DEVOTION.
"There glides a step through the foliage thick,
And her cheek grows pale and her heart beats quick,
There whispers a voice through the rustling leaves,
And her blush returns, and her bosom heaves;
A moment more--and they shall meet.
'Tis past--her lover's at her feet."
_Parasina_.--BYRON.
After visiting all the accessible parts of the island Jean satisfied
himself that it was useless to search further in them for traces of the
strangers. Persons so remarkable could not, it was clear, conceal
themselves from the knowledge of the inhabitants. He must therefore
either admit that the monk's surmise was correct, or must search in
quarters hitherto unexplored. Though his rejection of the former
alternative was a foregone conclusion, his adoption of the latter was a
remarkable proof of the strength of his passion. There was only one
district unexplored, and that was practically unapproachable.
Early in the sixth century some piratical vessels had entered Rocquaine
Bay in a shattered condition; the crews succeeded in landing, but the
ships, for seagoing purposes, were beyond repair. The pirates penetrated
inland, driving out the inhabitants from Torteval and some of the
adjoining valleys. Here they settled; and being skilled in hunting and
fishing, having a fair knowledge of husbandry, and finding the position
peculiarly adapted for their marauding pursuits, throve and prospered:
so much so that when, some years afterwards, they had an opportunity of
leaving, the majority elected to remain. Their descendants had continued
to occupy the same district. Who they were, whether pure Northmen or of
some mixed race, it would be idle to conjecture: they were originally
put down by the islanders as Sarrazins, that being the name under which
the simple people classed all pirates; the strangers, however, resented
this description, and had consequently come to be spoken of as Les
Voizins, a definition to which no exception could be taken. Hardy and
warlike, quick of temper and rough of speech, they had an undisputed
ascendancy over the natives, to whom, though dangerous if provoked, they
had often given powerful aid in times of peril. On the whole they made
not bad neighbours, but a condition was imposed by them the violation
of which was never forgiven: no native was permitted, under any pretext,
to enter their territory; death was the sure fate of an intruder found
in Rocquaine Bay or setting foot in the Voizin hills or valleys.
Whatever may have been the cause of this regulation the result had been
to keep the race as pure as it was on the day of the first landing.
Now it was in the Terre des Voizins that Jean had resolved to seek his
beloved, and his resolution was unalterable. He knew the danger; he
wished to avoid death if possible; he meant to employ to the full the
resources at his command; foolhardy as his enterprise seemed it was long
and carefully planned. He knew that in the summer evenings it was the
custom of the Voizin women to visit the sunny shores of the bay: this he
had seen from Lihou; could he then succeed in landing unperceived, and
in concealing himself in one of the many clefts of the rocks, he felt
sure that if the well-known form were there he would descry it; what
would follow afterwards was a question which had taken many fantastic
shapes in his imagination, none of which had assumed a definite form.
Towards the close of July the conditions were favourable for his
attempt. In the night a strong tide would be running into the bay; the
wind was south-westerly, the moon set early. He prepared to start. He
had selected a small and light boat, which would travel fast under his
powerful strokes, and might be so handled as not to attract attention;
in it he had stored provisions which would last for a few days and a
small cask of fresh water. Towards evening he shaped his course for
Lihou.
He had seen but little of the monk since the day of the feast, but he
was yearning to see him now. His love for the man, his reverence for the
truths he taught, his thought of his own future if he lost his life in
his rash expedition, all urged him to seek a parting interview.
The brothers received him affectionately and bade him join their frugal
meal. The monks were five in number: they had been six, but one had
recently been drowned while returning from a pious mission to Herm. Jean
knew them all; they were honest, God-fearing men, trustful and truthful.
If their reasoning powers were not great, their faith was unswerving.
Their life was a prolonged asceticism, and they had fair reason to
expect that martyrdom would be their earthly crown.
The only exceptional feature of the repast was the appearance of one who
had never yet been seated there in Jean's presence; this guest was the
hermit who dwelt on the extreme point, against which the Atlantic waves
dashed in their fiercest fury. The recluse did not seem to cultivate the
duty of abstemiousness, but he maintained silence. Jean could not
forbear furtively scanning his appearance, which was indeed remarkable.
He would have been of large stature in any country; compared with the
natives his proportions were gigantic. His broad shoulders and muscular
arms betokened enormous strength; his hair and beard were fair; his blue
eyes had a clear, frank, expression; there was firmness of purpose in
his massive jaw; he seemed between forty and fifty, and would have been
strikingly handsome but for three deep scars which totally marred the
expression of his features. As Jean eyed him he returned the compliment,
but the meal was soon over and the youth accompanied Father Austin to
his cell.
There a long and sleepless night was passed by both. The monk in vain
endeavoured to combat Jean's resolution; he argued, prayed, indeed
threatened, but without effect. Finding his efforts hopeless he
abandoned them, and endeavoured to fortify his charge against the
influence of the spell under which he believed him to have fallen. Then
the young man was again the pupil; he listened humbly and reverently to
the repetition of the great truths which the father strove to rivet on
his mind, and joined earnestly in the prayers for truth and constancy.
As daylight broke, and he at length laid himself down to rest, his
latest vision was that of the good man kneeling by him with that rapt
look of contemplation which seemed to foreshadow his immortality.
Jean slept profoundly for some hours. When night began to fall he
received Austin's blessing, no further reference being made to his
expedition, and when the moon was on the eve of disappearance he
launched his boat. As he rounded Lihou point another boat shot out, the
occupant of which hailed him. Recognizing the hermit, Jean paused. "You
steer wrong," said the giant, speaking with an accent which at once
reminded his hearer of that of the maiden; "your course is to the rising
sun." "I go where I will," replied Jean, nettled at this unlooked-for
interruption. "Youth," answered the other, "I have watched thee and wish
thee well! rush not heedlessly to certain death!" "Stay me not!"
resolutely answered Jean, wondering at the interest taken in him by this
strange being. "Thou knowest not!" said the hermit sternly; "it is not
only from death I wish to save thee, but from worse than death; I tell
thee I--" He checked himself, as if fearful of saying too much, and bent
his eyes searchingly into those of Jean, who murmured simply, "I am
resolved." "Then God help thee and speed thee!" said the giant. Glancing
into the boat he saw one of the curved and pierced shells then, as now,
used by Guernsey seamen as signal-horns: pointing to it he said, "If in
peril, where a blast may be heard on Lihou, sound the horn twice: it is
a poor hope but may serve thee!" He was gone.
Jean paddled into the dreaded bay; the moon had now sunk and he was
further favoured by a slight mist. Knowing the tides from infancy, he
worked his way noiselessly till he approached where the Voizin fleet
lay, then laid himself down and let the current take him. He passed
several boats in safety; as far as he could judge, from the observations
he had taken from Lihou, he was nearly past the anchorage when a crash,
succeeded by a grating sound, warned him of danger. A curse, followed by
an ejaculation of surprise and pleasure, enlightened him as to the
nature of the collision: he was in contact with one of the anchored
vessels. "Odin is good!" cried a voice; "ha! a skiff drifted from a
wrecked vessel! and all eyes but mine sleeping!" The speaker threw over
a small anchor and grappled the boat. Jean was prepared; without a
moment's hesitation he cut the anchor-rope: his craft drifted onwards,
leaving the fisherman grumbling at the rottenness of his tackle. He
offered a short prayer of gratitude, and in a few minutes ventured
cautiously to resume his oars. He heard the breaking of the waves, but
seamanship on the unknown and indistinct coast was useless. Two sharp
blows, striking the boat in rapid succession, told him that he had
touched a submerged rock; the strong tide carried him off it, but the
water poured in through a gaping rent. He was now, however, on a sandy
bottom: he sprang out, pulled the boat up as far as possible, and sat
down to wait for light.
The first break of dawn showed him his position: he was facing
northward; he was therefore on the Hanois arm of the bay. Fortune had
indeed been kind to him, for he had drifted into a small cleft sheltered
by precipitous rocks, a place where concealment was fairly possible, as
it was accessible only by land at the lowest tides. He examined his
store of provisions, which was uninjured; storing it among the rocks he
rested till the sun sank. He then cautiously climbed the cliff, and
looked on the scene revealed by the moonlight. Seawards stood a rough
round tower; no other building was visible on the point, which seemed
deserted. The loneliness gave him courage; when the moon set, the night
being clear, he explored further and satisfied himself that there were
no human beings, except the occupants of the tower, living on these
rocks. He retired to his hiding-place to rest; before dawn he again
ascended and concealed himself among the bracken and brambles which
formed the only available shelter. During the whole day he saw but one
person, an elderly woman, whose dark features and bright kerchief showed
her to be of southern or gipsy origin, and who passed backwards and
forwards carrying water to the tower. His examination increased his
confidence; he calculated, by measuring the time occupied by the old
woman in passing with an empty and returning with a full pitcher, that
the spring frequented by her could not be far distant; at night he
found it just beyond the junction of the rocks with the mainland. The
water was cool and fresh, and considerably revived him; he noticed too
that the luxuriant brushwood, nourished by the moisture, offered a good
place for concealment; he returned, removed thither what remained of his
provisions, and ensconced himself in his new retreat.
In the morning he saw two figures approaching from the tower; one was
the same servant he had seen before, but the other!--his heart throbbed
and leaped, his brain reeled, his eyes gazed hungrily; he could not be,
he was not, mistaken!--the second figure was the heroine of his dreams!
She walked silently. Jean saw that memory had not played him false: her
beauty, her grace, were no freak of his imagination; would the holy
father now say that she was a devil, while thus she moved in her
loveliness, a woman to be loved and worshipped!--a very woman, too! not
above the cares of life! Seating herself by the spring she despatched
her companion on an errand to supply domestic wants, promising to await
her return.
Jean's principal characteristic was rapid resolution: he reasoned that a
small alarm might make the girl fly; that his chance of retaining her
was an overpowering shock. He stepped boldly out and stood before her.
The maiden sprang quickly to her feet; there was no terror in her face;
she was of true blood; if she was afraid she did not show it; it was
clear she recognized the apparition, but intense surprise, overpowering
other emotions, kept her dumb. Jean had thus the chance of speaking
first, and deftly he used his opportunity. In a few rapid sentences he
told the tale of his search, of his adventures, of his selection of his
hiding-place; then he paused. The maiden was not long in finding words.
There was a flush on her cheek and a tear hanging on her eyelash which
made Jean very happy. "You must go," she said, "but where? Your life is
forfeit! forfeit to the Gods!" She shuddered as she said this. "In
yonder tower lives my mother, on the shore are my people; there is no
escape on either hand! A chance has saved you hitherto; none dare
approach our home without my mother's permission, which is rarely given;
but on this spot they may find you, may seize you, may--!" She stopped,
with an expression of horror, and covered her face with her hands.
But Jean was not anxious; he was radiant with happiness. He seated
himself and spoke of love, deep passionate love; so gentle was he, so
soft, so courteous, and yet so ardent, that the maiden trembled; when he
dared to take her hand she did not withdraw it. The moment of bliss was
brief; a step was heard. "Hide yourself quickly," she whispered, "Tita
is returning." Jean promptly obeyed the injunction. The old woman
arrived with a well-filled wallet, and looked fondly at her young
mistress. The signs of recent agitation struck her. "What has befallen
thee, Hilda?" she cried anxiously. The girl took her arm and led her
seawards. Jean, watching, could see the start and angry expression of
the older, the coaxing, pleading attitude of the younger woman; he could
satisfy himself that the resistance of the former was gradually being
overcome, and as they returned he saw that the maiden's victory was
indisputable. She summoned Jean, who was inspected by Tita at first with
distrust, then with modified approval. "You must stay here," said the
maiden earnestly, "closely hidden till nightfall; my absence has been
already sufficiently long, and nothing can be done while daylight
lasts." Bidding him farewell she sped with her guardian towards the
tower, while Jean retired to his bushes a prey to fond thoughts and
feverish hopes.
Before sundown he saw the tall figure of the sorceress wending
landwards. She did not approach the spring. Hilda quickly followed with
her former companion. "We have a long journey," she said, "and short
time: we must start at once." Removing all traces of his lair he obeyed
without hesitation. They ascended the steep cliff. The night was clear,
the moon at this hour was bright and lustrous. "We have three hours,"
said the maiden, "ere we leave our guest!"--she looked archly at Jean as
she thus described him--"it should suffice!" They were now on the
heights of Pleinmont; no one was moving, though voices of men and beasts
could be plainly heard in the distance. "They feast to-night to the
Gods," said Hilda; "we need fear only some belated laggard!" The heather
was not yet springing, but Jean could see that gorse was on the bloom,
which he considered a favourable omen: they stepped out bravely on the
short springy turf. Tita's steps were slower than those of the young
pair, who were deaf to her calls for delay. Never to his dying day did
Jean forget that happy night-walk. His soul was poured out in love, and
he knew that his love was returned. He was steeped to the full in joy;
no thought of future cares or perils crossed his mind. They had passed
three or four headlands before the girl halted and waited for her
attendant, who came up muttering to herself and grumbling; compliments
from Jean and caresses from Hilda restored her good humour, and the work
of the evening commenced. "Follow me closely," said the girl; "let your
eye be keen and your step firm: the descent is no child's sport." Jean
looked at the cliff, fitted for the flight of gull or cormorant rather
than the foot of man, still less of gentle maiden: Hilda was already
over the brink: Jean, following, saw that she was on a path no broader
than a goat's track; the difficulties of the descent need not be
described; it was possible for a clear head and practised foot, to the
nervous or the unsteady the attempt must have been fatal. Arrived at
the bottom the climbers found themselves in a small cleft strewn with
huge boulders; the rocks towered high above them. Hilda glanced at the
moon. "We must be quick," said she, showing him some deep caverns in the
rock; "there," she said, "is your home. Here you are safe; my mother
alone knows the secret of these caves. I must mount again; you must
climb with me to mark the path more closely." She sprang to the rock and
commenced to ascend as nimbly as she had come down. Jean saw the
necessity of taking every precaution; he noted carefully each feature of
the track. Arrived at the summit she bade him farewell. She pointed out
a place where Tita would from time to time leave him provisions, and
said that he would find water in the caves; she then tripped quickly
off. Jean did not linger, seeing that if he did so light would fail him
for his return. He crossed the track for the third time, reached the
caves, and slept soundly till dawn.
When he awoke he inspected his strange retreat. He was in a large hall,
two hundred feet long, and some fifty feet high and broad; this chamber
was entered by a small orifice of no great length, through which he had
passed on the preceding night; it was warm, and dry except where the
stream of which Hilda had spoken trickled through to the sea. It was the
fissure now known as the Creux Mahie, and to which an easy access has
been arranged for the benefit of the curious. Here Jean passed three
months. Hilda frequently visited him, and always kept him supplied with
food; she warned him also when he might safely roam on the cliffs above.
There was no obstacle to her visits, even when they extended to a
considerable length, as the mother seemed always to be satisfied as to
her absences when Tita accompanied her; and the latter, whose
infirmities prevented her from descending, had no means of shortening
the interviews.
Thus the lovers had opportunity to study each other's characters. The
maiden's pure heart knew no distrust, and Jean was faithful and
chivalrous as Sir Galahad. They spoke not always of love: words were
unnecessary to explain what every look betokened. Jean found her skilled
in strange, mystical, lore, but ignorant of all that sways and rules
mankind. The history of the selfish struggles of human interests and
passions was to her a sealed book. She had been carefully shrouded from
the knowledge of evil; but, in order to protect her in the rough
turbulent little world in which she lived, it had been necessary to keep
her from association with her countrymen, and so she had never mingled
with them except under the charge of her mother, in whose presence the
fiercest were submissive. Jean, therefore, in speaking to her of family
intercourse, of the intermingling of members of the household, of
bright chat with friends, opened up to her views of life of which she
had formed no conception. Then he told her of his own people; described
the three generations living under one roof; depicted the daily round,
the care of the old and the young, the work, the return of the workers
to their wives, sisters, and children, the love of the mothers for their
infants, the reverence for age, the strong mutual affection of husband
and wife, brother and sister. To these descriptions she listened with a
happy smile, the mission of woman dawning on her; and many were the
questions she asked, till she seemed to have mastered the pictures
painted for her. Above all, Jean strained to bring her to the knowledge
of the God of the Christian, for he himself was an earnest, intelligent
disciple. He found her mind clearer than he had expected. Judith (this
he now knew was the mother's name) was a remarkable woman; her mind was
lofty, if darkened. While others were satisfied with the grossness of a
material creed her spirit soared aloft. Her Gods commanded her implicit
faith, her unswerving allegiance. Seated on the storm-clouds, sweeping
through space, they represented to her infinite force. She attributed to
them no love for mankind, which was in her creed rather their plaything,
but she credited them with the will and the power to scatter good and
ill before they claimed the soul of the hero to their fellowship, or
cast into a lower abyss that of the coward or the traitor. She believed
that she saw their giant forms half bending from their vapoury thrones,
and she thought that she read their decrees. Sorceress she may have
been; in those days sorcery was attributed to many who had obtained a
knowledge of laws of nature, then considered occult, now recognized
among the guiding principles from which scientific deductions are drawn.
She believed in the power of magic, which she was universally understood
to possess; but she was no vulgar witch: rather was she a worthy
priestess of her not ignoble deities. The effect upon Hilda's mind of
the teachings of such a woman is easy to conceive. She had been allowed
to know little of the wild orgies of the barbaric feasts offered to the
Gods by her countrymen, of their brutal excesses, of their human
sacrifices: from this knowledge she had been as far as possible
shielded: she knew only of the dim mystic beings, half men, half Gods,
from whose wrath she shrank with terror. To a mind so constituted and
trained the revelation of the story of the infant Christ was a
passionate pleasure. She never tired of listening to the tale of the
birth in the stable of Bethlehem; but she loved not to dwell on the
history of the passion and death, which was at that time beyond her
understanding. She drank in with parted lips all that concerned the Holy
Mother, of whom she was never weary of hearing. Jean had a rude drawing
of the Madonna and Child, given him by Father Austin: the figures had
the angularity and rigidity of Byzantine art, but the artist had
represented his subject with reverence, and no lack of skill, and she
loved to dwell on the pure mother's face, and on the longing look in the
eyes of the Child. She accepted wholly the idea of a God who loved
mankind, of infinite goodness and mercy: if she could not as yet enter
into the subtlety of doctrine she could give that childlike faith which
is the envy of doctrinarians.