Carette of Sark Part 21

I had often wondered why Uncle George had never married. He was such a good fellow, honest as the day, and always ready to help anybody in any way. And yet, ever since his mother died, and that must have been ten years ago at least, he had lived all alone in his house at La Vauroque, though he had prospered in various ways, and was reputed well to do. He lived very simply--made his own coffee of morning, and for the rest depended on an old neighbour woman, who came in each day and cooked his meals and kept the house clean. Yes, I had often wondered why, and not until this night did I begin to understand.

Long afterwards, when he was telling me of other matters, it did not greatly surprise me to learn that he had waited all these years in hopes of my mother coming round to him at last. And the wall of division that stood between them and stirred him to bitterness at times--not against her, but against what he counted her foolish obstinacy--was the fact that long ago my father had gone down to the sea and never come back, as many and many an Island man had done since ever time began. But she had her own rigid notions of right and wrong, narrow perhaps, but of her very self, and she would not marry him, though his affection never wavered, even when he felt her foolishness the most.

It was strange, perhaps, that I should jump to sudden understanding of the matter when all my thoughts just then were of my own concerns. But love, I think, if somewhat selfish, is a mighty quickener of the understanding, and even though all one's thoughts are upon one object, a fellow-feeling opens one's eyes to the signs elsewhere.

We talked much of the matter of my going, that night over the supper-table, or my grandfather and George Hamon did, while my mother and Krok and I listened. And wonderful stories Uncle George told of the profits some folks had made in the privateering--tens of thousands of pounds to the owners in a single fortunate cruise, and hundreds to every seaman.

But my mother warmed to the matter not at all. She sat gazing silently into the fire, and thought, maybe, of those who lost, and of those whose shares came only to the last cold plunge into the tumbling graveyard of the sea.

While as for me, in my own mind I saw visions of stirring deeds, and wealth and fame, and Carette seemed nearer to me than ever she had been since she went to Peter Port.

CHAPTER XVI

HOW I WENT TO SEE TORODE OF HERM

The next morning found me running in under La Givaude for the landing-place on Brecqhou, where my boat could lie safely in spite of the rising tide.

I was in the best of spirits, for low spirits come of having nothing to do, or not knowing what to do or how to do it. My next step was settled, lead where it might. I was going privateering, and now I was going to see Carette, and I intended to let her know that I was going and why, so that there should be no mistake about it while I was away.

I scrambled gaily up to the path that leads into the Island, and everything was s.h.i.+ning bright, like the inside of an ormer sh.e.l.l--the sea as blue as the sky, except close under the headlands, where it was clear, soft green; the waves farther out flashed in the sunlight and showed their white teeth wherever they met the rocks; and the rocks were yellow and brown and black, and all fringed with tawny seaweed, and here beside me the golden-rod flamed yellow and orange, and the dark green bracken swung lazily in the breeze.

And then, of a sudden, a shot rang out, and a bullet flew past my head, and cut my whistling short.

"What fool's that?" I shouted at the smoke that floated out from behind a lump of rock in front, and a young man got up lazily from behind it, and stood looking at me as he rammed home another charge.

"You'll be hurting someone if you don't take care," I said.

"I do when I care to. That was only a hint. Who are you, and what do you want here?"

"I'm Phil Carre, of Belfontaine. I want to see Monsieur Le Marchant--and Ma'm'zelle Carette."

"Oh, you do, do you? And what do you want with them?"

"I'll tell them when I see them. Do you always wish your friends good-morning with a musket on Brecqhou?"

"Our friends don't come till they're asked."

"Then you don't have many visitors, I should say."

"All we want," was the curt reply.

He was a tall, well-built fellow, some years older than myself, good-looking, as all the Le Marchants were, defiant of face and careless in manner. He looked, in fact, as though it would not have troubled him in the least if his bullet had gone through my head.

He had finished loading his gun, and stood blocking the way, with no intention of letting me pa.s.s. And how long we might have stood there I do not know, when I saw another head bobbing along among the golden-rod, and another of the brothers came up and stood beside him.

"What is it, then, Martin? Who is he?" he asked, staring at me.

"Says he's Phil Carre, of Belfontaine, but--"

And the other dark face broke into a smile. "Tiens, I remember. You came across once before--"

"Yes. You had the measles."

"And what brings you this time, Phil Carre?"

"I want to speak with Monsieur Le Marchant."

"And to see Carette, I think you said, Monsieur Phil Carre," said the other.

"Certainly."

"Come along, then," said Helier, the new-comer. "There is no harm in Phil Carre. You have not by any chance gone into the preventive service, Monsieur Carre?" he laughed.

"Not quite. I'm off to the privateering. It's that I want to speak to your father about."

"How then?" he asked with interest, as we walked along towards the great wooden house in the hollow. "How does it concern him?"

"Torode of Herm is the cleverest privateer round here, they say. I thought to try with him, and your father knows more about him than anyone else."

"Ah! Torode of Herm! Yes, he is a clever man is Torode. But he won't take you, mon gars. He picks his own, and there is not an Island man among them."

The first thing I saw when I entered the house was Carette, busy at one of the bunks in the dimness at the far end of the room. She looked round, and then straightened up in surprise.

"Why, Phil? What are you doing here? One moment"--and I saw that she was tying a bandage round the arm of the man in the bunk. His eyes caught the light from the windows and gleamed savagely at me under his rumpled black hair. A similar face looked out from an adjoining bunk. When she had finished she came quickly across to me.

"Measles again?" I said, remembering my former visit.

"Yes, measles," she said, with the colour in her face and questions in her eyes.

"I came to see your father, and if I was in luck, yourself also, Carette."

"He is sleeping," she said, with a glance towards a side room. "He was anxious about these two, and he would take the night watch. They are feverish, you see."

"I will wait."

"He won't be long. He never takes much sleep. What do you want to--" and then some sudden thought sent a flush of colour into her face and a quick enquiry into her eyes, and she stopped short and stood looking at me.

"It's this, Carette--" and then the door of the side room opened quietly and Jean Le Marchant came out, looking at us with much surprise.

He was very little changed since I had seen him last. It was the same keen, handsome face, with its long white moustache and cold dark eyes, somewhat tired at the moment with their night duties.

"And this is--?" he asked suavely, as I bowed.

"It is Phil Carre, of Belfontaine, father," said Carette quickly. "He has come to see you."

"Very kind of Monsieur Carre. It is not after my health you came to enquire, monsieur?"