The Ruling Passion [73]
after hares and ptarmigan. Marcel was a skilful
setter of snares. But Nataline was not content until she had won
consent to borrow her father's CARABINE. They hunted in
partnership. One day they had shot a fox. That is, Nataline had
shot it, though Marcel had seen it first and tracked it. Now they
wanted to try for a seal on the point of the island when the ice
went out. It was quite essential that Marcel should go.
"Besides," said Baptiste to his wife, confidentially, "a boy costs
less than a man. Why should we waste money? Marcel is best."
A peasant-hero is seldom averse to economy in small things, like
money.
But there was not much play in the spring session with the light on
the island. It was a bitter job. December had been lamb-like
compared with April. First, the southeast wind kept the ice driving
in along the shore. Then the northwest wind came hurtling down from
the Arctic wilderness like a pack of wolves. There was a snow-storm
of four days and nights that made the whole world--earth and sky and
sea--look like a crazy white chaos. And through it all, that weary,
dogged crank must be kept turning--turning from dark to daylight.
It seemed as if the supply-boat would never come. At last they saw
it, one fair afternoon, April the twenty-ninth, creeping slowly down
the coast. They were just getting ready for another night's work.
Fortin ran out of the tower, took off his hat, and began to say his
prayers. The wife and the two elder girls stood in the kitchen
door, crossing themselves, with tears in their eyes. Marcel and
Nataline were coming up from the point of the island, where they had
been watching for their seal. She was singing
"Mon pere n'avait fille que moi,
Encore sur la mer il m'envoi-e-eh!"
When she saw the boat she stopped short for a minute.
"Well," she said, "they find us awake, n'est-c'pas? And if they
don't come faster than that we'll have another chance to show them
how we make the light wink, eh?"
Then she went on with her song--
"Sautez, mignonne, Cecilia.
Ah, ah, ah, ah, Cecilia!"
III
You did not suppose that was the end of the story, did you?
No, an out-of-doors story does not end like that, broken off in the
middle, with a bit of a song. It goes on to something definite,
like a wedding or a funeral.
You have not heard, yet, how near the light came to failing, and how
the keeper saved it and something else too. Nataline's story is not
told; it is only begun. This first part is only the introduction,
just to let you see what kind of a girl she was, and how her life
was made. If you want to hear the conclusion, we must hurry along a
little faster or we shall never get to it.
Nataline grew up like a young birch tree--stately and strong, good
to look at. She was beautiful in her place; she fitted it exactly.
Her bronzed face with an under-tinge of red; her low, black
eyebrows; her clear eyes like the brown waters of a woodland stream;
her dark, curly hair with little tendrils always blowing loose
around the pillar of her neck; her broad breast and sloping
shoulders; her firm, fearless step; her voice, rich and vibrant; her
straight, steady looks--but there, who can describe a thing like
that? I tell you she was a girl to love out-of-doors.
There was nothing that she could not do. She could cook; she could
swing an axe; she could paddle a canoe; she could fish; she could
shoot; and, best of all, she could run the lighthouse. Her father's
devotion to it had gone into her blood. It was the centre of her
life, her law of God. There was nothing about it that she did not
understand and love. From the first of April to the tenth of
December the flashing of that light was like the beating of her
heart--steady, even, unfaltering. She kept time
setter of snares. But Nataline was not content until she had won
consent to borrow her father's CARABINE. They hunted in
partnership. One day they had shot a fox. That is, Nataline had
shot it, though Marcel had seen it first and tracked it. Now they
wanted to try for a seal on the point of the island when the ice
went out. It was quite essential that Marcel should go.
"Besides," said Baptiste to his wife, confidentially, "a boy costs
less than a man. Why should we waste money? Marcel is best."
A peasant-hero is seldom averse to economy in small things, like
money.
But there was not much play in the spring session with the light on
the island. It was a bitter job. December had been lamb-like
compared with April. First, the southeast wind kept the ice driving
in along the shore. Then the northwest wind came hurtling down from
the Arctic wilderness like a pack of wolves. There was a snow-storm
of four days and nights that made the whole world--earth and sky and
sea--look like a crazy white chaos. And through it all, that weary,
dogged crank must be kept turning--turning from dark to daylight.
It seemed as if the supply-boat would never come. At last they saw
it, one fair afternoon, April the twenty-ninth, creeping slowly down
the coast. They were just getting ready for another night's work.
Fortin ran out of the tower, took off his hat, and began to say his
prayers. The wife and the two elder girls stood in the kitchen
door, crossing themselves, with tears in their eyes. Marcel and
Nataline were coming up from the point of the island, where they had
been watching for their seal. She was singing
"Mon pere n'avait fille que moi,
Encore sur la mer il m'envoi-e-eh!"
When she saw the boat she stopped short for a minute.
"Well," she said, "they find us awake, n'est-c'pas? And if they
don't come faster than that we'll have another chance to show them
how we make the light wink, eh?"
Then she went on with her song--
"Sautez, mignonne, Cecilia.
Ah, ah, ah, ah, Cecilia!"
III
You did not suppose that was the end of the story, did you?
No, an out-of-doors story does not end like that, broken off in the
middle, with a bit of a song. It goes on to something definite,
like a wedding or a funeral.
You have not heard, yet, how near the light came to failing, and how
the keeper saved it and something else too. Nataline's story is not
told; it is only begun. This first part is only the introduction,
just to let you see what kind of a girl she was, and how her life
was made. If you want to hear the conclusion, we must hurry along a
little faster or we shall never get to it.
Nataline grew up like a young birch tree--stately and strong, good
to look at. She was beautiful in her place; she fitted it exactly.
Her bronzed face with an under-tinge of red; her low, black
eyebrows; her clear eyes like the brown waters of a woodland stream;
her dark, curly hair with little tendrils always blowing loose
around the pillar of her neck; her broad breast and sloping
shoulders; her firm, fearless step; her voice, rich and vibrant; her
straight, steady looks--but there, who can describe a thing like
that? I tell you she was a girl to love out-of-doors.
There was nothing that she could not do. She could cook; she could
swing an axe; she could paddle a canoe; she could fish; she could
shoot; and, best of all, she could run the lighthouse. Her father's
devotion to it had gone into her blood. It was the centre of her
life, her law of God. There was nothing about it that she did not
understand and love. From the first of April to the tenth of
December the flashing of that light was like the beating of her
heart--steady, even, unfaltering. She kept time