Where Deep Seas Moan

by E. Gallienne Robin

t was winter, always a time for enjoyment in the days of old Guernsey, when evening after evening, people met together at the Veilles, to knit and sing and to tell stories of witchcraft and weird tales of the sea.

Colomberie Farm was glowing with warmth and light, and swarming with company on the evening of the twenty-first of December, for it was the special festival of longue veille. The spotless wooden table in the middle of the sanded floor was piled high with woollen goods of every kind, which had been knitted by men and women at former veilles. The dark blue of "jerseys" and "guernseys" were an effective background for stacks of white woollen stockings and scarlet caps.

"My good," said Mrs. Cartier, of Les Casquets Cottage, "there's never yet bin so many things for the Christmas Eve market! It's that we must have worked well! What do you say, mesdames?"

A torrent of agreement, poured out in Norman-French, swallowed up her small pipe; and Mesdames from all the countryside gathered closer round the table to inspect the good work and pack it up for transmission to market. Mesdames were comely and rosy, excellent and thrifty housewives, delighted at the thought of the gold and silver that the warm cosy garments represented.

The men of the company stood idly by, flirting and smoking and provoking giggles and pretty foolish speeches from the girls, who queened it openly on these occasions. Even the elderly men, seated on wooden stools in the deep recess of the wide chimney, turned their withered nut-cracker faces from the glow of the vraicq fire, to smile leniently on "les jeunes gens."

A few serious groups of born story-tellers and eager listeners sat on the floor where the flickering light of the crâsset shadowed and then brightened the healthy beauty of the girls and the warm tan of fishermen's faces. Everybody was happy, and gaiety and laughter held the night.

But to one girl, joy meant so much that she had crept away with it to the dark staircase, spiral and stone, that rose from the wide entry to the top of the house. She sat on the third step from the floor, and from her position she commanded a full view of half the kitchen. Her eyes, deep and dark with excitement, yet almost blinding in their gaze of rapture, rested on the face of Dominic Le Mierre who sat on the jonquière in the corner of the hearth. He was alone and appeared to be absorbed in watching the group of story-tellers under the crâsset. His sombre handsome face wore an expression of extreme boredom. He had said, a few moments ago to Ellenor Cartier, the girl on the stairs, that he detested the veilles, but that he was bound to be present, as master of Orvillière Farm. He had added, moreover, a remark that had flooded Ellenor's heart with the joy that had caused her to creep away by herself into the darkness.

It was her presence, he assured her, with a stare into her trusting eyes, that drew him to Colomberie Farm to-night, otherwise he would have been out fishing beyond Pleinmont Point. Dominic had chuckled to himself many times during the past months when he reviewed his position towards Ellenor. Since the meeting in the Haunted House, he had seen her not a few times, and he had rivetted round her a chain which linked her closely to himself. He had exerted the masterful fascination which was his to bring her completely under his power. Love is a stronger motive than even hate. He made Ellenor love him that he might be sure she would keep secret his dealings with smugglers. He felt absolutely certain that if once she cared for him she would be loyal, even to death. Therefore he fanned the flame of the liking she had openly avowed into a wide spreading blaze, which might burn up her peace and contentment, for all he cared, he said to himself, with a derisive laugh.

In spite of scorn and derision, however, he felt an interest in her which was quite foreign to his selfish and exploiting nature. With admirable perseverance he crushed every rising of this interest and stamped it under foot. But it proved strangely unconquerable, and it rose again and again, vital and conflicting, to taunt him with its indestructibility. He certainly could not have told himself why he liked to meet this girl so often on the sly and why he liked to kiss her red lips and make her eyes shine into his. But the fact that he did like the meetings and did look forward to the kisses, was quite a dominant factor in his life. Still, these things were apart: ambition, money, reputation were more to the master of Orvillière Farm than all the girls in creation. He had not the slightest intention of marrying a peasant girl, but he did intend to have a rich well-born wife—a pretty one, if possible.