You did not suppose that was the end of the story, did you?
No, an out-of-doors story does not end like that, broken off in the
middle, with a bit of a song. It goes on to something definite, like a
wedding or a funeral.
You have not heard, yet, how near the light came to failing, and how the
keeper saved it and something else too. Nataline's story is not told; it
is only begun. This first part is only the introduction, just to let you
see what kind of a girl she was, and how her life was made. If you want
to hear the conclusion, we must hurry along a little faster or we shall
never get to it.
Nataline grew up like a young birch tree--stately and strong, good to
look at. She was beautiful in her place; she fitted it exactly. Her
bronzed face with an under-tinge of red; her low, black eyebrows; her
clear eyes like the brown waters of a woodland stream; her dark, curly
hair with little tendrils always blowing loose around the pillar of her
neck; her broad breast and sloping shoulders; her firm, fearless step;
her voice, rich and vibrant; her straight, steady looks--but there,
who can describe a thing like that? I tell you she was a girl to love
out-of-doors.
There was nothing that she could not do. She could cook; she could swing
an axe; she could paddle a canoe; she could fish; she could shoot; and,
best of all, she could run the lighthouse. Her father's devotion to it
had gone into her blood. It was the centre of her life, her law of God.
There was nothing about it that she did not understand and love. From
the first of April to the tenth of December the flashing of that light
was like the beating of her heart--steady, even, unfaltering. She kept
time to it as unconsciously as the tides follow the moon. She lived by
it and for it.
There were no more accidents to the clockwork after the first one was
repaired. It ran on regularly, year after year.
Alma and Azilda were married and went away to live, one on the South
Shore, the other at Quebec. Nataline was her father's right-hand man. As
the rheumatism took hold of him and lamed his shoulders and wrists, more
and more of the work fell upon her. She was proud of it.
At last it came to pass, one day in January, that Baptiste died. He was
not gathered to his fathers, for they were buried far away beside the
Montmorenci, and on the rocky coast of Brittany. But the men dug through
the snow behind the tiny chapel at Dead Men's Point, and made a grave
for Baptiste Fortin, and the young priest of the mission read the
funeral service over it.
It went without saying that Nataline was to be the keeper of the light,
at least until the supply-boat came down again in the spring and orders
arrived from the Government in Quebec. Why not? She was a woman, it is
true. But if a woman can do a thing as well as a man, why should she not
do it? Besides, Nataline could do this particular thing much better
than any man on the Point. Everybody approved of her as the heir of her
father, especially young Marcel Thibault.
What?
Yes, of course. You could not help guessing it. He was Nataline's lover.
They were to be married the next summer. They sat together in the best
room, while the old mother was rocking to and fro and knitting beside
the kitchen stove, and talked of what they were going to do. Once in a
while, when Nataline grieved for her father, she would let Marcel put
his arm around her and comfort her in the way that lovers know. But
their talk was mainly of the future, because they were young, and of the
light, because Nataline's life belonged to it.
Perhaps the Government would remember that year when it was kept going
by hand for two months, and give it to her to keep as long as she lived.
That would be only fair. Certainly, it was hers for the present. No one
had as good a right to it. She took possession without a doubt. At all
events, while she was the keeper the light should not fail.
But that winter was a bad one on the North Shore, and particularly at
Dead Men's Point. It was terribly bad. The summer before, the fishing
had been almost a dead failure. In June a wild storm had smashed all
the salmon nets and swept most of them away. In July they could find no
caplin for bait for the cod-fishing, and in August and September
they could find no cod. The few bushels of potatoes that some of the
inhabitants had planted, rotted in the ground. The people at the Point
went into the winter short of money and very short of food.
There were some supplies at the store, pork and flour and molasses,
and they could run through the year on credit and pay their debts the
following summer if the fish came back. But this resource also failed
them. In the last week of January the store caught fire and burned up.
Nothing was saved. The only hope now was the seal-hunting in February
and March and April. That at least would bring them meat and oil enough
to keep them from starvation.
But this hope failed, too. The winds blew strong from the north and
west, driving the ice far out into the gulf. The chase was long and
perilous. The seals were few and wild. Less than a dozen were killed in
all. By the last week in March Dead Men's Point stood face to face with
famine.
Then it was that old Thibault had an idea.
“There is sperm oil on the Island of Birds,” said he, “in the
lighthouse, plenty of it, gallons of it. It is not very good to taste,
perhaps, but what of that? It will keep life in the body. The Esquimaux
drink it in the north, often. We must take the oil of the lighthouse to
keep us from starving until the supply-boat comes down.”
“But how shall we get it?” asked the others. “It is locked up. Nataline
Fortin has the key. Will she give it?”
“Give it?” growled Thibault. “Name of a name! of course she will give
it. She must. Is not a life, the life of all of us, more than a light?”
A self-appointed committee of three, with Thibault at the head, waited
upon Nataline without delay, told her their plan, and asked for the
key. She thought it over silently for a few minutes, and then refused
point-blank.
“No,” she said, “I will not give the key. That oil is for the lamp. If
you take it, the lamp will not be lighted on the first of April; it will
not be burning when the supply-boat comes. For me, that would be shame,
disgrace, worse than death. I am the keeper of the light. You shall not
have the oil.”
They argued with her, pleaded with her, tried to browbeat her. She was
a rock. Her round under-jaw was set like a steel trap. Her lips
straightened into a white line. Her eyebrows drew together, and her eyes
grew black.
“No,” she cried, “I tell you no, no, a thousand times no. All in this
house I will share with you. But not one drop of what belongs to the
light! Never.”
Later in the afternoon the priest came to see her; a thin, pale young
man, bent with the hardships of his life, and with sad dreams in his
sunken eyes. He talked with her very gently and kindly.
“Think well, my daughter; think seriously what you do. Is it not our
first duty to save human life? Surely that must be according to the will
of God. Will you refuse to obey it?”
Nataline was trembling a little now. Her brows were unlocked. The tears
stood in her eyes and ran down her cheeks. She was twisting her hands
together.
“My father,” she answered, “I desire to do the will of God. But how
shall I know it? Is it not His first command that we should love and
serve Him faithfully in the duty which He has given us? He gave me this
light to keep. My father kept it. He is dead. If I am unfaithful what
will he say to me? Besides, the supply-boat is coming soon--I have
thought of this--when it comes it will bring food. But if the light is
out, the boat may be lost. That would be the punishment for my sin. No,
MON PERE, we must trust God. He will keep the people. I will keep the
light.”'
The priest looked at her long and steadily. A glow came into his face.
He put his hand on her shoulder. “You shall follow your conscience,” he
said quietly. “Peace be with you, Nataline.”
That evening just at dark Marcel came. She let him take her in his arms
and kiss her. She felt like a little child, tired and weak.
“Well,” he whispered, “you have done bravely, sweetheart. You were right
not to give the key. That would have been a shame to you. But it is all
settled now. They will have the oil without your fault. To-night they
are going out to the lighthouse to break in and take what they want. You
need not know. There will be no blame--”
She straightened in his arms as if an electric shock had passed through
her. She sprang back, blazing with anger.
“What?” she cried, “me a thief by round-about,--with my hand behind my
back and my eyes shut? Never. Do you think I care only for the blame? I
tell you that is nothing. My light shall not be robbed, never, never!”
She came close to him and took him by the shoulders. Their eyes were on
a level. He was a strong man, but she was the stronger then.
“Marcel Thibault,” she said, “do you love me?”
“My faith,” he gasped, “I do. You know I do.”
“Then listen,” she continued; “this is what you are going to do. You are
going down to the shore at once to make ready the big canoe. I am going
to get food enough to last us for the month. It will be a hard pinch,
but it will do. Then we are going out to the island to-night, in less
than an hour. Day after to-morrow is the first of April. Then we shall
light the lantern, and it shall burn every night until the boat comes
down. You hear? Now go: and be quick and bring your gun.”