How should I see that Dr. Martin Dobrée was falling in love with me? I
was blind to it; strangely blind those wise people will think, who say a
woman always knows when a man loves her. I knew so well that all my life
was shut out from the ordinary hopes and prospects of girlhood, that I
never realized the fact that to him I was a young girl whom he might
love honorably, were he once set free from his engagement to his cousin
Julia.
I had not looked for any trouble of that kind. He had been as kind to me
as any brother could have been--kind, and chivalrous, and considerate.
The first time I saw him I was weak and worn out with great pain, and my
mind seemed wandering. His face came suddenly and distinctly before me;
a pleasant face, though neither handsome nor regular in features. It
possessed great vivacity and movement, changing readily, and always full
of expression. He looked at me so earnestly and compassionately, his
dark eyes seeming to search for the pain I was suffering, that I felt
perfect confidence in him at once. I was vaguely conscious of his close
attendance, and unremitting care, during the whole week that I lay ill.
All this placed us on very pleasant terms of familiarity and friendship.
How grieved I was when this friendship came to an end--when he confessed
his unfortunate love to me--it is impossible for me to say. Such a
thought had never crossed my mind. Not until I saw the expression on his
face, when he called to us from the shore to wait for him, and waded
eagerly through the water to us, and held my hands fast as I helped him
into the boat--not till then did I suspect his secret. Poor Martin!
Then there came the moment when I was compelled to say to him. "I was
married four years ago, and my husband is still living"--a very bitter
moment to me; perhaps more bitter than to him. I knew we must see one
another no more; and I who was so poor in friends, lost the dearest of
them by those words. That was a great shock to me.
But the next day came the second shock of meeting Kate Daltrey, my
husband's half-sister. Martin had told me that there was a person in
Guernsey who had traced my flight so far; but in my trouble and sorrow
for him, I had not thought much of this intelligence. I saw in an
instant that I had lost all again, my safety, my home, my new friends. I
must flee once more, alone and unaided, leaving no trace behind me. When
old Mother Renouf, whom Tardif had set to watch me for very fear of this
mischance, had led me away from Kate Daltrey to the cottage, I sought
out Tardif at once.
He was down at the water's edge, mending his boat, which lay with its
keel upward. He heard my footsteps among the pebbles, and turned round
to greet me with one of his grave smiles, which had never failed me
whenever I went to him.
"Mam'zelle is triste," he said; "is there any thing I can do for you?"
"I must go away from here, Tardif," I answered, with a choking voice.
A change swept quickly across his face, but he passed his hand for a
moment over it, and then regarded me again with his grave smile.
"For what reason, mam'zelle?" he asked.
"Oh! I must tell you every thing!" I cried.
"Tell me every thing," he repeated; "it shall be buried here, in my
heart, as if it was buried in the depths of the sea. I will try not to
think of it even, if you bid me. I am your friend as well as your
servant."
Then leaning against his boat, for I could not control my trembling, I
told him almost all about my wretched life, from which God had delivered
me, leading me to him for shelter and comfort. He listened with his eyes
cast down, never once raising them to my face, and in perfect silence,
except that once or twice he groaned within himself, and clinched his
hard hands together. I know that I could never have told my history to
any other man as I told it to him, a homely peasant and fisherman, but
with as noble and gentle a heart as ever beat.
"You must go," he said, when I had finished. His voice was hollow and
broken, but the words were spoken distinctly enough for me to hear them.
"Yes, there is no help for me," I answered; "there is no rest for me but
death."
"It would be better to die," he said, solemnly, "than return to a life
like that. I would sooner bury you up yonder, in our little graveyard,
than give you up to your husband."
"You will help me to get away at once?" I asked.
"At once," he repeated, in the same broken voice. His face looked gray,
and his mouth twitched. He leaned against his boat, as if he could
hardly stand; as I was doing myself, for I felt utterly weak and shaken.
"How soon?" I asked.
"To-morrow I will row you to Guernsey in time for the packet to
England," he answered. Mon Dieu! how little I thought what I was mending
my boat for! Mam'zelle, is there nothing, nothing in the world I can do
for you?"
"Nothing, Tardif," I said, sorrowfully.
"Nothing!" he assented, dropping his head down upon his hands. No, there
was positively nothing he could do for me. There was no person on the
face of the earth who could help me.
"My poor Tardif," I said, laying my hand on his shoulder, "I am a great
trouble to you."
"I cannot bear to let you go in this way," he replied, without looking
up. "If it had been to marry Dr. Martin--why, then--but you have to go
alone, poor little child!"
"Yes," I said, "alone."
After that we were both silent for some minutes. We could hear the
peaceful lapping of the water at our feet, and its boom against the
rocks, and the shrieking of the sea-gulls; but there was utter silence
between us two. I felt as if it would break my heart to leave this
place, and go whither I knew not. Yet there was no alternative.
"Tardif," I said at last, "I will go first to London. It is so large a
place, nobody will find me there. Besides, they would never think of me
going back to London. When I am there I will try to get a situation as
governess somewhere. I could teach little children; and if I go into a
school there will be no one to fall in love with me, like Dr. Martin. I
am very sorry for him."
"Sorry for him!" repeated Tardif.
"Yes, very sorry," I replied; "it is as if I must bring trouble
everywhere. You are troubled, and I cannot help it."
"I have only had one trouble as great," he said, as if to himself, "and
that was when my poor little wife died. I wish to God I could keep you
here in safety, but that is impossible."
"Quite impossible," I answered.
Yet it seemed too bad to be true. What had I done, to be driven away
from this quiet little home into the cold, wide world? Poor and
friendless, after all my father's far-seeing plans and precautions to
secure me from poverty and friendlessness! What was to be my lot in that
dismal future, over the rough threshold of which I must cross to-morrow?
Tardif and I talked it all over that evening, sitting at the
cottage-door until the last gleam of daylight had faded from the sky. He
had some money in hand just then, which he had intended to invest the
next time he went to Guernsey, and could see his notary. This money,
thirty pounds, he urged me to accept as a gift; but I insisted upon
leaving with him my watch and chain in pledge, until I could repay the
money. It would be a long time before I could do that, I knew; for I was
resolved never to return to Richard Foster, and to endure any privation
rather than claim my property.
I left Tardif after a while, to pack up my very few possessions. We did
not tell his mother that I was going, for he said it would be better
not. In the morning he would simply let her know I was going over to
Guernsey. No communication had ever passed between the old woman and me
except by signs, yet I should miss even her in that cold, careless crowd
in which I was about to be lost, in the streets of London.
We started at four in the morning, while the gray sky was dappled over
with soft clouds, and the sea itself seemed waking up from sleep, as if
it too had been slumbering through the night. The morning mist upon the
cliffs made them look mysterious, as if they had some secrets to
conceal. Untrodden tracks climbed the surface of the rocks, and were
lost in the fine filmy haze. The water looked white and milky, with
lines across it like the tracks on the cliffs, which no human foot could
tread; and the tide was coming back to the shore with a low, tranquil,
yet sad moan. The sea-gulls skimmed past us with their white wings,
almost touching us; their plaintive wailing seeming to warn us of the
treachery and sorrow of the sea. I was not afraid of the treachery of
the sea, yet I could not bear to hear them, nor could Tardif.
We landed at one of the stone staircases running up the side of the pier
at Guernsey; for we were only just in time for the steamer. The steps
were slimy and wet with seaweed, but Tardif's hand grasped mine firmly.
He pushed his way through the crowd of idlers who were watching the
lading of the cargo, and took me down immediately into the cabin.
"Good-by, mam'zelle," he said; "I must leave you. Send for me, or come
to me, if you are in trouble and I can do any thing for you. If it were
to Australia, I would follow you. I know I am only fit to be your
servant, but all the same I am your friend. You have a little regard for
me, mam'zelle?"
"O Tardif!" I sobbed, "I love you very dearly."
"Now that makes me glad," he said, holding my hand between his, and
looking down at me with tears in his eyes; "you said that from your good
heart, mam'zelle. When I am out alone in my boat, I shall think of it,
and in the long winter nights by the fire, when there is no little
mam'zelle to come and talk to me, I shall say to myself, 'She loves you
very dearly.' Good-by, mam'zelle. God be with you and protect you!"
"Good-by," I said, with a sore grief in my heart, "good-by, Tardif. It
is very dreadful to be alone again."
There was no time to say more, for a bell rang loudly on deck, and we
heard the cry, "All friends on shore!" Tardif put his lips to my hand,
and left me. I was indeed alone.