Part 7 (1/2)
”He's been away ever since his wife's death. It was said everywhere, in the two parishes and even to Saint Pierre Port that he went off because of poor Blaisette. She came again and again to Orvilliere like a white sea-gull, crying and flapping her wings against his bedroom window. Her spirit can't rest it seems, because of his wickedness. But, now, I've been told this very day, that he's back to Guernsey: and some there are who say he's been making love to girls in Jersey.”
”If only he'd had brought one back as his wife, that foolish Ellenor of yours would have stopped hankering after him!”
”I don't believe he'll marry her, because she is poor and of no family: _besides_ ...”
”You may well say _besides_, poor girl! But, come, my son, I am tired, I must go to bed.”
Rumour was quite correct in giving one of the reasons for Le Mierre's departure to Jersey. He told everyone how he was bothered by the spirit of Blaisette; but he did not add that abject terror of small-pox made him decide to spend some months with well-to-do relations in Jersey, which was quite exempt from the horrible disease.
It was just before Lent when he came home to find a very bleak springtime keeping back the flowers in his garden at Orvilliere.
With relief, after the first night, he told his housekeeper that the spirit of Blaisette had gone, evidently for good. The woman, a devout Roman Catholic, muttered behind his back.
”She's got enough to do, praying for you in Purgatory, poor soul, if she's allowed to think of such a black heart as yours! The Blessed Angels and Saints know how it would discourage her to come back to see you as bad as ever, and it's _my_ belief, worse!”
The tragic death of Blaisette had almost canonized her: and she, who had been in life, a pretty weak doll, was enshrined in all hearts as a martyr to her husband's brutality. So often does death enrich and enlarge our limited outlook.
It was the evening of the first Sunday in Lent. Jean Cartier, his wife, Mrs. Corbet and Perrin had been to church at Saint Pierre du Bois. It was dark as they entered the parish of Torteval, and Jean said in an anxious voice,
”I suppose Ellenor has left Les Casquets by now?”
His wife nudged him as if to say he had betrayed a secret: but it was too late. Mrs. Corbet's gentle voice asked, in great curiosity, where Ellenor was going at this time of night.
”To _Les Brandons_, on Pleinmont,” said Jean bluntly. ”We didn't like it. But as for me, I've not got the heart to refuse her nothing, since we nearly lost her with the small-pox--poor child!”
The women echoed his deep sigh: and Perrin said quickly,
”Look here! I'm off to _Les Brandons_ too! Then I can look after her! Don't wait up for me, mother.”
”Very well. But, tell me, Jean. Will Le Mierre be there? Has she met him since his return from Jersey?”
”He will be there, for certain,” broke in Perrin. ”And, for certain, she has not see him yet. She told me so herself. _Adi, then, toute la compagnie._”
He swung along and was soon out of sight. The high road of Torteval was thronged with people who, for the most part, carried lanterns.
He hurried past, not speaking to a soul. Presently he had reached his home, and, turning sharply round the corner of the little garden, he found himself in a lane which ended in a cart rut and brought him out to the moorland of Pleinmont and close to the Haunted House.
The sky was thick with stars, which flashed like silver bonfires in the blackness of the night. A fresh breeze swept over the gorze bushes of the moorland and blew into yellow and red streamers the sheet of flame that rose from a huge bonfire which was built in a direct line inland from the Haunted House. The sea, below the precipitous cliffs, moaned and sighed, and, far off, in the distance, could be heard the murmur of the deep seas. Shouts of laughter and merry voices, sc.r.a.ps of folk song and impromptu dancing, came from the throng of people scattered over the moorland and gathered round the bonfire.
Most of the girls of the company wore masks, rough, crude affairs, which, however, effectually concealed their faces. These masked girls were to take part in a special feature of _Les Brandons_, and were inspected curiously by the men present who were to be chosen as partners by these _faux visages_.
Perrin Corbet moved quietly, almost stealthily, about amongst the people, evidently intent on finding some particular person. All at once he stopped close to the huge bonfire, and stared, with knitted brows, at Dominic Le Mierre, who swaggered in and out amongst the girls, tapping one on the cheek, chucking another under the chin, and pulling the long curls of a young creature in her teens. In the fitful and flickering light, the master of Orvilliere looked like a sea-king, so stalwart, so wicked, so magnetic. It was quite plain to Perrin Corbet that he was more than a little the worse for drink; and he watched him closely, and followed him as near as he dared without being observed.
At ten o'clock, and at a given signal, the masked girls went up to the group of men to choose partners. Perrin edged close to Dominic Le Mierre and scrutinized painfully the girl who laid her hand on the ”jerseyed” arm of the master. She was of middle height and extremely thin. Her emaciated hand trembled; it looked almost discoloured in the uncertain light. The border of her face that could be seen round the mask was ghastly in its whiteness. She wore a close fitting bonnet which hid all trace of her hair.
With partially glazed eyes, Dominic peered at her.
”You don't look much of a beauty!” he cried, ”but I'll soon see who you are, my girl!”
When the masks had all chosen, a circle was formed round the bonfire, the men holding their partners tightly by the hand. Faster and faster flew the circle till the masked faces shewed like a black band, while the outside throng of people cheered and clapped, and encouraged the dancers to madder whirling. Then, suddenly, as by one impulse, the circle was broken up, and a new spectacle was provided for the onlookers.
Each girl seized her partner by the hand and together they leapt across the flaming bonfire. Wild excitement was the order of the night. It was the festival of the rude, primitive elements of human nature. It was a pageant of black shadow and brilliant light. It answered to the spirit of the bleak moorland, to the steeps of the cliffs, to the mystery of the sea.