"That's how I love him! He's the blackest of the black--a liar, a smuggler, a cheat to his wife and to me, too fond of his gla.s.s, cruel to the poor, mad for money, pretending to be pious of a Sunday; and yet, yet, I love him, because it's him, and because I was made to love him, once and for ever."

"My G.o.d! how you hurt me!" cried poor Perrin, clasping her hand closer in his.

She cried quietly for a little while, and Corbet did not try to check her tears. His tender love made him wise and gentle as his own mother. At last she was quite still, and presently she said,

"Perrin, if you love me, I'll be your wife some day."

"Do you really mean it? It seems too good to be true. I can't take it in, as you see. And yet if it does come to pa.s.s, there'll be no man prouder than me in the whole of Guernsey!"

"But, if I am to be your wife, there'll be a condition."

"Condition! You can make a hundred, dear Ellenor."

"I don't know if you'll agree to this one, however!"

"Of course I will! I promise you beforehand."

"Promise! Promise! Quickly!"

He laughed gaily, wild with joy at her sweet mood and at the fair prospect the future held for him.

"I promise I'll agree gladly to your condition, whatever it is."

"Then listen to it. You have promised you'll never give up Monsieur Le Mierre to the constables."

Perrin was silent for a long time; then he said, in a voice hoa.r.s.e with emotion,

"It seems I am a very stupid chap, and it takes me a little while to see what a woman is driving at. But though you are too clever for me, Ellenor, and caught me in a fine trap, I can make out the reason, the only reason, why you will be my wife. It is to save Le Mierre from disgrace."

"Yes," she replied, "it is; and there is yet one more reason. I can't live to Les Casquets any longer. I'm too unhappy. Mother is always telling me what people say about me; no other tune do I hear all day long."

"Well, it's quite plain you don't care a _double_ for me; but, still, I can take care of you, give you a home and thus stop the wagging of all the tongues in the parish. But, Ellenor, there is one thing I must speak about. I am willing to know you don't love me; willing to know you've given your heart to another man, and him a scoundrel. But, I couldn't stand it if you had meetings with him when you will be my wife, the daughter of my dear old mother. I'd kill you, I believe. G.o.d forgive me, if such a thing happened."

"You needn't be afraid," she said in a dreary, colourless voice, "since now I am always getting out of his way. There is left a little pride in me yet. I can't bring such disgrace on my father.

But every day I cry because I can't see him."

"Well, I am satisfied! After all we know what each other means. And now, when will it be, this wedding of ours?"

He tried to speak gaily, poor Perrin, but it was sad work. He succeeded at last in persuading her to agree to be married on Christmas Day: and then, fearful that she would change her mind, he said he would take her home at once, for it was getting late.

As they descended the hill and crossed the bay, Perrin pointed out the gleaming of a light on Lihou, an islet within a stone's throw of Guernsey.

"It seems that Le Mierre is living there just now to work at the iodine. His wife is with him. She is very delicate, it would appear, and not very happy, poor pretty Blaisette!"

"Does he beat her?"

"So people say. I can believe anything bad of Le Mierre."

"It is not surprising. How bad I must be to love such a man! Perrin, why didn't G.o.d let me--_make_ me, love you instead?"

Was this sad gentle voice in reality Ellenor's? Was this nestling hand hers? Did it really creep through his arm?

"My girl, we must not dictate to G.o.d about what He does! I confess I don't understand half He lets happen to us. But I couldn't question it."

"Poor Perrin!" she went on softly, "to care for me, of all the girls in the two parishes."

"I wouldn't change you for the Queen on her throne?"

He caught her to his breast and folded her to his heart. In the heaven of his faithful love she felt, at least, safe from her own lurid pa.s.sion, and at rest from the biting remarks of her little world.

CHAPTER VI.

It was the night of Christmas Eve and the snow fell thick and fast.

This weather, so unusual in the Channel Isles, had delayed Perrin Corbet in the little town of Saint Pierre Port, and it was past ten o'clock when he reached home. His mother had gone to bed, but not before she had prepared her son's supper and left the little kitchen the picture of comfort. After his meal, Perrin turned the lamp low, lit his pipe, and sat down in his mother's arm-chair before the _vraicq_ fire. The wind moaned in the huge chimney, with a cradling sound, but Perrin was not in the least inclined to sleep. To-morrow would be his wedding day. He could not realize it; he could not believe he would so soon reach the height of joy. He tried to picture to-morrow. Ellenor, in the white gown she had described to him, would stand before the altar, and he, her devoted lover, would take her hand and declare, before G.o.d and before the world, that she was to be his wife.

Then, the rest of the day would be spent in quiet joy at Les Casquets Cottage, with his mother as the only guest of the Cartiers.

He pictured the moment when he would say, taking out his watch, "Now, mother, now, Ellenor, it is time for us to go home."

He would light the lantern, and with those two women, so dear, so precious, he would return to this very cottage, henceforth to be a palace to him, since Ellenor, his queen, would be his wife. He would deal so tenderly with her, for she had suffered much, his poor Ellenor! He would never reproach her if she seemed to fret after Dominic. She could not uproot, all at once, such a deep love. He would lead her gently back to the ways of religion which she had deserted. He would remind her, one quiet evening, that she was of those who were admitted to The Holy Supper of the Lord, for had she not been confirmed at the same time as he had? And, please G.o.d, she would listen to him. Perhaps, in days to come, she would learn to love him a little. Perhaps that joy would be his when baby hands clasped his rough brown fingers and a rosy baby mouth kissed his adoring lips!

His pipe was out; and his head was bent as he dreamed of the morrow, his wedding day. For a moment, the wind had ceased its moaning and a deep stillness enfolded the cottage.

Suddenly, a sharp tap rang through the kitchen. Perrin started, his dreams scattered. He listened, breathless, his island blood frozen, his Celtic temperament at once calling up visions of the supernatural.

Again the tap sounded on the window; and this time, a familiar voice re-a.s.sured Perrin.

"Let me in, Corbet, quick, I bring bad news."

In a moment Cartier stood in the kitchen and cried breathlessly,

"Have you seen Ellenor? She hasn't been home since early this afternoon!"

The ruddy colour left Perrin's tanned face.

"My G.o.d, no, I haven't seen her! What, then, can have happened?"

Then, with graphic, trembling words, Jean told how Ellenor had gone to Saint Pierre to buy some finery for her wedding bonnet; how, hour after hour, when the snow was thick and the wind howled over the moorland, she had been anxiously looked for; how, at last, in despair, he had said to his wife that he would go to Perrin, for they must be off to look for Ellenor all the way to Saint Pierre Port.

At once, Corbet went upstairs, and, waking his mother, told her the story of his girl's mysterious disappearance.

"We'll go round to Les Casquets and bring Mrs. Cartier over here, mother. She's a poor creature, and she can't be left alone. Who can tell when Cartier and I will be back!"

It was two o'clock before the men started to walk to Saint Pierre Port. It was brilliant moonlight at four o'clock, and the gusts of snow had died away with the wind; but the men searched, in vain, for any trace of Ellenor. As soon as it was dawn, the two parishes were roused, and those who were kind helped to look for the missing girl.

The rest shrugged their shoulders and said that Christmas Day was not meant to be wasted in such a search, for such a queer wild girl as Ellenor Cartier. At last a child found in a hedge a paper bag: it contained a spray of artificial flowers, a few drenched roses. The child's mother guessed this must be the finery Ellenor had gone to buy, for everyone knew the pitiful story by now. But the hedge was ominously near Rocquaine Bay. What did this mean?