The black pearl
No, no, I cannot pray. I do not want this unjust Grace which would
single me out arbitrarily. Rather would I remain in doubt, in negation,
even, than admit this conception of a partial Creator who cannot be
appeased but by the abasement of Conscience and intelligence, the
greatest gifts bestowed by him.
* * * * *
Hector is here. For a week he has tried all means, arguments,
persuasion, tenderness, to break what he calls my intellectual pride.
He makes me read Pusey, Stanley, Weldon.... In vain he cites the great
minds, the lofty spirits who have accepted unmurmuringly the dogmas
which revolt me--above all, that of an eternal Hell. This is the one
upon which he is most inflexible.
“Then those you term pagans,” I argue, “you condemn them also to this
eternal punishment?”
“We have no right to judge God. In his immutable justice He separates
the sheep from the goats.”
“If He is cruel enough to condemn those who have no means of knowing
Him, I should prefer to be with them in Hell rather than in Heaven with
your God.”
These controversies, which leave me utterly broken and exhausted, only
increase the gulf between us.
* * * * *
Hector has adjured me by the regard I have for him, by the submission
I owe him as priest, by our love for each other, to make an act of
intellectual humility and come to the Communion Table to-morrow morning.
I could have done so once. In the little Paris oratory of Pasteur
Wagner I sometimes partook of the Communion. But he never preached
this God of Vengeance, this Father appeased only by the blood of his
own Son!... Now, this act of Communion would be sheer hypocrisy, a
blasphemy against my conscience. No, even though I lose Hector’s love,
sunder our lives, I must be honest with myself and him.
The evening has passed apparently as usual, dinner en famille, followed
by bridge, but the atmosphere is charged with suppressed emotion. My
aunt, sensitive like all nervous natures to external influences,
suspects that something is wrong. She is troubled and looks at us
anxiously. My guardian asks me to sing. I cannot. My throat is
constricted as though in a vice.
As I look up from the book I have taken I encounter Hector’s gaze.
His eyes are fixed upon me, seeking to impose his will on my soul.
Thought is really a force. I feel his beating against my brain, seeking
to break down my resistance, to absorb my personality, stupefying me as
with an anaesthetic....
* * * * *
The night has been one long struggle.
My tortured heart has striven to convince my reason.
I have retraced again and again all the old theological arguments, the
problems remain unsolved. I endeavour to pray; the words halt on my
lips. I see before me only a precipice, a void, ready to engulf me....
I have no courage to appear at breakfast. I even hesitate whether I
shall go to matins, but it looks too cowardly to stay away. Besides,
who knows? A flash of Faith, a spark from the Divine Light may descend
upon me and dissipate my doubts.
When I enter the little improvised chapel Hector is already at the
altar.
For one moment his eyes seek mine with devouring intensity. Then he
turns and gives himself wholly to his office.
His voice, more sonorous than usual, has deep notes in it which go
straight to my soul as he pronounces the words of the solemn ritual.
“I bid you in the name of God, I call you in Christ’s behalf, I exhort
you as ye love your own salvation, that ye will be partakers of this
holy Communion.” My whole being rushes towards him. I rise to follow
the communicants. A force greater still holds me back. The voice of my
conscience cries so loudly that I seem to actually hear it within my
heart. “You no longer believe, you no longer believe. It is a crime
towards him, towards God, to yield to a momentary emotion. Better to
separate than live a life of lies.”
* * * * *
My engagement is broken.
Hector has gone, never to come back.
Here is the letter which was brought to my room where, almost
unconscious, I returned after the service.
“Jeanne,--God has not granted my prayer and enlightened your heart.
There is only one means to propitiate Him--the sacrifice of my life,
the sacrifice of my love. I submit to His will. An atheist (my heart
bleeds in giving you that name) who denies Revelation, the authority
of the Divine Book, cannot be the wife of a minister of God. To
continue to see you, to feel the charm of your presence, would be
impossible.... I am only a man, a man who loves you with all his heart,
and soul and body.... From afar as near, O my loved one, my prayers
shall follow you, my supplications shall mount to the God of Justice
who is also the God of Mercy. He will break down the barrier of your
pride and lead you to His feet. I am writing to my mother to explain my
departure. Love her, my dear mother, who loves me so dearly; soften by
your affection the grief she will feel ... be to her the daughter she
hoped to find indeed in you.
“Adieu, Jeanne, my beloved. I confide you to His care.
“HECTOR.”
* * * * *
My poor Aunt Molly! Her heart will be broken!
PART II
XII
Storm
Signals
Nous nous imaginons, Pauvres fous que nous sommes,
Que personne avant nous n’a connu la Douleur.
ALFRED DE MUSSET.
How shall I recount the long months of gloom and sadness following
Hector’s departure for Molokai?
After reading the letter which ended everything between us, I ran to my
guardian imploring him to let me return to France.
“The Directrice of the Lycee where I was educated was my mother’s
friend. I know she will receive and aid me to obtain a position in the
administration of which she is the head.”
But my uncle was unwilling for me to go.
Mrs. Deslandes, whom I sought afterwards, drew me into her arms.
“It would be useless, little Jeanne. Hector will never return,” she
said, with her sweet, melancholy smile. “It was only my selfish
affection that kept him here preventing entire devotion to his calling.
Yes, it is better so,” she added, with that pious resignation which
enables her to support all blows unmurmuringly. “God calls him; I will
not dispute possession.”
How beautiful is this Christian Faith animating mother and son! How
profound, despite the narrowness of its principles! How comforting and
sustaining in the dark hours of tribulation!
* * * * *
My uncle has touched the right chord to make me remain at Gwylata.
“Jeannette, your presence here may be really helpful. Bad times
threaten, my poor little girl. Almost all my speculations have turned
out badly.... The bank holds a mortgage on the station and is pressing
me.... Perhaps we shall need you, if we have to economise and discharge
some of the servants.
“The cook goes first,” he resumed, smilingly. “Why, we shall have a
French ‘chef,’ who will prepare for us some dainty little dishes,” his
unquenchable cheerfulness reasserting itself at once.
“Don’t be frightened. I am only joking. We shall not be so poor as all
that. I am counting on the Golden Egg mine to put things right. If
dividends are forthcoming we shall soon be richer than before.... Oh,
yes! there still remain some ‘beaux jours’ for us, Jeannette.”
And my poor uncle, comforted already by his optimistic hopes in the
great mine, begins to build airy castles.
* * * * *
Life on the station has resumed its monotonous course, broken only by
Hector’s letters from his far-off island in the South Seas, that leper
station, with which Father Damien’s name is so indissolubly connected.
He writes of his work among the miserable pariahs, of the devoted band
of helpers--Catholics, priests and sisters, ministers, and American
doctors, all united in the great work of Charity.
* * * * *
Daisy’s visits prove a great distraction. She alone has the power to
draw me out of my melancholy. She is so bright and fresh, brimful of
health and happiness. Her marriage is to take place shortly, sooner
than was anticipated. By what she calls “good luck,” the bank was
broken into by burglars. Dick, hearing a suspicious noise, fired
several shots from the revolver he always kept near him--“without
hitting anyone,” as Daisy naïvely remarked, very glad not to have a
“spook” between her lover and herself. The neighbours, awakened by the
shots and the noise of the struggle, secured one of the assailants.
Dick escaped with only a scratch on the temple, where a bullet grazed
the skin. Daisy is quite proud of the wound, and prouder still of the
congratulations showered on the hero of the hour for his courage and
presence of mind. As a tangible recognition of his services he is to be
promoted.
“Perhaps he’ll be manager, instead of clerk. The salary will be
doubled,” says the girl, with an important air.
I tease her for being so mercenary. She opens her clear blue eyes,
the hue of wet periwinkles, and answers in a tone which reduces me to
silence.
“If Dick is promoted, we can be married sooner.”
Meg also does her best to divert my thoughts. She has asked me to
look after Bahloo in the mornings, as she is obliged to be in closer
attendance on her mistress. In spite of her fine, unflagging courage,
her son’s absence and the danger he incurs from the dread disease
around him have seriously affected my poor aunt’s health. So I
undertake Bahloo’s education. I find the funny “petit noir” has quick
intelligence, and an excellent memory, especially for figures. He is
astonishingly quick at mental arithmetic. I am told that it is only a
flash of intellectual activity, that towards the age of 10 or 12, the
faculties of the aboriginal begin to diminish and finally atrophy,
rendering it impossible to go far with the mental training that begins
so promisingly. The more man rises in the scale of human development,
the more necessary becomes time for his nascent intelligence to evolve.
A little chick or a duckling is so much more lively than a babe.
My little native charge amuses and interests me with his chatter. He
knows so many legends of his tribe--that of the laughing jack, the
dingo, and the Pleiades, that mysterious constellation which plays so
great a part in the mythology of primitive races.
* * * * *
The expected catastrophe has arrived, more sudden and overwhelming than
anyone could have foreseen.
Two letters were brought to Mr. Deslandes one day just as we had
finished lunch. The first, from the bank, brought the frown I know so
well on his face; the second bore the heading of the unfortunate mine.
After perusing the latter, my uncle uttered a groan, staggered, and
fell heavily to the ground.
Our efforts to restore consciousness were unavailing. The doctor,
summoned from Strathalbyn, arrived only to find life extinct.
The blow was too sudden. My dear aunt sank under the shock, and we had
the sad consolation of laying in the same tomb these two beings so
united in life.
* * * * *
I shall not dwell on this mournful period--the only things which
sustain me in my grief are the sympathy and affection of those around
me.
Mr. Brown and Dick have spared me the ordeal of the necessary
formalities. A cable from Hector, who could not have arrived in time,
had he been able to start at once, has given me full powers.
Daisy and her mother have been tenderness itself. The grief of all