Chapter EIGHT: § 1

It was on an evening towards the end of April that Rose’s time came, and Daniel went out to La Vermandée to fetch the woman who had promised to be with her. That night he slept on the sofa in the kitchen and saw through the uncurtained window a big yellow moon bright above Balmée. The sea was like a golden floor, or a meadow of buttercups, with the dark shapes of the rocks standing out of it--_grunes_ and _baveuses_ and _demies_, uncovered at the half-tide. There was an utter calm, and the unusual stillness kept him awake and somehow made him afraid. It was months since he had known a quiet like this, for the stillness of the fogs had been pierced by the moan of the sirens--Blanchard, Point Robert and Platte Fougère moaning to each other across the deeps. But to-night there was neither moan nor sigh, without or within. Sometimes through the closed door he heard the sound of voices, but for most of the time there was silence, a silence that oppressed him as the silence of the sea.

He went out early, for the calm would allow him mercifully to spend a day in the boats. Mrs. de Cartaret made him some breakfast, and before he left he had one look at Rose. He was surprised to find her sitting up in an armchair beside the bed, pale but smiling, and anxious to know if the calm weather would allow him to put down some early lobster pots at the Masoline. He kissed her passionately and humbly, and she said:

“Do not worry--it is natural.”

He walked quickly over to the Pêche à Agneau, and found his cousins ready to put out in the boats. Old Eugene and Philip Le Couteur were delighted when they heard what was toward at Moie Fano.

“At last we have our new Helier,” said Uncle Eugene.

“Or our new Kitty Le Couteur--she is better,” said Uncle Philip.

“Better than the old one--ha! ha!”

“Ha! Ha! Oh, my Gar--yes!”

The day passed outwardly tranquil as the night. The boats rode on the calm waters of Havre Gosselin, where even the dreaded pass between Brecquo and the Moie du Gouliet was little more than a spatter of dancing gold. Spring was come, and the gulls were seeking their nesting places. The Moie was covered with them--a flutter of white wings, an outcry of shrill voices, breaking the stillness of the noon. Ha-ha-ha! Ha-ha-ha-ha! Lounging in the boat, waiting for the slow fish, and listening to the Le Couteurs’ laughter and talk among themselves, Daniel thought that the gulls’ voices were like his cousins’--Norman voices, hoarse and rough like the names of the rocks. Ha! Ha! Ha-ha-ha-ha! That was the voice of Sark--of its people, of its gulls, of its rocks. Ha-ha-ha-ha!--laughter for love and laughter for death.

The day dragged on and at last a tinge of rose crept into the mirror of the sea, and a little wind ruffled up from Herm in the west. The Le Couteurs brought their boat round to the Saut de Juan and beached her, and Daniel was given his share of the fish.

“You are glad to go home,” said Cousin Eugene.

“You go to find little Helier,” said Cousin Philip.

“Well, we all be godfathers,” laughed Cousin Peter.

“Ha-ha-ha! Ha-ha-ha-ha!”

Daniel walked slowly from the Saut de Juan. Every now and then he would hurry, then check himself. Perhaps he had better not get back too soon. Then he would tell himself that Rose was different from the women at home--she came of a sturdy breed. Probably the baby had been born hours ago. If it had not been for the last few weeks he would have felt no anxiety. He remembered the words with which she had dismissed him that morning: “Do not worry--it is natural.” Yes, it was natural, and he was a fool to be making such a fuss. Yet, as he looked round him at the toothed and horned rocks and the deadly slaver of the sea over the buried _grunes_, he distrusted the tender mercies of nature, and felt thankful that his little Rose had not been left to them without the pity and help of man.

§ 2

The smoke of the chimney of Moie Fano rose in a straight column against the sky. There was something in that pillar of smoke which stood to Daniel as a sign. It was the sign of the inn of home--rising from homes in the Ouse Valley as it rose from homes in Sark, and as probably it rose from homes in France, in Germany, in Russia. In every place where there was home there was also that smoke ascending from the hearth, like a prayer towards the sky.... To-night it was the prayer of the cottage at Moie Fano going up to God for the mother and her child.

He was getting fanciful--that day spent amidst the laughter of his cousins and the laughter of the gulls had made him silly. He must pull himself together if he was to be any help and comfort to Rose. As he crossed the threshold, he heard voices coming from the inner room, and recognized a man’s among them. The doctor must be there....

He knocked at the door.

It opened, and the doctor looked out. He started at the sight of Daniel. Then he came through into the kitchen, shutting the door behind him.

“I’m glad you’ve come home, Le Couteur.”

“Is--is the child born?”

“Yes--a boy--and he will live,” said the doctor gravely.

Dan was startled. He had never thought of the child not living.

“But how is Rose? Can I see her?”

“No--you can’t see her just yet. I want to talk to you about her. Sit down.”

Daniel felt his knees suddenly weak. He sat down as the doctor bade him, and stared into his face. Afterwards it seemed as if he had read in his face instead of heard from his lips that Rose was very ill and would almost certainly die.

“Can’t--can’t you do anything?”

“I am doing my best.”

But in his face Daniel read that sometimes the pity and help of man are of little avail against what is natural.

“Now, you’d better get yourself some supper,” said the doctor kindly--“Mrs. de Cartaret can’t come to you yet; but you must have something to eat, for you’ll want all your strength--for her.”

“When can I see her?”

“In an hour, perhaps. Now, make yourself some coffee and have a bit of something nourishing.”

He went back into the silent inner room.

Almost automatically, Daniel put the fish he had brought home into a tub of water. Then he set the saucepan on the fire, and some bread and cheese on the table. He was hungry--hungrier than ever, since he had heard the doctor’s news--and he did not know that hunger and sorrow are incompatible. He ate hungrily--strengthening himself for the night. The coffee was good. It cleared his head in a wonderful way, so that it lost the echo of the gulls’ laughter, and was able to think. He did not want to think for himself--he would have been happier in his stupefaction--but he wanted to think for Rose. He did not want to sit beside her dazed and helpless when she would need his help more than she had ever needed it--putting out to sea alone in her little boat, which was to have held the two of them....

He had not thought of lighting the lamp and scarcely noticed the darkness dropping round him, till at last the window square held the only light. His first realization of it was when a golden slant fell into the room from the opening door. The next minute he heard Doctor Pelley’s voice call softly--“Le Couteur,” and then from the bed behind the doctor came Rose’s voice, faintly, yet very much as it had so often come from the inner room when he entered the kitchen at the end of the day:

“_Es tu là?_”

Without answering he went in and knelt down beside her.

She lay as if sunk into the bed, so relaxed that she seemed to lie scarcely so much on the mattress as in it. Her face was deadly white, but on her lips was a smile and on her arm was pillowed a little dark head.

“_Notre Helier_,” she whispered, smiling up at him.

Mrs. de Cartaret stooped and lifted away the child.

“She wanted to be holding him when you first saw him--but she is not strong enough. I will take him now and put him in his cradle,” and she laid Helier in the bottom drawer of the chest, which had been made into a cradle for him with shawls and a piece of blanket.

“Oh, Daniel,” whispered Rose--“my feet are so cold.”

She had made her little gesture of motherhood, but could maintain it no longer--she was too tired. She turned to him, as instinctively she used to turn when she was tired.

“My feet are so cold.”

“Mrs. de Cartaret will heat you a brick for them.”

But the midwife shook her head.

“She has a brick already--she does not feel it.”

“It’s because I’m dying,” said Rose, in her weak, indifferent voice.

“My darling, you’re not dying--you mustn’t die.”

“Oh, yes, I must. That’s how it begins--at your feet.”

Daniel hid his face beside hers in the pillow.

He heard the doctor tell the midwife that he was going home now for a bit. He would be back soon, and he did not think there would be any change before morning. Mrs. de Cartaret went into the kitchen and Rose and Daniel were alone together.

They did not speak. Rose was too exhausted and Daniel was too stricken. He had climbed on the bed beside her, and lay with his face close to hers, her hand held between both his. He felt submissive and numb. He meant to be able to help and strengthen her, but now he saw that there was no help he could give, except of the humblest, most homely kind, the help of touch and kiss. They lay motionless side by side, while Mrs. de Cartaret ate her supper in the kitchen. Now and then they opened their eyes and gazed into each other’s, but for the most part they lay with their eyes shut, awake, but as if asleep.

The baby whimpered in his cradle-drawer. Daniel had forgotten all about him.

“Helier,” whispered Rose.

“He is all right.”

“Our Helier,” she murmured--“remember ... he is ours.”

The midwife came in and attended to the baby. Then she came and attended to Rose, giving her something out of a spoon. She took no notice of Daniel--she let him lie just as he was.

The night wore on, and, surprisingly, he fell asleep. He had the sensation that she had fallen asleep, too; and directly he slept they were in a boat together, pushing out, as they had pushed out a year ago, under the shadow of Gorey pier, with the moonlight gleaming through the piles. He heard the wind blowing very loud, as it had not blown then; but the next minute it was still, and they were riding on calm waters steeped in sunshine, under the pink rocks of Balmée. He could not see Rose, but he knew she was in the boat, and suddenly he heard her say: “I am not afraid.” In his dream he had a wonderful sense of the sunshine striking off the pink rocks and dancing on the sea. He was not unhappy, but a little scared ... anxious ... he awoke.

The doctor was in the room, bending over him with the lamp in his hand, the lamp whose flame was an orange isle in the white flood of the dawn.

“Wake up,” said the doctor gently--“it is all over now.”

“Over.... She is dead?”

“She died in her sleep.”

She had left him ... so quietly.