Chapter SIX: § 1

After that there remained only his humiliation when he had to tell his cousins he had changed his mind. But this was less painful than he would have thought. He felt a new, changed Daniel, facing life from a different angle. It was as if up till then he had faced life from Bullockdean in spite of his being in Sark, whereas now definitely he faced it from Sark, and the Bullockdean angle seemed distant and unreal.

He wrote to his mother and told her he was going to be married, though he did not tell her the circumstances of his meeting his bride. His mother, of course, would tell Belle and Ernley--he need not worry about that. Not that he felt inclined to worry--even the shadow of Belle was gone now, for he had stepped outside the room of memory, and stood facing the islands and the sea without a glass between.

The days that followed were so full of preparations that he had little time for thought. The Le Couteurs were anxious both to bind their cousin and get rid of the stranger as quickly as possible, so it was decided that the marriage should take place as soon as the necessary formalities would allow. There was some difficulty about finding a house, either at La Colinette or at La Ville Roussel. Dan inspected one or two cottages at the Dos d’Ane, the Jaspellerie and Moie Fano, and finally decided on the last, in spite of its lonely position on the cliff-top, looking down on the teeth of Brenière. It was larger than the other two, though it contained but three rooms, and seemed firmly built for the weather, with a roof of thatch and tiles instead of the usual corrugated iron. The rent was only four livres tournois a week, under four shillings, and during the season he would probably earn from thirty shillings to two pounds. At least ten shillings a week would have to be put by for the unprofitable winter, but even then he might be able to earn something by helping his uncles on the farm--a service they would no longer expect for nothing. He felt rather disconsolate at the thought of being unable to help his mother, but, he reflected practically, a mother has no right to keep a man from his wife, and his mother had her own husband to support her, and two other sons.

On the whole he was not unhappy; he now had roots again, though in strange earth. At first he had half thought of taking Rose over to England and trying to find a job there, but he shrank from facing the struggle of the employment market with her dependent on him, and he saw more clearly the consequences of bringing her to the George than he had seen them in the case of Belle. With Belle such dependence had been his only chance of speedy marriage, and his craving for her had blinded him to its inevitable miseries, but now that he had the alternative of an independent and self-supporting home, he would be a fool to give it up merely to escape from Sark. Since it was his only hope of married comfort, the Le Couteurs must have their wish and get his mother back again.

Sometimes there were moments--generally in the middle of the night--when he wondered if he wasn’t mad to be acting so--to be marrying this unknown girl without loving her, indeed while he loved another woman, and settling down in this unfriendly island, where in spite of his blood he was still a stranger. But he ended his qualms invariably with the question: “What does it matter, anyway?”--also the old army spirit of fatalism was still upon him, the kismet of the trenches. He watched his approaching marriage as he used to watch the German shell-fire. If it was due to smash him it would, and if it wasn’t it wouldn’t. There was nothing he could do about it.

The day before the May day fixed for the wedding he had three letters from England, one from his mother, one from Jess Harman, and one--at last--from Ernley Munk. His mother was a little inclined to reproach; she saw her son and her son’s money alienated together. “But then you never really care for me like Christopher”--Christopher who, Dan reflected angrily, had never earned a shilling for her in his life. “No doubt my brothers Eugene and Philip are glad, for so they get us back”--evidently his mother’s mind worked that way too. “Your father send his love and kind regards and best wishes for a bright and prosperous wedding.”

Jess Harman had her expected string of news, a little shorter than usual to allow room for congratulations. “I’m sure I wish you happy, Daniel, as this leaves me at present. You deserve to be happy if anyone did, and I reckon you could make a girl happy easier than most. I always say most men don’t know how to treat a girl, and when I have boy babies to take out I smack them harder than I smack the girls, for I say if maybe they don’t deserve it now they will when they grow up, and then there will be no one to do it. Maudie talks of leaving the Crown, for she says young Mr. Munk is not so pleasant to work under as his father.”

Daniel wondered if these two sentences had anything more than a haphazard connexion. The thought made him tear open Ernley’s letter without waiting to finish Jess’s. It ran:

“DEAR DANIEL,--I expect you’re thinking all sorts of bad things about me for not having written for so long--or I might even say for not having written at all. But it was difficult to write at first, wasn’t it? And afterwards it wasn’t much easier, as there didn’t seem to be any reason for starting suddenly. Now I’ve got a reason and I’m glad, for I want to hear more of you except just that you’re going to get married, which isn’t very original. I hope she’s worthy of you--you’re rather a damn fool about women, you know, and yet you deserve the best, so I hope you’ve got her. Now I suppose you will settle down in Sark for good. Well, you might do worse. I’m getting a bit sick myself of the land fit for heroes to live in. You’d think my job was to sell poison, to judge by the fuss they make and the restrictions they put on. But I’m better off than your dad, who does sell poison, if I may say so. Still, I think he’s a fool to try on all the games he does--I was sorry about his being so heavily fined last sessions, but I’d warned him, and being a racing neighbourhood, I suppose they’re extra strict. If I were you I’d write and tell him to be careful, but I expect you have.

“I’ve built an extra wing on to the Crown, in spite of all, so I’ve nothing to complain about really. However, I can’t help thinking our best times were in the army, in spite of all the noise and blood. Life wasn’t so deuced complicated, somehow; one knew what one wanted and wanted the sort of things one could get. I’m to be a proud father again next autumn; the other kid’s a regular Shackford; I hope this will be a Munk--to look at, I mean, for I don’t wish him so ill as to hope he’ll inherit my devil. Do write soon and tell me about Miss Falla--rollicking sound to the name, somehow.--Ever yours,

ERNLEY.”

Daniel paused. Ernley sounded bad. How well he knew his devil--that queer, bitter, angry, unhappy, rather common devil, who at times made Ernley so difficult to love. He wondered what Belle was feeling--not a single reference to her, except indirectly. It might be caution, but it didn’t sound like that. He wished Ernley hadn’t written--worrying him like this just before his wedding day. And about his father, too. He was worried about his father. “Heavily fined last sessions”--he’d never heard of that--they’d kept that from him. The old life was suddenly and painfully reasserting itself, just as he was going to cut it off for ever. Well, he mustn’t think of it any more--he could do nothing about it. His responsibilities were no longer the old ones of Ernley and Belle and the George, but the new ones of marriage, home, and children. Yes, he supposed the day would come when he, too, would be a “proud father.” Well, he wouldn’t sneer about it like Ernley--he’d be glad--and he knew that already his allegiance belonged to the unborn.

§ 2

The wedding of Daniel Sheather and Rose Falla took place in the afternoon, in the midst of a high wind stroking the back of Sark, and rippling the buttercup-thickened hay. The sun shone gaily in spite of the small white clouds that blew over the sky, and the general air was one of brightness and freshness and laughter, a rollicking sort of air, like the bride’s name.

Bride and bridegroom drove together to church with their relations. Into the big mule-cart were packed, besides themselves, Uncle Eugene and Uncle Philip, one or two cousin Eugenes and cousin Philips, Helier, William and Alice. The rest, including the children, came on foot, and as it was impossible for the mules to go at more than a foot pace most of the way, they trod round the wheels, talking and staring.

Rose wore a new blue dress, for which her measurements had been sent to Guernsey. Without her sophisticated work-girl’s clothes she looked more of a child than ever and more of an islander. Stealing a secret glance at her now and then, Dan found her sweet and appealing in her laughter and her shyness. He was glad that she was fair and round-faced, and would never look like Alice Hamon, who had already a witchy air about her, with her sharp nose and black locks. She was facing her future without a qualm, without a thought of the life and friends she had left in Jersey, accepting trustfully the life and friends she had found in Sark. She trusted Dan as absolutely as she had trusted him when at his word she had faced without question the perils of La Déroute. Well, he hoped her trust would be better justified this time, that her matrimonial craft would not go to the bottom like the _Baleine_ ... he clenched his hands upon his knees as he vowed to himself that, come what might, this little thing should not suffer for the risks he had taken ... he would strive for her happiness as he would have striven for Belle Shackford’s--she should be given no less than he would have given Belle.

They walked into the church on either side of old Eugene Le Couteur--Rose in her blue dress, Daniel in his blue jersey and wide-bottomed trousers. The church was packed, for weddings were a rare excitement, and at the end of the aisle by the little bare altar, le ministre stood already waiting, holding open in his hand the Prayer Book of Helier de Cartaret, which was Dan’s Prayer Book now.

“_Bien-aimes, nous sommes réunis ici sous le regard de Dieu...._”

The service had begun. Daniel and Rose stood alone together, hand in hand before the minister, for Uncle Eugene had withdrawn from publicity into a pew, from which he did not emerge till the question “_Qui est-ce qui donne cette femme en mariage à cet homme?_” when he shouted “_C’est moi!_” as if across seven miles of sea. Then Daniel found himself saying after the priest:

“_Moi Daniel, je te prends Rose, pour ma femme et mon épouse, afin de t’avoir et de te garder, dès ce jour à l’avenir que tu sois meilleure ou pire, plus riche ou plus pauvre, en maladie et en santé, pour t’aimer et te chérir, jusqu’à ce que la mort nous sépare, selon la sainte institution de Dieu, et sur cela je t’engage ma foi._”

Well, he meant it all, anyway. The strange language didn’t make any difference. He knew that he’d promised just the same as he would have promised in English to Belle, and having promised no less he could give no less. Standing there with all the brown and blue eyes of the island fixed upon him, he knew that his mind was clear of its last doubt. This second part of his adventure with Rose would not end in shipwreck like the first. If he only did what he had promised ... and he would. Now he was putting the ring on her finger, and was worshipping her with his body--now their hands were joined and le ministre was saying:

“_Puisque Daniel et Rose ont consenti à s’unir en saint mariage. Je declare qu’ils sont entre eux mari et femme, au nom du Père et du Fils et du Saint Esprit._”

The harmonium gave a sigh, preliminary to shaking the marriage psalm out of its heart. Dan and Rose scrambled to their feet and followed the clergyman into the chancel. They held hands almost convulsively during the rest of the service, which they scarcely felt concerned them, their own personal part being now over. They were married. They were husband and wife, whom man could not put asunder. They who had not known each other a month ago would from henceforward know only each other. Daniel would belong to Rose and Rose would belong to Daniel till their eyes were dim and their hair was grey--they would build up a new life together in a new home--they would love beings as yet unborn, whose very names they did not know as yet. Passionate love was waiting in their hearts for those who were not yet alive. All the years that they had lived before, he with his parents at Bullockdean, and she with her father in Jersey, were only a sort of preparation to the main business of life. His love for Belle was only an episode. This was the centre and heart and reality of his life. This was marriage. Daniel felt almost afraid, when he saw what marriage meant--when he saw how it could brush aside all the fire and glory and anguish of love, and murmur its blessing over a few stones which forthwith became bread ... water which became wine.... “And there was a marriage in Cana of Galilee”.... A poor little affair of stones and water, which had somehow become bread and wine. That was his marriage with Rose.

They had turned from the altar and were writing their names in the vestry. Uncle Eugene made his mark as a witness after he had been satisfied that he was not committing himself in any way. The cousins signed, but no one offered to kiss Rose--kissing at weddings was an English custom, Daniel supposed, like wedding-cake and bridesmaids and flowers and confetti and all the other things that would have been so important at Bullockdean. All that was English on this occasion was the music. There had been an Anglican chant for the psalm, and now Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March” burst forth, as Dan and Rose walked down the aisle of the empty church and out into the churchyard, whither all the congregation had rushed in a body before them.

§ 3

There was a feast at the Pêche à Agneau--a feast of lobsters and gâche and armagniac, to which came Hamons and Carrés and Falles and de Cartarets from all parts of the island. Somehow Daniel and Rose seemed almost a minor part of the occasion. They sat silently side by side, while round them flowed the island French, which is to the French of Paris what cider is to wine. As yet it was not quite the language of either, since Rose had not spoken it for a year and Daniel had spoken it only for a year. If they did not listen the words came only in scattered drops, without meaning. Dan could take for granted that his relations and friends were not discussing the marriage, but the prospects of next season, or the politics of Sark’s most parochial pump.

He was free to look at Rose, and think how pretty she was with her golden hair and her blue dress, like buttercups by the sea. The line of her chin and neck was somehow helpless and innocent, like a child’s, yet her little mouth and nose had a funny, decided air about them, as if, though she would rely on him in all big matters of life, in the small she would know her business, what to eat and drink and wear. In the blue pools of her eyes swam a queer flame, which he had not noticed till to-day. When her eyes met his, the flame brightened, and when she turned them away he could see it shining, as one can see the sunshine in hidden water reflected on a rock.

They seldom spoke to each other. Once--“Are you tired?” he whispered, and she answered “Yes.”

“I must take you home.”

Under the table her hand crept out on his knee and lay over it. He looked round at all the Hamons and Carrés and Falles and De Cartarets and Le Couteurs, eating and drinking and arguing, entirely forgetting the little married pair in whose honour the feast was given.

“Uncle Philip,” said Dan.

“Yes,” Uncle Philip roared down the table to Ernest Hamon--“the King of England will think it a fine thing when he comes to Guernsey, and the Forty Tenants are not there to receive him.”

“Uncle Philip, would you mind----”

“He will see nothing but Le Marchants and De Jerseys, and he will say--where is the aristocracy?”

“Would you mind if Rose and I went home now?”

“Of course I do not mind. Go. We are the aristocracy of this island, I say, and the parish will not allow us ten shillings to go over to Guernsey to see the King and Queen.”

“Ha! Ha! It is a fine thing if the aristocracy of this island cannot go to see the King without ten shillings from the parish.”

“Who should pay but the parish? I will not pay ten shillings to go to Guernsey, even to see the King. None of the Forty Tenants will go over unless the parish pay. You are a fool, Ernest Hamon.”

Dan and Rose crept out under cover of Ernest Hamon’s retort, and the next minute stood in the sunshine of the May evening, which trailed golden banners over the sea. Their belongings had already been taken to Moie Fano, so all they had to do was to walk there themselves, through the buttercups and the long grass, with their shadows moving before them.

“Look at us,” said Rose--“how big we are.”

Daniel put his arm round her.

“There aren’t two of us any more,” said Rose.

He stopped her with a sudden check of his arm and drew her up against him, kissing her darling face on which he seemed to taste the sunshine.

“Oh, Rose, my little Rose--you are so sweet! And it’s so wonderful! I never thought it would be like this.”

She did not trouble about his words, but eagerly returned his kisses.

“Oh, my beautiful boy--my beautiful boy,” she murmured, holding his face to hers. “Daniel--your eyes are so dark and big--I see myself in them. Can you see yourself in mine?”

“No--not quite. Yes--now I can.”

“That means you live in my heart.”

“And you in mine.”

They walked on, across the road, past La Belle Hautgarde, out on to the wildness of Rouge Terrier. Under their feet were the first little wild dwarf roses, and before them lay spread the dazzled blue of Baleine Bay, with all the rocks standing out of it, pink in the sunset, like castles. The tide was low, and the _demies_ of l’Etac showed above the water and all the rocks round Sercul. The bay was streaked with currents, strange, smooth paths of rose and violet and grey winding amidst the chopped blue water. They walked farther down the hill to the cliff edge, and the sun was lost, while a cool air ruffled up from the sea. They were above the terrible cliffs of Brenière, and though there was scarcely any tide, the eastern wall of Sark was dreadful in the dusk, like a dead face with its white gleam, the gleam of the blind white rock above Pot Bay. Towards the north the Point du Derrible was like some horned beast kneeling down to drink in the water. Daniel felt the strangeness and terror of Sark very near him, and the dreadfulness of those secrets below him in the bays, in that strange no-man’s land between the tides. His arm drew Rose a little closer as he led her along the cliff-top, through the dusk, to where he could see the jut of Moie Fano.

“Look! Our home!”

She pointed through the twilight, and he could just see the thatched roof grey against the hillside and the faint gleam of the walls.

“You won’t be afraid with me alone out here?”

“Oh, no, I shan’t be alone, with you.”

They came to the little house, sheltering with its strip of garden in a fold of the hillside. The door was unlocked, and he led her into the dark kitchen.

“The lamp’s on the table,” said Rose. “I left out some matches. Can you find them?”

But instead of finding them he shut the door on the last gleam of light, and drawing her close to him in the darkness, lifted her from her feet. The darkness was round them like a caress and a welcome as he held her there, high against his breast. Outside the dead light lay on the sea, and in the light lay all the empty islands and lonely rocks. The light seemed to hold the strange unfriendly spirit of the island, the enmity of sea and rocks, and the ghosts of their deeds; while the darkness held the spirit of the home built in the midst of all that strangeness, and the spirit of man loving and pitying in the midst of the pitiless sea.

§ 4

In the middle of the night Daniel woke out of a deep sleep into a half-dreaming state, in which he lay mysteriously cut off, very quiet of mind and body, and very happy, without quite knowing the causes of his happiness. The darkness lay all round him so heavily that it seemed a tangible thing; it almost seemed to be a body to him, now that he did not feel his own. It was also a friendly, personal thing, for he knew dimly that it was a part of home and that memory already dwelt in it.

He was waking, and two sounds mingled with the darkness, rousing him still more. They were strange, soft, sighing sounds, like each other, and yet astonishingly different. One he knew was a sound of terror, and the other a sound of love, and yet in that half-dreaming moment he could not distinguish them. Then he woke a little more and knew that one was the sound of the sea, sighing round the rocks at the foot of Moie Fano, and that the other was the sound of Rose’s breathing as she lay in the crook of his arm. The two sighs mingled and wove themselves together into a single sweetness and terror which woke him. He was awake now--he knew where he was and all that had happened, he knew that his arm and shoulder were stiff under the weight of little Rose, whom he could hear and feel but could not see in the darkness. He lay motionless, holding her, his heart full of sweetness and terror, which were now both hers. The voice of the sea seemed to have died away--he heard only her breathing.

Then his own breath came short with a new, strange ecstasy. He knew that, all unexpected, all undeserving, he had stumbled upon happiness. This was what life gave you--was meant to give. He was happy--he would always be happy with Rose--he would always feel like this, full of love and joy and pity, when she was near him. She was very near--part of himself, it seemed ... part of his body, of his own flesh and blood. A picture drew itself in the darkness before his eyes--the picture of two country inns facing each other across a village street--it was a very small, far-off picture, such as one sees through the wrong end of a telescope. That was his life at Bullockdean, his love for Belle, set far off and far behind at last. It faded, and the darkness was upon his eyes, kinder than any light. The sea, far below at the foot of the cliffs, drawled another long sigh. He turned his head on his shoulder, till his cheek touched Rose’s hair; then he slept again.