HOW THEY WENT THROUGH THE DARKNESS OF THE NARROW WAY
One dark night Gard sauntered down the cutting towards the Coupée, enjoying a last pipe before turning in.
This had become something of a habit with him. The people of Plaisance, hard at work all day in the fields, went early to bed and left him to follow when he pleased. And to stand securely in that deep cleft, just where the protecting walls broke off short and left the narrow path to waver on into the darkness, was always fascinating to him.
When the moon flooded the gulf on the left with shimmering silver, and the waves broke along the black rocks below in crisp white foam like silver frost, he would stand by the hour there and never tire of it.
The moon cast such a mystic glamour over those great voids of darkness and over the headlands, melting softly away, fold behind fold, on the right, while Little Sark became a mystery land into which the white path rambled enticingly and invited one to follow.
And to him, as his eyes followed it till it disappeared over the crown of the ridge, it was more than a mystery land—a land of promise, rich in La Closerie and Nance.
Always within him, as he watched, was the feeling that if the sweet slim figure should come tripping down the moonlit path towards him, he would be in no way astonished. When he stood there, watching, it seemed to him that it would be entirely fitting for her to come so, in the calm soft light that was as pure and sweet as herself.
And at times his eye would light on the grim black pile of L'Etat, lying out there in the silvery shimmer like some great monumental cairn, a rough and rugged heap of loneliness and mystery—the grimmer and lonelier by reason of the twinkling brightness of its setting. And then his thoughts would play about the lonely pile, and come back with a sense of homely relief to the fairy path which Nance's little feet had trod, in light and dark, and storm and shine, since ever she could walk.
He pictured her as a tiny girl running fearlessly across the grim pathway to school, dancing in the sunshine, bending to the storm, and all alone when she had been kept in—he wondered with a smile what she had been kept in for.
He thought of her, as he had seen her, walking to church, her usually blithe spirit tuned to sedateness by the very fact, and, to him, delightfully stiffened by the further fact that she, almost alone among her friends and school-fellows, wore Island costume, while all the rest flaunted it in all the colours of the rainbow. And he laughed happily to himself, for very joy, at thought of the sweet elusive face in the shadow of the great sun-bonnet. There was not a face in all Sark to compare with it, nor, for him, in all the world.
But this night, as be stood there pulling slowly at his pipe and thinking of Nance, was one of the black nights.
Later on there would be a remnant of a moon, but as yet the sky above was an ebon vault without a star, and the gulfs at his feet were pits of darkness out of which rose the voices of the sea in solemn rhythmic cadence.
Down in Grande Grève, on his right, the waves rolled in almost without a sound, as though they feared to disturb the darkness. From the intervening moments he could tell how slowly they crept to their curve. Their fall was a soft sibilation, a long-drawn sigh. The ever-restless sea for once seemed falling to sleep.
And then, as he listened into the darkness, a tiny elfish glimmer flickered in the void below, flickered and was gone, and he rubbed his eyes for playing him tricks. But the next wave broke slowly round the wide curve of the bay in a crescent of lambent flame, and a flood of soft, blue-green fire ran swelling up the beach and then with a sigh drew slowly back, and all was dark again. Again and again—each wave was a miracle of mystic beauty, and he stood there entranced long after his pipe had gone dead.
And as he stood gazing down at the wonder of it, his ear caught the sound of quick light footsteps coming towards him across the Coupée, and he marvelled at the intrepidity of this late traveller. If he had had to go across there that night, he would have gone step by step, with caution and a lantern; whereas here was no hesitation, but haste and assurance.
It was only when she had passed the last bastion, and was almost upon him, that he made out that it was a girl.
His heart gave a jump. She had been so much in his thought. Yet, even so, it was almost at a venture that he said—
"Nance?"
And yet, again, he had learned to recognize her footsteps at the farm, and where the heart is given the senses are subtly acute, and she had slackened her pace somewhat as she drew near.
"Yes; I am going to the doctor."
"Why—who—?"
"Grannie is ill—in pain. He will give me something to ease her." He had turned and was walking by her side.
"I am sorry. You will let me go with you?"
"There is no need at all—"
"No need, I know; but all the same it would be a pleasure to me to see you safely there and back."
She hurried on without speaking. If there had been any light, and he had dared to peep inside the black sun-bonnet, he might perhaps have found the hint of a smile overlaying her anxiety on Grannie's account.
By the ampler feel of things, and the easing of the slope, he knew they were out of the cutting, and presently they were passing Plaisance.
"If you would sooner I did not walk with you, I will fall behind; but I couldn't stop here and think of you going on alone," he said.
"That would be foolishness," she said gently. "But there is really no need. I have no fears of ghosts or anything like that."
"There might be other kinds of spirits about," he said quietly. "And when men drink as some of my fellows do, they are no respecters of persons. But this is surely very sudden. Your grandmother seemed all right at dinner-time."
"She had bad pains in the afternoon, and they have been getting worse. She did not want to have the doctor, but the things she took did her no good, and mother said I had better go and ask him for something more."
"And where is Bernel?"
"He went to the fishing with Billy Mollet, and he was not back."
"And suppose the doctor is not in?"
"They will know where he is, and I will go after him."
"Did you see those wonderful waves of fire as you came across the Coupée?"
"I have seen them often. When there is more sea on, and it breaks on the rocks, it is finer still. It is something in the water, Mr. Cachemaille told me."
"I heard your footsteps down there on the Coupée, but I couldn't see a sign of you till you were almost against me."
"I saw from the other side that some one was there, but I could not see who."
"You have most wonderful eyes in Sark."
"It is never quite dark to me on the darkest night. I suppose it is with being used to it."
"You'll have to help me across the Coupée."
"And how will you get back?"
"The moon will be up, and then I can see all right. I don't need much light, but I've not been brought up to see through solid black."
The doctor was fortunately in, and knew by ample experience what would ease Grannie's pains. So presently they were hurrying back along the dark road.
As they turned the corner by Vauroque an open doer cast a great shaft of light across the darkness, and there, just as on a previous occasion, on the wall lounged half-a-dozen men, and among them was Tom Hamon, who had come up to have a drink with his friend Peter.
At sight of him, Nance bent her head and tried to shrink into herself as she hurried past.
But Tom had seen her, and the sight of her alone with Gard at that time of night roused the virtuous indignation, and other more potent spirits, within him.
He sprang down into the road, shouting what sounded like a spate of curses in the patois.
Gard stopped and turned, with a keen recollection of the same thing having happened before. He remembered too how that occasion ended.
But Nance laid an entreating hand on his arm.
"Please—don't!"
Her voice sounded a little strange to him. If he had been able to see her face now he would have found it pallid, in spite of its usual healthy brown bloom.
She stood entreatingly till he turned and went on with her.
"He is evidently aching for another thrashing," he said grimly, as he stalked beside her.
And presently they were in the cutting, and the unnerving vastness of the gulfs opened out on either side. Gard felt like a blindfolded man stumbling along a plank.
He involuntarily put out a groping hand and took hold of her cloak. A little hand slipped out of the cloak and took his in charge, and so they went through the darkness of the narrow way.
He breathed more freely when the further slope was reached, and only then became aware that the hand that held his was all of a tremble. The next moment he perceived that she was sobbing quietly.
"Nance!" he cried. "What is it? You are crying. Is it anything I—"
"No, no, no!" sobbed the wounded soul convulsively.
"What then? Tell me!"
"I cannot. I cannot."
"Nance—dear!" and he sought her hand again and stood holding it firmly. "It is like stabs in my heart to hear you sobbing. I would give my life to save you from trouble. Do you believe me, dear?"
"Yes, yes—"
"And you can trust me, dear, can you not? You distrusted me at first, I know, but—"
"Oh, I do trust you, and I know you are good. And it is that that makes it so wicked of him to say such things about us—"
In her excitement she had let slip more than she intended. She stopped abruptly.
"Tom?"
She did not speak, but the wound welled open in another sob.
"Don't trouble about him, dear! I don't know what he said, but if it was meant to make you doubt me, it was not true. You are more to me than anything in the world, Nance, and I have never loved any other woman—except my mother. Do you believe me?"
"Yes—oh, yes! I cannot help believing you. Oh, I wish sometimes that Tom was dead. When I was very little I used to pray each night to God to kill him."
"I'll teach him to leave you alone."
"I must go now. Grannie is waiting for her medicine."
He took the little hand under his arm and pressed it close to his side, and they pushed on down the dark lanes till they came in sight of the lights of La Closerie.
Then he bent into the sun-bonnet and sealed his capture of the virginal fortress by a passionate kiss on the tremulous little lips. And she, with the frankness of a child, reached up and kissed him warmly back.
"Good-night, dear, and God bless you!" he said fervently.
"Can you find your way in the dark?"
"There is the moon. I shall be all right."
She bent her head and ran on towards the lights. He watched her go in at the door, and turned and went back along the lane, and his heart was high with the joy that was in him.