14 Monsieur Paul

AN’ this is the sixth day, an’ if the Lord hasn’t said it, it’s dead they are! It’s maybe at the bottom av the say they are. I say I’m sayin’ it’s at the bottom av the say they are!”

The speaker is old Tim, light-house-keeper of Dree Island, and his audience are a group of men, gathered in the bar-room of the St. Gildas Hotel. They listen with anxious faces, in silence, while old Tim tells his tale. Old Tim is a short man, of sixty or more, with an ugly, surly, honest, weather-beaten face, crimson with much Irish whisky and Canadian sunshine—something of an oddity in his way. Old Tim never, by any chance, listens to what is said to him by anybody, if he can help it, so, judging others subject to the same infirmity, he has a habit of raising his voice, as he goes on, asserting and repeating himself, and so drowning all ill-bred interruption.

“It’s that slip av a gerrel. The byes is well enough. I’m not sayin’ a word agen the byes. It’s that gerrel. I say it’s that gerrel. The divil himself wudn’t be up to her for divilment. She’d drowned thim in a minute for pure divarsion. It’s that gerrel. I say I’m sayin’ it’s that slip av a gerrel!”

“The Boule-de-neige was picked up yesterday adrift off Point Tormentine,” says one of the listeners. “This is a bad business, Tim. Couldn’t you have given the alarm sooner? Six days ago!” the speaker whistles with up lifted eyebrows.

“Is it give the alarrum sooner? Sorra haporth I’ve done for the last four days but give alarrums. Arrah! me very heart’s bruk with the alarrums I’ve been givin’, an’ sorra a sowl’s been alarrumed about it, barrin’ ould Wasy herself, bad scran to her! I say me heart’s bruk wid the alarrums I’m givin’. Faix, it’s hardly a minute I’ve left to attind to the light. Alarrums inagh! Wisha! ’tis wishin’ thim well I am for alarrums!”

“And Dr. Macdonald away from home, too,” another says, and looks blankly about him. “What are we to do?”

“Faix he is,” responds old Tim; “an’, more betoken, some others is away that’s wanted at home, Father Looey is away among the Injuns and the Frinch, bad cess to thim! As if craters like thim wanted the praste! I say Father Louis is away preachin’ a station to thim nagers av lnjuns. Av he was to the fore it’s not the likes o’ ye I’d be thrubblin’ wid alarrums. Sure he’d do more in a minute thin the lot av ye in a week. I say I’m say-i ‘——”

“Oh! confound you, Tim; you needn’t repeat your impertinence. We will do what we can, no matter where Père Louis is.”

“I say it’s not to the likes o’ ye,” repeats old Tim, raising his voice, and ignoring the interruption, “I’d be talkin’ if Father Louis was to the fore. And now here’s the Bowld-naige picked up adrift. Isn’t that what ye’re sayin’ ye beyant there? An’ where’s them that wint in her?—tell me that.”

They look at one another, and are silent. Dr. Macdonald is well known, and better liked, by every man of them. They know the boys too, and the pretty blonde girl with the waving fair hair.

“It’s a bad lookout.”

“Six days missing! Mon Dieu! it is terrible!”

“Old Tim ought to be shot!”

“Who will tell the doctor this?”

“After the storms of Thursday too. Even if they did make land somewhere——”

“Ma foi! was not the Boule-de-neige found, keel up, three miles the other side of Tormentine? Make land! The first land they made, my friend, was the bottom.”

“Poor children! Two fine lads; handsome and manly, and the prettiest little girl you could see! It is a great pity.”

“What is to be done?”

“Yes,” says old Tim, chiming in like a Greek chorus, “I’m sayin’ what’s to be done? It’s not standin’ here like sticks o’ salin’ wax that’ll resky thim av they’re anywhere. I’m sayin’ it’s not standin’ here——”

He breaks off. There has entered quietly among them a stranger, so different in appearance from most of the men around him, as to be conspicuous at a glance. A tall, dark-bearded, brown, traveled-looking man, with a stamp that is not of St. Gildas upon him, handsome beyond question, and having, perhaps, thirty or more years.

Old Tim’s jaw drops; he gazes, and still the wonder grows, his mouth agape, his small eyes opening wide. Then his wonder suddenly bursts into vehement speech.

“It’s him!” cries old Tim. “Oh, that I may niver, av it isn’t him! Munsheer Paul!” he bustles aside all who interpose, and grasps the new-comer’s hand. “Misther Farrar, darlin’, don’t ye know me?”

“Tim, old boy! Yes, I know your jolly old figure-head, of course,” returns the stranger, laughing, and slapping him on the shoulder. “Dear old chap, how are you? And what is all this I——”

“An’ it’s back for good an’ all ye are, I hope, from thim parts I’d not be namin’? Musha, but the ould docther will be as glad as if somebody had left him a ligacy. I’m not sayin’ they didn’t agree wid ye, though, thim parts,” peering up at him admiringly; “it’s fine, an’ big, an’ brown ye are, this minute. I’m sayin’ it’s fine, and sthrong, and good-lukin’ ye are, Misther Farrar. An’ ye’re back! Well, well! faix, they do be sayin’ at home bad shillins iver an’ always come back!”

“Think you, Tim. But the children——”

“It’s the wonderful rowlin’ stone ye are, if all tales about ye bees thrue. An’ ye’ve been livin’ out there in thim parts all this time? Sure there niver come a batch o’ letters to the ould docther that I didn’t go up an’ ax for ye. ‘I’ve a bit av a letther, Tim,’ sez he, ‘from thim ve know.’ ‘Arrah, have ye?’ sez I ; ‘how is he at all?’ ‘Well, Tim, glory be to God, an’ he does be sayin’ he’ll be wid us soon.’ But, oh wirra, sure I knowed betther thin to b’lave that. An’ here ye are! I say, I’m sayin’, here ye——”

“But these children, Tim? For Heaven’s sake, never mind me! What of the doctor’s boys, and my girl?”

“An’ your gerrel! ‘Pon me conscience thin but she’s a han’ful av a gerrel? It’s all her doin’s from——”

“Yes, yes, yes, Tim! but what has she done? What talk is this of wreck and storm, and a boat accident? Don’t you know I’m all at sea?”

“Yis, faith, an’ there’s more like ye. That’s where they are, or may be at the bottom. I say, that’s where they are av the Lord hasn’t a han’ in thim. It’s six blissid days since an eye was clapt on thim, and the Bowld-naige, starn up, off the wildest point on the coast.”

The stranger groans, and turns an appealing glance along the row of faces. Evidently he knows better than to try longer to stem the flow of Tim’s talk.

“Tell me, some of you,” he says, “the girl is mine.”

“We are sorry, m’sieur,” a small, brown-faced man, with gold ear-rings, says, touching his cap; “it is all ver bad. It is now six days since they have went away. They went in the boy’s boat—a batteau—since yesterday found adrift many miles down the bay. And,” with quick compassion, “it is suppose they must be lost. M’sieur will be good enough to remind himself of the storm of two days since.”

But, yes; monsieur remembers, and grows very pale.

“And Dr. Macdonald is away!” he exclaims.

“Ah, m’sieur! how that is unfortunate. If he had been home they would have been discover since long time. But thees Tim,” a shrug, “he say he give the alarm many time, but my faith! no one have hear until to-day. Ha! how that is droll!”

“I heard some rumor yesterday,” another adds, “but I paid no great attention. They are often out in the little boat, and—well, I paid no attention. I suppose others felt as I did—that they would turn up all right.”

“It is ver great peety,” says the Frenchman; “we will do all our possib, but what will you? Six days! Mon Dieu!”

It is, indeed, a blank prospect. They stand for a little, silent, deep concern in every face.

“Have you no idea—has no one any idea,” the new comer, Mr. Farrar, asks, “of which direction they took? They must have had some distinct idea of going somewhere, when they put off. Does Ma’am Weesy not know?”

“Here she is for ye, let her spake for hersilf,” says Tim. “Wasy, woman, I’m sayin’, come here a minute. It’s wanted, ye are-I say it’s wanted ye are, and by thim as maybe ye thought was far away.”

Ma’am Weesy, her brown face one pucker of anxious wrinkles, all wild with alarm, and vague with ejaculations, bustles in among the men.

“Look at him now,” says Tim, “there he is forninst ye; an’ it’s many a long day ye’ll luk among thim beggarly spalpeens av Frinchmin afore ye see he’s like!”

But this last old Tim is polite enough to add under his breath, as he points one stubby index finger at the last arrival.

Ma’am Weesy does look, in puzzled wonder and incredulity, perplexity, recognition, doubt in her mahogany face. He holds out his hand.

“It is I, Ma’am Weesy, your troublesome boarder of nine years ago, and back in a very disastrous time, I fear.”

“M. Paul!” the old woman cries out, joyfully. “Ah, how this is well. Oh, m’sieu, I rejoice to welcome you back, if one may rejoice in anything at such a time. You have hear?”

“Yes, I have heard. It is a terrible thing; but perhaps you can help us, if indeed it is not too late for all help. Surely you know something of where they intended to go?”

“No, m’sieu,” with a sob, “I do not. Ah, grande ceil! they went so often, look you—and I fear not. What was there to fear, with Master Jean in the boat, that has been in a boat since he could walk alone? They went all the days—I never thought of asking. I rejoice to see them go—me, wicked that I am—they so disarrange me at my work. And that day I was glad—glad they go, for I have great deal to do, and mademoiselle, she tease me much. Helas! no, M. Paul, I know not where the dear little ones may be. Only the good God, He know.”

“Where were they most in the habit of going?”

“Everywhere, m’sieu. Up and down, here and there, all places. They go sometime to the Indian villages for moccasin, and basket, and bead-bag, even. Everywhere they go—all places.”

“And they said nothing, nothing at all? Tax your memory, Ma’am Weesy, the least hint may be of importance now.”

Ma’am Weesy knits her brown brows, puckers her mouth, makes an effort, and shakes her head.

“It is of no use, M. Paul, they said nothing. Only they talk of raspberries the day before, perhaps, who know, they go for raspberry?”

“And where is the most likely place for raspberries? They would naturally go where they were most plentiful. Oh, my dear old woman, how could you leave this matter for six long days?”

“I did my best,” Ma’am Weesy says, weeping. ” I did tell Teem; I come to St. Gildas two, three, five time; I tell all I know. But what will you, M. Paul? Père Louis he is gone, M. le doctor he is gone, and for the rest—bah! what they care? They are beesy, it will be all right, they say, and go their way; no one can handle a boat better than Master Jean. And now they say to me la Boule-de-neige is found, and not my children. And to-morrow M. le doctor will be home, and me, how am I to face him? I promise him I care for them, and see how I keep my word.”

As she sobs out the last words there is a bustle at the door, and a man enters hurriedly and looks around.

“Have you heard, Desereaux?” some one asks. “What is to be done?”

“Heard? yes,” the new-comer says, excitedly. “I know where they are! Where they started to go to, at least. Is the doctor here? Is he back?”

“I am here; I am concerned in this matter. You remember me, perhaps, M. Desereaux? I am Paul Farrar.”

“My dear M. Paul!” Desereaux grasps his hand, “welcome back to St. Gildas. You have come at a most opportune time. We must set off in search of these lost ones at once. They are safe and well still, I hope, in spite of the batteau’s having slipped her moorings. Mes amis, they are at Chapeau Dieu!”

A murmur of surprise, consternation, relief, goes through the group. “Chapeau Dieu!” all exclaim. “They are found, and on Chapeau Dieu!”

“The way I know is this,” M. Desereaux goes on. “Mademoiselle Snowball told my daughter Innocente, at the convent, the other day, that she and the boys proposed going to Chapeau Dieu for raspberries, and invited her to accompany them. Inno could not, she was going on a visit out of town with me, and went. We only returned to-day; that is why she did not hear and speak sooner. My idea is, they went up the mountain, moored the boat, and while they were in search of berries that the batteau floated out on the ebb tide. They might remain there a month, and no one chance upon them, unless they went on purpose. The question at present is, how to reach them. It will be a most difficult matter to effect a landing at the foot of the mountain, after the recent storm. Still we must try.”

“We must, most certainly,” says Mr. Farrar, “and without a moment’s delay. Landing is always possible, even in the heaviest surf, at Sugar Scoop Beach. Men! who of you will come? Quick!”

There are half a dozen volunteers in a moment. The group disperses; they hurry to the shore, and in ten minutes a large boat is launched and flying through the white caps to the rescue.

Ma’am Weesy, full of hope and fear, hastens home, across the river, to prepare food, and comforts of all sorts, for the little lost ones. Old Tim rows her over, and it is perhaps the first time in all their many years of intercourse that they do not quarrel by the way.

1. Desereaux accompanies Paul Farrar in his anxious quest. The two men talk little; the thought of the children absorbs them, but Mr. Farrar informs him that this is merely one of his flying visits to his old friend, preparatory to a still more prolonged absence abroad. He is going yet further afield—to Russia—he has received an appointment to St. Petersburg, through the good offices of an influential friend, and will depart for that far-off land in a very few weeks. He is tired of Fayal, and his monotonous existence there.

“I am, as old Tim tells me, a rolling stone, that will never gather much moss,” he says ; “but at least I need not vegetate forever in one place.”

“How fast it grows dark!” M. Desereaux exclaims, scanning the horizon. “I wish we could have daylight to effect a landing. At least we will have a full moon.”

“It is rising now,” Farrar says. “Surely we must be within a mile or so of Sugar Scoop.”

“We may search until morning before finding them, even if they are on the mountain. It is a wide circuit, my friend, and altogether impassable in places. And this recent storm must have used them up badly.”

“Do you think,” Farrar says, with a hard breath, “that there is really hope? Six days on that barren hillside without shelter or food——” He breaks off.

“Without shelter, perhaps, certainly not without food. Raspberries abound—not very satisfactory diet, but equal to sustaining life for a few days. And no doubt they brought a luncheon basket with them—all do, who are picnicing or berrying there. Hope for the best, mon ami. It is true, we may find them in pitiable plight, but also, I feel sure, we shall find them alive.”

“Heaven grant it! If we can but get them home before the dear old doctor returns——”

He interrupts himself again, too anxious to put his thoughts into words. The daylight is rapidly fading out, and a brilliant night is beginning, moonlit, star lit, calm. The sea runs high; they can hear, long before they approach, the thunder of the surf at the base of Chateau Dieu; but the men who bend to the oars with such right good will are men who will effect a landing, if landing be within the limit of possibility. Sugar Scoop, too, when they reach it, seems fairly free of reefs and rollers. They steer with care; a great in-washing wave carries them with it, up and in on its crest. Two of them spring out, up to their waists in the water, and draw the big boat high and dry on the sands. The landing is effected.

“And no such troublesome matter after all,” remarks M. Desereaux. “These fellows know their business they are boatmen born. Now to find the children. Here is the path, M. Farrar—you have forgotten, doubtless, in all these years. Follow me.”

“Make her fast, and come on, my friends,” Mr. Farrar says. “We will disperse in different directions, and shout. If they are here, and alive, we will find them surely in an hour.”

“Ah, m’sieur, Chapeau Dieu is a big place,” one says. ” We will do our best.”

They secure the boat with a chain, and file up the steep path after their leaders. It is a path some two miles long, straggling and winding, in serpentine fashion, to a green plateau on the mountain side.

Here they pause for breath. Silence is about them, night is around them—silence and night, broken only by the dull booming of the surf. So still it is that the cedars and spruces stand up black and motionless, like sentinels guarding in grim array their rocky fortress over the sea. And then M. Desereaux uplifts his voice:

“Rene—Snowball—Jean! My children, answer. We are here.”

But only the echo of his own shout comes back to him down the rocky slopes.

“Let us go farther up,” suggests Mr. Farrar. “They may be near the summit. They may be on the other side.”

“They will have landed at Sugar Scoop, surely,” Desereaux responds; “there is no other safe, landing. But, of course, they went in search of berries, and would not remain near the landing. The raspberry thicket is over yonder, let us try it. Some of you, my men, take the other side.”

So, they disperse, Farrar and Desereaux going toward the right, two men to the left, two more mounting toward the summit.

It is indescribably lonely, and even in the pallid moonlight, the wild sea sparkling in the white shimmer, the unutterable hush and solemnity of night overlying all.

They reach the raspberry thicket and pause.

“Shout with me,” says M. Desereaux, “it is possible they may be somewhere near.”

They shout, and shout, until they are hoarse, but only the melancholy-echo of their shouts come back.

Far up they can hear the boatmen calling, too, and calling, also, in vain. A great fear falls upon them.

“Surely if they were in the mountain at all—and alive—they would hear,” Mr. Farrar says ; “let us try once more.”

“Hush!” cries M. Desereaux, clutching his arm. “Listen! Do you hear nothing? Listen!”

They bend their ears, and—yes—faint, and far off, there comes to them a cry—a human cry.

“That is no night-hawk, no sea-bird!” Desereaux exclaims ; “it is a voice responding to our shout. Thank God! Try it again.”

Once more they raise their voices and shout with might and main.

“Rene! Snowball! Johnny! Where are you? Call!” And once again, distinct though faint, that answering cry comes back.

“They are found! they are found!” Desereaux shouts exultingly. “This way, Farrar; this way, my men. We have them! Dieu merci! It is all right!”

He plunges in the direction of the feeble cry; it comes again, even as they go, and guides them.

“All right, my children!” he calls cheerily back, “we are coming. Keep up a good heart, poor little ones we will be with you in a moment.”

Once again the weak cry answers back—this time nearer yet—farther up the mountain side. And before it has quite died away—with a great, glad, terrified shout the two men are upon them, and have each seized one in his arms.

It is Johnny whom Mr. Farrar has caught; it is Snowball who is in the arms of M. Desereaux. And the two men are holding them close, hard, joyfully, and Johnny blushes all the rest of his life to remember it, he is being absolutely kissed by the bearded lips of Paul Farrar.

“Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!” cries the excitable Canadian, “how am I rejoiced! Snowball, ma petite—my angel—how is it with you?”

“Put me down,” answers a weak—oh, such a poor, little, weak voice—but faintly imperious still. “Put me down, please, at once. I must—hold—Rene.”

“Ah, Rene!—where is Rene? What—what—what—”

1. Desereaux pauses in consternation. She has slipped out of his arms, and down on the ground again, and lifted back into her lap the head of Rene. So she was sitting when they found her, so she had been sitting for hours, waiting for death—thus—Rene in her lap.

Mr. Farrar lets go Johnny, and is kneeling beside the prostrate boy. One glance only he gives to Snowball, reclining against a knoll, too far gone to support herself, Rene’s dark head lying on her knees. She does not look at him; she seems past care, past hope, past help; she sits, her mournful eyes never leaving Rene’s deathlike face.

“What is it?” Desereaux asks, “not——”

“No,” with a quick breath, “I think not—I hope not—something terribly like it, though. He has swooned through exhaustion, I take it. He is very far gone. You will carry him to the boat, my good feilows—we will carry them all. None of these children can walk. Snowball, my little one, come to me—give us Rene. I will carry you. Come.”

He gathers her in his arms—a light weight—a feather weight now. She makes no resistance; she lets Rene go; her head drops helplessly on his shoulder; her eyes close. The men come after with the two boys, and Johnny, even in this supreme hour, is conscious of the indignity of being carried like a baby, and makes a feeble effort to assert himself, and his legs. It is of no use, however, he is unable to walk, and gives up, after a few yards, with the very worst possible grace. For Rene, he lies like one dead.

They reach the boat, get the young people in, and proceed to administer weak brandy and water. The stimulant acts well with Johnny, who sits up, after a swallow or two, and begins to fully comprehend what is taking place. They are being rescued-a fact that only clearly dawns upon him now.

Snowball, too, revives somewhat, but she will look at no one, care for nothing, save Rene.

“We will do,” she whispers; “give—something—to him. Make Rene-open-his eyes.”

Easier said than done. All that is possible to do, Mr. Farrar does, the stimulant is placed between his locked teeth, his hands and face are bathed and chafed but the rigid lips remain closed, the dark eyes remain shut, the hands and face icy cold-the ghastly hue of death leaves not.

“Can you talk, Johnny? Don’t try if it hurts you. How is it that we find Rene so much worse than you two?” asks Paul Farrar.

Johnny tries to tell. “Rene starved himself to feed Snowball; never slept at all, hardly; was thinly clad, and so, and so——”

“Succumbed first—yes, I see. Brave boy—good Rene! And he is not as strong as you, Johnny—never will be. But don’t wear that frightened face, dear boy, we will bring him round yet. Once in Ma’am Weesy’s kitchen, with warm blankets and hot grog, we will have Rene back, please Heaven, and able to talk to your father when he returns to-morrow, and tell him all about it.”

Johnny utters a cry.

“Papa not home yet?”

“Not home yet, old boy—for which let us be duly thankful. Think what a story you will have to tell him to-morrow after dinner—after dinner, Johnny! You haven’t dined lately, have you? What a story it will be for the rest of your life—six days and nights in Chapeau Dieu! Why, you will awake and find yourself famous find greatness thrust upon you! For Snowball, here, she will be the most pronounced heroine of modern times.”

But Snowball cares not, heeds not, hears not. Rene lies there, lifeless, and rescue or death—what are either now?

They talk no more; Johnny, with the best will in the world, finds the effort too painful, and he lies back and drops asleep. He is only wakened to find himself in some one’s arms a second time, and being carried somewhere, wakes for a moment, then is heavily off again. Presently he is lying on something soft and warm, and some one is crying over him and kissing him—Ma’am Weesy, he dimly thinks, and even in this state of coma, is sleepily conscious of feeling cross about it, and wishing she wouldn’t. Then, something strong, and sweet, and delicious, is given him in a spoon, beef-tea, maybe; then sleep once more, sleep long, blessed, deep, life-giving, and it is high noon of another day before he opens his eyes again on this world of woe.