"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 to it as unconsciously as the tides follow the moon.She lived by it and for it.
There were no more accidents to the clockwork after the first one was repaired.It ran on regularly, year after year.
Alma and Azilda were married and went away to live, one on the South Shore, the other at Quebec.Nataline was her father's right-hand man.As the rheumatism took hold of him and lamed his shoulders and wrists, more and more of the work fell upon her.She was proud of it.
At last it came to pass, one day in January, that Baptiste died.He was not gathered to his fathers, for they were buried far away beside the Montmorenci, and on the rocky coast of Brittany.But the men dug through the snow behind the tiny chapel at Dead Men's Point, and made a grave for Baptiste Fortin, and the young priest of the mission read the funeral service over it.
It went without saying that Nataline was to be the keeper of the light, at least until the supply-boat came down again in the spring and orders arrived from the Government in Quebec.Why not? She was a woman, it is true.But if a woman can do a thing as well as a man, why should she not do it? Besides, Nataline could do this particular thing much better than any man on the Point.Everybody approved of her as the heir of her father, especially young Marcel Thibault.
What?
Yes, of course.You could not help guessing it.He was Nataline's lover.They were to be married the next summer.They sat together in the best room, while the old mother was rocking to and fro and knitting beside the kitchen stove, and talked of what they were going to do.Once in a while, when Nataline grieved for her father, she would let Marcel put his arm around her and comfort her in the way that lovers know.But their talk was mainly of the future, because they were young, and of the light, because Nataline's life belonged to it.
Perhaps the Government would remember that year when it was kept going by hand for two months, and give it to her to keep as long as she lived.That would be only fair.Certainly, it was hers for the present.No one had as good a right to it.She took possession without a doubt.At all events, while she was the keeper the light should not fail.
But that winter was a bad one on the North Shore, and particularly at Dead Men's Point.It was terribly bad.The summer before, the fishing had been almost a dead failure.In June a wild storm had smashed all the salmon nets and swept most of them away.In July they could find no caplin for bait for the cod-fishing, and in August and September they could find no cod.The few bushels of potatoes that some of the inhabitants had planted, rotted in the ground.The people at the Point went into the winter short of money and very short of food.
There were some supplies at the store, pork and flour and molasses, and they could run through the year on credit and pay their debts the following summer if the fish came back.But this resource also failed them.In the last week of January the store caught fire and burned up.Nothing was saved.The only hope now was the seal-hunting in February and March and April.That at least would bring them meat and oil enough to keep them from starvation.
But this hope failed, too.The winds blew strong from the north and west, driving the ice far out into the gulf.The chase was long and perilous.The seals were few and wild.Less than a dozen were killed in all.By the last week in March Dead Men's Point stood face to face with famine.
Then it was that old Thibault had an idea.
"There is sperm oil on the Island of Birds," said he, "in the lighthouse, plenty of it, gallons of it.It is not very good to taste, perhaps, but what of that? It will keep life in the body.
The Esquimaux drink it in the north, often.We must take the oil of the lighthouse to keep us from starving until the supply-boat comes down.""But how shall we get it?" asked the others."It is locked up.
