As time passed on and brought no news of the absent, the hearts of these two poor women grew faint and sore; but they refused to acknowledge it to one another, or even to themselves. Their days passed in feverish, and often vain, endeavors to be cheerful and busy; their nights in anguish all the more bitter because silent and unconfessed. On All-Souls’ day old Toutain and Mère Suchet had wished to have a Requiem Mass offered for the lost sailors, but Mathilde wept aloud at the suggestion, and Manon forbade it instantly, positively, almost angrily.
Manon had borne up well through the sad funereal services of the church. She smiled upon her little ones, and returned a serene and cheerful greeting to the curious or pitying friends who accosted her. All day she had carried the burden of domestic cares and duties, while her heart ached within her bosom and cried out for solitude. Now, at night, alone with her sleeping babes, the agony of fear and pain, so long repressed, takes full possession of her sinking heart. Mingled with the roar of the treacherous sea she hears the voices of husband and son, now calling loudly for help, now borne away on the fitful wind. She sees their pale faces, with unclosed eyes, floating below the cruel green water, their strong limbs entangled in the twisted cordage. Now great, gleaming fish swim around them. Oh! it is too fearful. From her knees she falls forward upon her face and groans aloud. But on a sudden she hears a stir without—a sound of repressed voices and many hurrying feet. Hope is not dead within her yet; for she springs to the window with the wild thought that it is her absent returned. No, ’tis but a group of fishermen on their way to the pier; but Pinsard stops to tell her, with a strange thrill in his rough voice, that there is a fishing-boat coming into port!
Manon screams to her father to watch the little ones—she must go to the pier—then flies out into the night. It is not raining, and she returns to snatch her wakened and sobbing babe, and wrap him in his father’s woollen blouse. She does not know when Mathilde joins her; she is scarcely conscious of the warm, exultant clasp of her hand. Jean is there, too, agitated but grave.
As they turn the angle of the village street, before them lies the open bay. It is past midnight, but the pier is crowded. There, truly, coming on with outspread canvas, white in the struggling rays of a watery moon, is the missing ship! They know it well. Upon the broken, pebbly shore the two women kneel to thank God; but they can only lift up their voices and weep.
“They are not safe yet,” says Jean shortly. “The wind takes them straight upon the pier. They will need all our help.”
The crowd make way instantly for the breathless women. The light-house keeper stands ready with a coil of rope. The fishermen range themselves in line, tighten their belts, and wait to draw the friendly hawser. Great waves thunder against the long pier, sending showers of spray high above the pale crucifix at the end against which the women lean. Now the moon, emerging from a light cloud, sends a flood of pale radiance upon the vessel’s deck. It is they! Jacques Payen is at the helm; young Jacques stands upon the gunwale.
The light-house keeper throws his rope; the fishermen raise their musical, long-drawn cry. Jacques catches the rope, but in silence; and silently the crew make fast.
“It is their vow!” cries Manon, darting forward among the wondering men. “They will not speak until they sing Te Deum at Notre Dame for their safe return.”
Reassured, the men pull in vigorously, but to no effect. Again, and yet again, but the ship does not move. A moment since it came on swift as the wind; now it seems anchored for ever not fifty yards away. They can see plainly every object upon the deck, where the silent crew stand gazing towards the pier. Even Manon and Mathilde have seized the rope, and draw with the strength of terror. Breathless, unsteady, large drops of sweat standing upon their faces, they pause irresolute. Stretching her arms towards her husband, Manon holds out her babe.
A white mist rises out of the sea and hangs like a veil between them. Sad, reproachful voices rise out of the waves, some near at hand, others far out. An icy wind lifts the mist and carries it slowly away, clinging for a moment like a shroud around the crucifix. The cable falls slack in the strong hands that grasp it. The ship is gone—vanished without a sound; but far away echoes a solemn chorus, “Have pity on me, have pity on me, at least you, my friends, for the hand of the Lord hath touched me.”