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Updated: May 5, 2025
"Mam'zelle is a brave sailor," said a voice behind me, which I recognized as my seaman of the night before, whom I had wellnigh forgotten; "but the storm is over now, and we shall be in port only an hour or two behind time." "What port shall we reach?" I asked, not caring to turn round lest he should see my wet eyes and cheeks. "St. Peter-Port," he answered.
He had been a commander in the Royal Navy, and, after cruising about in all manner of unhealthy latitudes, had returned to his native island for the recovery of his health. He and his sister lived together in a very pleasant house of their own, in the Vale, about two miles from St. Peter-Port. He looked yellow enough to be on the verge of an attack of jaundice when he came across me.
Tardif did not seem to notice my embarrassment. "There are some Olliviers in St. Peter-Port," he said. "Is mam'zelle of the same family? But no, that is not probable." "I have no relations," I answered, "not even in England. I have very few friends, and they are all far away in Australia. I was born there, and lived there till I was seventeen."
You know the house, Martin?" I knew nearly every house in St. Peter-Port, but this I remembered particularly as being the one where Mrs. Foster had lodged when she was in Guernsey. Upon inquiring for Dr. Dobrée, we were ushered at once, without warning, into his presence. Even I should scarcely have recognized him.
By this time every individual in St. Peter-Port knew that Dr. Martin Dobrée had been missing for several days, having gone out in a fisherman's boat to Sark the Sunday before. I had seen myself in the glass before leaving my chamber at Vaudin's, and to some extent I presented the haggard appearance of a shipwrecked man. A score of voices greeted me; some welcoming, some chaffing.
I said, almost gayly, "it will all come right." By this time you know that I could not ride along the flat, open shore between St. Peter-Port and the Vale without having a good sight of Sark, though it lay just a little behind me. It was not in human nature to turn my back doggedly upon it. I had never seen it look nearer; the channel between us scarcely seemed a mile across.
"Mam'zelle, then, does not know our islands?" "No," I said. "Where is St. Peter-Port?" "In Guernsey," he replied. "Is mam'zelle going to Guernsey or Jersey? Jersey is about two hours' sail from Guernsey. If you were going to land at St. Peter-Port, I might be of some service to you." I turned round then, and looked at him steadily.
Peter-Port just as the clock of the Town Church struck five. Going to the market, she paid the entrance fee, and proceeded leisurely to examine the flowers. While she was doing so, Frank Mathers entered the exhibition, utterly unconscious of her being there.
Peter-Port, surrounded by a gang of "roughs," a man, still young, sat on a stool. His face was terribly emaciated, and on it, one could discern all the traces of that demon, alcohol. In one of his agitated hands, he held a half-filled glass, in the other, a short, blackened clay-pipe. His glassy eyes had a strange look.
We had been engaged since the previous Christmas, and were to be married in the early summer, as soon as a trip through Switzerland would be agreeable. We were to set up housekeeping for ourselves; that was a point Julia was bent upon. A suitable house had fallen vacant in one of the higher streets of St. Peter-Port, which commanded a noble view of the sea and the surrounding islands.
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