girl's side.
"Don't come near me!" she cried, "for the sake of your mother! I am
minding Blaisette. She is ill, dreadfully, dreadfully ill. If she
gets well, the doctor says it will be a miracle. But even _he_ is
afraid to come much. Since Christmas Eve he hasn't been here. It was
then I came, just after his visit."
She had gradually edged away from Perrin, and now placed herself
behind a boulder. Over its edge her pale face looked sadly at her
lover.
"Do you know," she went on, "perhaps you won't believe me, but till
I saw you just now in your boat, I didn't even feel sorry I left you
on Christmas Eve. Are you very angry with me?"
"I couldn't be angry with you, my darling! Even now, it seems I
can't believe you're alive. We found your white roses, all wet and
spoilt, in a hedge close to Rocquaine Bay; and, ah, how we feared,
your father and me ... But, Ellenor, tell me, how is it you came
here? And how was it you were on the rocks just when my boat
passed."
"I was on the rocks to try to see if I could let one of you men know
we want food, and to tell the doctor he _must_ come again. I've
given her all the medicine he left. It would be no use for me to go
over to Rocquaine at low tide, because not a soul would help me; all
would run away from me."
"Set your heart at rest, my Ellenor. I'll go for all you want. But,
quick, tell me, how is it you came here?"
She buried her face in her hands, and broke into bitter weeping. And
Perrin could not clasp her in his arms. Presently she spoke, in a
low voice, full of anguish.
"It was like this. On Christmas Eve, when I was coming back from
Saint Pierre Port, I met Monsieur Le Mierre. He stopped me and
wanted me to go back to the town with him. I had nearly decided to
do as he wished. It was no use, I couldn't say 'No.' There was long
I hadn't seen him; and he was so handsome and tall. And, and, I
believe he loves me true, whatever happens! But, just as I said I'd
go back with him, I thought of Blaisette, her that I hated and yet
her that I pitied. And I asked him who was with her on lonely Lihou
Isle. Him, he only laughed, and said she was all right; he'd be back
before midnight. But there wasn't a soul in Guernsey would go to
mind her, for love or money, so it was no use bothering, he said,
and again he laughed. And then I was frightened. He seemed like the
devil, so cruel about his poor wife. And, all of a sudden, I thought
only of her, and I told him _I'd_ go to mind her, not for love or
money, but because I was _so_ sorry, oh, so sorry, for her!"
"My brave girl! My own sweetheart!" Perrin cried, stretching out
eloquent hands to the sad, pale face.
"Listen, there's more yet to tell! I don't know how I got back to
Saint Pierre du Bois, it was snowing fast and yet faster; but, at
last I was to L'Eree. I forgot all about everything except poor
Blaisette. I threw away the roses for my wedding bonnet. I got to
the beach before the tide was quite down. The sea was black. The sky
was black. Just here and there was a dreadful line of white, where
the waves were breaking over the rocks. And on Lihou Isle not a
light was to be seen. I shivered when I thought of Blaisette in the
dark, ill with small-pox of a Christmas Eve."
Perrin ground his teeth.
"Damn that brute! He's not fit for hell itself."
She drew a long breath.
"Listen, Perrin, I've not finished! I began to cross the rocks and
found myself on the causeway at last, but I was deep in water. The
horrible waves, like black walls, was all around me. The wind pushed
me on every side. The snow was falling thicker and thicker. But at
last, at last, I was to Lihou. I climbed the beach, ran across the
grass, and, pushing open a door in the wall of the garden--we all
know the farm well, eh, Perrin? I went up the steps to the house. I
opened the door. The house was like ice. In the kitchen was a poor
little bit of fire. I made it up; and then I tried to get courage to
go upstairs.... Well, somehow I was in the bedroom. I had taken a
candle with me. I can't tell you how she looked. It would make you
wish you could kill _him_. She looked at me with her poor glazed
eyes. Her lips were black with fever. She cried, in a voice like a
thread, for water, water!"
"God in heaven! and you love this brute yet?"
She hid her face for a moment.
"Hush, I've not finished! I did my best for her, poor Blaisette. For
a minute she knew me and she tried to thank me; and very soon she
fell asleep."
"And he came back at midnight?"
"No, not till the middle of Christmas Day; and then he was half
drunk. Since then he has hardly been near the house; but he has not
left Lihou. He has been about the stables, and come into the kitchen
to get his meals once or twice; and he is drinking, drinking all the
time. I can see he is afraid of the small-pox, and afraid of death.
And yet, I believe, I am sure, he loves me yet; only I will not
speak to him nor look at him, because of _her_, lying upstairs all
unconscious."
Perrin stared at her, aghast. Was it possible a woman could love,
actually love, the devil! Bah, it seemed so!
"Look here," he cried, almost in a rude voice, "he loves you so much
that he lets you run the risk of getting the small-pox! Very well!
I'm decided what to do. I'll go back to tell my mother I am coming
here to look after you twice a day, perhaps more, and I'll give
_him_ a piece of my mind. My mother will go to Les Casquets. I'll
stop the mouths of the two parishes, so will my mother and your
parents, or I'll know why. Now, go back, and I'll be off for the
doctor and for food."
"Wait, just a minute, Perrin! There is something more I must say, to
cast it off my mind. It is all my fault that Blaisette has the
small-pox. It was me that went to the witch to Saint Pierre Port to
cast a spell on my rival the day after the _Grand' Querrue_. I
didn't tell no names, but that's why she's bad, and oh, Perrin, it's
all my fault."
"Yes, I suppose it's that, in a way. But it's my belief there's
another reason for her sickness. You remember she came the wrong way
to church on her wedding day? Ah, we all know what _that_
means--trouble--as sure as her name is Blaisette. But I must be
off!"
In a few hours Perrin returned with a store of food and the
unwilling doctor, who was obliged to go up to see the patient he
dreaded so horribly, for Perrin took him by the arm and did not
leave him till he had landed him in the sick room. Then the
fisherman sought out Le Mierre, and the coward and scoundrel tried
to hold his own. But Perrin's threats of appeal to the Royal Court
awed him into a promise to give out money to pay for the expenses of
his wife's illness. Corbet, himself utterly fearless of disease,
frightened the drunkard into further dread of the house: and Ellenor
had it all her own way. But it was of no avail. Pretty, frail
Blaisette could not battle with a terrible illness, neglected at the
very first; and two days after Perrin came to Lihou, she died,
without a look or a sign.
There was no thought of taking her poor body across to the other
island for burial in the sweet quiet churchyard of Saint Pierre du
Bois. She was laid to rest in a grave dug hastily in a corner beside
a dark boulder. No hymns were sung over her. Only the grey sea
moaned and the wind sighed, as her rough coffin was lowered into the
grave. No messenger, mounted on a black horse, bore the news of her
death from house to house, up and down the two parishes. Only a poor
fisherman repeated the sad tidings as he trudged, first to
Colomberie Farm and then to Orvilliere, where Dominic's aunt kept
house in state while her graceless nephew was away. No _Messieurs_
of distinguished Torteval families were honoured bearers, but a good
man and a bad man had carried her coffin to the dark place of
burial. No weird feasting followed the unconsecrated ceremony: only
Dominic took refuge from sickening terror in a drunken bout.
But Perrin stood long beside her grave: and prayed for the poor
little woman so soon to be left alone in the island, henceforth to
be haunted by her sad spirit.
An hour after Blaisette's burial, Ellenor fainted while she was
making preparations for leaving the house. Perrin, guessing what
would follow, rowed her across to the main island, as soon as she
was able. His mother had returned to her home, and Jean and poor
weak Mrs. Cartier prepared to nurse their child through an attack of
small-pox. The doctor shook his head. It was a particularly bad
case, he said, and it was doubtful if he could save Ellenor.