"What is it, sir?"
"Come in, and wait a moment."
Mess Lethierry took a sheet of paper and began to write. If Grace, standing behind him, had had the curiosity to look she would have read this note over his shoulder: I have written to Bremen for timber. I shall be engaged all day with carpenters about the estimate. You must go to see the dean about a license. I want the marriage to take place as soon as possible: immediately would be best. I am looking after the Durande. It is for you to look after Deruchette.
He dated the letter and signed "Lethierry."
He did not take the trouble to seal the note but merely folded it in four and handed it to Grace.
"Take that to Gilliatt."
"At the Bu de la Rue?"
"Yes, at the Bu de la Rue."
BOOK III
THE SAILING OF THE CASHMERE
I
THE CHURCH NEAR HAVELET BAY
When there is a crowd in St. Sampson, St. Peter Port is sure to be deserted. Any event of interest in one place acts as a pump, sucking people in from elsewhere. News travels fast in small places, and since the first light of dawn the great concern of the people of Guernsey had been going to see the Durande's funnel under Mess Lethierry's windows. Any other event paled into insignificance compared with that. The death of the dean of St. Asaph's had been quite forgotten; there was no further talk about the Reverend Ebenezer Caudray, nor his sudden wealth, nor his departure on the Cashmere. The recovery of the Durande's engines from the Douvres was the great subject of the day. People did not believe it. The wreck of the ship had seemed extraordinary enough, but its salvage seemed impossible. Everyone was anxious to confirm with their own eyes that the story was true. All other preoccupations were suspended. Streams of townsfolk with their families, from the rank of "Neighbor" to that of "Mess"--men, women, gentlemen, mothers with their children, and children with their dolls--were coming by every road and track to see the great attraction of the day at Les Bravees and were turning their backs on St. Peter Port. Many shops in St. Peter Port were closed. In the Commercial Arcade all business was at a standstill, and attention was centered on the Durande. Not a single shopkeeper had sold anything except a jeweler who, to his great surprise, had sold a gold wedding ring to "a man who had seemed to be in a great hurry and had asked where the dean's house was." Any shops that had remained open were centers of gossip where there were lively discussions of the miraculous rescue. Not a passerby was to be seen on L'Hyvreuse, nowadays known for some reason as Cambridge Park; there was no one on High Street, then called the Grand-Rue, nor on Smith Street, then called the Rue des Forges; no one in Hauteville; and the Esplanade itself was deserted. It was like a Sunday. A visiting royal highness reviewing the militia at L'Ancresse would not have emptied the town more effectively. All this fuss about a nobody like Gilliatt caused much shrugging of the shoulders among sober citizens and persons of propriety.
The church of St. Peter Port, with its three gable-ends, its transept, and its spire, stands at the water's edge on the inner side of the harbor, almost on the landing stage, offering a welcome to those arriving and a farewell to those departing. It is the capital letter of the long line formed by the town's front on the ocean. It is both the parish church of St. Peter Port and the church of the dean of Guernsey. Its officiating priest is the suffragan dean, a clergyman in full orders. St. Peter Port's harbor, now a large and handsome port, was in those days, and as recently as ten years ago, smaller than the harbor of St. Sampson. It was formed by two great curved cyclopean walls reaching out from the shoreline to starboard and port and coming together almost at their ends, where there was a small white lighthouse. Below the lighthouse was the narrow entrance, still preserving two links of the chain that had closed the harbor in medieval times. Imagine a lobster's pincer, slightly open, and you have the harbor of St. Peter Port. This outstretched claw took from the abyss a portion of sea that it compelled to remain calm. But when an east wind was blowing there was a considerable swell at the mouth of the harbor, the water inside it was disturbed, and it was wiser not to enter. On this particular day the Cashmere had decided not to attempt an entry and had anchored in the roads.
This was the course followed by most ships when there was an east wind, and it had the additional advantage of saving them harbor dues. On these occasions boatmen licensed by the town--a fine breed of seamen whom the new harbor has deprived of their livelihood-- picked up passengers at the landing stage or at other points on the coast and conveyed them and their luggage, often through heavy seas and always without mishap, to the vessels about to sail. The east wind is an offshore wind that is good for the passage to England; vessels roll but they do not pitch.
When a vessel about to depart was moored in the harbor, passengers embarked there. When it was anchored in the roads they had the choice of leaving from any point on the coast conveniently near the place of anchorage. In all the creeks around the coast there were boatmen ready to offer their services.
Havelet Bay was one of these creeks. This little haven (havelet) was quite close to the town but so isolated that it seemed a long way away. Its isolation was the result of its situation at an opening in the tall cliffs of Fort George, which loom over this discreet little inlet. There were several paths leading to Havelet Bay. The most direct ran along the water's edge; it had the advantage of leading to the town and the church in five minutes, and the disadvantage of being under water twice a day. Other paths, in varying degrees of steepness, led down to the bay through gaps and irregularities in the cliffs. Havelet Bay lay in shadow even in broad daylight. Overhanging cliffs on all sides and a dense growth of bushes and brambles cast a kind of gentle twilight on the confusion of rocks and waves below. Nothing could be more peaceful than this spot in calm weather, nothing more tumultuous in heavy seas. The tips of branches were perpetually bathed in foam. In spring the bay was alive with flowers, nests, fragrances, birds, butterflies, and bees. As a result of recent improvements this wild nook no longer exists, replaced by fine straight lines. There are now stone walls, quays, and gardens; there has been much earth-moving, and modern taste has got rid of the eccentricities of the cliffs and the irregularities of the rocks.
II
DESPAIR CONFRONTING DESPAIR
It was just short of ten o'clock in the morning--a quarter to, as they say on Guernsey. The crowds in St. Sampson, to all appearance, were still increasing. The mass of the population, consumed with curiosity, had flocked to the north of the island, and Havelet Bay, lying to the south, was even more deserted than usual.
But there was one boat in the bay, and one boatman. In the boat was a traveling bag. The boatman seemed to be waiting for someone.
The Cashmere could be seen at anchor in the roads. Since it was not due to sail until noon, it was making no preparations for departure.
Anyone passing by on one of the stepped footpaths in the cliffs would have heard the murmur of voices, and if he had looked down over the overhanging cliffs he would have seen, at some distance from the boat, in a nook amid the rocks and branches, out of the boatman's sight, two people: a man and a woman. It was Ebenezer Caudray and Deruchette.
These quiet little corners on the coast, which tempt women bathers, are not always as lonely as they seem. Anyone frequenting them can sometimes be observed and overheard. Thanks to the multiplicity and complication of the cliff paths, those who seek refuge and shelter there can easily be followed. The granite and the trees that conceal a private encounter may also conceal a witness.
Deruchette and Ebenezer were standing face-to-face, looking into each other's eyes, and holding each other by the hand. Deruchette was speaking. Ebenezer was silent. A tear that had gathered on his lashes hung there but did not fall.
The priest's forehead bore the imprint of grief and passion. There, too, was a poignant air of resignation--hostile to faith, though springing from it. On his face, until then of an angelic purity, were the beginnings of an expression of submission to fate. A man who had hitherto medita
ted only on dogma was now having to meditate on fate: an unhealthy meditation for a priest. Faith breaks down in such meditations. Nothing is more disturbing than surrendering to the unknown. Man is at the mercy of events. Life is a perpetual succession of events, and we must submit to it. We never know from what quarter the sudden blow of chance will come. Catastrophe and good fortune come upon us and then depart, like unexpected visitors. They have their own laws, their own orbits, their own gravitational force, all independent of man. Virtue does not bring happiness, crime does not bring unhappiness; our consciousness has one logic, fate another, and the two never coincide. Nothing can be foreseen. We live in uncertainty and from moment to moment. Consciousness is a straight line, but life is a whirlwind, which casts down on man's head, unpredictably, black chaos or blue skies. Fate is not skilled at transitions. Sometimes the wheel turns so rapidly that man can barely distinguish the interval between one event and another or the link between yesterday and today. Ebenezer Caudray was a believer with an admixture of reasoning and a priest whose life had been complicated by passion. Religions that impose celibacy know what they are about. Nothing so unmans a priest as loving a woman. Ebenezer's mind was darkened by all sorts of clouds.
He was looking at Deruchette--looking too long. These two beings worshiped each other. In Ebenezer's eye there was the mute adoration of despair.
Deruchette was saying:
"You mustn't go. I can't bear it. I thought I would be able to say good-bye to you, but I just can't. It's too much to ask. Why did you come yesterday? You shouldn't have come if you wanted to go away. I had never spoken to you. I loved you, but I didn't know I did. Only, that first day when Mr. Herode read the story of Rebecca and your eyes met mine I felt my cheeks on fire and I thought, 'Oh! how Rebecca must have turned red!' But even so, the day before yesterday, if anyone had said to me, 'You are in love with the rector,' I would have laughed. That is the terrible thing about love: it comes on you unawares. I paid no heed. I went to church, I saw you there, and I thought that everyone was like me. I don't blame you: you did nothing to make me love you; you didn't do anything but look at me; it's not your fault if you look at people; but you did look at me, and so I fell in love with you. I didn't know I had. When you took up the book it was a flood of light; when others did it was just a book. You sometimes raised your eyes to look at me. You spoke of archangels; but you were my archangel. Whatever you said I believed in at once. Before I saw you I didn't know whether I believed in God or not. Since I have known you I have learned to pray. I used to say to Douce: 'Dress me quickly so that I shan't be late for the service.' And I hurried to the church. So that is what being in love with a man means. I did not realize it. I used to think, How devout I am becoming! It was you who taught me that I wasn't going to church to worship God: I was going for you, I know. You are handsome, you speak well; and when you raised your arms to heaven I felt that you were holding my heart in your two white hands. I was foolish; I didn't know it. You were wrong to come into the garden yesterday and speak to me. If you had said nothing I should have known nothing. You might have gone away, and I might have been sad; but now if you go I shall die. Now that I know I love you, you can't possibly go away. What are you thinking of? I don't believe you are listening to me!"
Ebenezer answered:
"You heard what was said yesterday."
"Alas!"
"How can I help it?!"
They were silent for a moment. Then Ebenezer went on:
"There is only one thing for me to do. I must leave."
"And for me there is nothing left but to die. Oh, how I wish that there was no sea--that there was nothing but the sky! That would make everything right, and we should both leave at the same time. You shouldn't have spoken to me. Why did you speak to me? Well, then, since you did you mustn't go away. What will become of me? I tell you, I shall die. What will you feel like when I'm in my grave? Oh, my heart is broken! I am so wretched! Yet my uncle isn't unkind."
It was the first time that Deruchette had spoken of Mess Lethierry as her uncle. Hitherto she had always said "my father."
Ebenezer stepped back and made a sign to the boatman. There was the sound of the boat hook on the shingle and the man's footstep on the gunwale of his boat.
"No, no!" cried Deruchette.
Ebenezer drew closer to her.
"I must go, Deruchette."
"No, never! Because of a bit of machinery! How can it be? Did you see that horrible man yesterday? You cannot abandon me. You are clever, you will find some way. You cannot have asked me to meet you this morning with the idea of leaving me. I have done nothing to deserve this. You cannot complain about me. You want to leave on that ship? I don't want you to go. You mustn't leave me. You cannot open up heaven and then close it so soon. I tell you, you must stay. Anyway it's not time to go yet. Oh! I love you!"
And, pressing against him, she clasped her hands together around his neck, as if to hold on to him with her arms and to join her hands in a prayer to God. He freed himself from this gentle embrace, which resisted as strongly as it could. Deruchette sank down on an ivy-clad projection of the rock, mechanically pulling up the sleeve of her dress to the elbow to show her charming bare arm, with a pale diffused light in her fixed eyes. The boat was drawing near.
Ebenezer took her head in his two hands; this virgin had the air of a widow, this young man the air of a grandfather. He touched her hair with a kind of religious caution, looked fixedly at her for some moments, and planted on her forehead one of those kisses that it seems would cause a star to shine forth and, in a voice trembling with supreme anguish that reflected the devastation of his soul, said the word that is instinct with the deepest emotion: "Good-bye!"
Deruchette burst into sobs.
At this moment they heard a slow, grave voice saying:
"Why don't you get married?"
Ebenezer turned his head. Deruchette raised her eyes. It was Gilliatt, who had approached on a path from the side.
Gilliatt was no longer the same man as on the previous night. He had combed his hair and shaved, and was wearing a white sailor's shirt with a turned-down collar and his newest seaman's clothes. On his little finger was a gold ring. He seemed profoundly calm. His sunburned face was pale, with the hue of sickly bronze.
They looked at him, bewildered. Although he was almost unrecognizable, Deruchette recognized him. But the words he had just spoken were so remote from what was passing in their minds that they had left no impression.
Gilliatt went on:
"Why do you need to say good-bye? Get married, and you can leave together."
Deruchette trembled from head to foot.
Gilliatt continued:
"Miss Deruchette is twenty-one. She is her own mistress. Her uncle is only her uncle. You love each other--"
Deruchette interrupted in a gentle voice:
"How did you come here?"
"Get married," repeated Gilliatt.
Deruchette was beginning to realize what this man was saying to her. She stammered out:
"My poor uncle--"
"He would object if you went to him and said you wanted to get married," said Gilliatt, "but if you were actually married he would give his consent. Besides, you are going away: when you come back he will forgive you."
He added, with a touch of bitterness: "Anyway, now he's thinking only of rebuilding his boat. That will occupy him while you are away. He has the Durande to console him."
"I don't want to leave unhappiness behind me," murmured Deruchette, still in a state of stupor but with a gleam of joy.
"It won't last long," said Gilliatt.
Ebenezer and Deruchette had been bewildered, but were now recovering. As their agitation diminished they began to grasp the meaning of Gilliatt's words. There was still something of a cloud hanging over them, but it was not for them to resist. We yield easily to those who offer to save us. Objections to a return to Eden are not strongly pressed. There was something in the attitude of Deruche
tte, as she leaned imperceptibly on Ebenezer, that made common cause with what Gilliatt was saying. As for the enigma of this man's presence and his words, which in Deruchette's mind in particular gave rise to various kinds of astonishment, these were secondary questions. He was telling them to get married: that at least was clear. He was taking all responsibility. Deruchette had a confused feeling that, for various reasons, he had the right to do so. What he said about Mess Lethierry was true.
Ebenezer, plunged in thought, murmured: "An uncle is not a father." He was suffering the corruption of an unexpected stroke of good fortune. The scruples that a priest might be expected to feel were melting and dissolving in this poor love-struck heart.
Gilliatt's voice became short and hard, with something like the throbbing of a fever:
"You must be quick. The Cashmere sails in two hours. You still have time, but only just. Come with me."
Ebenezer, who had been observing him attentively, suddenly exclaimed:
"I know who you are. It was you who saved my life."
Gilliatt replied:
"I don't think so."
"Over there, at the tip of the Banks."
"I don't know that place."
"It was on the day I arrived here."
"We have no time to lose," said Gilliatt.
"And I'm sure you were the man we saw last night."
"That's as may be."
"What's your name?"
Gilliatt raised his voice:
"Boatman, wait for us here. We shall come back. Miss Deruchette, you asked me how I came here. The answer is very simple: I was walking behind you. You are twenty-one. In this country, when people are of age and dependent only on themselves, they can get married in a quarter of an hour. Let us take the path along the shore. It is quite safe: the sea will not cover it until midday. We must go at once. Follow me!"
Deruchette and Ebenezer were exchanging glances as if in consultation. They were standing close together, motionless; it was as if they were drunk. There are strange hesitations on the edge of that abyss that is happiness. They understood without understanding.