A LIGHT-GIVING WORD.
The next morning, before Caius went out, he wrote a short statement of
all that had occurred beside the quicksand. The motive that prompted him
to do this was the feeling that it would be difficult for him to make
the statement to Madame Le Maître verbally. He began to realize that it
was not easy for him to choose the topics of conversation when they were
together.
She did not ride with him next day, as now he knew the road, but in the
course of the morning he saw her at the house where the three children
were ill, and she came out into the keen air with him to ask some
questions, and no doubt for the necessary refreshment of leaving the
close house, for she walked a little way on the dry, frozen grass.
Heavy as was the material of her cloak and hood, the strong wind toyed
with its outer parts as with muslin, but it could not lift the
closely-tied folds that surrounded her face and heavily draped her
figure. Caius stood with her on the frozen slope. Beneath them they
could see the whole stretch of the shining sand-dune that led to the
next island, the calm lagoon and the rough water in the bay beyond. It
did not seem a likely place for outlaws to hide in; the sun poured down
on every hill and hollow of the sand.
Caius explained then that his portmanteaus, with the stores, had arrived
safely; but that he had reason to think that the man O'Shea was not
trusty, that, either out of malice or fear of the companions among whom
he found himself, he had threatened his, Dr. Simpson's, life in the most
unwarrantable manner. He then presented the statement which he had drawn
up, and commended it to her attention.
Madame Le Maître had listened to his words without obvious interest; in
fact, he doubted if she had got her mind off the sick children before
she opened the paper. He would have liked to go away now, leaving the
paper with her, but she did not give him that opportunity.
"Ah! this is----" Then, more understandingly, "This is an account you
have written of your journey hither?"
Caius intimated that it was merely a complaint against O'Shea. Yet he
felt sure, while she was reading it, that, if she had any liveliness of
fancy, she must be interested in its contents, and if she had proper
appreciation, she must know that he had expressed himself well. When she
had finished, however, instead of coveting the possession of the
document, she gently gave it back to him.
"I am sorry," she said sincerely, "that you were put to inconvenience.
It was so kind of you to come, that I had hoped to make your journey as
comfortable as possible; but the sands are very treacherous, not because
the quicksands are large or deep, but because they shift in stormy
weather, sometimes appearing in one place, and sometimes in another. It
has been explained"--she was looking at him now, quite interested in
what she was saying--"by men who have visited these islands, that this
is to be accounted for by the beds of gypsum that lie under the sand,
for under some conditions the gypsum will dissolve."
The explanation concerning the gypsum was certainly interesting, but the
nature of the quicksand was not the point which Caius had brought
forward.
"It is this fact, that one cannot tell where the sand will be soft, that
makes it necessary to have a guide in travelling over the beach. The
people here become accustomed to the appearance of the soft places, but
it seems that O'Shea must have been deceived by the moonlight."
"I do not blame him for the accident," said Caius, "but for what
happened afterwards."
Her slight French accent gave to each of her words a quaint, distinct
form of its own. "O'Shea is--he is what you might call _funny_ in his
way of looking at things." She paused a moment, as if entirely conscious
of the inadequacy of the explanation. "I do not think," she continued,
as if in perplexity, "that I can explain this matter any more; but if
you will talk to O'Shea----"
"Madam," burst out Caius, "can it be that there is a large band of
lawless men who have their haunts so near this island, and you do not
know of it? That," he added, with emphatic reproach, "is impossible."
"I never heard of any such band of men."
Madame Le Maître spoke gently, and the dignity of her gentleness was
such that Caius was ashamed of his vehemence and his reproach. What he
wondered at, what he chafed at, was, that she showed no wonder
concerning an incident which her last statement made all the more
remarkable. She began to turn to go towards the house, and the mind of
Caius hit upon the one weak point in her own acknowledged view of the
matter.
"You have said that it is not safe for a stranger to walk upon the sands
without a guide; if you doubt my statement that these men threatened my
life, it yet remains that I was left to finish my journey alone. I do
not believe that there was danger myself. I do not believe that a man
would sink over his head in these holes; but according to their belief
and yours, madam----"
He stopped, for she had turned round with a distinct flash of
disapproval in her eyes.
"I do not doubt your statement." She paused, and he knew that his
accusation had been rude. "It would not occur to me"--there was still
the slight quaintness of one unaccustomed to English--"that you could do
anything unworthy of a gentleman." Another pause, and Caius knew that he
was bound over to keep the peace. "I think O'Shea got himself into
trouble, and that he did the best he could for you; but O'Shea lives not
far from your own house. He is not my servant, except that he rents my
husband's land." She paused again.
Caius would have urged that he had understood otherwise, or that
hitherto he had not found O'Shea either civil or communicative; but it
appeared that the lady had something more to say after her emphasis of
pause, and when she said it Caius bid her good-day without making
further excuse or justification. She said:
"I did not understand from O'Shea that he allowed you to walk on the
sands without some one who would have warned you if there had been
danger."
When Caius was riding on his way, he experienced something of that
feeling of exaltation that he had felt in the presence of his
inexplicable lady-love. Had he not proof at least now that she was no
dream or phantasy, and more than that, that she inhabited the same small
land with him? These people knew her; nay (his mind worked quickly), was
it not evident that she had been the link of connection between them and
himself? She knew him, then--his home, his circumstances, his address.
(His horse was going now where and how it would; the man's mind was
confounded by the questions that came upon it pell-mell, none waiting
for an answer.) In that other time when she had lived in the sea, and he
had seen her from the desolate bit of coast, who was she? Where had she
really lived? In what way could she have gained her information
concerning him? What could have tempted her to play the part of a fishy
thing? He remembered the monstrous skin that had covered her; he
remembered her motion in the water. Then he thought of her in the gray
homespun dress, such as a maid might trip her garden in, as he had seen
her travelling between the surf and the dune in the winter blast. Well,
he lived in an enchanted land; he had to deal with men and women of no
ordinary stuff and make, but they acknowledged their connection with
her. He was sure that she must be near him. The explanation must
come--of that, burning with curiosity as he was, he recked little. A
meeting must come; all his pulses tingled with the thought. It was a
thought of such a high sort of bliss to him that it seemed to wrap and
enfold his other thoughts; and when he remembered again to guide his
horse--all that day as he went about his work--he lived in it and worked
in it.
He went that evening to visit O'Shea, who lived in a good-sized house
half a mile or so from his own. From this interview, and from the clue
which Madame Le Maître had given, he began strongly to suspect that, for
some reason unknown, O'Shea's threatenings were to be remembered more in
the light of a practical joke than as serious. As to where the men had
come from who had played their part, as to where the boy had gone to, or
whether the boy and the lady were one--on these heads he got no light.
The farmer affected stupidity--affected not to understand his questions,
or answered them with such whimsical information on the wrong point that
little was revealed. Yet Caius did not quarrel with O'Shea. Was it not
possible that he, rude, whimsical man that he was, might have influence
with the sea-maid of the laughing face?
Next morning Caius received a formal message--the compliments of Madame
Le Maître, and she would be glad if he would call upon her before he
went elsewhere. He passed again between the growling mastiffs, and found
the lady with her maidens engaged in the simple household tasks that
were necessary before they went to their work of mercy. Madame Le Maître
stood as she spoke to him:
"When I wrote to you I said that if you came to us you would have no
chance of returning until the spring. I find that that is not true. Our
winter has held off so long that another vessel from the mainland has
called--you can see her lying in the bay. She will be returning to
Picton to-morrow. I think it right to tell you this; not that we do not
need you now as much as we did at first; not but that my hope and
courage would falter if you went; but now that you have seen the need
for yourself, how great or how little it is, just as you may think, you
ought to reconsider, and decide whether you will stay or not."
Caius spoke hastily:
"I will stay."
"Think! it is for four months of snow and ice, and you will receive no
letters, see no one that you could call a friend."
"I will stay."
"You have already taught me much; with the skill that you have imparted
and the stores that you have brought, which I will pay for, we should be
much better off than if you had not come. We should still feel only
gratitude to you."
"I have no thought of leaving."
"Remember, you think now that you have come that it is only a handful of
people that you can benefit, and they will not comprehend the sacrifice
that you have made, or be very grateful."
"Yes, I think that," replied Caius, admitting her insight. "At the same
time, I will remain."
She sighed, and her sigh was explained by her next words:
"Yet you do not remain for love of the work or the people."
Caius felt that his steady assertion that he would remain had perhaps
appeared to vaunt a heroism that was not true. He supposed that she had
seen his selfishness of motive, and that it was her time now to let him
see that she had not much admiration for him, so that he might make his
choice without bias.
"It is true that I do not love the people, but I will pass the winter
here."
If the lady had had the hard thought of him that he attributed to her,
there was no further sign of it, for she thanked him now with a
gratitude so great that silent tears trembled in her eyes.