Carette of Sark Part 9

And he looked at me for a minute, and then laughed, and said, "Yes, I've got it too. Don't you come near me," for I had come into the room at sound of Carette's voice, and he looked very much nicer when he laughed.

"Oh--Hilaire!" cried the unseen Carette. "What a great big--"

"Ta-ta!" laughed her brother. "Little yellow heels should keep out of sight,"--which was not meant in rudeness, but only, according to an Island saying, that little people should not express opinions on matters which don't concern them.

Before he could say more, the door behind me swung open and a surprised voice cried--

"Diantre! What is this? And who are you, mon gars?" and I was facing Carette's father, Jean Le Marchant, of whose doings I had heard many a wild story on Sercq.

He was a very striking-looking man, tall and straight, and well-built. His face was keen as a hawk's, and tanned and seamed and very much alive. His eyes were very sharp and dark, under s.h.a.ggy white eyebrows. They seemed to go through me like a knife, and made me wish I had not come. His hair was quite white, and was cut so short that it bristled all over, and added much to his fierce wide-awake look, as though he scented dangers all round and was ready to tackle them with a firm hand. He had a long white moustache and no other hair on his face.

While I was still staring at him, Carette's voice came from its hiding-place--

"It is Phil Carre come to look for me, father. He is my good friend. You will give him welcome."

"Ah-ha! Mademoiselle commands," and the keen face softened somewhat and broke into a smile, which was still somewhat grim. "Monsieur Phil Carre, I greet you! I can hardly say you are welcome, as I do not care for visitors.

But since you came to get news of the little one, I promise not to kill and eat you, as you seem to expect."

"Merci, monsieur!" I faltered. For, from all accounts, he was quite capable of the first, though the second had not actually suggested itself to me.

"How did you come? I did not see any boat."

"By the Gale de Jacob. I swam across."

"Ma foi! Swam across! You have courage, mon gars;" and I saw that I had risen in his estimation.

"He swims like a fish and he has no fear," chirped Carette from her hiding-place.

"All the same, bon Dieu, the Gouliot is no pond," and he looked through me again. "How old are you, mon gars?"

"Thirteen next year."

"And what are you going to make of yourself when you grow up?"

"I don't know."

"For boys of spirit there are always openings," he said, and I knew very well what he meant, and shook my head.

"Ah, so! You are not free-traders at Belfontaine," he laughed. At which I shook my head again, feeling a trifle ashamed of our uncommon virtue, which could not, I thought, commend itself to so notorious a defier of preventive law.

"All the same, he is a fine man, your grandfather, and a seaman beyond most. You will follow the sea?--or are you for the farming?"

"The sea sure, but it will be in the trading, I expect."

"It is larger than the farming, but not very large after all."

"When will I be able to see Carette, m'sieur?"

"Not for ten days or so. As soon as she is well enough I shall carry her over to Mistress Falla's. Then you can see her."

"Thank you, m'sieur. I think I will go now."

"Going back same way?"

"Yes, sir."

"I'll see you off. Sure you can manage it?"

"Oh yes. Good-bye, Carette!" as he moved towards the door.

"Good-bye, Phil! I'll be at Aunt Jeanne's just as soon as I can," piped Carette, out of the darkness of her inner room.

And Jean Le Marchant led me back across the Island to the Gale de Jacob, and stood watching me from Beleme till I scrambled in among the rocks at the foot of Saut de Juan.

That was the first time I visited Carette's home and met her father, though her brothers I had seen at times on Sercq, viewing them from a distance with no little awe on account of the many strange stories told about them.

They were not in the habit of mixing much with the Island men, however.

They kept their own counsel and their own ways, and this aloofness did not make for good comradeship when they did come across.

It was years before I set foot on Brecqhou again.

These brief glimpses of those bright early days I have set down that you might know us as we were. For myself I delight to recall them, but if I were to tell you one quarter of all our doings and sayings when we were boy and girl together, with but one will--and that Carette's--it would make a volume pa.s.sing bounds.

And it is possible that my recollection of these things is coloured somewhat with the knowledge and feeling of the later times, for a man may no more fully enter again into the thoughts of his childhood than he may enter full grown into his childhood's clothes. I have told them, however, just as they are present in my own mind, and they are at all events true.

CHAPTER IX

HOW WE BEGAN TO SPREAD OUR WINGS

Ten years make little change in the aspect of Sercq, nor ten times ten for that matter, though the learned men tell us that the sea and wind and weather take daily toll of the little land and are slowly and surely wearing it away. It has not changed much in my time, however, and I have no doubt it will still stand firm for those who are to follow.

But ten years in the life of a boy and girl--ten years, which about double in number those that have gone, and increase experiences tenfold--these indeed bring mighty changes.

In those ten years I grew from boy to man, and Carette Le Marchant grew into a gracious and beautiful woman, and--we grew a little apart.

That was inevitable, I suppose, and in the natural course of things, for even two saplings planted side by side will, as they grow into trees, be wider apart at the top than they are down below. And perhaps it is right, for if they grew too close together both would suffer. Growth needs s.p.a.ce for full expansion if it is not to be lop-sided. And boy and girl days cannot last for ever.

Those ten years taught me much--almost all that I ever learned, until the bitterer experiences of life brought it all to the test, and sifted out the chaff, and left me knowledge of the grain.

And once again I would say that to my mother, Rachel Carre, and to my grandfather and Krok, and to William Shakespeare and John Bunyan and to my grandfather's great Bible, I owe in the first place all that I know. All those books he made me read very thoroughly, and parts of them over and over again, till I knew them almost by heart. And at the time I cannot say that this was much to my liking, but later, when I came to understand better what I read, no urging was needed, for they were our only books, except Foxe's _Martyrs_, in which I never found any very great enjoyment, though Krok revelled in it. And I suppose that a man might pa.s.s through life, and bear himself well in it, and never feel lonely, with those books for his companions.

I should not, however, omit mention of M. Rousselot, the schoolmaster, who took a liking to me because of the diligence which was at first none of my own, but only the outward showing of my mother's and grandfather's strict oversight. But, as liking begets liking, I came to diligence for M.

Rousselot's sake also, and finally for the sake of learning itself. And also I learned no little from Mistress Jeanne Falla, who had the wisest head and the sharpest tongue and the kindest heart in all Sercq.

But I was never a bookworm, though the love of knowledge and the special love of those books I have named is with me yet.