Legend of Moulin Huet Part 1

Legend of Moulin Huet.

by Lizzie A. Freeth.

DEDICATION.

Though the story contained in the following pages has no connection with them, yet it is my wish to dedicate this little work to "The Conway Boys," and all those connected with that most invaluable inst.i.tution, "H.M.S. Conway," lying at Rockferry, Birkenhead.

I have particular reason to speak well of the "Conway," as any "Boy" may know who may have been on board for the last five or six years, from the fact that two of my brothers, after pa.s.sing a successful career under the careful teaching of the Rev. Henry O'Brien; L.L.D., Cork, continued to build on the good foundation laid, and left the "Conway" with credit both to their teachers and themselves. I shall always have pleasure in meeting with any "Conway Boy," and hearing of the good old ship to which I wish a long continuance of her success in preparing Boys creditably for one of the great sources of our national strength and wealth--"Our Merchant Navy."

I must just add a word of thanks to my friends in Guernsey and elsewhere, who so kindly encouraged and supported me when publishing on a former occasion, and whom I see, by reference to the subscription list, coming forward again--among some new friends--with a repet.i.tion of their kindness.

Montpelier, Guernsey, 1872.

CHAPTER I.

In the year 165-, when Cromwell had gained ascendancy in England and over the greater portion of the Channel Islands, there lived in Guernsey, at the Bay of Moulin Huet, a miller of the name of Pierre Moullin. Unlike his cla.s.s generally, he was a very morose man, hard in his dealings with the poor around him, and exceedingly unsympathizing in all his domestic relations, as will appear as our story unwinds itself.

Before speaking of the family surroundings of Pierre Moullin we will glance at the circ.u.mstance which forms the basis of the present tale.

Visitors to the Bay of Moulin Huet, as well as to other parts of this and the surrounding Islands, may have observed a crimson appearance on the rocks, suggesting very sanguinary ideas, but for which, geologists doubtless, would be able to account in a very satisfactory manner.

Looking at a portion of the original gully through which the water runs after pa.s.sing through the mill wheel, we find that this crimson appearance is very visible, and as our purpose is not to raise scientific enquiries, we will take one of the fanciful reasons (of which there are two or three in existence), for this coloring on by the hand of Nature, which has so abundantly bedecked Guernsey in general, and Moulin Huet in particular. Dipping into the Fairy lore of that part of the island, we find that many believe that some mischievous Fairies who annoyed the miller much with their nightly pranks were ground to pieces by the mill wheel becoming unfastened, and that their blood remains there to this day, as a warning to all others among the "good people"

who might wish to vent their superfluous mischief in a like manner.

So much for the Fairy lore in the Moulin Huet Chronicles; but we must turn our attention elsewhere to find out whose blood it was that thus dyed the watercourse of the Moulin Huet Mill.

At the time of which we are speaking, (the opening of the year 165-) Pierre Moullin and his two children, a son and a daughter, lived in a house adjoining the mill, in fact, the same roof covered both mill and house, which were built facing the sea. The stream of water which turned the wheel was far more powerful than the present, as the old marks (still partially visible) denote. Pierre Moullin, like many of his fellow-islanders, was a strong adherent of Cromwell; his son Hirzel was also,--though perhaps he did not go quite as far as his father in his hatred of the Royalist party. He had nevertheless acquaintances among the Royalist soldiers who were quartered in the strong fortress at Jerbourg. One in particular he had made a great friend of--Charlie Heyward. Old Pierre often used to say he knew harm would come of this friendship, and felt his words were being proved true when he discovered that an attachment was springing up between his daughter Marguerite and the young soldier. On becoming aware of this his rage was unbounded, and he repeatedly said he would be the death of Charlie if he could manage it. He tried in every way to bring his son to his way of thinking, but though Hirzel did not much like the idea of his sister marrying a Royalist soldier, and besides which another friend and fellow-countryman of his Jacques Gaultier, was also much attached to the fair Marguerite, and had long persecuted her with his unwelcome attentions, still Hirzel would have done anything rather than have injured his friend Charlie, whom he liked well, though he did not like his principles. In Jacques Gaultier the old miller saw a ready tool towards gaining his wicked end of destroying Charlie. The latter did not think Pierre's hatred reached the extent it did, at the same time he was still aware there was no chance of his ever gaining the old man's consent to his marrying Marguerite.

One night Pierre sent his son to bring Jacques Gaultier saying, he wished to speak to him about taking some flour into the town next day.

Jacques was only too delighted to get any excuse for going to the mill, and immediately said he would accompany Hirzel if he "would wait until he got something which he had been making for Marguerite."

"All right, Jacques, my boy, but look sharp, as the old man seems impatient to-night."

"Thy tone and way of speaking savour far more of the style of that base soldiery which our island is burdened with, than the tone of thy father's son should be," replied Jacques.

"Very well," said Hirzel, "I will promise to mend my ways, but do be quick, as I promised to walk with my sister at seven, and now it is nigh on half-past; and she says she needs my counsel much on a matter."

"Ah! thou art an impatient lad, but it would be worse with me were I in thy case; long till she'd ask me to walk with her, not I warrant were I dying for a look at her sweet face."

"Don't be down-hearted, Jacques, how know'st thou but that my sister may change her mind and look kindly on thee yet; wait till the Redcoats have gone down to the Castle, and then perhaps thy fishers' garb may find favour in her sight, but what hast thou got there? Some woman's trifles, which thou seem'st to understand better than I have yet learned."

"I made these sore against my will, for I would rather see thy sister reading some edifying book than pa.s.sing her time on such vanities as these are used for, they are bobbins, lad."

"Ha, Ha," laughed Hirzel, "were I to go into the market to-morrow and say that stern Jacques Gaultier spent his hours carving out lace bobbins, who would believe me?"

"Don't laugh at me, Hirzel, perhaps one of these fine days thou wilt do something more foolish: when thy nineteen summers shall have ripened like mine to thirty thou wilt have different thoughts."

"Time enough to speak when it comes. Now I love my boat better than anything else! But how we are wasting this fine evening. My Father will think we are lost or gone to be soldiers, eh Jacques? Come along, and we will see what Marguerite thinks of those little sticks of thine."

CHAPTER II.

On the same evening of which we have been speaking Marguerite was sitting just outside the door, employed as she generally was in her leisure time at lace work, of the style which had been so fashionable during the reign of the late murdered King. How Marguerite had first learnt this "unedifying work," we know not but as she used to work for the family of one of the King's officers, and had seen the ladies do it, she soon with very little instruction learnt to do it well. Very pretty Marguerite looked bending over her "lace pillow," weaving sweet thoughts into her work, if we may judge from the expression of her face which was one of those that "made one feel good to look at," as Charlie often said, and indeed it was a good thing for him to take the remembrance of such a face through his Barrack life, which at least was a rough one.

Marguerite had not long been enjoying the quiet of her own society when she heard her Father call her. She immediately obeyed his summons with that strange feeling at her heart--that strange foreshadowing of evil--to which we have all been subject at some time in our lives.

"Again at that silly work, girl; better for thee to get something to do about the house than waste thy time over that useless finery; I'll warrant me when thou art Jacques Gaultier's wife he will find thee other work--mending his nets, mayhap!"

"My dear Father, I will never be Jacques Gaultier'a wife. I have told him so oft: I doubt if he will ever speak to me on the subject again; he will not risk hearing rude words from me, I fancy."

"I tell thee thou _shalt_ be Jacques Gaultier's wife, and that before long; he is coming here to-night, and I will tell him he can have thee with my full consent. Spite of thy love for red coats, thou wilt settle down here as a fisher's wife."

"Father, I have promised to marry Charlie and no other, and I will do so; you used to like him ere 'my Lord Protector Cromwell' turned the heads, if not gained the hearts, of nearly all but the loyal soldiery!

And now I will never marry any one but Charlie. You have made me speak thus to you Father; I don't think you ought to try to make me marry one whom in my heart I despise; and who you know well is not a good man."

"Ah! that is thy spirit, is it? Well, we'll see; I doubt if thou wilt find that fine soldier of thine alive much longer; it would be a good and commendable deed to sweep all such from the face of the earth."

"Yes, surely, commendable, but only in the eyes of those who murdered our poor King, Father; but we will speak no more of these things. You are tired with your day's work, and are not like yourself to-night. I hear Hirzel's voice, so I will go and meet him; we are to have a walk this evening, and you can talk quietly with Jacques, but not a word about me; you know what my thoughts are now, Father."

Having thus spoken, Marguerite left the house, and after going through the garden gate, she entered a pretty lane which was abundantly blessed by Nature with a quant.i.ty of ferns and wild flowers. It was just beginning to grow dusk, and she saw not far off Jacques Gaultier and her brother. The latter was singing in his native _patois_ a gay song, much to the horror of Jacques, who thought it was dreadful to do such a thing. Dropping his usual air of hypocritical stiffness (adopted by so many to fall in with the custom of the times), he hastened forward to meet Marguerite, and with a show of politeness, wonderful for the rough Jacques, raised his hat and said, "Good evening, Marguerite; it is my fault that thy brother is late; I kept him while I was getting ready some bobbins which I have made in the hope that thou wilt take them from me."

"I thank thee, Jacques Gaultier, but I do not want thy bobbins; keep them for some other girl: I am teaching many this same work, and no doubt you will find some one glad to get them. I am going to-night where I shall get a set made by some one whom I like better than Jacques Gaultier. My father is waiting, so go to him; come Hirzel, don't delay me longer."

Jacques moved off muttering to himself, and with a most murderous look on his dark face. Poor Charlie would have fared badly had he been in this man's power just now!

CHAPTER III.

We will follow Gaultier into the mill, leaving Marguerite and her brother to pursue their intention of having a walk, and hear what old Pierre has to say. On Jacques entering the room he found the old man in a state of great disquietude--in fact, in a very great rage. He had by no means recovered his daughter's a.s.sertion that she would never marry anyone but Charles Heyward.

"Good evening, Jacques, I sent for thee on a matter of great importance to thyself. I know thou did'st love my girl Marguerite, and that thou had'st a desire to marry her. Art thou still of that mind?" Jacques was somewhat surprised both at the old man's manner and at this opening address, but replied, "Truly I am, but I fear she will never consent to take me for her husband; she hates me, and loves that soldier with red cheeks and bold forward air. I wish he were far from here; but perhaps she would still think of him and never look on me. Even to-night she had not a civil word for me, though I stayed at home to make these things for her and lost my place at market."

"And serve thee right. What business hast thou to encourage the girl in her vanities? But thou said'st just now thou would'st like to have that fellow out of this. So would I, and the whole lot of those lawless soldiers. Can'st thou not think of some means to catch him"?

"Well, Father Pierre, I wouldn't like---

"Wouldn't like _what_!" shouted the old man, "perhaps thou art afraid of the popinjay in his red coat--eh, thou chicken-hearted fellow? Thou art not the man I took thee for. I wonder not at Marguerite speaking as she does."

"Those are hard words and I like them not," replied Jacques sulkily. He felt the hit contained in Pierre's words all the more as he was not quite innocent of fear of the red coat. "I was going to say," he continued, "I wouldn't like Marguerite to know I was watching for her soldier, as she might warn him and put him on his guard. Ah! the hateful fellow, I wish I had my hands at his throat now."

"Gently, gently, my good Jacques," replied the elder hypocrite, "such language becomes not a follower of our Lord Protector Cromwell. But let us understand one another. Charlie Heyward--(the name hath but an ill savour to me)--must be put out of the way, and Marguerite, like her s.e.x, will doubtless forget that he ever existed, and marry thee. I wonder where they meet? It must be somewhere near here, but I cannot find out.