Marguerite De Roberval Part 12

His preparations were finished none too soon. The clouds which had been hovering about for several days, finally gathered together one afternoon, and rolled in heavy, thunderous ma.s.ses up out of the southern sky. The air grew dark and sultry, lightning flashed from the depths of the purple cloud-bank; soon the thunder crashed overhead, and the waves lashed themselves in fury against the sh.o.r.e. The storm was upon them in all its might. It was not of long duration, but was followed by a good deal of rain during the night, and the next morning there was a furious gale blowing. The waves rose to such a height that the spray from their crests was dashed over the frail shelter Claude had erected; and he saw that something more permanent and durable must be contrived. Summer would pa.s.s, and winter might swoop down upon them out of the desolate north before there was any chance of their being rescued. A dwelling which would be a protection from cold and snow and the biting blasts of a Canadian winter, must be erected. But how? And with what materials?

Tools he had in plenty, but how to construct a dwelling out of the stunted and wind-twisted trees, which were all the timber the island afforded, was a conundrum he saw no prospect of solving.

As it happened, however, fortune favoured him. The very next day, as he wandered along a high, rocky part of the sh.o.r.e, he saw in the shallow water at his feet what seemed to be the hull of a vessel. Making his way down the cliff, he found to his delight that such was indeed the case.

No doubt these were the remains of that same ill-fated craft which Laurent, the fisherman, had seen disappear beneath the waves. The timbers had been of good oak, and the waves, breaking them asunder as they rolled in from the mighty expanse outside, had washed many of them high and dry on the sh.o.r.e. There was abundance for a hut, and with these, and the help of what trees he could avail himself of, he had hopes of being able to build a more substantial habitation before the cold weather set in.

In the meantime, his strength came rapidly back to him, and in the long, bright summer days and glorious nights, life still seemed to hold possibilities of joy and hope for the little party. They were supplied with the necessaries of life--though they were careful to husband their stores as much as possible; and Claude was able to vary their plain fare by the addition of excellent fish, and an occasional bird--for they were well supplied with fire-arms and ammunition. The hardy, open-air life seemed to agree with the two girls; and all four vied with each other in keeping up a resolute and cheerful courage, avoiding all reference to the terrors the future might hold in store.

In the cove where the sunken brig lay, Claude had made a rude raft, and with the a.s.sistance of Marie, whose strong young arms and bright, courageous spirit were invaluable to him, he soon had enough planks and timber transported to the place where they had landed. To get them ash.o.r.e, and carried to the spot he had selected as being the most sheltered and suitable for his purpose, was no easy matter; but with time, and the united efforts of the whole party, every obstacle was gradually overcome. The building, although a small one, was slow in attaining completion, and for weeks the sound of Claude's hammer and saw disturbed the primeval quiet of the little northern island. The women lent their help in every possible way; and watched with admiration the skilful manner in which Claude provided against every emergency which might befall the little dwelling; none gave a sign of the secret and cherished hope of all their hearts, that they might never need to complete it, or to occupy it when completed.

Thus July and August pa.s.sed; and towards the end of the latter month the "castle," as Marie had gaily designated it, was at last finished. They transferred themselves and their belongings to its shelter, and, as it happened, only just in time. The weather, as usual about that time of year, suddenly changed, and a fierce gale swept across the island. For three days the rain fell in torrents, and the mad waves rolled higher and higher up the beach, till the spot where their summer shelter had stood was completely covered. The nights, too, became cold and dreary; and the dismal shrieking of the wind through the trees, and the hoa.r.s.e bellowing of the sea among the crags and caves, had a terrifying effect that made it hard for even the brave spirits of these high-born Frenchwomen to preserve their calm and hopeful bearing.

With the shortening days and autumn winds a sadness crept over the little colony, and would not be shaken off. Its influence was, perhaps, most felt by Marie, though her bright vivaciousness never failed her when the others were present. The lovers could not be wholly unhappy while they had each other. Their future was full of uncertainty, and the present of difficulties and dangers, but at least they were together, and separation had been the bitterest of their trials. With Marie it was necessarily otherwise. She could not but feel herself alone, in a sense which was unknown to the other two; and it became her habit, in the mellow September days, to wander by herself along the sh.o.r.e, often sitting for hours, her hands clasped on her knees, gazing in vain at the distant, empty horizon. She had one companion--a young fox which Claude had caught and tamed for her. The little animal had grown devotedly attached to her, and as it grew older it became her constant attendant in all her rambles. Marguerite could not fail to notice the long absences of her friend, and often went in search of her, and brought her back to join Claude and herself in whatever they might be doing; but Marie was always gay and cheerful with her, and no suspicion of the melancholy that was gradually creeping over her was awakened in Marguerite's heart.

It was upon old Bastienne that the change in the climate began to tell most plainly. The faithful old woman had borne uncomplainingly the hardships which her young mistresses could endure without a murmur; but her old bones had suffered from the exposure to the night dews and damp sea air; with the chill winds of the Autumn she was attacked with rheumatism, and lost the activity and energy which had been of such good service to them all. She suffered much; her moans often kept the two girls awake at night; and even Claude, who had built himself a tiny lean-to on the sheltered side of the "castle," could hear her complainings.

With the first frost of October the leaves took on their short-lived autumn gorgeousness, only to wither and fall, leaving the little island dest.i.tute of even its scanty appearance of vegetation. Winter, with its desolating breath, was settling down upon them; and when the first early snows came floating through the air, they realised that long dreary months of suffering lay before them.

But one of them, at least, was to be spared the terrible ordeal.

On a calm, mild day, when the soft, blue haze of October filled the air with its deceptive beauty, Marie had gone to one of her favourite haunts along the cliffs--a lofty point of rock, which they had laughingly christened her "look-out." As she sat there, gazing down at the misty, sleeping sea below, her eye caught the gleam of a cl.u.s.ter of late-blooming wild flowers, the last of the season, on a point of the rock beneath her. A fancy seized her to get it for Marguerite. She reached over, and had it almost in her hand, when a slight movement behind her caused her to start a little, lose her balance, and fall headlong over the beetling cliff. She fell upon the stones below, and lay motionless, while the little fox, whose rustling approach among the dry leaves had caused her hurried movement, stood on the edge above, peering down with astonished curiosity at the silent figure of his merry playmate. The auks and puffins, scared from their rocky perches, plunged into the ocean, and rose at a little distance to look for the reason of the disturbance. Seeing no further cause for alarm they gained courage and gradually returned, and their quaint, ungainly forms stood in wondering groups about the motionless girl, who lay with one arm stretched in the cold water of the bay.

In the meantime her friends were awaiting Marie's return for the mid-day meal. But she came not; and they finally went in search of her, calling her name along the sh.o.r.e, but receiving no answer save the wild cry of the gull as it circled above them, and the weird laugh of the great diver calling to his answering mate. They knew her favourite point of rock, and on reaching it found the little fox still standing on the edge, and looking down. As they approached, it bounded suddenly off, and disappeared among the bushes.

His heart sinking with a vague dread of fresh misfortune, Claude went to the edge of the cliff, and looked over. He saw at once what had happened. The stones at the top were loose and freshly disturbed, and the low shrubs which fringed the rock were crushed and broken. Hastily drawing Marguerite back, and bidding her return at once to the hut and warn Bastienne to get restoratives and blankets in readiness, he hurried round to the base of the cliff. The tide was rapidly rising, and the distance was considerable. With all his haste he was only just in time.

As he rounded the projecting spur that formed one side of the bay, the water, which had at first covered only one of Marie's arms, reached her hair, and in a few minutes more must have risen over her face. De Pontbriand drew the bruised and senseless form higher up the rocks, and eagerly felt her heart. There was a faint, slow beating that told him a feeble life still fluttered there. Raising her in his arms he bore her with all possible speed to the hut, where every means that their resources and skill could suggest to restore her to consciousness was tried, and, as it seemed, in vain. At last, as the short October afternoon faded out in a purple haze, and the sad, grey evening closed about them, Marie opened her eyes. She was quite conscious, and seemed to suffer no pain. But the end was evidently close at hand. She spoke but little, and lay very quietly, with Marguerite's hand in hers. Just before it grew too dark for them to see her, she beckoned to Claude to approach, and as he stood beside her couch, she laid Marguerite's hand in his, smiled peacefully as she felt the strong grasp close above it, and, closing her eyes, with head turned a little aside, she pa.s.sed away so tranquilly that they could not have told when her last breath was drawn.

When they realised that she was indeed dead, their grief had no words.

Old Bastienne, at the foot of the couch, recited the prayers for the dead in a voice choked with sobs, and with the tears streaming down her wrinkled cheeks; but Marguerite knelt in silence, dry-eyed, beside the body of her friend, gazing into the quiet, calm face. At last Claude raised her, and, tenderly wrapping a cloak round her, led her from the hut, and down to the beach. They stood in silence, trembling in each other's arms, their hearts too full for speech or tears, while the chill October wind whistled in from the sea, and the gulls and curlews flew screaming about their heads.

CHAPTER XI

That same night, about the hour that Marie breathed her last, Charles de la Pommeraye was riding furiously along the road leading eastward to Paris, where the King was holding a temporary court. He rode all night, and just as the first faint streaks of morning revealed in the distance the grey outline of the towers of Notre Dame, his horse thundered into the sleeping city.

He had had a weary voyage home; what winds there were had been adverse; for nearly a month Cartier's vessels had lain becalmed in mid-ocean; and it was not till the end of August that St Malo, with its towering walls and rugged battlements, was reached.

The three vessels had been joyously welcomed by the Malouins. The merchants who had made large advances to the daring adventurers, in the hope of being recouped from the treasures of the New World, felt a momentary pang at their losses: but private disappointment was forgotten in the public rejoicing at the safe return of their daring and world-famous fellow-townsman, Jacques Cartier.

La Pommeraye found but little pleasure in these festivities. He was possessed by the one idea of seeing Marguerite as soon as possible.

Absence had in no way dimmed her image in his mind; fickle and impressionable as he usually was, the best and n.o.blest part of his nature had been awakened by his love for the beautiful girl whom he had met under such unusual circ.u.mstances, and of whom he had as yet seen so little. Now that fortune seemed to be favouring him, he cursed every obstacle that kept him an instant longer from her side. At the earliest opportunity he made his escape from the enthusiastic and admiring Malouins; and having disposed of a quant.i.ty of rich furs which he had purchased at Tadousac before leaving the St Lawrence, he bought a horse, and set out for Picardy--as the most likely place to hear news of Mdlle.

de Roberval, even if he did not find her at the castle.

In order to get away as soon as possible he was obliged to give Cartier the slip. The latter was anxious to proceed at once to court, to report the failure of his attempt to found a colony, and to request permission to return and bring back De Roberval. It would be out of the question, however, to start before the spring, as the season was now so far advanced; and La Pommeraye decided to let Cartier go to court without him, as the winter would give them plenty of time to consider their plans.

He incidentally learned that Roberval had sailed from La Roch.e.l.le instead of St Malo, as he had supposed; but the idea that he might have taken his niece with him naturally never entered his head, and no one in St Malo was able to give him any information.

Accordingly, one morning early in September, he mounted his horse and set out on his long ride to the banks of the Somme. It was a long journey; but love let him rest nor day nor night till he had arrived at the end. Nor did he accomplish it without adventure. One morning, about a day's ride from his destination, he met two gay cavaliers, with finely caparisoned horses, speeding on their way to Paris. They saw the dust-stained horse, and dustier rider, and, thinking it would be fine sport to whet their blades on his clumsy sword, bore down upon him.

But they had miscalculated their man; and as the first gallant checked his horse within a few feet of La Pommeraye, his heart grew weak within him as he saw the determined eye and smiling lips of the man he had expected to see turn and flee before him.

"Have at thee, my dainty c.o.c.k-robin!" said La Pommeraye. "Methinks the smoke from yonder hostel bespeaks a ready breakfast, and I shall do greater justice to the meal after a little exercise. Have at thee!"

The young n.o.bleman grew pale to the lips, but manfully faced the trial he had himself invited. Their horses danced about each other for a few moments, sparks flew from their flashing blades, but the contest was an unequal one. The youth tried hard to reach the breast of his opponent, but his every thrust was met by a determined guard; and when La Pommeraye thought the breathing-time before breakfast had been of sufficient length, he made a few quick pa.s.ses that the young man's eye could not follow, struck up his antagonist's sword, made a lightning thrust at a broad silver ornament that adorned the gay rider's breast, pushed him from his horse, and laughed a merry laugh as the lad sat up in the dusty road, wondering at his escape. His companion, who had stood by enjoying the contest, heartily joined in the laugh.

"n.o.bly done!" he exclaimed in admiration, "you handle your sword as if you had been wont to play before King Francis. Henri, thou art not an apt pupil; thou should'st have used thy horse more, and trusted less to thy arms. If Monsieur is not tired with the contest, would he be pleased to measure swords with me? He will find me no mere lad."

"With all the pleasure in life," said Charles, smiling, "But I fear me the bacon at yonder inn will be burnt to a crisp unless I hurry on my way; so draw at once; I have not time to bandy words."

"Have a care, Jules," cried Henri; "he is the Devil."

La Pommeraye caught the name.

"Have I the honour to cross swords with Jules Marchand?" said he. "Your fame is not unknown to me; and were it not for the fact that I am in haste to be at my journey's end, I would fain prolong the fight; as it is, it must be short and sharp."

Like a flash his weapon shot out; like a flash the other met it. But though the swordsman was La Pommeraye's equal in skill, he lacked brawn; and, they had scarce played for a minute's s.p.a.ce when Jules Marchand's sword was wrenched from his hand, and he was left sitting, black with wrath, upon his charger, which whinnied as if in recognition of his master's mishap.

"Pardon, gentlemen," said Charles, smiling, "I must not dally longer by the way. Were you not going in the opposite direction, I would invite you to breakfast with me. But beware, hereafter, how you attack lone travellers; were it not that France, now that Spain is once more in arms against her, needs every man who is able to bear a sword, I should have left one of you, at least, by the roadside."

So saying, he waved the two gallants a laughing adieu, and rode away.

"The Devil, or La Pommeraye," said Jules.

"Neither! Too merry for the Devil," answered Henri, "and La Pommeraye, we heard, was killed in Paris."

"Nay," replied Jules, "that report was false. But it is true that he is no longer in France. Guillaume Leblanc saw him on board one of Cartier's ships, making for the New World. I was glad of the tidings, I have to confess. His skill and strength made me dread meeting him; and his departure left me the first swordsman in France; for despite De Roberval's reputation, he was of an old school, and easy to defeat. But now it seems I am but a poor second. But let us to Paris, and find out who this dashing cavalier may be."

La Pommeraye continued his journey, and loitered but little on the way till Picardy was reached. A few of Roberval's retainers were about his castle; and from them he learned that the n.o.bleman had not only gone to the New World himself, but had taken his niece with him.

The news fell on him like a thunderbolt. Thousands of miles of stormy sea lay between him and the face that haunted his dreams. As he thought how near he had been to her in the harbour of St John, his heart bounded madly within him, and his eyeb.a.l.l.s beat upon his brain.

But he was not long in planning a course of action. He would hasten to court, and find means of returning to the New World at once. Destruction only could await the colonists, and he shuddered as he thought of the tenderly-nurtured girls exposed to the fierce storms and bitter cold of a Canadian winter.

So his good horse was saddled once more, and the measured beat of its hoofs became swifter and yet swifter as Paris was neared.

Once in the city, he lost no time in presenting a request for an audience with the King, and the announcement of his name, and the nature of his errand, readily gained him admission to Francis' presence.

He found that Cartier had been before him by a few days, and had urged the necessity of recalling Roberval, and the hopelessness of any attempts to colonise the New World. The King had been greatly disappointed by the downfall of all the hopes and brilliant prophecies with which the expedition had started. He had rewarded Cartier's bravery and enterprise with the promise of a patent of n.o.bility, but seemed reluctant to encourage the idea of withdrawing the second detachment of colonists. He was inclined to suspect that jealousy of De Roberval, and disappointment at his own failure, had something to do with Cartier's anxiety to break up a scheme on which his heart had been set a year before. La Pommeraye saw his hopes receding into the distance; his heart sank within him.

"But what thinks the Duke of Guise?" said the King, suddenly, turning to that veteran n.o.bleman, who was now his chief adviser, occupying the place that Anne de Montmorenci had so long filled.

The Duke had been standing silently by during the interview, regarding La Pommeraye with a meditative air.

"Methinks, sire," he answered, "that there is much wisdom in what the young man urges. Already we have cast too much good treasure away in these vain enterprises; and now that Spain needs our utmost attention, we can spare neither men nor money for schemes of foreign colonisation."

"You hear, M. La Pommeraye," said Francis, "what the Duke says; but we had hoped to fill our coffers with the riches of Canada."