Towards the end of July, she received a letter from
him, however. He told her that his health was
good, that the fishing season promised to be excellent,
and that he already had 1500 fish for his share.
From beginning to end, it was written in the simple
conventional way of all these Icelanders’ home
letters. Men educated like Yann completely ignore
how to write the thousand things they think, feel,
or fancy. Being more cultivated than he, Gaud
could understand this, and read between the lines
that deep affection that was unexpressed. Several
times in the four-paged letter, he called her by the
title of “wife,” as if happy in repeating
the word. And the address above: “A
Madame Marguerite Gaos, maison Moan, en Ploubazlanec”—she
was “Madame Marguerite Gaos” since so
short a time.
She worked hard during these summer months. The
ladies of Paimpol had, at first, hardly believed in
her talent as an amateur dressmaker, saying her hands
were too fine-ladyish; but they soon perceived that
she excelled in making dresses that were very nice-fitting,
so she had become almost a famous dressmaker.
She spent all her earnings in embellishing their home
against his return. The wardrobe and old-shelved
beds were all done up afresh, waxed over, and bright
new fastenings put on; she had put a pane of glass
into their little window towards the sea, and hung
up a pair of curtains; and she had bought a new counterpane
for the winter, with new chairs and table.
She had kept the money untouched that her Yann had
left her, carefully put by in a small Chinese box,
to show him when he returned. During the summer
evenings, by the fading light, she sat out before the
cottage door with Granny Moan, whose head was much
better in the warm weather, and knitted a fine new
blue wool jersey for her Yann; round the collar and
cuffs were wonderful open-work embroideries. Granny
Yvonne had been a very clever knitter in her day,
and now she taught all she knew to Gaud. The
work took a great deal of wool; for it had to be a
large jersey to fit Yann.
But soon, especially in the evenings, the shortening
of the days could be perceived. Some plants,
which had put forth all their blossoms in July, began
to look yellow and dying, and the violet scabious by
the wayside bloomed for the second time, smaller now,
and longer-stalked; the last days of August drew nigh,
and the first return-ship from Iceland hove in sight
one evening at the cape of Pors-Even. The feast
of the returners began.
Every one pressed in a crowd on the cliff to welcome
it. Which one was it?
It was the Samuel-Azenide, always the first
to return.
“Surely,” said Yann’s old father,
“the Leopoldine won’t be long now;
I know how ’tis out yonder: when one of
’em begins to start homeward, the others can’t
hang back in any peace.”
CHAPTER III—ALL BUT TWO
Copyrights
An Iceland Fisherman from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
