CHAPTER XVI
Autumn came once more to the lonely dwellers on the Isle of Demons.
The dreary time was settling down threateningly; and as they faced theinevitable months, their hearts sank within them.
The bleak, late September winds again compelled them to spend most oftheir time within their hut. Daily through the summer they had watchedfor a passing sail, but with the return of autumn they gave up hope, andmade ready as best they could to pass another winter on their islandprison. Their supply of food, although they had husbanded it with theutmost care, was almost exhausted, and they had now scarcely anythingsave fish and fowl.
Yet their wretched surroundings, their hopeless future, only drew themcloser together. They had each other, and that meant everything. Theycould scarcely have been said to be actually unhappy, but for oneever-gnawing anxiety--the state of Claude's health. All summer he hadremained strong and hopeful, but with the first cold weather his coughreturned, and he himself realised that he could never live through thewinter, whose icy breath they could even now feel from the north. Hewas to give up the fight sooner than either of them expected; but beforethe struggle ended still another sorrow--or joy, they scarce knewwhich--was to be added to their lives.
Early in October Marguerite's child was born. Almost she had prayed thatit might not live; almost she had hoped that she might die with it, andend the awful suffering which was all they could look forward to. Butwhen she came slowly back to strength again, and held the tiny, helplesscreature in her arms, and knew that it drew its life from her veins, thedesire to live returned to her; she had now a double incentive tocourage and hope.
For a time Claude forgot the future, his own sufferings, everythingexcept his son. All the tenderness in his nature showed itself now. Hishands, which in France had known no service but war, were now as apt asany woman's. Night and day he waited on Marguerite and her child, andwith great joy saw them both grow strong. Meanwhile, a kind Providenceseemed to be mindful of him, for his strength never failed him; andMarguerite, as each morning she met his bright smile and cheery words,began to hope that the miracle for which she had prayed had been worked,and that Claude would yet be spared to her.
The cold of September had been followed by an unusually late and mildautumn, and in the mellow, hazy days Marguerite would walk up and downthe cliff with her child in her arms, followed by the cub, which theyhad humorously christened Francois, and which had now grown quitedomesticated, and would shuffle after his mistress wherever she went,like a faithful dog. In these peaceful days Marguerite found herselfcrooning to her baby the old Normandy lullabies, which she had not heardsince her own infancy, but which came back instinctively to her lips.
But her happiness was to be of short duration. The blow she had dreadedfell upon her when she least expected it. Claude's strength had been butfalse fire. With the return of the cold weather heaviness seized hislimbs, a dull weight oppressed his lungs, and his cough grew rapidlyworse. At last, one night, there came a haemorrhage which would not bechecked, and in the morning Marguerite found herself alone with herdead.
How she lived through that night and the days which followed it shenever knew. Nature was merciful to her, and blotted out all memory ofdetails from her brain. The constant necessity of caring for her childwas all that saved her reason, and kept her from taking her life.
With her own hands she dug a third grave beside the two others on thecliff, and after incredible labour and exertion, she laid Claude's bodyto rest, and heaped the earth above it. When she had finished her task,which she had performed with wild and feverish energy, she threw herselfupon the mound, and gave way to utter despair. How long she lay thereshe did not know; but she was recalled to herself by the crying of herchild from the hut. Not for herself, but for the sake of the little lifewhich depended upon her, she must continue to live and be strong. Shepressed her baby to her breast, and with amazing fortitude and heroism,set herself to face the task before her.
Then followed many weeks of agony. Through the long nights the windhowled about her hut, and she imagined she heard the voices of thedemons of the island clamouring for her soul. With fiendish fury theyyelled and shrieked round her frail little shelter, and often shefancied she could hear them trying to force an entrance. In the morning,with her child wrapped close and warm at her breast, she would go outand pace the cliff in all weathers, finding in the worst tumult of theelements a relief from the terrors of the night. Madness seemed settlingdown upon her, but the thought of her child bore her through it all, andthe iron will of the De Robervals stood her in good stead.
Her vitality was marvellous. Something of the nature of her warriorancestors seemed to have entered into her veins, and she was able toendure hardships such as had caused many a hardy soldier to succumb. Thewinter, which closed in upon her, bade fair to be no less severe thanthe preceding one, and now she had no one to help her in her dailytasks. With her own hands she had to break the bare branches, carry infire-logs, and even cut down trees.
Her efforts to obtain fish were unsuccessful, although the ice, whichoccasionally formed about the shore, was soon broken up by the wind, andthe birds, which still hovered about their island haunts, seemed to haveno difficulty in procuring their food. Fortunately, the powder andshot, which they had carefully husbanded, still held out, and she had asufficient supply to carry her through the winter. She was loth todestroy the only living creatures left upon the island. The hares, whichleaped across her path, she had learned to love, and the warmly-cladnorthern birds had become very dear companions to her in her loneliness.But the terrible necessity that stared her in the face knew naught ofmercy, and the winter stillness often re-echoed to the sound of herarquebuse. So expert had she become that she rarely wasted a charge ofpowder.
December passed, and January was nearly over, when the crowning sorrowwhich Fate had in store for this heroic woman fell upon her. She wokeone morning to find her child cold and lifeless at her side. She seizedhim in her arms, pressed the little icy form close to her warm breast,but felt no answering warmth. Madly she kissed his lips and eyes andcheeks; she would not believe that he was dead. When at length shebecame convinced of the truth, she rushed wildly from the hut.
There had been a heavy snowfall during the night. She was in her barefeet, but she heeded not the cold. She rushed to the cliff, her child inher arms, her hair streaming about her shoulders. The end had at lastcome; there was nothing further to live for. Fate had conquered. Shecould but throw herself into the sea, and, with her baby in her arms,confront the good God who had seen fit to pursue her with suchsuffering. But as she stood upon the cliff, the rolling waves beatingagainst the rocky hollows in the grey dawn seemed to her the hoarsevoices of the demons. Once more she heard them calling for her soul, andfor the soul of her child. She turned, and retraced her steps to herempty hut.
Laying the baby's body on the bed, she sat down beside it on the floor,her hands clasped about her knees. Silent she sat there, beside the fireshe had heaped up to try to revive the child, till night fell, and thestars shone out bright and clear in the frosty sky. Silent she sat tillthey faded again before the grey light of dawn, and the morning of a newday broke. The wind had risen during the night, and the waves had beenbellowing up the beach; but she heard neither wind nor waves. Dry-eyedshe sat beside her long-dead fire, and felt not cold nor fear. Herfaculties were deadened, her brain numbed, and it was not till herfaithful companion, Francois the bear, tired of waiting to be takennotice of, pressed his nose against her clasped hands, and breathed hiswarm breath into her face, that she awoke from her trance.
She rose mechanically, turned to her brush heap, selected some drysticks for her fire, and was about to place them on the embers when shenoticed that it had long been dead. Her hands were like ice; she waschilled to the very bone; but the physical pain she now began to feelsaved her. It called forth her energies; quickly she went to work torenew the fire, and the exertion drew her out of herself. As the flamesblazed up and crackl
ed through the dry branches, the life began to comeback to her frozen limbs, and she roused herself to face her situation.
Her baby must be buried, and she must perform the task. She fashioned arough coffin out of some planks, and tenderly laid the tiny body in it.As she fastened down the lid it seemed to her that every nail wentthrough her own heart, but she did not weep. Her eyes had long sinceceased to know the comfort of tears. Wearily she climbed the hillsidewith her little burden, wondering within herself how much longer itwould be before she could lay her worn-out limbs beside those three rudegraves, and be done with suffering for ever.
The baby must not lie alone; she would open Claude's grave, and lay himbeside his father. The frozen ground was almost impenetrable, and it waslong before she succeeded in digging a hole deep enough to admit thecoffin. But patiently she toiled; slowly, with weak hands, hacking thesoil, and scraping the lumps out of the grave. At last she had made ashallow opening which would hold the box, and when it was placed withinshe knelt beside it, holding the crucifix which had saved Claude fromthe waves, and prayed that their souls might rest in peace. A suddenimpulse seized her. All that she had treasured, all that she had livedfor, was in that grave. The crucifix was the last precious thing left toher, and she laid it upon the coffin of her child. Then, withouttrusting herself to kneel there longer, she rose hurriedly, cast backthe frozen soil into the double grave, and piled large stones in a heapover the top, to prevent any animal scratching away the earth. Then shewent back to her hut, and resumed the weary round of her hopeless,solitary life.
To a modern mind it may seem strange that reason did not utterly deserther; but the age in which she lived may help to account for the strengthwhich sustained her. Though of noble blood, and tenderly nurtured, shehad been accustomed to view scenes of death and hardship with a calmeye. Young as she was, she had beheld death in many forms; and thesieges which her uncle's castle had several times resisted had taughther something of a man's strength and endurance, which, coupled with awoman's tenacious vitality, made her doubly strong. Then, too, she hadnot been unfamiliar with loneliness. In her youthful days, before Mariede Vignan had come to live with her, she had often been left alone forweeks, with no one to relieve the monotony of her existence save oldBastienne and the other servants; and during these periods she hadrarely spoken to any human being, save to issue some command. And now,though she was absolutely alone, the struggle for existence, and thepresence of the young bear, her sole living companion, saved her reason.Sometimes, however, the unwonted sound of her own voice made her startand wonder if she who had spoken could really be one with the desolatecreature who trod this snow-clad island, hopelessly scanning the horizonfor some sign that there was a world other than the narrow one withinwhose limits she was hemmed.
Night she dreaded. She kept her fire going through the long hours ofdarkness, but often the glowing embers and tongues of flame would takeweird shapes before her eyes. Across the island the wind swept andmoaned, and every sound seemed to her the voice of some of the fabledevil spirits of the north. Often she would wake from sleep feelingghostly presences near her--at her very side. At such times she wouldcreep close to her strange companion, Francois, and nestle against hisshaggy coat. The warmth of his body, and the thick, soft rug which theyhad made from the skin of the old she-bear, were all that saved her fromperishing of the bitter cold of that terrible winter.
It was with unutterable relief that she saw the spring sun return, andfelt the warm south wind breathe upon the island hollows. Daily she hadwatched with hopeless eyes for the sail that never came; but now, as thegreen shoots began to glisten here and there on the brown sod, she oncemore built her watchfire high on the cliff, and kept it blazing nightand day.
Winter seemed suddenly to have given place to summer. All through Aprilthe warm sun streamed down upon the island, and for hours she satlooking out over the blue stretch of scarcely moving water. But ficklespring had a change in store. A chill, icy breath swept down from thenorth; the pines and birches moaned and sighed once more; and the greatgreen waves crashed foaming on the beach. Her heart sank within her;but ever southward she gazed. An inward voice seemed still to assure herthat help was on its way to her, and that her sufferings were nearly atan end.
At last, on the second day of the storm, her eye caught sight, on thebroken horizon, of a sail. Steadily she watched it till there could nolonger be any doubt of its reality; and then she heaped a huge pile ofbrushwood upon her fire. They had seen it! Nearer and nearer the vesselwas drawing. At last she was to be rescued!
Marguerite De Roberval: A Romance of the Days of Jacques Cartier Page 16