Marguerite De Roberval Part 19

But there were difficulties in the way. Cartier had disposed of his s.h.i.+ps, and taken up his permanent residence at Limoilou. To purchase a new vessel would cost money; and Charles, ever prodigal, had but small means that he could call his own. On Cartier he depended for help; but that shrewd seaman knew how the enterprise must end, and instead of putting his hand into his money-bag, he did his utmost to dissuade La Pommeraye from his purpose.

Finding, however, that his friend had determined on the journey, he at length got several St Malo merchants to join with him in fitting out a small craft of fifty tons, ostensibly for the fur trade. The vessel was an old one, but had several times weathered the Atlantic, and a number of her old crew expressed themselves willing to join La Pommeraye if he would offer them a sufficient wage. He had hard work, however, in getting together six trusty fellows, who, with Etienne and himself, would undertake the winter journey. But by the beginning of December all was ready, and the little vessel, amid shaking of heads and prophecies of misfortune from the knowing ones, steered away for the Channel, and out towards the Atlantic, where even then a storm was raging.

But they were to meet with disappointment at the very beginning of their voyage. The masts creaked and groaned; the planks quivered; the oak.u.m became loose in the seams; and on the second day out it was found that the vessel had sprung a leak. Pump as they would, they could not lessen the water in the hold; and though La Pommeraye would fain have held on his way, discretion compelled him to turn his vessel's head about, and run for the port he had just left.

When he reached harbour, the deck of the s.h.i.+p was almost to the water's edge. There was nothing to do but to run her ash.o.r.e. When the water was pumped out of her, it was found that she was in a badly strained condition, and that several planks in her hull were completely worm-eaten. She had to be drawn up high and dry, and carpenters set to work to give her a thorough overhauling. By the time she was again ready for sea, the January snows had begun to whiten the fields about St Malo.

Nothing daunted, La Pommeraye determined to venture again, and Etienne stood by him; but when they came to look for their crew, they found that the fellows had all fled St Malo, and could not be found. No other men were willing to take their places; and through the winter, La Pommeraye, like one distraught, went up and down the streets seeking seamen. But none would join his expedition. The inhabitants of the town came to look upon him as mad, and wondered what evil influence there could be in the New World dragging him to it. Even the merchants regretted the money put into the venture; but Cartier would not let them withdraw.

It was not until spring that the _Marie_, for so the little craft was called, was ready for sea, fully manned once more. Just when the March showers were beginning to rejuvenate the earth she drew away from the town; and Cartier, who stood on the wall watching her go forth, wondered what the end would be. It could only be tragic. No company could live through two dreary winters on a lonely island without losing some of their number, and he doubted not that all were dead. He half regretted, as he watched his friend's sail drop down beneath the horizon, that he had not gone with him. But the three disappointments the New World had already given him made him dread its sh.o.r.es, and he shuddered as he thought of the gruesome tidings which must await La Pommeraye on that lonely northern isle. He shuddered, too, as he thought of De Roberval.

Fate is sometimes slow-footed, but he felt certain that it must at last rush with unerring speed to the destruction of the man who had wrecked so many lives.

La Pommeraye kept on every st.i.tch of canvas his little s.h.i.+p would carry, and after four weeks' sailing, before a favouring breeze, the southern coast of Newfoundland was reached. So far, they had had no trying weather, and their hearts beat high with hope that their journey would end without mishap. They ran into the harbour of St John, replenished their almost empty water-casks, and then started on their final trip towards the Isle of Demons.

But April is a treacherous month. It had been up to this time summer-like, with a hot sun and gentle southern breezes. Now the wind s.h.i.+fted to the north; the clouds crept across the sky leaden and low; a heavy snowfall descended upon them; and it seemed that winter was returning. Charles was only the more anxious to reach the island, and crowded on canvas. But the bending masts and cras.h.i.+ng seas finally made him reef his sails, and his little s.h.i.+p for several days beat her difficult way northward. La Pommeraye himself spent most of his time in the crosstrees, keeping an anxious lookout for his destination. It seemed to him that he would never reach it; and the storm, which had increased instead of diminis.h.i.+ng as the days went on, threatened to swamp his vessel. The sailing-master besought him to turn about and run for the harbour of St John. He saw that he would be compelled to do so; but before giving the command, he once more went aloft and scanned the broken, misty horizon. His keen eye soon discerned a dark spot, which appeared and disappeared as the _Marie_ rose and fell on the waves.

Nearer it drew, and to his unutterable joy he saw a pillar of smoke rise from it, and, growing in volume, spread in a mighty cloud over the waters.

"It is they! They live!" shouted La Pommeraye, and sliding down a backstay, seized his sailing-master's arm, and pointed to the hopeful signal.

The sailors saw it, too. They knew the island, and crossed themselves fearfully as they gazed upon what they believed to be the smoke of the pit. To all except Etienne and La Pommeraye it seemed as if they were rus.h.i.+ng recklessly upon destruction. As if to b.u.t.tress their fears, the stormy north-east wind blew with redoubled fury, and wave after wave swept over the s.h.i.+p, threatening to crush in their decks. The island was now within a mile of them, and the pillar of smoke still rose, beckoning them onward. But La Pommeraye's hopes were to be dashed to the ground. A wave mightier than its fellows broke against the high bows, and catching the _Marie_ amids.h.i.+ps, sent tons of water on her decks. Before she could recover and throw it off, a succession of similar waves rolled in upon her, and all seemed lost.

"Our only hope," cried the sailing-master, "is to 'bout s.h.i.+p, and run before the wind. No vessel could anchor in this storm, even if we did reach yon island; and unless the gale lessens, we must sooner or later be swamped."

There was nothing else for it, and La Pommeraye unwillingly consented.

The little craft was with difficulty brought about. Every sc.r.a.p of canvas was lowered, and she went scudding along under bare poles, with the huge seas climbing high about her lofty p.o.o.p, seeking to drown her.

When Marguerite saw the vessel which had been bearing down upon her begin to recede, her heart failed her altogether. They had seen her signal, and yet they were deserting her. For months she had watched in vain; at last her hope seemed about to be realised; and when she saw it vanish she was left more desolate than ever. Gladly at that moment would she have welcomed death; and indeed it could not long delay now. Her ammunition was exhausted; she was living princ.i.p.ally on the eggs of the sh.o.r.e birds and the fish which she was once more able to procure occasionally. But such precarious means could not last long; it was only a question of time.

She sat on the cliff, unheeding the storm which beat about her head and scattered the embers of her fire. The anguish of her position forced itself upon her. To be left on the island meant a slow and torturing death; and yet, had she been rescued, she must have left behind her all that she had loved. She prayed that she might die at once.

But Heaven had ordered otherwise. Life and hope were to return to her; her imprisonment was nearly over.

La Pommeraye's vessel drove before the gale until the high cliffs of St John's harbour loomed up before her. They were a welcome sight, for the little craft had been so strained by the struggle against the storm, that she had sprung a leak, and it was with difficulty that the sailors kept the water in the hold from gaining on them. But within the harbour the waters were comparatively calm; and when the anchor was cast, a careful examination showed that the leak was immediately above the water-line, and could be easily remedied. All through the night the wind howled through the rigging; and all through the night La Pommeraye, unable to rest, paced the deck like a caged tiger. On the following morning the storm still raged, and it was not till the next day that they were able to make for the open sea. The wind had now s.h.i.+fted to the south, and a gentle breeze was rippling the surface of the giant rollers over which they plunged on their northward way.

Four days had elapsed since Marguerite had seen the vessel disappear; and four terrible days she had spent, roaming like one demented over her island prison. All day she heard the voices of the demons calling from every cliff and cave, and at night they beat upon the walls of her cabin, and seemed to keep up a fierce, demoniacal laughter over the graves on the hillside. Had it not been for Francois, she would have rushed into the great green waves which rolled up on the sh.o.r.e, bent on her own destruction; but the presence of the faithful creature, who followed her about from cliff to cliff, as she looked east and west, north and south, over the waste of waters; who sat by with pathetic wonder as she lay stretched at length upon her loved ones' graves; who guarded her through the darkness while the demons were howling above her abode--saved her from herself. She longed for death; she would have shrunk from the thought of leaving the island where Claude lay, but the principle of life which would not die demanded that she should save herself if it were possible. And while she prayed for death to come, she strained her eyes in the hope of seeing some approaching sail.

At last the storm abated. The waves still climbed the island reaches, but the warm breeze told her that the time of danger was past. A hope which would not be crushed out whispered to her that the vessel she had seen had been on its way to the island, and as the storm went down, the same wild hope suggested to her that it would come back. Till darkness fell she gazed, and when day broke she stood on the "lookout," scanning the far horizon. At last she was rewarded. A dim, white speck stood out against the clear sky. Swiftly it approached. Gradually the white sails showed distinct, then the black hull appeared, and there, before her, lay a vessel of her own land--a vessel from La Belle France. She moved not, nor spoke, and by her side sat Francois on his haunches, as motionless as herself. A cannon boomed from the s.h.i.+p, and its echoes awoke a myriad birds, which flew screaming across the waves, or plunged into the ocean. It was a strange sound to Marguerite--a voice from her old home, calling her back to life.

With joy La Pommeraye had sighted once more the rocky point of land upon the horizon. But a keen pang of disappointment seized him when he looked in vain for the signal which had told him there was yet life on the island. Could they have perished in the storm? Could his approach, when they were on the verge of the grave, have served only to tantalise them, and make the end the harder? Such thoughts beat in his brain, as he vainly watched for any sign of life.

At last Etienne touched his arm.

"Look, Monsieur, they live! There stand two figures on yonder cliff."

As he spoke, all eyes turned towards the projecting spur, and as the keen-visioned sailors caught sight of Marguerite and her uncouth companion, they fell on their knees and crossed themselves in holy awe.

La Pommeraye quickly had the sails run down and the anchor dropped; and before Marguerite could leave her station, the gun boomed forth its welcome.

Down to the beach she went to meet the approaching boat, and even La Pommeraye was awed when he saw her figure coming towards him.

Her clothes had been patched and mended till it was impossible to mend them any longer, and they now hung in tatters about her. Her hair, once so black and glossy, was streaked with white, and her face wore the look of one who has known all that life has to give of joy and of sorrow, and who has walked in the presence of death as with a friend. By her side shambled the young bear, a s.h.a.ggy, ferocious-looking monster, enough of itself to strike terror to the hearts of the amazed sailors. The men in the boat lost their courage, and their nerveless hands refused to grasp the oars. But the stern, commanding voice of La Pommeraye restored their presence of mind. The boat's keel grated on the rocks, and La Pommeraye leaped ash.o.r.e and fell on his knees before the pale ghost of the woman he had loved so faithfully, and followed through half the world.

"Mademoiselle!" he said, but he could get no further. His heart had risen in his throat, and was choking him. She, too, stood like one stunned, her knees trembling, her brain swimming. She would have fallen, but that she took his extended hand to support herself.

The bear had been growling uneasily at her side, and when he saw La Pommeraye's hand touch his mistress, he gave a savage growl, and was about to spring upon the intruder. Marguerite bade him down, and the obedient creature crouched at her feet.

"Mademoiselle has a strange guardian," said La Pommeraye, who had risen at the animal's approach.

"He has kept me alive, Monsieur. But for him I should have gone mad, or cast myself into the sea."

"Where are your companions?"

La Pommeraye shuddered as he asked the question, but he could keep it back no longer.

"It is well with them," she answered calmly; "they sleep behind yonder hill."

"Dead?" exclaimed La Pommeraye, beneath his breath.

"All dead," was her quiet reply.

"And yet you live! How long have you endured the loneliness of this dreary spot?"

"Claude died before the snows fell, and since then Francois and I have lived I know not how. I have tried to die, but Heaven has been too kind."

La Pommeraye turned away his head, and the sobs he could no longer restrain shook him from head to foot. He struggled for self-control. At last he turned to her, and took her hand to lead her to the boat.

"Your old servant, Etienne Brule, is with me," he said. "He waits in the boat for you. He will look after you while I collect whatever may be in your hut."

But she drew back a little from him.

"Monsieur, I cannot----" and for the first time her voice faltered. "I cannot leave my dead!"

Even at that moment Charles was conscious of a fierce throb at his heart, as he realised that the woman he loved had irrevocably, for life and for death, given her life to his friend.

As she spoke she turned, and led him past the hut, and up the hill to the little group of graves. The hour of utter separation had come, and she could say nothing. La Pommeraye felt that a word from him would be sacrilege. Silent she stood there, torn between the fearful pang of parting, and the realisation that she must go. At last her will conquered, and she turned to La Pommeraye, saying simply: "I am ready, Monsieur."

Of the fourth who slept in that lonely hillside cemetery she said not a word. The young life had come into being, and had pa.s.sed away again, there, in this desert spot, amidst the trackless wastes of ocean, unknown to any save the two whose souls it had for ever linked indissolubly. Why should the world be told? The island would keep her secret; and no one in France should ever learn that her child and Claude's lay at rest in his father's grave.

She kneeled and kissed the stones which marked the spot; and then, without one backward look, she followed La Pommeraye to the hut.

There was little to take with her--the bearskin rug which had been her salvation through the bitter winter, and one or two precious personal trifles which were all that were left of her dead. La Pommeraye's heart was bursting within him as he saw how she had lived, and guessed what she must have endured. In silence they went down to the sh.o.r.e.

"Poor Francois!" Marguerite said, throwing her arms about the neck of the faithful beast. "Poor Francois!" and there was a world of meaning in her tone.

Soon they were ready to leave the island; and the wondering sailors, who knew nothing of her story--for Etienne had kept a sacred silence--shuddered as she stepped into the boat.

When the bear saw his mistress deserting him he leaped into the water, and tried to swim after her. Becoming wearied with the effort, however, he was obliged to give it up and swim back to the sh.o.r.e, where he paced up and down the beach with his rolling, awkward gait, his eyes fixed on the retreating boat.

As the s.h.i.+p sailed away, the sailors could see his white form standing in melancholy solitude on the highest point of the cliff. When the vessel was but a speck in the distance, he turned his eyes sh.o.r.eward, and saw a seal basking in the sun. Stealthily he crept down the cliff and along the sh.o.r.e, his huge claws sank into the neck of the unsuspecting beast, and with savage delight he tore it in pieces.