She did not see me at first; but her air was exultant and satisfied.
There was no face on board so elated and flushed. I kept out of her way
as long as I could without consigning myself to the black hole of the
cabin; but at last she caught sight of me, and came down to the
forecastle to claim me as an acquaintance.
"Ha! ha! Dr. Dobrée!" she exclaimed; "so you are going to visit Sark
too?"
"Yes," I answered, more curtly than courteously.
"You are looking rather low," she said, triumphantly--"rather blue, I
might say. Is there any thing the matter with you? Your face is as long
as a fiddle. Perhaps it is the sea that makes you melancholy."
"Not at all," I answered, trying to speak briskly; "I am an old sailor.
Perhaps you will feel melancholy by-and-by."
Luckily for me, my prophecy was fulfilled shortly after, for the day was
rough enough to produce uncomfortable sensations in those who were not
old sailors like myself. My tormentor was prostrate to the last moment.
When we anchored at the entrance of the Creux, and the small boats came
out to carry us ashore, I managed easily to secure a place in the first,
and to lose sight of her in the bustle of landing. As soon as my feet
touched the shore I started off at my swiftest pace for the Havre
Gosselin.
But I had not far to go, for at Vaudin's Inn, which stands at the top of
the steep lane running from the Creux Harbor, I saw Tardif at the door.
Now and then he acted as guide when young Vaudin could not fill that
office, or had more parties than he could manage; and Tardif was now
waiting the arrival of the weekly stream of tourists. He came to me
instantly, and we sat down on a low stone wall on the roadside, but
well out of hearing of any ears but each other's.
"Tardif," I said, "has mam'zelle told you her secret?"
"Yes, yes," he answered; "poor little soul! and she is a hundredfold
dearer to me now than before."
He looked as if he meant it, for his eyes moistened and his face
quivered.
"She is in great danger at this moment," I continued. "A woman sent by
her husband has been lurking about in Guernsey to get news of her, and
she has come across in the steamer to-day. She will be in sight of us in
a few minutes. There is no chance of her not learning where she is
living. But could we not hide Olivia somewhere? There are caves
strangers know nothing of. We might take her over to Breckhou. Be quick,
Tardif! we must decide at once what to do."
"But mam'zelle is not here. She is gone!" he answered.
"Gone!" I ejaculated. I could not utter another word; but I stared at
him as if my eyes could tear further information from him.
"Yes," he said; "that lady came last week with Miss Dobrée, your cousin.
Then mam'zelle told me all, and we took counsel together. It was not
safe for her to stay any longer, though I would have died for her
gladly. But what could be done? We knew she must go elsewhere, and the
next morning I rowed her over to Peter-Port in time for the steamer to
England. Poor little thing! poor little hunted soul!"
His voice faltered as he spoke, and he drew his fisherman's cap close
down over his eyes. I did not speak again for a minute or two.
"Tardif," I said at last, as the foremost among the tourists came in
sight, "did she leave no message for me?"
"She wrote a letter for you," he said, "the very last thing. She did not
go to bed that night, neither did I. I was going to lose her, doctor,
and she had been like the light of the sun to me. But what could I do?
She was terrified to death at the thought of her husband claiming her. I
promised to give the letter into your own hands; but we settled I must
not show myself in Peter-Port the day she left. Here it is."
It had been lying in his breast-pocket, and the edges were worn already.
He gave it to me lingeringly, as if loath to part with it. The tourists
were coming up in greater numbers, and I made a retreat hastily toward a
quiet and remote part of the cliffs seldom visited in Little Sark.
There, with the sea, which had carried her away from me, playing
buoyantly among the rocks, I read her farewell letter. It ran thus:
"My dear Friend: I am glad I can call you my friend, though nothing can
ever come of our friendship--nothing, for we may not see one another as
other friends do. My life was ruined four years ago, and every now and
then I see afresh how complete and terrible the ruin is. Yet if I had
known beforehand how your life would be linked with mine, I would have
done any thing in my power to save you from sharing in my ruin. Ought I
to have told you at once that I was married? But just that was my
secret, and it seemed so much safer while no one knew it but myself. I
did not see, as I do now, that I was acting a falsehood. I do not see
how I can help doing that. It is as shocking to me as to you. Do not
judge me harshly.
"I do not like to speak to you about my marriage. I was very young and
very miserable; any change seemed better than living with my
step-mother. I did not know what I was doing. The Saviour said, 'Father,
forgive them, for they know not what they do.' I hope I shall be
forgiven by you, and your mother, and God, for indeed I did not know
what I was doing.
"Last October when I escaped from them, it was partly because I felt I
should soon be as wicked as they. I do not think any one ought to remain
where there is no chance of being good. If I am wrong, remember I am not
old yet. I may learn what my duty is, and then I will do it. I am only
waiting to find out exactly what I ought to do, and then I will do it,
whatever it may be.
"Now I am compelled to flee away again from this quiet, peaceful home
where you and Tardif have been so good to me. I began to feel perfectly
safe here, and all at once the refuge fails me. It breaks my heart, but
I must go, and my only gladness is that it will be good for you.
By-and-by you will forget me, and return to your cousin Julia, and be
happy just as you once thought you should be--as you would have been but
for me. You must think of me as one dead. I am quite dead--lost to you.
"Yet I know you will sometimes wish to hear what has become of me.
Tardif will. And I owe you both more than I can ever repay. But it would
not be well for me to write often. I have promised Tardif that I will
write to him once a year, that you and he may know that I am still
alive. When there comes no letter, say, 'Olivia is dead!' Do not be
grieved for that; it will be the greatest, best release God can give me.
Say, 'Thank God, Olivia is dead!'
"Good-by, my dear friend; good-by, good-by!
"OLIVIA."
The last line was written in a shaken, irregular hand, and her name was
half blotted out, as if a tear had fallen upon it. I remained there
alone on the wild and solitary cliffs until it was time to return to the
steamer.
Tardif was waiting for me at the entrance of the little tunnel through
which the road passes down to the harbor. He did not speak at first, but
he drew out of his pocket an old leather pouch filled with yellow
papers. Among them lay a long curling tress of shining hair. He touched
it gently with his finger, as if it had feeling and consciousness.
"You would like to have it, doctor?" he said.
"Ay," I answered, and that only. I could not venture upon another word.