Part 3 In The Shadow Chapter 12

Summer advanced, and, at the end of August, with the first autumnalmists, the Icelanders came home.

　　For the last three months the two lone women had lived together atPloubazlanec in the Moan's cottage. Gaud filled a daughter's place inthe poor birthplace of so many dead sailors. She had sent hither allthat remained from the sale of her father's house; her grand bed inthe town fashion, and her fine, different coloured dresses. She hadmade herself a plainer black dress, and like old Yvonne, wore amourning cap, of thick white muslin, adorned merely with simpleplaits. Every day she went out sewing at the houses of the rich peoplein the town, and returned every evening without being detained on herway home by any sweetheart. She had remained as proud as ever, and wasstill 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, allalong the cliff road inhaling the fresh, comforting sea air. Constantsitting at needlework had not deformed her like many others, who arealways bent in two over their work--and she drew up her beautifulsupple form perfectly erect in looking over the sea, fairly across towhere Yann was it seemed.

　　The same road led to his home. Had she walked on much farther, towardsa well-known rocky windswept nook, she would come to that hamlet ofPors-Even, where the trees, covered with gray moss, grew crampedlybetween the stones, and are slanted over lowly by the western gales.

　　Perhaps she might never more return there, although it was only aleague away; but once in her lifetime she had been there, and that wasenough to cast a charm over the whole road; and, besides, Yann wouldcertainly often pass that way, and she could fancy seeing him upon thebare moor, stepping between the stumpy reeds.

　　She loved the whole region of Ploubazlanec, and was almost happy thatfate had driven her there; she never could have become resigned tolive in any other place.

　　Towards this end of August, a southern warmth, diffusing languor,rises and spreads towards the north, with luminous afterglows andstray rays from a distant sun, which float over the Breton seas. Oftenthe air is calm and pellucid, without a single cloud on high.

　　At the hour of Gaud's return journey, all things had already begun tofade 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 treesformed a dark mass, or else some straw-thatched hamlet indented themoor. At the cross-roads the images of Christ on the cross, whichwatch over and protect the country, stretched out their black arms ontheir supports like real men in torture; in the distance the Channelappeared fair and calm, one vast golden mirror, under the alreadydarkened 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 palpabledread emanating from the sea to which so many lives are intrusted, andwhose everlasting threat only slumbered.

　　Gaud sauntered along as in a dream, and never found the way longenough. The briny smell of the shore, and a sweet odour of floweretsgrowing along the cliffs amid thorny bushes, perfumed the air. Had itnot been for Granny Yvonne waiting for her at home, she would haveloitered along the reed-strewn paths, like the beautiful ladies instories, who dream away the summer evenings in their fine parks.

　　Many thoughts of her early childhood came back to her as she passedthrough 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, butto whom she persisted in being faithful in mind, without speakingabout it to any one. For the time, she was happy to know that he wasoff Iceland; for there, at least, the sea would keep him lonely in herdeep cloisters, and he would belong to no other woman.

　　True, he would return one of these days, but she looked upon thatreturn more calmly than before. She instinctively understood that herpoverty would not be a reason for him to despise her; for he was notas other men. Moreover, the death of poor Sylvestre would draw themcloser together. Upon his return, he could not do otherwise than cometo see his friend's old granny; and Gaud had decided to be present atthat 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 toSylvestre'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 thatshe was so lonely in the world; to rely upon his friendship, even toask it as a support, with enough preliminary explanation for him notto 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 thatcomes 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 togo out washing, and only had her small widow's pension left; granted,she ate but little, and the two could still manage to live, notdependent upon others.

　　Night was always fallen when she arrived home; before she could entershe had to go down a little over the worn rocks, for the cottage wasplaced on an incline towards the beach, below the level of thePloubazlanec roadside. It was almost hidden under its thick brownstraw thatch, and looked like the back of some huge beast, shrunk downunder its bristling fur. Its walls were sombre and rough like therocks, but with tiny tufts of green moss and lichens over them. Therewere three uneven steps before the threshold, and the inside latch wasopened by a length of rope-yarn run through a hole. Upon entering, thefirst thing to be seen was the window, hollowed out through the wallas in the substance of a rampart, and giving view of the sea, whenceinflowed a dying yellow light. On the hearth burned brightly thesweet-scented branches of pine and beechwood that old Yvonne used topick up along the way, and she herself was sitting there, seeing totheir bit of supper; indoors she wore a kerchief over her head to saveher cap. Her still beautiful profile was outlined in the red flame ofher fire. She looked up at Gaud. Her eyes, which formerly were brown,had taken a faded look, and almost appeared blue; they seemed nolonger to see, and were troubled and uncertain with old age. Each dayshe 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 sametime as other days.""Eh? It seemed to me, dear, later than usual."They sat down to supper at their table, which had almost becomeshapeless from constant use, but was still as thick as the generousslice 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 thesleeping bunks, where generations of fishers had been born, and wheretheir aged mothers had died.

　　Quaint old kitchen utensils hung from the black beams, as well asbunches of sweet herbs, wooden spoons, and smoked bacon; fishing-nets,which had been left there since the shipwreck of the last Moans, theirmeshes nightly bitten by the rats.

　　Gaud's bed stood in an angle under its white muslin draperies; itseemed like a very fresh and elegant modern invention brought into thehut of a Celt.

　　On the granite wall hung a photograph of Sylvestre in his sailorclothes. His grandmother had fixed his military medal to it, with hisown pair of those red cloth anchors that French men-of-wars-men wearon their right sleeve; Gaud had also brought one of those funerealcrowns, of black and white beads, placed round the portraits of thedead in Brittany. This represented Sylvestre's mausoleum, and was allthat remained to consecrate his memory in his own land.

　　On summer evenings they did not sit up late, to save the lights; whenthe weather was fine, they sat out a while on a stone bench before thedoor, 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 herfine bed, would fall asleep pretty soon, being tired out with herday's work, and walking, and dreaming of the return of the Icelanders.

　　Like a wise, resolute girl, she was not too greatly apprehensive.