Carette of Sark | Page 7

one's cabbages. Martel came from Guernsey and was not
wanted in Sercq. To Guernsey therefore he should go, with instructions
not to return to Sercq lest worse should follow. Hence the procession
that disturbed the slumbers of the Creux Road that day.
CHAPTER II
HOW RACHEL CARRÉ WENT BACK TO HER FATHER
"You paid off some of your old score up there, last night, George," said
one of the men who had stood watching the boat which carried Martel
back to Guernsey.
"Just a little bit," said Hamon, as he rubbed his hand gently over a big
bruise on the side of his head. "He's a devil to fight and as strong as an
ox;" and they turned and followed the Sénéchal and Philip Carré
through the tunnel.
"Good riddance!" said a woman in the crowd, taking off her black
sun-bonnet and giving it an angry shake before putting it on again. "We
don't want any of that kind here,"--with a meaning look at the big
fishermen behind, which set them grinning and winking knowingly.

"Aw then, Mistress Guilbert," said one, lurching uncomfortably under
her gaze, with his hands deep in his trouser pockets. "We others know
better than that."
"And a good thing for you, too. That kind of work won't go down in
Sercq, let me tell you. Ma fé, no!" and the crowd dribbled away
through the tunnel to get back to its work again.
The Sénéchal was busy planting late cabbages and time was precious.
The grave-faced fisherman, who had stood behind the crowd, tramped
up the narrow road by his side.
"Well, Carré, you're rid of him. I hope for good," said the Sénéchal.
"Before God, I hope so, M. le Sénéchal! He has a devil."
"How goes it with Mistress Rachel this morning?"
"She says little."
"But thinks the more, no doubt. She has suffered more than we know, I
fear."
"Like enough."
"I never could understand why she threw herself away on a man like
that."
"It was not for want of warning."
"I am sure. Well, she has paid. I hope this ends it."
But the other shook his head doubtfully, and as they parted at the
crossways, he said gloomily, "She'll know no peace till he's under the
sea or the sod." And the Sénéchal nodded and strode thoughtfully away
towards Beauregard, while Carré went on to Havre Gosselin.
When he reached the cottage at the head of the chasm, he lifted the
latch and went in. He was confronted by a small boy of three or so, who

at sound of the latch had snatched a stick from the floor, with a frown
of vast determination on his baby face--an odd, meaningful action.
At sight of Philip Carré, however, the crumpled face relaxed instantly,
and the youngster launched himself at him with a shout of welcome.
At sound of the latch, too, a girlish figure had started up from the
lit-de-fouaille in the corner by the hearth--the great square couch built
out into the room and filled with dried bracken, the universal lounge in
the Islands, and generally of a size large enough to accommodate the
entire family.
This was Carré's daughter, Rachel, Martel's wife. Her face was very
comely. She was the Island beauty when Martel married her, and much
sought after, which made her present state the more bitter to
contemplate. Her face was whiter even than of late, at the moment, by
reason of the dark circles of suffering round her eyes and the white
cloth bound round her head. She sat up and looked at her father, with
the patient expectancy of one who had endured much and doubted still
what might be in store for her.
Carré gripped the small boy's two hands in his big brown one, and the
youngster with a shout threw back his body and planted his feet on his
grandfather's leg, and walked up him until the strong right arm
encircled him and he was seated triumphantly in the crook of it.
Whatever the old man might have against his son-in-law there was no
doubt as to his feeling for the boy.
"He is gone," he said, with a grave nod, in response to his daughter's
questioning look. "But I misdoubt him. You had much better come with
me to Belfontaine for a time, Rachel."
She shook her head doubtfully.
"He's an angry man, and if he should get back--" said her father.
"In his right mind he would be sorry--"

"I misdoubt him," he said again, with a sombre nod. "I shall have no
peace if you are here all alone...."
But she shook her head dismally, with no sign of yielding.
"It has been very lonely," he said. "You and the boy--"
And she looked up at him, and the hunger