Summer advanced, and, at the end of August, with the first autumnal
mists, the Icelanders came home.
For the last three months the two lone women had lived together at
Ploubazlanec in the Moan's cottage. Gaud filled a daughter's place in
the poor birthplace of so many dead sailors. She had sent hither all
that remained from the sale of her father's house; her grand bed in the
town fashion, and her fine, different coloured dresses. She had made
herself a plainer black dress, and like old Yvonne, wore a mourning cap,
of thick white muslin, adorned merely with simple plaits. Every day
she went out sewing at the houses of the rich people in the town, and
returned every evening without being detained on her way home by any
sweetheart. She had remained as proud as ever, and was still respected
as a fine lady; and as the lads bade her good-night, they always raised
a hand to their caps.
Through the sweet evening twilight, she walked home from Paimpol, all
along the cliff road inhaling the fresh, comforting sea air. Constant
sitting at needlework had not deformed her like many others, who are
always bent in two over their work--and she drew up her beautiful supple
form perfectly erect in looking over the sea, fairly across to where
Yann was it seemed.
The same road led to his home. Had she walked on much farther, towards
a well-known rocky windswept nook, she would come to that hamlet of
Pors-Even, where the trees, covered with gray moss, grew crampedly
between the stones, and are slanted over lowly by the western gales.
Perhaps she might never more return there, although it was only a league
away; but once in her lifetime she had been there, and that was enough
to cast a charm over the whole road; and, besides, Yann would certainly
often pass that way, and she could fancy seeing him upon the bare moor,
stepping between the stumpy reeds.
She loved the whole region of Ploubazlanec, and was almost happy that
fate had driven her there; she never could have become resigned to live
in any other place.
Towards this end of August, a southern warmth, diffusing languor, rises
and spreads towards the north, with luminous afterglows and stray rays
from a distant sun, which float over the Breton seas. Often the air is
calm and pellucid, without a single cloud on high.
At the hour of Gaud's return journey, all things had already begun to
fade in the nightfall, and become fused into close, compact groups. Here
and there a clump of reeds strove to make way between stones, like a
battle-torn flag; in a hollow, a cluster of gnarled trees formed a
dark mass, or else some straw-thatched hamlet indented the moor. At
the cross-roads the images of Christ on the cross, which watch over and
protect the country, stretched out their black arms on their supports
like real men in torture; in the distance the Channel appeared fair
and calm, one vast golden mirror, under the already darkened sky and
shade-laden horizon.
In this country even the calm fine weather was a melancholy thing;
notwithstanding, a vague uneasiness seemed to hover about; a palpable
dread emanating from the sea to which so many lives are intrusted, and
whose everlasting threat only slumbered.
Gaud sauntered along as in a dream, and never found the way long enough.
The briny smell of the shore, and a sweet odour of flowerets growing
along the cliffs amid thorny bushes, perfumed the air. Had it not been
for Granny Yvonne waiting for her at home, she would have loitered along
the reed-strewn paths, like the beautiful ladies in stories, who dream
away the summer evenings in their fine parks.
Many thoughts of her early childhood came back to her as she passed
through the country; but they seemed so effaced and far away now,
eclipsed by her love looming up between.
In spite of all, she went on thinking of Yann as engaged in a degree--a
restless, scornful betrothed, whom she never would really have, but to
whom she persisted in being faithful in mind, without speaking about it
to any one. For the time, she was happy to know that he was off
Iceland; for there, at least, the sea would keep him lonely in her deep
cloisters, and he would belong to no other woman.
True, he would return one of these days, but she looked upon that return
more calmly than before. She instinctively understood that her poverty
would not be a reason for him to despise her; for he was not as other
men. Moreover, the death of poor Sylvestre would draw them closer
together. Upon his return, he could not do otherwise than come to see
his friend's old granny; and Gaud had decided to be present at that
visit; for it did not seem to her that it would be undignified.
Appearing to remember nothing, she would talk to him as to a long-known
friend; she would even speak with affection, as was due to Sylvestre's
brother, and try to seem easy and natural. And who knows? Perhaps it
would not be impossible to be as a sister to him, now that she was so
lonely in the world; to rely upon his friendship, even to ask it as a
support, with enough preliminary explanation for him not to accuse her
of any after-thought of marriage.
She judged him to be untamed and stubborn in his independent ideas, yet
tender and loyal, and capable of understanding the goodness that comes
straight from the heart.
How would he feel when he met her again, in her poor ruined home? Very,
very poor she was--for Granny Moan was not strong enough now to go out
washing, and only had her small widow's pension left; granted, she ate
but little, and the two could still manage to live, not dependent upon
others.
Night was always fallen when she arrived home; before she could enter
she had to go down a little over the worn rocks, for the cottage
was placed on an incline towards the beach, below the level of the
Ploubazlanec roadside. It was almost hidden under its thick brown straw
thatch, and looked like the back of some huge beast, shrunk down under
its bristling fur. Its walls were sombre and rough like the rocks, but
with tiny tufts of green moss and lichens over them. There were three
uneven steps before the threshold, and the inside latch was opened by a
length of rope-yarn run through a hole. Upon entering, the first thing
to be seen was the window, hollowed out through the wall as in the
substance of a rampart, and giving view of the sea, whence inflowed
a dying yellow light. On the hearth burned brightly the sweet-scented
branches of pine and beechwood that old Yvonne used to pick up along the
way, and she herself was sitting there, seeing to their bit of supper;
indoors she wore a kerchief over her head to save her cap. Her still
beautiful profile was outlined in the red flame of her fire. She looked
up at Gaud. Her eyes, which formerly were brown, had taken a faded
look, and almost appeared blue; they seemed no longer to see, and were
troubled and uncertain with old age. Each day she greeted Gaud with the
same words:
“Oh, dear me! my good lass, how late you are to-night!”
“No, Granny,” answered Gaud, who was used to it. “This is the same time
as other days.”
“Eh? It seemed to me, dear, later than usual.”
They sat down to supper at their table, which had almost become
shapeless from constant use, but was still as thick as the generous
slice of a huge oak. The cricket began its silver-toned music again.
One of the sides of the cottage was filled up by roughly sculptured,
worm-eaten woodwork, which had an opening wherein were set the sleeping
bunks, where generations of fishers had been born, and where their aged
mothers had died.
Quaint old kitchen utensils hung from the black beams, as well as
bunches of sweet herbs, wooden spoons, and smoked bacon; fishing-nets,
which had been left there since the shipwreck of the last Moans, their
meshes nightly bitten by the rats.
Gaud's bed stood in an angle under its white muslin draperies; it seemed
like a very fresh and elegant modern invention brought into the hut of a
Celt.
On the granite wall hung a photograph of Sylvestre in his sailor
clothes. His grandmother had fixed his military medal to it, with his
own pair of those red cloth anchors that French men-of-wars-men wear on
their right sleeve; Gaud had also brought one of those funereal crowns,
of black and white beads, placed round the portraits of the dead in
Brittany. This represented Sylvestre's mausoleum, and was all that
remained to consecrate his memory in his own land.
On summer evenings they did not sit up late, to save the lights; when
the weather was fine, they sat out a while on a stone bench before the
door, and looked at passers-by in the road, a little over their heads.
Then old Yvonne would lie down on her cupboard shelf; and Gaud on her
fine bed, would fall asleep pretty soon, being tired out with her day's
work, and walking, and dreaming of the return of the Icelanders. Like a
wise, resolute girl, she was not too greatly apprehensive.