In the time when he was happy, God existed for him almost in visible

contact. Lethierry addressed Him, pledged his word to Him, seemed at

times to hold familiar intercourse with Him. But in the hour of his

misfortune, a phenomenon not infrequent--the idea of God had become

eclipsed in his mind. This happens when the mind has created for itself

a deity clothed with human qualities.

In the state of mind in which he existed, there was for Lethierry only

one clear vision--the smile of Déruchette. Beyond this all was dark.

For some time, apparently on account of the loss of the Durande, and of

the blow which it had been to them, this pleasant smile had been rare.

She seemed always thoughtful. Her birdlike playfulness, her childlike

ways, were gone. She was never seen now in the morning, at the sound of

the cannon which announced daybreak, saluting the rising sun with "Boom!

Daylight! Come in, please!" At times her expression was very serious, a

sad thing for that sweet nature. She made an effort, however, sometimes

to laugh before Mess Lethierry and to divert him; but her cheerfulness

grew tarnished from day to day--gathered dust like the wing of a

butterfly with a pin through its body. Whether through sorrow for her

uncle's sorrow--for there are griefs which are the reflections of other

griefs--or whether for any other reasons, she appeared at this time to

be much inclined towards religion. In the time of the old rector, M.

Jaquemin Hérode, she scarcely went to church, as has been already said,

four times a year. Now she was, on the contrary, assiduous in her

attendance. She missed no service, neither of Sunday nor of Thursday.

Pious souls in the parish remarked with satisfaction that amendment. For

it is a great blessing when a girl who runs so many dangers in the world

turns her thoughts towards God. That enables the poor parents at least

to be easy on the subject of love-making and what not.

In the evening, whenever the weather permitted, she walked for an hour

or two in the garden of the Bravées. She was almost as pensive there as

Mess Lethierry, and almost always alone. Déruchette went to bed last.

This, however, did not prevent Douce and Grace watching her a little, by

that instinct for spying which is common to servants; spying is such a

relaxation after household work.

As to Mess Lethierry, in the abstracted state of his mind, these little

changes in Déruchette's habits escaped him. Moreover, his nature had

little in common with the Duenna. He had not even remarked her

regularity at the church. Tenacious of his prejudices against the clergy

and their sermons, he would have seen with little pleasure these

frequent attendances at the parish church. It was not because his own

moral condition was not undergoing change. Sorrow is a cloud which

changes form.

Robust natures, as we have said, are sometimes almost overthrown by

sudden great misfortunes; but not quite. Manly characters such as

Lethierry's experience a reaction in a given time. Despair has its

backward stages. From overwhelmment we rise to dejection; from dejection

to affliction; from affliction to melancholy. Melancholy is a twilight

state; suffering melts into it and becomes a sombre joy. Melancholy is

the pleasure of being sad.

These elegiac moods were not made for Lethierry. Neither the nature of

his temperament nor the character of his misfortune suited those

delicate shades. But at the moment at which we have returned to him, the

reverie of his first despair had for more than a week been tending to

disperse; without, however, leaving him less sad. He was more inactive,

was always dull; but he was no longer overwhelmed. A certain perception

of events and circumstances was returning to him, and he began to

experience something of that phenomenon which may be called the return

to reality.

Thus by day in the great lower room, he did not listen to the words of

those about him, but he heard them. Grace came one morning quite

triumphant to tell Déruchette that he had undone the cover of a

newspaper.

This half acceptance of realities is in itself a good symptom, a token

of convalescence. Great afflictions produce a stupor; it is by such

little acts that men return to themselves. This improvement, however, is

at first only an aggravation of the evil. The dreamy condition of mind

in which the sufferer has lived, has served, while it lasted, to blunt

his grief. His sight before was thick. He felt little. Now his view is

clear, nothing escapes him; and his wounds re-open. Each detail that he

perceives serves to remind him of his sorrow. He sees everything again

in memory, every remembrance is a regret. All kinds of bitter

aftertastes lurk in that return to life. He is better, and yet worse.

Such was the condition of Lethierry. In returning to full consciousness,

his sufferings had become more distinct.

A sudden shock first recalled him to a sense of reality.

One afternoon, between the 15th and 20th of April, a double-knock at the

door of the great lower room of the Bravées had signalled the arrival of

the postman. Douce had opened the door; there was a letter.

The letter came from beyond sea; it was addressed to Mess Lethierry, and

bore the postmark "Lisbon."

Douce had taken the letter to Mess Lethierry, who was in his room. He

had taken it, placed it mechanically upon the table, and had not looked

at it.

The letter remained an entire week upon the table without being

unsealed.

It happened, however, one morning that Douce said to Mess Lethierry:

"Shall I brush the dust off your letter, sir?"

Lethierry seemed to arouse from his lethargy.

"Ay, ay! You are right," he said; and he opened the letter, and read as

follows:--

"At Sea, _10th March_.

"To Mess Lethierry of St. Sampson.

"You will be gratified to receive news of me. I am aboard the

_Tamaulipas_, bound for the port of 'No-return.' Among the crew is a

sailor named Ahier-Tostevin, from Guernsey, who will return and will

have some facts to communicate to you. I take the opportunity of our

speaking a vessel, the _Herman Cortes_, bound for Lisbon, to forward you

this letter.

"You will be astonished to learn that I am going to be honest.

"As honest as Sieur Clubin.

"I am bound to believe that you know of certain recent occurrences;

nevertheless, it is, perhaps, not altogether superfluous to send you a

full account of them.

"To proceed then.

"I have returned you your money.

"Some years ago, I borrowed from you, under somewhat irregular

circumstances, the sum of fifty thousand francs. Before leaving St. Malo

lately, I placed in the hands of your confidential man of business,

Sieur Clubin, on your account three bank-notes of one thousand pounds

each; making together seventy-five thousand francs. You will no doubt

find this reimbursement sufficient.

"Sieur Clubin acted for you, and received your money, including

interest, in a remarkably energetic manner. He appeared to me, indeed,

singularly zealous. This is, in fact, my reason for apprising you of the

facts.

"Your other confidential man of business,

"RANTAINE.

"_Postscript_--Sieur Clubin was in possession of a revolver, which will

explain to you the circumstance of my having no receipt."

* * * * *

He who has ever touched a torpedo, or a Leyden-jar fully charged, may

have a notion of the effect produced on Mess Lethierry by the reading of

this letter.

Under that envelope, in that sheet of paper folded in four, to which he

had at first paid so little attention, lay the elements of an

extraordinary commotion.

He recognised the writing and the signature. As to the facts which the

letter contained, at first he understood nothing.

The excitement of the event, however, soon gave movement to his

faculties.

The effective part of the shock he had received lay in the phenomenon of

the seventy-five thousand francs entrusted by Rantaine to Clubin; this

was a riddle which compelled Lethierry's brain to work. Conjecture is a

healthy occupation for the mind. Reason is awakened: logic is called

into play.

For some time past public opinion in Guernsey had been undergoing a

reaction on the subject of Clubin: that man of such high reputation for

honour during many years; that man so unanimously regarded with esteem.

People had begun to question and to doubt; there were wagers pro and

con. Some light had been thrown on the question in singular ways. The

figure of Clubin began to become clearer, that is to say, he began to be

blacker in the eyes of the world.

A judicial inquiry had taken place at St. Malo, for the purpose of

ascertaining what had become of the coast-guardman, number 619. Legal

perspicacity had got upon a false scent, a thing which happens not

unfrequently. It had started with the hypothesis that the man had been

enticed by Zuela, and shipped aboard the _Tamaulipas_ for Chili. This

ingenious supposition had led to a considerable amount of wasted

conjecture. The shortsightedness of justice had failed to take note of

Rantaine; but in the progress of inquiry the authorities had come upon

other clues. The affair, so obscure, became complicated. Clubin had

become mixed up with the enigma. A coincidence, perhaps a direct

connection, had been found between the departure of the _Tamaulipas_ and

the loss of the Durande. At the wine-shop near the Dinan Gate, where

Clubin thought himself entirely unknown, he had been recognised. The

wine-shop keeper had talked; Clubin had bought a bottle of brandy that

night. For whom? The gunsmith of St. Vincent Street, too, had talked.

Clubin had purchased a revolver. For what object? The landlord of the

"Jean Auberge" had talked. Clubin had absented himself in an

inexplicable manner. Captain Gertrais-Gaboureau had talked; Clubin had

determined to start, although warned, and knowing that he might expect a

great fog. The crew of the Durande had talked. In fact, the collection

of the freight had been neglected, and the stowage badly arranged, a

negligence easy to comprehend, if the captain had determined to wreck

the ship. The Guernsey passenger, too, had spoken. Clubin had evidently

imagined that he had run upon the Hanways. The Torteval people had

spoken. Clubin had visited that neighbourhood a few days before the loss

of the Durande, and had been seen walking in the direction of Pleinmont,

near the Hanways. He had with him a travelling-bag. "He had set out with

it, and come back without it." The birds'-nesters had spoken: their

story seemed to be possibly connected with Clubin's disappearance, if

instead of ghosts they supposed smugglers. Finally, the haunted house of

Pleinmont itself had spoken. Persons who had determined to get

information had climbed and entered the windows, and had found

inside--what? The very travelling-bag which had been seen in Sieur

Clubin's possession. The authorities of the _Douzaine_ of Torteval had

taken possession of the bag and had it opened. It was found to contain

provisions, a telescope, a chronometer, a man's clothing, and linen

marked with Clubin's initials. All this in the gossip of St. Malo and

Guernsey became more and more like a case of fraud. Obscure hints were

brought together; there appeared to have been a singular disregard of

advice; a willingness to encounter the dangers of the fog; a suspected

negligence in the stowage of the cargo. Then there was the mysterious

bottle of brandy; a drunken helmsman; a substitution of the captain for

the helmsman; a management of the rudder, to say the least, unskilful.

The heroism of remaining behind upon the wreck began to look like

roguery. Clubin besides had evidently been deceived as to the rock he

was on. Granted an intention to wreck the vessel, it was easy to

understand the choice of the Hanways, the shore easily reached by

swimming, and the intended concealment in the haunted house awaiting the

opportunity for flight. The travelling-bag, that suspicious preparative,

completed the demonstration. By what link this affair connected itself

with the other affair of the disappearance of the coast-guardman nobody

knew. People imagined some connection, and that was all. They had a

glimpse in their minds of the look-out-man, number 619, alongside of the

mysterious Clubin--quite a tragic drama. Clubin possibly was not an

actor in it, but his presence was visible in the side scenes.

The supposition of a wilful destruction of the Durande did not explain

everything. There was a revolver in the story, with no part yet assigned

to it. The revolver, probably, belonged to the other affair.

The scent of the public is keen and true. Its instinct excels in those

discoveries of truth by pieces and fragments. Still, amidst these facts,

which seemed to point pretty clearly to a case of barratry, there were

serious difficulties.

Everything was consistent; everything coherent; but a basis was wanting.

People do not wreck vessels for the pleasure of wrecking them. Men do

not run all those risks of fog, rocks, swimming, concealment, and flight

without an interest. What could have been Clubin's interest?

The act seemed plain, but the motive was puzzling.

Hence a doubt in many minds. Where there is no motive, it is natural to

infer that there was no act.

The missing link was important. The letter from Rantaine seemed to

supply it.

This letter furnished a motive for Clubin's supposed crime: seventy-five

thousand francs to be appropriated.

Rantaine was the _Deus ex machina_. He had descended from the clouds

with a lantern in his hand. His letter was the final light upon the

affair. It explained everything, and even promised a witness in the

person of Ahier-Tostevin.

The part which it at once suggested for the revolver was decisive.

Rantaine was undoubtedly well informed. His letter pointed clearly the

explanation of the mystery.

There could be no possible palliation of Clubin's crime. He had

premeditated the shipwreck; the proofs were the preparations discovered

in the haunted house. Even supposing him innocent, and admitting the

wreck to have been accidental, would he not, at the last moment, when he

had determined to sacrifice himself with the vessel, have entrusted the

seventy-five thousand francs to the men who escaped in the long-boat.

The evidence was strikingly complete. Now what had become of Clubin? He

had probably been the victim of his blunder. He had doubtless perished

upon the Douvres.

All this construction of surmises, which were not far from the reality,

had for several days occupied the mind of Mess Lethierry. The letter

from Rantaine had done him the service of setting him to think. He was

at first shaken by his surprise; then he made an effort to reflect. He

made another effort more difficult still, that of inquiry. He was

induced to listen, and even seek conversation. At the end of a week, he

had become, to a certain degree, in the world again; his thoughts had

regained their coherence, and he was almost restored. He had emerged

from his confused and troubled state.

Rantaine's letter, even admitting that Mess Lethierry could ever have

entertained any hope of the reimbursement of his money, destroyed that

last chance.

It added to the catastrophe of the Durande this new wreck of

seventy-five thousand francs. It put him in possession of that amount

just so far as to make him sensible of its loss. The letter revealed to

him the extreme point in his ruin.

Hence he experienced a new and very painful sensation, which we have

already spoken of. He began to take an interest in his household--what

it was to be in the future--how he was to set things in order; matters

of which he had taken no heed for two months past. These trifling cares

wounded him with a thousand tiny points, worse in their aggregate than

the old despair. A sorrow is doubly burdensome which has to be endured

in each item, and while disputing inch by inch with fate for ground

already lost. Ruin is endurable in the mass, but not in the dust and

fragments of the fallen edifice. The great fact may overwhelm, but the

details torture. The catastrophe which lately fell like a thunderbolt,

becomes now a cruel persecution. Humiliation comes to aggravate the

blow. A second desolation succeeds the first, with features more

repulsive. You descend one degree nearer to annihilation. The

winding-sheet becomes changed to sordid rags.

No thought is more bitter than that of one's own gradual fall from a

social position.

Ruin is simple enough. A violent shock; a cruel turn of fate; a

catastrophe once for all. Be it so. We submit, and all is over. You are

ruined: it is well; you are dead? No; you are still living. On the

morrow you know it well. By what? By the pricking of a pin. Yonder

passer-by omits to recognise you; the tradesmen's bills rain down upon

you; and yonder is one of your enemies, who is smiling. Perhaps he is

thinking of Arnal's last pun; but it is all the same. The pun would not

have appeared to him so inimitable but for your ruin. You read your own

sudden insignificance even in looks of indifference. Friends who used to

dine at your table become of opinion that three courses were an

extravagance. Your faults are patent to the eyes of everybody;

ingratitude having nothing more to expect, proclaims itself openly;

every idiot has foreseen your misfortunes. The malignant pull you to

pieces; the more malignant profess to pity. And then come a hundred

paltry details. Nausea succeeds to grief. You have been wont to indulge

in wine; you must now drink cider. Two servants, too! Why, one will be

too many. It will be necessary to discharge this one, and get rid of

that. Flowers in your garden are superfluous; you will plant it with

potatoes. You used to make presents of your fruits to friends; you will

send them henceforth to market. As to the poor, it will be absurd to

think of giving anything to them. Are you not poor yourself? And then

there is the painful question of dress. To have to refuse a wife a new

ribbon, what a torture! To have to refuse one who has made you a gift of

her beauty a trifling article; to haggle over such matters, like a

miser! Perhaps she will say to you, "What! rob my garden of its flowers,

and now refuse one for my bonnet!" Ah me! to have to condemn her to

shabby dresses. The family table is silent. You fancy that those around

it think harshly of you. Beloved faces have become clouded. This is what

is meant by falling fortunes. It is to die day by day. To be struck down

is like the blast of the furnace; to decay like this is the torture of

the slow fire.

An overwhelming blow is a sort of Waterloo, a slow decay, a St. Helena.

Destiny, incarnate in the form of Wellington, has still some dignity;

but how sordid in the shape of Hudson Lowe. Fate becomes then a paltry

huckster. We find the man of Campo Formio quarrelling about a pair of

stockings; we see that dwarfing of Napoleon which makes England less.

Waterloo and St. Helena! Reduced to humbler proportions, every ruined

man has traversed those two phases.

On the evening we have mentioned, and which was one of the first

evenings in May, Lethierry, leaving Déruchette to walk by moonlight in

the garden, had gone to bed more depressed than ever.

All these mean and repulsive details, peculiar to worldly misfortune;

all these trifling cares, which are at first insipid, and afterwards

harassing, were revolving in his mind. A sullen load of miseries! Mess

Lethierry felt that his fall was irremediable. What could he do? What

would become of them? What sacrifices should he be compelled to impose

on Déruchette? Whom should he discharge--Douce or Grace? Would they have

to sell the Bravées? Would they not be compelled to leave the island? To

be nothing where he had been everything; it was a terrible fall indeed.

And to know that the old times had gone for ever! To recall those

journeys to and fro, uniting France with those numberless islands; the

Tuesday's departure, the Friday's return, the crowd on the quay, those

great cargoes, that industry, that prosperity, that proud direct

navigation, that machinery embodying the will of man, that all-powerful

boiler, that smoke, all that reality! The steamboat had been the final

crown of the compass; the needle indicating the direct track, the

steam-vessel following it. One proposing, the other executing. Where was

she now, his Durande, that mistress of the seas, that queen who had made

him a king? To have been so long the man of ideas in his own country,

the man of success, the man who revolutionised navigation; and then to

have to give up all, to abdicate! To cease to exist, to become a

bye-word, an empty bag which once was full. To belong to the past, after

having so long represented the future. To come down to be an object of

pity to fools, to witness the triumph of routine, obstinacy,

conservatism, selfishness, ignorance. To see the old barbarous sailing

cutters crawling to and fro upon the sea: the outworn old-world

prejudices young again; to have wasted a whole life; to have been a

light, and to suffer this eclipse. Ah! what a sight it was upon the

waves, that noble funnel, that prodigious cylinder, that pillar with its

capital of smoke, that column grander than any in the Place Vendôme, for

on that there was only a man, while on this stood Progress. The ocean

was subdued; it was certainty upon the open sea. And had all this been

witnessed in that little island, in that little harbour, in that little

town of St. Sampson? Yes; it had been witnessed. And could it be that,

having seen it, all had vanished to be seen no more.

All this series of regrets tortured Lethierry. There is such a thing as

a mental sobbing. Never, perhaps, had he felt his misfortune more

bitterly. A certain numbness follows this acute suffering. Under the

weight of his sorrow he gradually dosed.

For about two hours he remained in this state, feverish, sleeping a

little, meditating much. Such torpors are accompanied by an obscure

labour of the brain, which is inexpressibly wearying. Towards the middle

of the night, about midnight, a little before or a little after, he

shook off his lethargy. He aroused, and opened his eyes. His window was

directly in front of his hammock. He saw something extraordinary.

A form was before the window; a marvellous form. It was the funnel of a

steam-vessel.

Mess Lethierry started, and sat upright in his bed. The hammock

oscillated like a swing in a tempest. Lethierry stared. A vision filled

the window-frame. There was the harbour flooded with the light of the

moon, and against that glitter, quite close to his house, stood forth,

tall, round, and black, a magnificent object.

The funnel of a steam-vessel was there.

Lethierry sprang out of his hammock, ran to the window, lifted the sash,

leaned out, and recognised it.

The funnel of the Durande stood before him.

It was in the old place.

Its four chains supported it, made fast to the bulwarks of a vessel in

which, beneath the funnel, he could distinguish a dark mass of irregular

outline.

Lethierry recoiled, turned his back to the window, and dropped in a

sitting posture into his hammock again.

Then he returned, and once more he saw the vision.

An instant afterwards, or in about the time occupied by a flash of

lightning, he was out upon the quay, with a lantern in his hand.

A bark carrying a little backward a massive block from which issued the

straight funnel before the window of the Bravées, was made fast to the

mooring-ring of the Durande. The bows of the bark stretched beyond the

corner of the wall of the house, and were level with the quay.

There was no one aboard.

The vessel was of a peculiar shape. All Guernsey would have recognised

it. It was the old Dutch sloop.

Lethierry jumped aboard; and ran forward to the block which he saw

beyond the mast.

It was there, entire, complete, intact, standing square and firm upon

its cast-iron flooring; the boiler had all its rivets, the axle of the

paddle-wheels was raised erect, and made fast near the boiler; the

brine-pump was in its place; nothing was wanting.

Lethierry examined the machinery.

The lantern and the moon helped him in his examination. He went over

every part of the mechanism.

He noticed the two cases at the sides. He examined the axle of the

wheels.

He went into the little cabin; it was empty.

He returned to the engine, and felt it, looked into the boiler, and

knelt down to examine it inside.

He placed his lantern within the furnace, where the light, illuminating

all the machinery, produced almost the illusion of an engine-room with

its fire.

Then he burst into a wild laugh, sprang to his feet, and with his eye

fixed on the engine, and his arms outstretched towards the funnel, he

cried aloud, "Help."

The harbour bell was upon the quay, at a few paces distance. He ran to

it, seized the chain, and began to pull it violently.

II

THE HARBOUR BELL AGAIN

Gilliatt, in fact, after a passage without accident, but somewhat slow

on account of the heavy burden of the sloop, had arrived at St. Sampson

after dark, and nearer ten than nine o'clock.

He had calculated the time. The half-flood had arrived. There was plenty

of water, and the moon was shining; so that he was able to enter the

port.

The little harbour was silent. A few vessels were moored there, with

their sails brailed up to the yards, their tops over, and without

lanterns. At the far end a few others were visible, high and dry in the

careenage, where they were undergoing repairs; large hulls dismasted and

stripped, with their planking open at various parts, lifting high the

ends of their timbers, and looking like huge dead beetles lying on their

backs with their legs in the air.

As soon as he had cleared the harbour mouth, Gilliatt examined the port

and the quay. There was no light to be seen either at the Bravées or

elsewhere. The place was deserted, save, perhaps, by some one going to

or returning from the parsonage-house; nor was it possible to be sure

even of this; for the night blurred every outline, and the moonlight

always gives to objects a vague appearance. The distance added to the

indistinctness. The parsonage-house at that period was situated on the

other side of the harbour, where there stands at the present day an open

mast-house.

Gilliatt had approached the Bravées quietly, and had made the sloop fast

to the ring of the Durande, under Mess Lethierry's window.

He leaped over the bulwarks, and was ashore.

Leaving the sloop behind him by the quay, he turned the angle of the

house, passed along a little narrow street, then along another, did not

even notice the pathway which branched off leading to the Bû de la Rue,

and in a few minutes found himself at that corner of the wall where

there were wild mallows with pink flowers in June, with holly, ivy, and

nettles. Many a time concealed behind the bushes, seated on a stone, in

the summer days, he had watched here through long hours, even for whole

months, often tempted to climb the wall, over which he contemplated the

garden of the Bravées and the two windows of a little room seen through

the branches of the trees. The stone was there still; the bushes, the

low wall, the angle, as quiet and dark as ever. Like an animal returning

to its hole, gliding rather than walking, he made his way in. Once

seated there, he made no movement. He looked around; saw again the

garden, the pathways, the beds of flowers, the house, the two windows of

the chamber. The moonlight fell upon this dream. He felt it horrible to

be compelled to breathe, and did what he could to prevent it.

He seemed to be gazing on a vision of paradise, and was afraid that all

would vanish. It was almost impossible that all these things could be

really before his eyes; and if they were, it could only be with that

imminent danger of melting into air which belongs to things divine. A

breath, and all must be dissipated. He trembled with the thought.

Before him, not far off, at the side of one of the alleys in the garden,

was a wooden seat painted green. The reader will remember this seat.

Gilliatt looked up at the two windows. He thought of the slumber of some

one possibly in that room. Behind that wall she was no doubt sleeping.

He wished himself elsewhere, yet would sooner have died than go away.

He thought of a gentle breathing moving a woman's breast. It was she,

that vision, that purity in the clouds, that form haunting him by day

and night. She was there! He thought of her so far removed, and yet so

near as to be almost within reach of his delight; he thought of that

impossible ideal drooping in slumber, and like himself, too, visited by

visions; of that being so long desired, so distant, so impalpable--her

closed eyelids, her face resting on her hand; of the mystery of sleep in

its relations with that pure spirit, of what dreams might come to one

who was herself a dream. He dared not think beyond, and yet he did. He

ventured on those familiarities which the fancy may indulge in; the

notion of how much was feminine in that angelic being disturbed his

thoughts. The darkness of night emboldens timid imaginations to take

these furtive glances. He was vexed within himself, feeling on

reflection as if it were profanity to think of her so boldly; yet still

constrained, in spite of himself, he tremblingly gazed into the

invisible. He shuddered almost with a sense of pain as he imagined her

room, a petticoat on a chair, a mantle fallen on the carpet, a band

unbuckled, a handkerchief. He imagined her corset with its lace hanging

to the ground, her stockings, her boots. His soul was among the stars.

The stars are made for the human heart of a poor man like Gilliatt not

less than for that of the rich and great. There is a certain degree of

passion by which every man becomes wrapped in a celestial light. With a

rough and primitive nature, this truth is even more applicable. An

uncultivated mind is easily touched with dreams.

Delight is a fulness which overflows like any other. To see those

windows was almost too much happiness for Gilliatt.

Suddenly, he looked and saw her.

From the branches of a clump of bushes, already thickened by the spring,

there issued with a spectral slowness a celestial figure, a dress, a

divine face, almost a shining light beneath the moon.

Gilliatt felt his powers failing him: it was Déruchette.

Déruchette approached. She stopped. She walked back a few paces, stopped

again, then returned and sat upon the wooden bench. The moon was in the

trees, a few clouds floated among the pale stars; the sea murmured to

the shadows in an undertone, the town was sleeping, a thin haze was

rising from the horizon, the melancholy was profound. Déruchette

inclined her head, with those thoughtful eyes which look attentive yet

see nothing. She was seated sideways, and had nothing on her head but a

little cap untied, which showed upon her delicate neck the commencement

of her hair. She twirled mechanically a ribbon of her cap around one of

her fingers; the half light showed the outline of her hands like those

of a statue; her dress was of one of those shades which by night looked

white: the trees stirred as if they felt the enchantment which she shed

around her. The tip of one of her feet was visible. Her lowered eyelids

had that vague contraction which suggests a tear checked in its course,

or a thought suppressed. There was a charming indecision in the

movements of her arms, which had no support to lean on; a sort of

floating mingled with every posture. It was rather a gleam than a

light--rather a grace than a goddess; the folds of her dress were

exquisite; her face which might inspire adoration, seemed meditative,

like portraits of the Virgin. It was terrible to think how near she was:

Gilliatt could hear her breathe.

A nightingale was singing in the distance. The stirring of the wind

among the branches set in movement, the inexpressible silence of the

night. Déruchette, beautiful, divine, appeared in the twilight like a

creation from those rays and from the perfumes in the air. That

widespread enchantment seemed to concentre and embody itself

mysteriously in her; she became its living manifestation. She seemed the

outblossoming of all that shadow and silence.

But the shadow and silence which floated lightly about her weighed

heavily on Gilliatt. He was bewildered; what he experienced is not to be

told in words. Emotion is always new, and the word is always enough.

Hence the impossibility of expressing it. Joy is sometimes overwhelming.

To see Déruchette, to see herself, to see her dress, her cap, her

ribbon, which she twined around her finger, was it possible to imagine

it? Was it possible to be thus near her; to hear her breathe? She

breathed! then the stars might breathe also. Gilliatt felt a thrill

through him. He was the most miserable and yet the happiest of men. He

knew not what to do. His delirious joy at seeing her annihilated him.

Was it indeed Déruchette there, and he so near? His thoughts, bewildered

and yet fixed, were fascinated by that figure as by a dazzling jewel. He

gazed upon her neck--her hair. He did not even say to himself that all

that would now belong to him, that before long--to-morrow, perhaps--he

would have the right to take off that cap, to unknot that ribbon. He

would not have conceived for a moment the audacity of thinking even so

far. Touching in idea is almost like touching with the hand. Love was

with Gilliatt like honey to the bear. He thought confusedly; he knew not

what possessed him. The nightingale still sang. He felt as if about to

breathe his life out.

The idea of rising, of jumping over the wall, of speaking to Déruchette,

never came into his mind. If it had he would have turned and fled. If

anything resembling a thought had begun to dawn in his mind, it was

this: that Déruchette was there, that he wanted nothing more, and that

eternity had begun.

A noise aroused them both--her from her reverie--him from his ecstasy.

Some one was walking in the garden. It was not possible to see who was

approaching on account of the trees. It was the footstep of a man.

Déruchette raised her eyes.

The steps drew nearer, then ceased. The person walking had stopped. He

must have been quite near. The path beside which was the bench wound

between two clumps of trees. The stranger was there in the alley between

the trees, at a few paces from the seat.

Accident had so placed the branches, that Déruchette could see the

newcomer while Gilliatt could not.

The moon cast on the ground beyond the trees a shadow which reached to

the garden seat.

Gilliatt could see this shadow.

He looked at Déruchette.

She was quite pale; her mouth was partly open, as with a suppressed cry

of surprise. She had just half risen from the bench, and sunk again upon

it. There was in her attitude a mixture of fascination with a desire to

fly. Her surprise was enchantment mingled with timidity. She had upon

her lips almost the light of a smile, with the fulness of tears in her

eyes. She seemed as if transfigured by that presence; as if the being

whom she saw before her belonged not to this earth. The reflection of an

angel was in her look.

The stranger, who was to Gilliatt only a shadow, spoke. A voice issued

from the trees, softer than the voice of a woman; yet it was the voice

of a man. Gilliatt heard these words:

"I see you, mademoiselle, every Sunday and every Thursday. They tell me

that once you used not to come so often. It is a remark that has been

made. I ask your pardon. I have never spoken to you; it was my duty; but

I come to speak to you to-day, for it is still my duty. It is right

that I speak to you first. The _Cashmere_ sails to-morrow. This is why I

have come. You walk every evening in your garden. It would be wrong of

me to know your habits so well, if I had not the thought that I have.

Mademoiselle, you are poor; since this morning I am rich. Will you have

me for your husband?"

Déruchette joined her two hands in a suppliant attitude, and looked at

the speaker, silent, with fixed eyes, and trembling from head to foot.

The voice continued:

"I love you. God made not the heart of man to be silent. He has promised

him eternity with the intention that he should not be alone. There is

for me but one woman upon earth. It is you. I think of you as of a

prayer. My faith is in God, and my hope in you. What wings I have you

bear. You are my life, and already my supreme happiness."

"Sir," said Déruchette, "there is no one to answer in the house!"

The voice rose again:

"Yes, I have encouraged that dream. Heaven has not forbidden us to

dream. You are like a glory in my eyes. I love you deeply, mademoiselle.

To me you are holy innocence. I know it is the hour at which your

household have retired to rest, but I had no choice of any other moment.

Do you remember that passage of the Bible which some one read before us;

it was the twenty-fifth chapter of Genesis. I have thought of it often

since. M. Hérode said to me, you must have a rich wife. I replied no, I

must have a poor wife. I speak to you, mademoiselle, without venturing

to approach you; I would step even further back if it was your wish that

my shadow should not touch your feet. You alone are supreme. You will

come to me if such is your will. I love and wait. You are the living

form of a benediction."

"I did not know, sir," stammered Déruchette, "that any one remarked me

on Sundays and Thursdays."

The voice continued:

"We are powerless against celestial things. The whole Law is love.

Marriage is Canaan; you are to me the promised land of beauty."

Déruchette replied, "I did not think I did wrong any more than other

persons who are strict."

The voice continued:

"God manifests his will in the flowers, in the light of dawn, in the

spring; and love is of his ordaining. You are beautiful in this holy

shadow of night. This garden has been tended by you; in its perfumes

there is something of your breath. The affinities of our souls do not

depend on us. They cannot be counted with our sins. You were there, that

was all. I was there, that was all. I did nothing but feel that I loved

you. Sometimes my eyes rested upon you. I was wrong, but what could I

do. It was through looking at you that all happened. I could not

restrain my gaze. There are mysterious impulses which are above our

search. The heart is the chief of all temples. To have your spirit in my

house--this is the terrestrial paradise for which I hope. Say, will you

be mine. As long as I was poor, I spoke not. I know your age. You are

twenty-one; I am twenty-six. I go to-morrow; if you refuse me I return

no more. Oh, be my betrothed; will you not? More than once have my eyes,

in spite of myself, addressed to you that question. I love you; answer

me. I will speak to your uncle as soon as he is able to receive me; but

I turn first to you. To Rebecca I plead for Rebecca; unless you love me

not."

Déruchette hung her head, and murmured:

"Oh! I worship him."

The words were spoken in a voice so low, that only Gilliatt heard them.

She remained with her head lowered as if by shading her face she hoped

to conceal her thoughts.

There was a pause. No leaf among the trees was stirred. It was that

solemn and peaceful moment when the slumber of external things mingles

with the sleep of living creatures; and night seems to listen to the

beating of Nature's heart. In the midst of that retirement, like a

harmony making the silence more complete, rose the wide murmur of the

sea.

The voice was heard again.

"Mademoiselle!"

Déruchette started.

Again the voice spoke.

"You are silent."

"What would you have me say?"

"I wait for your reply."

"God has heard it," said Déruchette.

Then the voice became almost sonorous, and at the same time softer than

before, and these words issued from the leaves as from a burning bush:

"You are my betrothed. Come then to me. Let the blue sky, with all its

stars, be witness of this taking of my soul to thine; and let our first

embrace be mingled with that firmament."

Déruchette arose, and remained an instant motionless, looking straight

before her, doubtless in another's eyes. Then, with slow steps, with

head erect, her arms drooping, but with the fingers of her hands wide

apart, like one who leans on some unseen support, she advanced towards

the trees, and was out of sight.

A moment afterwards, instead of the one shadow upon the gravelled walk,

there were two. They mingled together. Gilliatt saw at his feet the

embrace of those two shadows.

In certain moments of crisis, time flows from us as his sands from the

hour-glass, and we have no feeling of his flight. That pair on the one

hand, who were ignorant of the presence of a witness, and saw him not;

on the other, that witness of their joy who could not see them, but who

knew of their presence--how many minutes did they remain thus in that

mysterious suspension of themselves? It would be impossible to say.

Suddenly a noise burst forth at a distance. A voice was heard crying

"Help!" and the harbour bell began to sound. It is probable that in

those celestial transports of delight they heard no echo of that tumult.

The bell continued to ring. Any one who had sought Gilliatt then in the

angle of the wall would have found him no longer there.

BOOK II

GRATITUDE AND DESPOTISM

I

JOY SURROUNDED BY TORTURES

Mess Lethierry pulled the bell furiously, then stopped abruptly. A man

had just turned the corner of the quay. It was Gilliatt.

Lethierry ran towards him, or rather flung himself upon him; seized his

hand between his own, and looked him in the face for a moment, silent.

It was the silence of an explosion struggling to find an issue.

Then pulling and shaking him with violence, and squeezing him in his

arms, he compelled him to enter the lower room of the Bravées, pushed

back with his heel the door which had remained half opened, sat down, or

sank into a chair beside a great table lighted by the moon, the

reflection of which gave a vague pallor to Gilliatt's face, and with a

voice of intermingled laughter and tears, cried:

"Ah! my son; my player of the bagpipe! I knew well that it was you. The

sloop, _parbleu_! Tell me the story. You went there, then. Why, they

would have burnt you a hundred years ago! It is magic! There isn't a

screw missing. I have looked at everything already, recognised

everything, handled everything. I guessed that the paddles were in the

two cases. And here you are once more! I have been looking for you in

the little cabin. I rang the bell. I was seeking for you. I said to

myself, 'Where is he, that I may devour him?' You must admit that

wonderful things do come to pass. He has brought back life to me.

_Tonnerre!_ you are an angel! Yes, yes; it is my engine. Nobody will

believe it; people will see it, and say, 'It can't be true.' Not a tap,

not a pin missing. The feed-pipe has never budged an inch. It is

incredible that there should have been no more damage. We have only to

put a little oil. But how did you accomplish it? To think that the

Durande will be moving again. The axle of the wheels must have been

taken to pieces by some watchmaker. Give me your word that I am not

crazy."

He sprang to his feet, breathed a moment, and continued:

"Assure me of that. What a revolution! I pinched myself to be certain I

was not dreaming. You are my child, you are my son, you are my

Providence. Brave lad! To go and fetch my good old engine. In the open

sea, among those cut-throat rocks. I have seen some strange things in my

life; nothing like that. I have known Parisians, who were veritable

demons, but I'll defy them to have done that. It beats the Bastille. I

have seen the _gauchos_ labouring in the _Pampas_, with a crooked branch

of a tree for a plough and a bundle of thorn-bushes for a harrow,

dragged by a leathern strap; they get harvests of wheat that way, with

grains as big as hedgenuts. But that is a trifle compared with your

feats. You have performed a miracle--a real one. Ah! _gredin!_ let me

hug you. How they will gossip in St. Sampson. I shall set to work at

once to build the boat. It is astonishing that the crank is all right.

Gentlemen, he has been to the Douvres; I say to the Douvres. He went

alone. The Douvres! I defy you to find a worse spot. Do you know, have

they told you, that it's proved that Clubin sent the Durande to the

bottom to swindle me out of money which he had to bring me? He made

Tangrouille drunk. It's a long story. I'll tell you another day of his

piratical tricks. I, stupid idiot, had confidence in Clubin. But he

trapped himself, the villain, for he couldn't have got away. There is a

God above, scoundrel! Do you see, Gilliatt, bang! bang! the irons in the

fire; we'll begin at once to rebuild the Durande. We'll have her twenty

feet longer. They build them longer now than they did. I'll buy the wood

from Dantzic and Brême. Now I have got the machinery they will give me

credit again. They'll have confidence now."

Mess Lethierry stopped, lifted his eyes with that look which sees the

heavens through the roof, and muttered, "Yes, there is a power on high!"

Then he placed the middle finger of his right hand between his two

eyebrows, and tapped with his nail there, an action which indicates a

project passing through the mind, and he continued:

"Nevertheless, to begin again, on a grand scale, a little ready money

would have been useful. Ah! if I only had my three bank-notes, the

seventy-five thousand francs that that robber Rantaine returned, and

that vagabond Clubin stole."

Gilliatt silently felt in his pocket, and drew out something which he

placed before him. It was the leathern belt that he had brought back. He

opened, and spread it out upon the table; in the inside the word

"Clubin" could be deciphered in the light of the moon. He then took out

of the pocket of the belt a box, and out of the box three pieces of

paper, which he unfolded and offered to Lethierry.

Lethierry examined them. It was light enough to read the figures "1000,"

and the word "thousand" was also perfectly visible. Mess Lethierry took

the three notes, placed them on the table one beside the other, looked

at them, looked at Gilliatt, stood for a moment dumb; and then began

again, like an eruption after an explosion:

"These too! You are a marvel. My bank-notes! all three. A thousand

pounds each. My seventy-five thousand francs. Why, you must have gone

down to the infernal regions. It is Clubin's belt. Pardieu! I can read

his vile name. Gilliatt has brought back engine and money too. There

will be something to put in the papers. I will buy some timber of the

finest quality. I guess how it was; you found his carcase; Clubin

mouldering away in some corner. We'll have some Dantzic pine and Brême

oak; we'll have a first-rate planking--oak within and pine without. In

old times they didn't build so well, but their work lasted longer; the

wood was better seasoned, because they did not build so much. We'll

build the hull perhaps of elm. Elm is good for the parts in the water.

To be dry sometimes, and sometimes wet, rots the timbers; the elm

requires to be always wet; it's a wood that feeds upon water. What a

splendid Durande we'll build. The lawyers will not trouble me again. I

shall want no more credit. I have some money of my own. Did ever any one

see a man like Gilliatt. I was struck down to the ground, I was a dead

man. He comes and sets me up again as firm as ever. And all the while I

was never thinking about him. He had gone clean out of my mind; but I

recollect everything now. Poor lad! Ah! by the way, you know you are to

marry Déruchette."

Gilliatt leaned with his back against the wall, like one who staggers,

and said in a tone very low, but distinct:

"No."

Mess Lethierry started.

"How, no!"

Gilliatt replied:

"I do not love her."

Mess Lethierry went to the window, opened and reclosed it, took the

three bank-notes, folded them, placed the iron box on top, scratched his

head, seized Clubin's belt, flung it violently against the wall, and

exclaimed:

"You must be mad."

He thrust his fists into his pockets, and exclaimed:

"You don't love Déruchette? What! was it at me, then, that you used to

play the bagpipe?"

Gilliatt, still supporting himself by the wall, turned pale, as a man

near his end. As he became pale, Lethierry became redder.

"There's an idiot for you! He doesn't love Déruchette. Very good; make

up your mind to love her, for she shall never marry any but you. A

devilish pretty story that; and you think that I believe you. If there

is anything really the matter with you, send for a doctor; but don't

talk nonsense. You can't have had time to quarrel, or get out of temper

with her. It is true that lovers are great fools sometimes. Come now,

what are your reasons? If you have any, say. People don't make geese of

themselves without reasons. But, I have wool in my ears; perhaps I

didn't understand. Repeat to me what you said."

Gilliatt replied:

"I said, No!"

"You said, No. He holds to it, the lunatic! You must be crazy. You said,

No. Here's a stupidity beyond anything ever heard of. Why, people have

had their heads shaved for much less than that. What! you don't like

Déruchette? Oh, then, it was out of affection for the old man that you

did all these things? It was for the sake of papa that you went to the

Douvres, that you endured cold and heat, and was half dead with hunger

and thirst, and ate the limpets off the rocks, and had the fog, the

rain, and the wind for your bedroom, and brought me back my machine,

just as you might bring a pretty woman her little canary that had

escaped from its cage. And the tempest that we had three days ago. Do

you think I don't bear it in mind? You must have had a time of it! It

was in the midst of all this misery, alongside of my old craft, that you

shaped, and cut, and turned, and twisted, and dragged about, and filed,

and sawed, and carpentered, and schemed, and performed more miracles

there by yourself than all the saints in paradise. Ah! you annoyed me

enough once with your bagpipe. They call it a _biniou_ in Brittany.

Always the same tune too, silly fellow. And yet you don't love

Déruchette? I don't know what is the matter with you. I recollect it

all now. I was there in the corner; Déruchette said, 'He shall be my

husband;' and so you shall. You don't love her! Either you must be mad,

or else I am mad. And you stand there, and speak not a word. I tell you

you are not at liberty to do all the things you have done, and then say,

after all, 'I don't love Déruchette.' People don't do others services in

order to put them in a passion. Well; if you don't marry her, she shall

be single all her life. In the first place, I shall want you. You must

be the pilot of the Durande. Do you imagine I mean to part with you like

that? No, no, my brave boy; I don't let you go. I have got you now; I'll

not even listen to you. Where will they find a sailor like you? You are

the man I want. But why don't you speak?"

Meanwhile the harbour bell had aroused the household and the

neighbourhood. Douce and Grace had risen, and had just entered the lower

room, silent and astonished. Grace had a candle in her hand. A group of

neighbours, townspeople, sailors, and peasants, who had rushed out of

their houses, were outside on the quay, gazing in wonderment at the

funnel of the Durande in the sloop. Some, hearing Lethierry's voice in

the lower room, began to glide in by the half-opened door. Between the

faces of two worthy old women appeared that of Sieur Landoys, who had

the good fortune always to find himself where he would have regretted to

have been absent.

Men feel a satisfaction in having witnesses of their joys. The sort of

scattered support which a crowd presents pleases them at such times;

their delight draws new life from it. Mess Lethierry suddenly perceived

that there were persons about him; and he welcomed the audience at once.

"Ah! you are here, my friends? I am very glad to see you. You know the

news? That man has been there, and brought it back. How d'ye do, Sieur

Landoys? When I woke up just now, the first thing I spied was the

funnel. It was under my window. There's not a nail missing. They make

pictures of Napoleon's deeds; but I think more of that than of the

battle of Austerlitz. You have just left your beds, my good friends. The

Durande has found you sleeping. While you are putting on your night-caps

and blowing out your candles there are others working like heroes. We

are a set of cowards and do-nothings; we sit at home rubbing our

rheumatisms; but happily that does not prevent there being some of

another stamp. The man of the Bû de la Rue has arrived from the Douvres

rocks. He has fished up the Durande from the bottom of the sea; and

fished up my money out of Clubin's pocket, from a greater depth still.

But how did you contrive to do it? All the powers of darkness were

against you--the wind and the sea--the sea and the wind. It's true

enough that you are a magician. Those who say that are not so stupid

after all. The Durande is back again. The tempests may rage now; that

cuts the ground from under them. My friends, I can inform you that there

was no shipwreck after all. I have examined all the machinery. It is

like new, perfect. The valves go as easily as rollers. You would think

them made yesterday. You know that the waste water is carried away by a

tube inside another tube, through which come the waters from the

boilers; this was to economise the heat. Well; the two tubes are there

as good as ever. The complete engine, in fact. She is all there, her

wheels and all. Ah! you shall marry her."

"Marry the complete engine?" asked Sieur Landoys.

"No; Déruchette; yes; the engine. Both of them. He shall be my double

son-in-law. He shall be her captain. Good day, Captain Gilliatt; for

there will soon be a captain of the Durande. We are going to do a world

of business again. There will be trade, circulation, cargoes of oxen and

sheep. I wouldn't give St. Sampson for London now. And there stands the

author of all this. It was a curious adventure, I can tell you. You will

read about it on Saturday in old Mauger's _Gazette_. Malicious Gilliatt

is very malicious. What's the meaning of these Louis-d'ors here?"

Mess Lethierry had just observed, through the opening of the lid, that

there was some gold in the box upon the notes. He seized it, opened and

emptied it into the palm of his hand, and put the handful of guineas on

the table.

"For the poor, Sieur Landoys. Give those sovereigns from me to the

constable of St. Sampson. You recollect Rantaine's letter. I showed it

to you. Very well; I've got the bank-notes. Now we can buy some oak and

fir, and go to work at carpentering. Look you! Do you remember the

weather of three days ago? What a hurricane of wind and rain! Gilliatt

endured all that upon the Douvres. That didn't prevent his taking the

wreck to pieces, as I might take my watch. Thanks to him, I am on my

legs again. Old 'Lethierry's galley' is going to run again, ladies and

gentlemen. A nut-shell with a couple of wheels and a funnel. I always

had that idea. I used to say to myself, one day I will do it. That was a

good long time back. It was an idea that came in my head at Paris, at

the coffee-house at the corner of the Rue Christine and the Rue

Dauphine, when I was reading a paper which had an account of it. Do you

know that Gilliatt would think nothing of putting the machine at Marly

in his pocket, and walking about with it? He is wrought-iron, that man;

tempered steel, a mariner of invaluable qualities, an excellent smith,

an extraordinary fellow, more astonishing than the Prince of Hohenlohe.

That is what I call a man with brains. We are children by the side of

him. Sea-wolves we may think ourselves; but the sea-lion is there.

Hurrah for Gilliatt! I do not know how he has done it; but certainly he

must have been the devil. And how can I do other than give him

Déruchette."

For some minutes Déruchette had been in the room. She had not spoken or

moved since she entered. She had glided in like a shadow, had sat down

almost unperceived behind Mess Lethierry, who stood before her,

loquacious, stormy, joyful, abounding in gestures, and talking in a loud

voice. A little while after her another silent apparition had appeared.

A man attired in black, with a white cravat, holding his hat in his

hand, stood in the doorway. There were now several candles among the

group, which had gradually increased in number. These lights were near

the man attired in black. His profile and youthful and pleasing

complexion showed itself against the dark background with the clearness

of an engraving on a medal. He leaned with his shoulder against the

framework of the door, and held his left hand to his forehead, an

attitude of unconscious grace, which contrasted the breadth of his

forehead with the smallness of his hand. There was an expression of

anguish in his contracted lips, as he looked on and listened with

profound attention. The standers-by having recognised M. Caudray, the

rector of the parish, had fallen back to allow him to pass; but he

remained upon the threshold. There was hesitation in his posture, but

decision in his looks, which now and then met those of Déruchette. With

regard to Gilliatt, whether by chance or design, he was in shadow, and

was only perceived indistinctly.

At first Mess Lethierry did not observe Caudray, but he saw Déruchette.

He went to her and kissed her fervently upon the forehead; stretching

forth his hand at the same time towards the dark corner where Gilliatt

was standing.

"Déruchette," he said, "we are rich again; and there is your future

husband."

Déruchette raised her head, and looked into the dusky corner bewildered.

Mess Lethierry continued:

"The marriage shall take place immediately, if it can; they shall have a

licence; the formalities here are not very troublesome; the dean can do

what he pleases; people are married before they have time to turn round.

It is not as in France, where you must have bans, and publications, and

delays, and all that fuss. You will be able to boast of being the wife

of a brave man. No one can say he is not. I thought so from the day when

I saw him come back from Herm with the little cannon. But now he comes

back from the Douvres with his fortune and mine, and the fortune of this

country. A man of whom the world will talk a great deal more one day.

You said once, 'I will marry him;' and you shall marry him, and you

shall have little children, and I will be grandpapa; and you will have

the good fortune to be the wife of a noble fellow, who can work, who can

be useful to his fellow-men; a surprising fellow, worth a hundred

others; a man who can rescue other people's inventions, a providence! At

all events, you will not have married, like so many other silly girls

about here, a soldier or a priest, that is, a man who kills or a man who

lies. But what are you doing there, Gilliatt? Nobody can see you. Douce,

Grace, everybody there! Bring a light, I say. Light up my son-in-law for

me. I betroth you to each other, my children: here stands your husband,

here my son, Gilliatt of the Bû de la Rue, that noble fellow, that great

seaman; I will have no other son-in-law, and you no other husband. I

pledge my word to that once more in God's name. Ah! you are there,

Monsieur the Curé. You will marry these young people for us."

Lethierry's eye had just fallen upon Caudray.

Douce and Grace had done as they were directed. Two candles placed upon

the table cast a light upon Gilliatt from head to foot.

"There's a fine fellow," said Mess Lethierry.

Gilliatt's appearance was hideous.

He was in the condition in which he had that morning set sail from the

rocks; in rags, his bare elbows showing through his sleeves; his beard

long, his hair rough and wild; his eyes bloodshot, his skin peeling, his

hands covered with wounds; his feet naked. Some of the blisters left by

the devil-fish were still visible upon his arms.

Lethierry gazed at him.

"This is my son-in-law," he said. "How he has struggled with the sea. He

is all in rags. What shoulders; what hands. There's a splendid fellow!"

Grace ran to Déruchette and supported her head. She had fainted.

II

THE LEATHERN TRUNK

At break of day St. Sampson was on foot, and all the people of St.

Peter's Port began to flock there. The resurrection of the Durande

caused a commotion in the island not unlike what was caused by the

_Salette_ in the south of France. There was a crowd on the quay staring

at the funnel standing erect in the sloop. They were anxious to see and

handle the machinery; but Lethierry, after making a new and triumphant

survey of the whole by daylight, had placed two sailors aboard with

instructions to prevent any one approaching it. The funnel, however,

furnished food enough for contemplation. The crowd gaped with

astonishment. They talked of nothing but Gilliatt. They remarked on his

surname of "malicious Gilliatt;" and their admiration wound up with the

remark, "It is not pleasant to have people in the island who can do

things like that."

Mess Lethierry was seen from outside the house, seated at a table before

the window, writing, with one eye on the paper and another on the sloop.

He was so completely absorbed that he had only once stopped to call

Douce and ask after Déruchette. Douce replied, "Mademoiselle has risen

and is gone out." Mess Lethierry replied, "She is right to take the air.

She was a little unwell last night, owing to the heat. There was a crowd

in the room. This and her surprise and joy, and the windows being all

closed, overcame her. She will have a husband to be proud of." And he

had gone on with his writing. He had already finished and sealed two

letters, addressed to the most important shipbuilders at Brême. He now

finished the sealing of a third.

The noise of a wheel upon the quay induced him to look up. He leaned out

of the window, and observed coming from the path which led to the Bû de

la Rue a boy pushing a wheelbarrow. The boy was going towards St.

Peter's Port. In the barrow was a portmanteau of brown leather, studded

with nails of brass and white metal.

Mess Lethierry called to the boy:

"Where are you going, my lad?"

The boy stopped, and replied:

"To the _Cashmere_."

"What for?"

"To take this trunk aboard."

"Very good; you shall take these three letters too."

Mess Lethierry opened the drawer of his table, took a piece of string,

tied the three letters which he had just written across and across, and

threw the packet to the boy, who caught it between his hands.

"Tell the captain of the _Cashmere_ they are my letters, and to take

care of them. They are for Germany--Brême _viâ_ London."

"I can't speak to the captain, Mess Lethierry."

"Why not?"

"The _Cashmere_ is not at the quay."

"Ah!"

"She is in the roads."

"Ay, true; on account of the sea."

"I can only speak to the man who takes the things aboard."

"You will tell him, then, to look to the letters."

"Very well, Mess Lethierry."

"At what time does the _Cashmere_ sail?"

"At twelve."

"The tide will flow at noon; she will have it against her."

"But she will have the wind," answered the lad.

"Boy," said Mess Lethierry, pointing with his forefinger at the engine

in the sloop, "do you see that? There is something which laughs at winds

and tides."

The boy put the letters in his pocket, took up the handles of the barrow

again, and went on his way towards the town. Mess Lethierry called

"Douce! Grace!"

Grace opened the door a little way.

"What is it, Mess?"

"Come in and wait a moment."

Mess Lethierry took a sheet of paper, and began to write. If Grace,

standing behind him, had been curious, and had leaned forward while he

was writing, she might have read as follows:--

"I have written to Brême for the timber. I have appointments all the

morning with carpenters for the estimate. The rebuilding will go on

fast. You must go yourself to the Deanery for a licence. It is my wish

that the marriage should take place as soon as possible; immediately

would be better. I am busy about the Durande. Do you be busy about

Déruchette."

He dated it and signed "Lethierry." He did not take the trouble to seal

it, but merely folded it in four, and handed it to Grace, saying:

"Take that to Gilliatt."

"To the Bû de la Rue?"

"To the Bû de la Rue."

BOOK III

THE DEPARTURE OF THE _CASHMERE_

I

THE HAVELET NEAR THE CHURCH

When there is a crowd at St. Sampson, St. Peter's Port is soon deserted.

A point of curiosity at a given place is like an air-pump. News travel

fast in small places. Going to see the funnel of the Durande under Mess

Lethierry's window had been, since sunrise, the business of the Guernsey

folks. Every other event was eclipsed by this. The death of the Dean of

St. Asaph was forgotten, together with the question of the Rev. Mr.

Caudray, his sudden riches, and the departure of the _Cashmere_. The

machinery of the Durande brought back from the Douvres rocks was the

order of the day. People were incredulous. The shipwreck had appeared

extraordinary, the salvage seemed impossible. Everybody hastened to

assure himself of the truth by the help of his own eyes. Business of

every kind was suspended. Long strings of townsfolk with their families,

from the "Vesin" up to the "Mess," men and women, gentlemen, mothers

with children, infants with dolls, were coming by every road or pathway

to see "the thing to be seen" at the Bravées, turning their backs upon

St. Peter's Port. Many shops at St. Peter's Port were closed. In the

Commercial Arcade there was an absolute stagnation in buying and

selling. The Durande alone obtained attention. Not a single shopkeeper

had had a "handsell" that morning, except a jeweller, who was surprised

at having sold a wedding-ring to "a sort of man who appeared in a great

hurry, and who asked for the house of the Dean." The shops which

remained open were centres of gossip, where loiterers discussed the

miraculous salvage. There was not a foot-passenger at the "Hyvreuse,"

which is known in these days, nobody knows why, as Cambridge Park; no

one was in the High Street, then called the Grande Rue; nor in Smith

Street, known then only as the Rue des Forges; nobody in Hauteville. The

Esplanade itself was deserted. One might have guessed it to be Sunday. A

visit from a Royal personage to review the militia at the Ancresse

could not have emptied the town more completely. All this hubbub about

"a nobody" like Gilliatt, caused a good deal of shrugging of the

shoulders among persons of grave and correct habits.

The church of St. Peter's Port, with its three gable-ends placed side by

side, its transept and its steeple, stands at the water's side at the

end of the harbour, and nearly on the landing place itself, where it

welcomes those who arrive, and gives the departing "God speed." It

represents the capital letter at the beginning of that long line which

forms the front of the town towards the sea.

It is both the parish church of St. Peter's Port and the chief place of

the Deanery of the whole island. Its officiating minister is the

surrogate of the bishop, a clergyman in full orders.

The harbour of St. Peter's Port, a very fine and large port at the

present day, was at that epoch, and even up to ten years ago, less

considerable than the harbour of St. Sampson. It was enclosed by two

enormous thick walls, beginning at the water's edge on both sides, and

curving till they almost joined again at the extremities, where there

stood a little white lighthouse. Under this lighthouse, a narrow gullet,

bearing still the two rings of the chain with which it was the custom to

bar the passage in ancient times, formed the entrance for vessels. The

harbour of St. Peter's Port might be well compared with the claws of a

huge lobster opened a little way. This kind of pincers took from the

ocean a portion of the sea, which it compelled to remain calm. But

during the easterly winds the waves rolled heavily against the narrow

entrance, the port was agitated, and it was better not to enter. This is

what had happened with the _Cashmere_ that day, which had accordingly

anchored in the roads.

The vessels, during the easterly winds, preferred this course, which

besides saved them the port dues. On these occasions the boatmen of the

town, a hardy race of mariners whom the new port has thrown out of

employment, came in their boats to fetch passengers at the landing-place

or at stations on the shore, and carried them with their luggage, often

in heavy seas, but always without accident, to the vessels about to

sail. The east wind blows off the shore, and is very favourable for the

passage to England; the vessel at such times rolls, but does not pitch.

When a vessel happened to be in the port, everybody embarked from the

quay. When it was in the roads they took their choice, and embarked from

any point of the coast near the moorings. The "Havelet" was one of

these creeks. This little harbour (which is the signification of the

word) was near the town, but was so solitary that it seemed far off.

This solitude was owing to the shelter of the high cliffs of Fort St.

George, which overlooked this retired inlet. The Havelet was accessible

by several paths. The most direct was along the water's side. It had the

advantage of leading to the town and to the church in five minutes'

walk, and the disadvantage of being covered by the sea twice a day. The

other paths were more or less abrupt, and led down to the creek through

gaps in the steep rocks. Even in broad daylight, it was dusk in the

Havelet. Huge blocks overhanging it on all sides, and thick bushes and

brambles cast a sort of soft twilight upon the rocks and waves below.

Nothing could be more peaceful than this spot in calm weather; nothing

more tumultuous during heavy seas. There were ends of branches there

which were always wet with the foam. In the spring time, the place was

full of flowers, of nests, of perfumes, of birds, of butterflies, and

bees. Thanks to recent improvements, this wild nook no longer exists.

Fine, straight lines have taken the place of these wild features;

masonry, quays, and little gardens, have made their appearance;

earthwork has been the rage, and taste has finally subdued the

eccentricities of the cliff, and the irregularities of the rocks below.

II

DESPAIR CONFRONTS DESPAIR

It was a little before ten o'clock in the morning. The crowd at St.

Sampson, according to all appearance, was increasing. The multitude,

feverish with curiosity, was moving towards the north; and the Havelet,

which is in the south, was more deserted than ever.

Notwithstanding this, there was a boat there and a boatman. In the boat

was a travelling bag. The boatman seemed to be waiting for some one.

The _Cashmere_ was visible at anchor in roads, as she did not start till

midday; there was as yet no sign of moving aboard.

A passer-by, who had listened from one of the ladder-paths up the cliffs

overhead, would have heard a murmur of words in the Havelet, and if he

had leaned over the overhanging cliff might have seen, at some distance

from the boat, in a corner among the rocks and branches, where the eye

of the boatman could not reach them, a man and a woman. It was Caudray

and Déruchette.

These obscure nooks on the seashore, the chosen places of lady bathers,

are not always so solitary as is believed. Persons are sometimes

observed and heard there. Those who seek shelter and solitude in them

may easily be followed through the thick bushes, and, thanks to the

multiplicity and entanglement of the paths, the granite and the shrubs

which favour the stolen interview may also favour the witness.

Caudray and Déruchette stood face to face, looking into each other's

eyes, and holding each other by the hand. Déruchette was speaking.

Caudray was silent. A tear that had gathered upon his eyelash hung there

and did not fall.

Grief and strong passion were imprinted in his calm, religious

countenance. A painful resignation was there too--a resignation hostile

to faith, though springing from it. Upon that face, simply devout until

then, there was the commencement of a fatal expression. He who had

hitherto meditated only on doctrine, had begun to meditate on Fate, an

unhealthy meditation for a priest. Faith dissolves under its action.

Nothing disturbs the religious mind more than that bending under the

weight of the unknown. Life seems a perpetual succession of events, to

which man submits. We never know from which direction the sudden blow

will come. Misery and happiness enter or make their exit, like

unexpected guests. Their laws, their orbit, their principle of

gravitation, are beyond man's grasp. Virtue conducts not to happiness,

nor crime to retribution: conscience has one logic, fate another; and

neither coincide. Nothing is foreseen. We live confusedly, and from hand

to mouth. Conscience is the straight line, life is the whirlwind, which

creates above man's head either black chaos or the blue sky. Fate does

not practise the art of gradations. Her wheel turns sometimes so fast

that we can scarcely distinguish the interval between one revolution and

another, or the link between yesterday and to-day. Caudray was a

believer whose faith did not exclude reason, and whose priestly training

did not shut him out from passion. Those religious systems which impose

celibacy on the priesthood are not without reason for it. Nothing really

destroys the individuality of the priest more than love. All sorts of

clouds seemed to darken Caudray's soul. He looked too long into

Déruchette's eyes. These two beings worshipped each other.

There was in Caudray's eye the mute adoration of despair.

Déruchette spoke.

"You must not leave me. I shall not have strength. I thought I could bid

you farewell. I cannot. Why did you come yesterday? You should not have

come if you were going so soon. I never spoke to you. I loved you; but

knew it not. Only that day, when M. Hérode read to us the story of

Rebecca, and when your eyes met mine, my cheeks were like fire, and I

thought only of how Rebecca's face must have burnt like mine; and yet,

if any one had told me yesterday that I loved you, I might have laughed

at it. This is what is so terrible. It has been like a treason. I did

not take heed. I went to the church, I saw you, I thought everybody

there was like myself. I do not reproach you; you did nothing to make me

love you; you did nothing but look at me; it is not your fault if you

look at people; and yet that made me love you so much. I did not even

suspect it. When you took up the book it was a flood of light; when

others took it, it was but a book. You raised your eyes sometimes; you

spoke of archangels; oh! you were my archangel. What you said penetrated

my thoughts at once. Before then, I know not even whether I believed in

God. Since I have known you, I have learnt to pray. I used to say to

Douce, dress me quickly, lest I should be late at the service; and I

hastened to the church. Such it was with me to love some one. I did not

know the cause. I said to myself, how devout I am becoming. It is from

you that I have learnt that I do not go to church for God's service. It

is true; I went for your sake. You spoke so well, and when you raised

your arms to heaven, you seemed to hold my heart within your two white

hands. I was foolish; but I did not know it. Shall I tell you your

fault? It was your coming to me in the garden; it was your speaking to

me. If you had said nothing, I should have known nothing. If you had

gone, I should, perhaps, have been sad, but now I should die. Since I

know that I love you, you cannot leave me. Of what are you thinking? You

do not seem to listen to me."

Caudray replied:

"You heard what was said last night?"

"Ah, me!"

"What can I do against that?"

They were silent for a moment. Caudray continued:

"There is but one duty left to me. It is to depart."

"And mine to die. Oh! how I wish there was no sea, but only sky. It

seems to me as if that would settle all, and that our departure would be

the same. It was wrong to speak to me; why did you speak to me? Do not

go. What will become of me? I tell you I shall die. You will be far off

when I shall be in my grave. Oh! my heart will break. I am very

wretched; yet my uncle is not unkind."

It was the first time in her life that Déruchette had ever said "my

uncle." Until then she had always said "my father."

Caudray stepped back, and made a sign to the boatman. Déruchette heard

the sound of the boat-hook among the shingle, and the step of the man on

the gunwale of the boat.

"No! no!" cried Déruchette.

"It must be, Déruchette," replied Caudray.

"No! never! For the sake of an engine--impossible. Did you see that

horrible man last night? You cannot abandon me thus. You are wise; you

can find a means. It is impossible that you bade me come here this

morning with the idea of leaving me. I have never done anything to

deserve this; you can have no reproach to make me. Is it by that vessel

that you intended to sail? I will not let you go. You shall not leave

me. Heaven does not open thus to close so soon. I know you will remain.

Besides, it is not yet time. Oh! how I love you."

And pressing closely to him, she interlaced the fingers of each hand

behind his neck, as if partly to make a bond of her two arms for

detaining him, and partly with her joined hands to pray. He moved away

this gentle restraint, while Déruchette resisted as long as she could.

Déruchette sank upon a projection of the rock covered with ivy, lifting

by an unconscious movement the sleeve of her dress up to the elbow, and

exhibiting her graceful arm. A pale suffused light was in her eyes. The

boat was approaching.

Caudray held her head between his hands. He touched her hair with a sort

of religious care, fixed his eyes upon her for some moments, then kissed

her on the forehead fervently, and in an accent trembling with anguish,

and in which might have been traced the uprooting of his soul, he

uttered the word which has so often resounded in the depths of the human

heart, "Farewell!"

Déruchette burst into loud sobs.

At this moment they heard a voice near them, which said solemnly and

deliberately:

"Why should you not be man and wife?"

Caudray raised his head. Déruchette looked up.

Gilliatt stood before them.

He had approached by a bye-path.

He was no longer the same man that he had appeared on the previous

night. He had arranged his hair, shaved his beard, put on shoes, and a

white shirt, with a large collar turned over, sailor fashion. He wore a

sailor's costume, but all was new. A gold ring was on his little finger.

He seemed profoundly calm. His sunburnt skin had become pale: a hue of

sickly bronze overspread it.

They looked at him astonished. Though so changed, Déruchette recognised

him. But the words which he had spoken were so far from what was passing

in their minds at that moment, that they had left no distinct

impression.

Gilliatt spoke again:

"Why should you say farewell? Be man and wife, and go together."

Déruchette started. A trembling seized her from head to foot.

Gilliatt continued:

"Miss Lethierry is a woman. She is of age. It depends only on herself.

Her uncle is but her uncle. You love each other----"

Déruchette interrupted in a gentle voice, and asked, "How came you

here?"

"Make yourselves one," repeated Gilliatt.

Déruchette began to have a sense of the meaning of his words. She

stammered out:

"My poor uncle!"

"If the marriage was yet to be," said Gilliatt, "he would refuse. When

it is over he will consent. Besides, you are going to leave here. When

you return he will forgive."

Gilliatt added, with a slight touch of bitterness, "And then he is

thinking of nothing just now but the rebuilding of his boat. This will

occupy his mind during your absence. The Durande will console him."

"I cannot," said Déruchette, in a state of stupor which was not without

its gleam of joy. "I must not leave him unhappy."

"It will be but for a short time," answered Gilliatt.

Caudray and Déruchette had been, as it were, bewildered. They recovered

themselves now. The meaning of Gilliatt's words became plainer as their

surprise diminished. There was a slight cloud still before them; but

their part was not to resist. We yield easily to those who come to

save. Objections to a return into Paradise are weak. There was something

in the attitude of Déruchette, as she leaned imperceptibly upon her

lover, which seemed to make common cause with Gilliatt's words. The

enigma of the presence of this man, and of his utterances, which, in the

mind of Déruchette in particular, produced various kinds of

astonishment, was a thing apart. He said to them, "Be man and wife!"

This was clear; if there was responsibility, it was his. Déruchette had

a confused feeling that, for many reasons, he had the right to decide

upon her fate. Caudray murmured, as if plunged in thought, "An uncle is

not a father."

His resolution was corrupted by the sudden and happy turn in his ideas.

The probable scruples of the clergyman melted, and dissolved in his

heart's love for Déruchette.

Gilliatt's tone became abrupt and harsh, and like the pulsations of

fever.

"There must be no delay," he said. "You have time, but that is all.

Come."

Caudray observed him attentively; and suddenly exclaimed:

"I recognise you. It was you who saved my life."

Gilliatt replied:

"I think not."

"Yonder," said Caudray, "at the extremity of the Banques."

"I do not know the place," said Gilliatt.

"It was on the very day that I arrived here."

"Let us lose no time," interrupted Gilliatt.

"And if I am not deceived, you are the man whom we met last night."

"Perhaps."

"What is your name?"

Gilliatt raised his voice:

"Boatman! wait there for us. We shall return soon. You asked me, Miss

Lethierry, how I came to be here. The answer is very simple. I walked

behind you. You are twenty-one. In this country, when persons are of

age, and depend only on themselves, they may be married immediately. Let

us take the path along the water-side. It is passable; the tide will not

rise here till noon. But lose no time. Come with me."

Déruchette and Caudray seemed to consult each other by a glance. They

were standing close together motionless. They were intoxicated with joy.

There are strange hesitations sometimes on the edge of the abyss of

happiness. They understood, as it were, without understanding.

"His name is Gilliatt," whispered Déruchette.

Gilliatt interrupted them with a sort of tone of authority.

"What do you linger for?" he asked. "I tell you to follow me."

"Whither?" asked Caudray.

"There!"

And Gilliatt pointed with his finger towards the spire of the church.

Gilliatt walked on before, and they followed him. His step was firm; but

they walked unsteadily.

As they approached the church, an expression dawned upon those two pure

and beautiful countenances, which was soon to become a smile. The

approach to the church lighted them up. In the hollow eyes of Gilliatt

there was the darkness of night. The beholder might have imagined that

he saw a spectre leading two souls to Paradise.

Caudray and Déruchette scarcely took count of what had happened. The

interposition of this man was like the branch clutched at by the

drowning. They followed their guide with the docility of despair,

leaning on the first comer. Those who feel themselves near death easily

accept the accident which seems to save. Déruchette, more ignorant of

life, was more confident. Caudray was thoughtful. Déruchette was of age,

it was true. The English formalities of marriage are simple, especially

in primitive parts, where the clergyman has almost a discretionary

power; but would the Dean consent to celebrate the marriage without even

inquiring whether the uncle consented? This was the question.

Nevertheless, they could learn. In any case there would be but a delay.

But what was this man? and if it was really he whom Lethierry the night

before had declared should be his son-in-law, what could be the meaning

of his actions? The very obstacle itself had become a providence.

Caudray yielded; but his yielding was only the rapid and tacit assent of

a man who feels himself saved from despair.

The pathway was uneven, and sometimes wet and difficult to pass.

Caudray, absorbed in thought, did not observe the occasional pools of

water or the heaps of shingle. But from time to time Gilliatt turned and

said to him, "Take heed of those stones. Give her your hand."

III

THE FORETHOUGHT OF SELF-SACRIFICE

It struck ten as they entered the church.

By reason of the early hour, and also on account of the desertion of the

town that day, the church was empty.

At the farther end, however, near the table which in the reformed church

fulfils the place of the altar, there were three persons. They were the

Dean, his evangelist, and the registrar. The Dean, who was the Reverend

Jaquemin Hérode, was seated; the evangelist and the registrar stood

beside him.

A book was open upon the table.

Beside him, upon a credence-table, was another book. It was the parish

register, and also open; and an attentive eye might have remarked a page

on which was some writing, of which the ink was not yet dry. By the side

of the register were a pen and a writing-desk.

The Reverend Jaquemin Hérode rose on perceiving Caudray.

"I have been expecting you," he said. "All is ready."

The Dean, in fact, wore his officiating robes.

Caudray looked towards Gilliatt.

The Reverend Doctor added, "I am at your service, brother;" and he

bowed.

It was a bow which neither turned to right or left. It was evident from

the direction of the Dean's gaze that he did not recognise the existence

of any one but Caudray, for Caudray was a clergyman and a gentleman.

Neither Déruchette, who stood aside, nor Gilliatt, who was in the rear,

were included in the salutation. His look was a sort of parenthesis in

which none but Caudray were admitted. The observance of these little

niceties constitutes an important feature in the maintenance of order

and the preservation of society.

The Dean continued, with a graceful and dignified urbanity:

"I congratulate you, my colleague, from a double point of view. You have

lost your uncle, and are about to take a wife; you are blessed with

riches on the one hand, and happiness on the other. Moreover, thanks to

the boat which they are about to rebuild, Mess Lethierry will also be

rich; which is as it should be. Miss Lethierry was born in this parish;

I have verified the date of her birth in the register. She is of age,

and at her own disposal. Her uncle, too, who is her only relative,

consents. You are anxious to be united immediately on account of your

approaching departure. This I can understand; but this being the

marriage of the rector of the parish, I should have been gratified to

have seen it associated with a little more solemnity. I will consult

your wishes by not detaining you longer than necessary. The essentials

will be soon complied with. The form is already drawn up in the

register, and it requires only the names to be filled in. By the terms

of the law and custom, the marriage may be celebrated immediately after

the inscription. The declaration necessary for the licence has been duly

made. I take upon myself a slight irregularity; for the application for

the licence ought to have been registered seven days in advance; but I

yield to necessity and the urgency of your departure. Be it so, then. I

will proceed with the ceremony. My evangelist will be the witness for

the bridegroom; as regards the witness for the bride----"

The Dean turned towards Gilliatt. Gilliatt made a movement of his head.

"That is sufficient," said the Dean.

Caudray remained motionless; Déruchette was happy, but no less powerless

to move.

"Nevertheless," continued the Dean, "there is still an obstacle."

Déruchette started.

The Dean continued:

"The representative here present of Mess Lethierry applied for the

licence for you, and has signed the declaration on the register." And

with the thumb of his left hand the Dean pointed to Gilliatt, which

prevented the necessity of his remembering his name. "The messenger from

Mess Lethierry," he added, "has informed me this morning that being too

much occupied to come in person, Mess Lethierry desired that the

marriage should take place immediately. This desire, expressed verbally,

is not sufficient. In consequence of having to grant the licence, and of

the irregularity which I take upon myself, I cannot proceed so rapidly

without informing myself from Mess Lethierry personally, unless some one

can produce his signature. Whatever might be my desire to serve you, I

cannot be satisfied with a mere message. I must have some written

document."

"That need not delay us," said Gilliatt. And he presented a paper to the

Dean. The Dean took it, perused it by a glance, seemed to pass over some

lines as unimportant, and read aloud: "Go to the Dean for the licence.

I wish the marriage to take place as soon as possible. Immediately would

be better."

He placed the paper on the table, and proceeded:

"It is signed, Lethierry. It would have been more respectful to have

addressed himself to me. But since I am called on to serve a colleague,

I ask no more."

Caudray glanced again at Gilliatt. There are moments when mind and mind

comprehend each other. Caudray felt that there was some deception; he

had not the strength of purpose, perhaps he had not the idea of

revealing it. Whether in obedience to a latent heroism, of which he had

begun to obtain a glimpse; or whether from a deadening of the

conscience, arising from the suddenness of the happiness placed within

his reach, he uttered no word.

The Dean took the pen, and aided by the clerk, filled up the spaces in

the page of the register; then he rose, and by a gesture invited Caudray

and Déruchette to approach the table.

The ceremony commenced. It was a strange moment. Caudray and Déruchette

stood beside each other before the minister. He who has ever dreamed of

a marriage in which he himself was chief actor, may conceive something

of the feeling which they experienced.

Gilliatt stood at a little distance in the shadow of the pillars.

Déruchette, on rising in the morning, desperate, thinking only of death

and its associations, had dressed herself in white. Her attire, which

had been associated in her mind with mourning, was suited to her

nuptials. A white dress is all that is necessary for the bride.

A ray of happiness was visible upon her face. Never had she appeared

more beautiful. Her features were remarkable for prettiness rather than

what is called beauty. Their fault, if fault it be, lay in a certain

excess of grace. Déruchette in repose, that is, neither disturbed by

passion or grief, was graceful above all. The ideal virgin is the

transfiguration of a face like this. Déruchette, touched by her sorrow

and her love, seemed to have caught that higher and more holy

expression. It was the difference between the field daisy and the lily.

The tears had scarcely dried upon her cheeks; one perhaps still lingered

in the midst of her smiles. Traces of tears indistinctly visible form a

pleasing but sombre accompaniment of joy.

The Dean, standing near the table, placed his finger upon the open book,

and asked in a distinct voice whether they knew of any impediment to

their union.

There was no reply.

"Amen!" said the Dean.

Caudray and Déruchette advanced a step or two towards the table.

"Joseph Ebenezer Caudray, wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded

wife?"

Caudray replied "I will."

The Dean continued:

"Durande Déruchette Lethierry, wilt thou have this man to be thy wedded

husband?"

Déruchette, in an agony of soul, springing from her excess of happiness,

murmured rather than uttered--

"I will."

Then followed the beautiful form of the Anglican marriage service. The

Dean looked around, and in the twilight of the church uttered the solemn

words:

"Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?"

Gilliatt answered, "I do!"

There was an interval of silence. Caudray and Déruchette felt a vague

sense of oppression in spite of their joy.

The Dean placed Déruchette's right hand in Caudray's; and Caudray

repeated after him:

"I take thee, Durande Déruchette to be my wedded wife, for better for

worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to

cherish till death do us part; and thereto I plight thee my troth."

The Dean then placed Caudray's right hand in that of Déruchette, and

Déruchette said after him:

"I take thee to be my wedded husband for better for worse, for richer

for poorer, in sickness or in health, to love and to cherish till death

do us part; and thereto I plight thee my troth."

The Dean asked, "Where is the ring?" The question took them by surprise.

Caudray had no ring; but Gilliatt took off the gold ring which he wore

upon his little finger. It was probably the wedding-ring which had been

sold that morning by the jeweller in the Commercial Arcade.

The Dean placed the ring upon the book; then handed it to Caudray, who

took Déruchette's little trembling left hand, passed the ring over her

fourth finger, and said:

"With this ring I thee wed!"

"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost,"

continued the Dean.

"Amen," said his evangelist.

Then the Dean said, "Let us pray."

Caudray and Déruchette turned towards the table, and knelt down.

Gilliatt, standing by, inclined his head.

So they knelt before God; while he seemed to bend under the burden of

his fate.

IV

FOR YOUR WIFE: WHEN YOU MARRY

As they left the church they could see the _Cashmere_ making

preparations for her departure.

"You are in time," said Gilliatt.

They chose again the path leading to the Havelet.

Caudray and Déruchette went before, Gilliatt this time walking behind

them. They were two somnambulists. Their bewilderment had not passed

away, but only changed in form. They took no heed of whither they were

going, or of what they did. They hurried on mechanically, scarcely

remembering the existence of anything, feeling that they were united for

ever, but scarcely able to connect two ideas in their minds. In ecstasy

like theirs it is as impossible to think as it is to swim in a torrent.

In the midst of their trouble and darkness they had been plunged in a

whirlpool of delight; they bore a paradise within themselves. They did

not speak, but conversed with each other by the mysterious sympathy of

their souls. Déruchette pressed Caudray's arm to her side.

The footsteps of Gilliatt behind them reminded them now and then that he

was there. They were deeply moved, but could find no words. The excess

of emotion results in stupor. Theirs was delightful, but overwhelming.

They were man and wife: every other idea was postponed to that. What

Gilliatt had done was well; that was all that they could grasp. They

experienced towards their guide a deep but vague gratitude in their

hearts. Déruchette felt that there was some mystery to be explained, but

not now. Meanwhile they accepted their unexpected happiness. They felt

themselves controlled by the abruptness and decision of this man who

conferred on them so much happiness with a kind of authority. To

question him, to talk with him seemed impossible. Too many impressions

rushed into their minds at once for that. Their absorption was

pardonable.

Events succeed each other sometimes with the rapidity of hailstones.

Their effect is overpowering; they deaden the senses. Falling upon

existences habitually calm, they render incidents rapidly unintelligible

even to those whom they chiefly concern; we become scarcely conscious of

our own adventures; we are overwhelmed without guessing the cause, or

crowned with happiness without comprehending it. For some hours

Déruchette had been subjected to every kind of emotion: at first,

surprise and delight at meeting Caudray in the garden; then horror at

the monster whom her uncle had presented as her husband; then her

anguish when the angel of her dreams spread his wings and seemed about

to depart; and now her joy, a joy such as she had never known before,

founded on an inexplicable enigma; the monster of last night himself

restoring her lover; marriage arising out of her torture; this Gilliatt,

the evil destiny of last night, become to-day her saviour! She could

explain nothing to her own mind. It was evident that all the morning

Gilliatt had had no other occupation than that of preparing the way for

their marriage: he had done all: he had answered for Mess Lethierry,

seen the Dean, obtained the licence, signed the necessary declaration;

and thus the marriage had been rendered possible. But Déruchette

understood it not. If she had, she could not have comprehended the

reasons. They did nothing but close their eyes to the world,

and--grateful in their hearts--yield themselves up to the guidance of

this good demon. There was no time for explanations, and expressions of

gratitude seemed too insignificant. They were silent in their trance of

love.

The little power of thought which they retained was scarcely more than

sufficient to guide them on their way--to enable them to distinguish the

sea from the land, and the _Cashmere_ from every other vessel.

In a few minutes they were at the little creek.

Caudray entered the boat first. At the moment when Déruchette was about

to follow, she felt her sleeve held gently. It was Gilliatt, who had

placed his finger upon a fold of her dress.

"Madam," he said, "you are going on a journey unexpectedly. It has

struck me that you would have need of dresses and clothes. You will find

a trunk aboard the _Cashmere_, containing a lady's clothing. It came to

me from my mother. It was intended for my wife if I should marry.

Permit me to ask your acceptance of it."

Déruchette, partially aroused from her dream, turned towards him.

Gilliatt continued, in a voice which was scarcely audible:

"I do not wish to detain you, madam, but I feel that I ought to give you

some explanation. On the day of your misfortune, you were sitting in the

lower room; you uttered certain words; it is easy to understand that you

have forgotten them. We are not compelled to remember every word we

speak. Mess Lethierry was in great sorrow. It was certainly a noble

vessel, and one that did good service. The misfortune was recent; there

was a great commotion. Those are things which one naturally forgets. It

was only a vessel wrecked among the rocks; one cannot be always thinking

of an accident. But what I wished to tell you was, that as it was said

that no one would go, I went. They said it was impossible; but it was

not. I thank you for listening to me a moment. You can understand,

madam, that if I went there, it was not with the thought of displeasing

you. This is a thing, besides, of old date. I know that you are in

haste. If there was time, if we could talk about this, you might perhaps

remember. But this is all useless now. The history of it goes back to a

day when there was snow upon the ground. And then on one occasion that I

passed you, I thought that you looked kindly on me. This is how it was.

With regard to last night, I had not had time to go to my home. I came

from my labour; I was all torn and ragged; I startled you, and you

fainted. I was to blame; people do not come like that to strangers'

houses; I ask your forgiveness. This is nearly all I had to say. You are

about to sail. You will have fine weather; the wind is in the east.

Farewell. You will not blame me for troubling you with these things.

This is the last minute."

"I am thinking of the trunk you spoke of," replied Déruchette. "Why do

you not keep it for your wife, when you marry?"

"It is most likely, madam," replied Gilliatt, "that I shall never

marry."

"That would be a pity," said Déruchette; "you are so good."

And Déruchette smiled. Gilliatt returned her smile.

Then he assisted her to step into the boat.

In less than a quarter of an hour afterwards Caudray and Déruchette were

aboard the _Cashmere_ in the roads.

V

THE GREAT TOMB

Gilliatt walked along the water-side, passed rapidly through St. Peter's

Port, and then turned towards St. Sampson by the seashore. In his

anxiety to meet no one whom he knew, he avoided the highways now filled

with foot-passengers by his great achievement.

For a long time, as the reader knows, he had had a peculiar manner of

traversing the country in all parts without being observed. He knew the

bye-paths, and favoured solitary and winding routes; he had the shy

habits of a wild beast who knows that he is disliked, and keeps at a

distance. When quite a child, he had been quick to feel how little

welcome men showed in their faces at his approach, and he had gradually

contracted that habit of being alone which had since become an instinct.

He passed through the Esplanade, then by the Salerie. Now and then he

turned and looked behind him at the _Cashmere_ in the roads, which was

beginning to set her sails. There was little wind; Gilliatt went faster

than the _Cashmere_. He walked with downcast eyes among the lower rocks

at the water's edge. The tide was beginning to rise.

Suddenly he stopped, and, turning his back, contemplated for some

minutes a group of oaks beyond the rocks which concealed the road to

Vale. They were the oaks at the spot called the Basses Maisons. It was

there that Déruchette once wrote with her finger the name of Gilliatt in

the snow. Many a day had passed since that snow had melted away.

Then he pursued his way.

The day was beautiful; more beautiful than any that had yet been seen

that year. It was one of those spring days when May suddenly pours forth

all its beauty, and when nature seems to have no thought but to rejoice

and be happy. Amidst the many murmurs from forest and village, from the

sea and the air, a sound of cooing could be distinguished. The first

butterflies of the year were resting on the early roses. Everything in

nature seemed new--the grass, the mosses, the leaves, the perfumes, the

rays of light. The sun shone as if it had never shone before. The

pebbles seemed bathed in coolness. Birds but lately fledged sang out

their deep notes from the trees, or fluttered among the boughs in their

attempts to use their new-found wings. There was a chattering all

together of goldfinches, pewits, tomtits, woodpeckers, bullfinches, and

thrushes. The blossoms of lilacs, May lilies, daphnes, and melilots

mingled their various hues in the thickets. A beautiful kind of

water-weed peculiar to Guernsey covered the pools with an emerald green;

where the kingfishers and the water-wagtails, which make such graceful

little nests, came down to bathe their wings. Through every opening in

the branches appeared the deep blue sky. A few lazy clouds followed each

other in the azure depths. The ear seemed to catch the sound of kisses

sent from invisible lips. Every old wall had its tufts of wallflowers.

The plum-trees and laburnums were in blossom; their white and yellow

masses gleamed through the interlacing boughs. The spring showered all

her gold and silver on the woods. The new shoots and leaves were green

and fresh. Calls of welcome were in the air; the approaching summer

opened her hospitable doors for birds coming from afar. It was the time

of the arrival of the swallows. The clusters of furze-bushes bordered

the steep sides of hollow roads in anticipation of the clusters of the

hawthorn. The pretty and the beautiful reigned side by side; the

magnificent and the graceful, the great and the little, had each their

place. No note in the great concert of nature was lost. Green

microscopic beauties took their place in the vast universal plan in

which all seemed distinguishable as in limpid water. Everywhere a divine

fulness, a mysterious sense of expansion, suggested the unseen effort of

the sap in movement. Guttering things glittered more than ever; loving

natures became more tender. There was a hymn in the flowers, and a

radiance in the sounds of the air. The wide-diffused harmony of nature

burst forth on every side. All things which felt the dawn of life

invited others to put forth shoots. A movement coming from below, and

also from above, stirred vaguely all hearts susceptible to the scattered

and subterranean influence of germination. The flower shadowed forth the

fruit; young maidens dreamed of love. It was nature's universal bridal.

It was fine, bright, and warm; through the hedges in the meadows

children were seen laughing and playing at their games. The fruit-trees

filled the orchards with their heaps of white and pink blossom. In the

fields were primroses, cowslips, milfoil, daffodils, daisies, speedwell,

jacinths, and violets. Blue borage and yellow irises swarmed with those

beautiful little pink stars which flower always in groups, and are

hence called "companions." Creatures with golden scales glided between

the stones. The flowering houseleek covered the thatched roofs with

purple patches. Women were plaiting hives in the open air; and the bees

were abroad, mingling their humming with the murmurs from the sea.

Nature, sensitive to the touch of spring, exhaled delight.

When Gilliatt arrived at St. Sampson, the water had not yet risen at the

further end of the harbour, and he was able to cross it dry-footed

unperceived behind the hulls of vessels fixed for repair. A number of

flat stones were placed there at regular distances to make a causeway.

He was not observed. The crowd was at the other end of the port, near

the narrow entrance, by the Bravées. There his name was in every mouth.

They were, in fact, speaking about him so much that none paid attention

to him. He passed, sheltered in some degree by the very commotion that

he had caused.

He saw from afar the sloop in the place where he had moored it, with the

funnel standing between its four chains; observed a movement of

carpenters at their work, and confused outlines of figures passing to

and fro; and he could distinguish the loud and cheery voice of Mess

Lethierry giving orders.

He threaded the narrow alleys behind the Bravées. There was no one there

beside him. All curiosity was concentrated on the front of the house. He

chose the footpath alongside the low wall of the garden, but stopped at

the angle where the wild mallow grew. He saw once more the stone where

he used to pass his time; saw once more the wooden garden seat where

Déruchette was accustomed to sit, and glanced again at the pathway of

the alley where he had seen the embrace of two shadows which had

vanished.

He soon went on his way, climbed the hill of Vale Castle, descended

again, and directed his steps towards the Bû de la Rue.

The Houmet-Paradis was a solitude.

His house was in the same state in which he had left it in the morning,

after dressing himself to go to St. Peter's Port.

A window was open, through which his bagpipe might have been seen

hanging to a nail upon the wall.

Upon the table was the little Bible given to him in token of gratitude

by the stranger whom he now knew as Caudray.

The key was in the door. He approached; placed his hand upon it; turned

it twice in the lock, put the key in his pocket, and departed.

He walked not in the direction of the town, but towards the sea.

He traversed his garden diagonally, taking the shortest way without

regard to the beds, but taking care not to tread upon the plants which

he placed there, because he had heard that they were favourites with

Déruchette.

He crossed the parapet wall, and let himself down upon the rocks.

Going straight on, he began to follow the long ridge of rocks which

connected the Bû de la Rue with the great natural obelisk of granite

rising erect from the sea, which was known as the Beast's Horn. This was

the place of the Gild-Holm-'Ur seat.

He strode on from block to block like a giant among mountains. To make

long strides upon a row of breakers is like walking upon the ridge of a

roof.

A fisherwoman with dredge-nets, who had been walking naked-footed among

the pools of sea-water at some distance, and had just regained the

shore, called to him, "Take care; the tide is coming." But he held on

his way.

Having arrived at the great rock of the point, the Horn, which rises

like a pinnacle from the sea, he stopped. It was the extremity of the

promontory.

He looked around.

Out at sea a few sailing boats at anchor were fishing. Now and then

rivulets of silver glittered among them in the sun: it was the water

running from the nets. The _Cashmere_ was not yet off St. Sampson. She

had set her main-topsail, and was between Herm and Jethou.

Gilliatt rounded the rock, and came under the Gild-Holm-'Ur seat, at the

foot of that kind of abrupt stairs where, less than three months before,

he had assisted Caudray to come down. He ascended.

The greater number of the steps were already under water. Two or three

only were still dry, by which he climbed.

The steps led up to the Gild-Holm-'Ur seat. He reached the niche,

contemplated it for a moment, pressed his hand upon his eyes, and let it

glide gently from one eyelid to the other--a gesture by which he seemed

to obliterate the memory of the past--then sat down in the hollow, with

the perpendicular wall behind him, and the ocean at his feet.

The _Cashmere_ at that moment was passing the great round half-submerged

tower, defended by one sergeant and a cannon, which marks the half way

in the roads between Herm and St. Peter's Port.

A few flowers stirred among the crevices in the rock about Gilliatt's

head. The sea was blue as far as eye could reach. The wind came from the

east; there was a little surf in the direction of the island of Sark, of

which only the western side is visible from Guernsey. In the distance

appeared the coast of France like a mist, with the long yellow strips of

sand about Carteret. Now and then a white butterfly fluttered by. The

butterflies frequently fly out to sea.

The breeze was very slight. The blue expanse, both above and below, was

tranquil. Not a ripple agitated those species of serpents, of an azure

more or less dark, which indicate on the surface of the sea the lines of

sunken rocks.

The _Cashmere_, little moved by the wind, had set her topsail and

studding-sails to catch the breeze. All her canvas was spread, but the

wind being a side one, her studding-sails only compelled her to hug the

Guernsey coast more closely. She had passed the beacon of St. Sampson,

and was off the hill of Vale Castle. The moment was approaching when she

would double the point of the Bû de la Rue.

Gilliatt watched her approach.

The air and sea were still. The tide rose not by waves, but by an

imperceptible swell. The level of the water crept upward without a

palpitation. The subdued murmur from the open sea was soft as the

breathing of a child.

In the direction of the harbour of St. Sampson, faint echoes could be

heard of carpenters' hammers. The carpenters were probably the workmen

constructing the tackle, gear, and apparatus for removing the engine

from the sloop. The sounds, however, scarcely reached Gilliatt by reason

of the mass of granite at his back.

The _Cashmere_ approached with the slowness of a phantom.

Gilliatt watched it still.

Suddenly a touch and a sensation of cold caused him to look down. The

sea had reached his feet.

He lowered his eyes, then raised them again.

The _Cashmere_ was quite near.

The rock in which the rains had hollowed out the Gild-Holm-'Ur seat was

so completely vertical, and there was so much water at its base, that in

calm weather vessels were able to pass without danger within a few

cables' lengths.

The _Cashmere_ was abreast of the rock. It rose straight upwards as if

it had grown out of the water; or like the lengthening out of a shadow.

The rigging showed black against the heavens and in the magnificent

expanse of the sea. The long sails, passing for a moment over the sun,

became lighted up with a singular glory and transparence. The water

murmured indistinctly; but no other noise marked the majestic gliding of

that outline. The deck was as visible as if he had stood upon it.

The steersman was at the helm; a cabin-boy was climbing the shrouds; a

few passengers leaning on the bulwarks were contemplating the beauty of

the scene. The captain was smoking; but nothing of all this was seen by

Gilliatt.

There was a spot on the deck on which the broad sunlight fell. It was on

this corner that his eyes were fixed. In this sunlight were Déruchette

and Caudray. They were sitting together side by side, like two birds,

warming themselves in the noonday sun, upon one of those covered seats

with a little awning which well-ordered packet-boats provided for

passengers, and upon which was the inscription, when it happened to be

an English vessel, "For ladies only." Déruchette's head was leaning upon

Caudray's shoulder; his arm was around her waist; they held each other's

hands with their fingers interwoven. A celestial light was discernible

in those two faces formed by innocence. Their chaste embrace was

expressive of their earthly union and their purity of soul. The seat was

a sort of alcove, almost a nest; it was at the same time a glory round

them; the tender aureola of love passing into a cloud.

The silence was like the calm of heaven.

Caudray's gaze was fixed in contemplation. Déruchette's lips moved; and,

amidst that perfect silence, as the wind carried the vessel near shore,

and it glided within a few fathoms of the Gild-Holm-'Ur seat, Gilliatt

heard the tender and musical voice of Déruchette exclaiming:

"Look yonder. It seems as if there were a man upon the rock."

The vessel passed.

Leaving the promontory of the Bû de la Rue behind, the _Cashmere_ glided

on upon the waters. In less than a quarter of an hour, her masts and

sails formed only a white obelisk, gradually decreasing against the

horizon. Gilliatt felt that the water had reached his knees.

He contemplated the vessel speeding on her way.

The breeze freshened out at sea. He could see the _Cashmere_ run out her

lower studding-sails and her staysails, to take advantage of the rising

wind. She was already clear of the waters of Guernsey. Gilliatt followed

the vessel with his eyes.

The waves had reached his waist.

The tide was rising: time was passing away.

The seamews and cormorants flew about him restlessly, as if anxious to

warn him of his danger. It seemed as if some of his old companions of

the Douvres rocks flying there had recognised him.

An hour had passed.

The wind from the sea was scarcely felt in the roads; but the form of

the _Cashmere_ was rapidly growing less. The sloop, according to all

appearance, was sailing fast. It was already nearly off the Casquets.

There was no foam around the Gild-Holm-'Ur; no wave beat against its

granite sides. The water rose peacefully. It was nearly level with

Gilliatt's shoulders.

Another hour had passed.

The _Cashmere_ was beyond the waters of Aurigny. The Ortach rock

concealed it for a moment; it passed behind it, and came forth again as

from an eclipse. The sloop was veering to the north upon the open sea.

It was now only a point glittering in the sun.

The birds were hovering about Gilliatt, uttering short cries. Only his

head was now visible. The tide was nearly at the full. Evening was

approaching. Behind him, in the roads, a few fishing-boats were making

for the harbour.

Gilliatt's eyes continued fixed upon the vessel in the horizon. Their

expression resembled nothing earthly. A strange lustre shone in their

calm and tragic depths. There was in them the peace of vanished hopes,

the calm but sorrowful acceptance of an end far different from his

dreams. By degrees the dusk of heaven began to darken in them, though

gazing still upon the point in space. At the same moment the wide waters

round the Gild-Holm-'Ur and the vast gathering twilight closed upon

them.

The _Cashmere_, now scarcely perceptible, had become a mere spot in the

thin haze.

Gradually, the spot, which was but a shape, grew paler.

Then it dwindled, and finally disappeared.

At the moment when the vessel vanished on the line of the horizon, the

head of Gilliatt disappeared. Nothing was visible now but the sea.

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED, BUNGAY,

SUFFOLK.