Chapter 6

I was awakened next morning by a spongeful of cold water in the face, which I hate. I started up to wreak vengeance upon Sweetheart, but she fled to the toilet room and locked herself in. From this retreat she taunted me until further sleep was out of the question, and I bowed to the inevitable--indignantly, when I saw my watch pointed to five o’clock.

Sweetheart was perfectly possessed to row; so when I had bolted my coffee and sat watching her placidly sip hers, we decided to go down to the bank of the little stream and hire a boat. The boat was a wretched, shapeless affair, with two enormous oars and the remnants of rowlocks. It was the best boat in town, so we took it. I managed to get away from the bank, and, conscious of Sweetheart’s open admiration, pulled boldly down the stream. It was easy work, for the tide was ebbing. The river up to the bridge was tidal, but above the bridge it leaped and flowed, a regular salmon stream. Sweetheart was so impatient to take the oars that I relinquished them and picked up my rod. The boat swung down the stream and under the high stone viaduct, where I insisted on anchoring and whipping the promising-looking water. The water was likely enough, and the sudden splash of a leaping grilse added to its likelihood. I was in hopes a grilse might become entangled with one of the flies, but though a big one shot up out of the water within five feet of Sweetheart, causing her to utter a suppressed scream, neither grilse nor trout rose to the beautiful lures I trailed about, and I only hooked two or three enormous dace, which came up like logs and covered the bottom of the boat with their coarse scales.

Sweetheart had never seen a French trout uncooked, and scarcely shared my disappointment.

“They are splendid fish,” she repeated; “you are unreasonable.”

There was an ancient Breton squatting on the bank; from his sulky attitude I took him to be a poacher visiting his infernal set lines and snares; but I hailed him pleasantly with a bonjour, which he returned civilly enough.

“Are there trout in this stream?”

“About the bridge,” he replied cautiously.

“Have you caught any?”

“I ain’t fishing,” he said, much alarmed.

“What’s that?” I demanded, pointing to as plump a trout as ever I saw, floating on the end of a string under the bank.

“Where?” he asked, looking about him with affected concern.

“There!”

He looked around, everywhere except where I pointed. He examined the horizon, and the tree tops, as though he expected a fish on every twig. I poled the boat up to the bank and pointed out the fish.

“Ma doui!” he exclaimed, “there is a fish!”

“Yes, a trout,” I said.

“Trout?” He burst into a forced laugh. “Trout! Ha! ha! Why, monsieur, that is a dace--a poor little dace!” He hastily jerked it up with a long homemade gaff which lay--of course quite by accident--at his feet.

“A poor little dace!” he mumbled. “Of course, monsieur would not care to claim such a poor, coarse little fish; but I am only too glad to eat it--ah, yes, only too glad!”

“You see,” said Sweetheart impulsively, “that you are wrong. Give him our fish; that will make four dace for the poor fellow.”

I placed the three dace across the blade of my oar and held it out to the poacher. He took them as if he were really glad to get them. Then I said, “These are dace, and they don’t have red spots.”

He stood as if ready to bolt, but I laughed, and settled back on my oars, saying: “You’re a poacher; but I don’t care a continental, and you can poach all day in this confounded country, where there is about one trout to the kilometre. Don’t look scared. What do I care? Only don’t tell me I’m unable to distinguish a trout when I can see the tip of his nose.”

I then sailed majestically out into the stream.

Sweetheart wanted to know whether that was really a real poacher. She had read about them. Her ideal poacher was a young, stalwart, eagle-eyed giant, with a tangle of hair and a disposition toward assassination. The reality shocked her.

“Anyway,” she said, “you frightened the poor old thing. How rough men are!”

We returned to the landing place with difficulty, for the tide was still on the ebb, and we got aground more than once. My hands were in a fine condition when at last I drove that wretched scow into the mud and lifted Sweetheart out to the firm bank. The evil-eyed old man who rented us the boat glanced sardonically at my rod and blistered hands, and I was glad enough to pay him all he asked and break away for the hotel.

We had an hour to lunch in, pack, and be ready for the trap which was to bear us to our destination--the distant village of Faöuet, in Morbihan.

A long drive on a smooth white road, acres of gorse and broom, beech woods and oak thickets, and the “Heu! heu! Allo! Allons! en route!” of the Breton driver, these are my recollections of the ride to Faöuet. There are others, too--the hedges heavy with bloom, the perfume of the wild honeysuckle, the continual bird chorus from every grove and every bramble patch--and Sweetheart’s veil flying into my face.

We have spoken of it since together, but she has few recollections of that journey. She only remembers it as her first steps into our heritage.

And so we entered into our heritage, Sweetheart and I; and our heritage was very fair, for it lay everywhere about us. It was a world which we alone inhabited. Men said, “This land is Gloanec’s,” “This is Gurnalec’s,” “This is Kerdec’s”; they spoke of “my woods” and “his meadows” and “their pastures.” And how we laughed; for when we passed together through their lands, around us, far as the eye could reach, our heritage lay in the sunshine.

One day, when Sweetheart had been weeping--for we were thinking of the end to the magic second--I spoke of our heritage which swept far as the eye could reach across the moors of Faöuet.

She said: “The past is ours, Jack; the present is ours; the future--”

We tried to smile, but our hearts were like lead. Yet we know that the future will also be ours. I know it as I write.

The letter from St. Gildas, bringing with it a breath of salt air, lay on the table before us. Sweetheart clasped her hands and looked at me.

“I’m in favour of going at once,” I said for the third time. Over by the wall were piled my canvases, the result of three months in Faöuet.

The first was a study of Sweetheart under the trees of the ancient orchard in the convent grounds. What trouble I had had with that canvas! I remembered the morning that the old gardener came over and stood behind me as I painted; and when I had replied to his “Good-morning,” I recalled the pang his next words gave me:

“I am so sorry, monsieur, but it is forbidden to enter the convent grounds.”

My canvas was almost finished, and, as the romancers have it, “my despair was great!” A month’s work for nothing--or next to nothing!

Sweetheart rose from her pose on the low bough of the apple tree and came over to my side. “Never mind, Jack; I shall go and ask the Mother Superior about it.”

I knew that she would win over the Mother Superior; and when, that evening, she came back radiant, crying, “She is lovely!--she says you may finish the picture, and I think you ought to go and thank her,” I put on my cap, and stepping across the street, we rang at the gate.

The old gardener let us in, and in a moment I stood before the latticed windows behind which some one was moving. In a low voice the invisible nun told us that the Superior granted to us the privilege of working in the orchard, but we must be careful of the grass, because it was almost time to cut it.

“I am sure we may have confidence in you,” she said.

“We will not trample the grass, my sister, and I thank you for us both.”

The lattice trembled, was raised a little, and then fell.

“You are English,” said the hidden nun.

“I am American, my sister.”

I looked at the lattice a moment, then dropped my eyes. I may have been mistaken, but I think she sighed.

Sweetheart came closer to the lattice and murmured her thanks.

There was a pause.

Then came the voice again, sweet and gentle: “May Our Lady of Saint Gildas protect you”; and we went out by the little iron wicket.

The next picture was another study of Sweetheart in the woods; the next, another study of Sweetheart; and the others were studies of the same young lady.

The light in the room had grown dim, and I walked to the window which overlooked the convent chapel. The chapel windows were open; within, the nuns stood or knelt chanting. Three white-veiled figures were advancing to the altar, and the others, draped in black now knelt behind. I didn’t think I had any business to look at them, so I did not. After all, they were cloistered nuns, and it was only on hot nights that they opened the chapel windows. Sweetheart was speaking beside my shoulder.

“Poor things! The ones in white, they are the novices; they will never see parents or friends again. When they enter the gates they never leave--never; they are buried there.”

I said: “After all, we are much like them. We have left all; we have nothing now but each other, for the world is dead, and we are bound by vows which keep us within the narrow confines of our heritage.”

“But our heritage is everywhere--as far as we can see.”

“Ah, yes, but we can only see to the horizon. There is a world beyond.”

“I have renounced it,” said Sweetheart faintly.

The letter from St. Gildas had been lying on our table for a week before I thought of answering it, and even then it was Sweetheart who wrote:

“DEAR MR. STUART:

“Jack is too lazy to answer your kind note, so, in pure shame

for his discourtesy, I hasten to reply to your questions.

“First: Yes; we have been working very hard, and Jack’s

pictures are charming, though he growls over them all day.

“Second: Yes; we intend to stay in Brittany this winter for

lots of reasons--one being economy, and another, Jack’s

outdoor painting.

“Third: Yes; we are coming to St. Gildas.

“Fourth: To-morrow.

“Fifth: No; we had not heard of Mr. Clifford’s affair with

the policeman; and oh, I am so sorry he was locked up and

fined! Jack laughs. I suspect he, too, was as wicked as you

all when he was a student, alone in Paris.

“Sixth: I know you are Jack’s oldest and most intimate friend,

so I allow you more liberty than I do Messieurs Clifford and

Elliott; therefore I will answer your question as to whether

the honeymoon is not on the wane. No! no! no! There are three

answers to one question. See how generous I can be!”

Sweetheart called me to see whether or not I approved. I did, and added my answer to Stuart’s last question as follows: “No, you idiot!” Then I signed the note, and Sweetheart sealed and directed it.

So we left for St. Gildas next morning before sunrise and in the rain. This leaving at such an unearthly hour was not my doing, but Sweetheart was determined, and rose by candlelight in spite of desperate opposition on my part. It was cold, and the rain beat against the windows.

It was many kilometres to St. Gildas, but before we had gone six, the rain had ceased and the eastern sky flushed to a pale rose.

“Thank goodness!” I said, “we shall have the sun.”

Then the daily repeated miracle of the coming of dawn was wrought before our eyes. The heavens glowed in rainbow tints; the shredded mist rising along the river was touched with purple and gold, and acres of meadow and pasture dripped precious stones. Shreds of the fading night-mist drifted among the tree tops, now tipped with fire, while in the forest depths faint sparkles came from some lost ray of morning light falling on wet leaves. Then of a sudden up shot the sun, and against it, black and gigantic, a peasant towered, leaning upon his spade.

We were fast nearing the end of our long journey. The sun blazed on us from the zenith, and the wheels creaked with the heat of the white road. The driver leaned back, saying, “We enter Finistère here by this granite post.” Presently he added, “The ocean!”

There it lay, a basin of silver and blue. Sweetheart had started to her feet, speechless, one hand holding to my shoulder, the other clasped to her breast. And now, as the road wound through the hills and down to the coast, long stretches of white sand skirted the distant cliffs, and over the cliffs waved miles and miles of yellow gorse. A cluster of white and gray houses lay in the hollow to the left almost at the mouth of the river, and beyond, the waves were beating in the bar--beating the same rhythm which we were to hear so long there together, day and night. There was not a boat to be seen, not a creature, nor was there any sign of life save for the smoke curling from a cottage chimney below. The ocean lay sparkling beneath, and beyond its deeper blue melted into the haze on the horizon.

Suddenly, in the road below, the figure of a man appeared, and at the same moment a pointer pup came gambolling up beside us in an ecstasy of self-abnegation and apology. I sprang out of the lumbering vehicle and lifted Sweetheart to the ground, and in an instant we were shaking hands with a stalwart young fellow in knickerbockers and jersey, who said we were a pretty pair not to have come sooner, and told Sweetheart he pitied her lot--meaning me.

Then we walked arm in arm down a fragrant lane to the river bank, where the dearest old lady toddled out of the granite house to welcome us and show us our rooms. Sweetheart went with her, while I stopped an instant to chat with Stuart.

“That is Madame Ylven,” he said. “She is the most stunning peasant woman in Finistère, and you will want for nothing.” Then, after a moment, “Good heavens! Jack, what a beauty your wife--” He stopped short, but added, “What a delicious little beauty Sweetheart has grown to be!”

A white-coiffed maid came to the door, and said, “Will monsieur have the goodness to come? Madame wishes him to see the rooms.”

The wind blew from the south, and the thunder of the sea was in my ears as I mounted the stairs to our new quarters.

Sweetheart met me at the door, saying, “It seems almost too much happiness to bear, but I feel that we are at home at last--alone together for all time.”

Alone together? The ocean at our threshold, the moors and forests at our back, and a good slate roof above us. Before me through the open door I could see the great old-fashioned room, warm in the afternoon sunlight--the room we were to live in so long, the room in which we were to pass the happiest and bitterest moments of our lives.

She hesitated an instant before the threshold. I think we knew that we stood upon the threshold of our destiny. Then I said, half in earnest: “Are you afraid to cross with me into the unknown future? See, the room is filled with sunshine. Are you afraid?”

She sprang across the threshold, and, turning to me, held out both hands.

The sun slipped lower and lower into the sea, until a distant tossing wave washed it out against the sky. Light died in the room, and shadows closed around us; yet it was in the darkness and shadows that we drew nearer to each other, then and after.

Stuart stood under our window and yelled up at me, “Oh, Jack! I say, Jack!”

Sweetheart, who was fussing over the half-unpacked trunk, went to the window and threw open the panes.

“You don’t mean to say you have had your coffee?” she said. “Jack isn’t up yet.”

“Jack is up,” I explained, coming to the window in pajamas. “Hello!”

“I only wanted to say that I haven’t had my coffee,” he explained, “and I’m going to take it with you when you’re ready.”

Sweetheart picked up her béret, and, passing a hatpin through it, turned to me with a warning, “I shall eat all the breakfast, monsieur!” and vanished down the stairs. A moment later I heard her clear voice below:

Sonnez le chœur,

Chasseur!
Sonnez la mort!

Before I had finished dressing, Sweetheart tripped in with my coffee and toast.

“Of course I’ve finished,” she said, “and you don’t deserve this. Mr. Stuart has gone off with his canvases, and says he’ll see you at lunch.”

I swallowed the coffee and browsed on little squares of toast which she condescendingly buttered for me, and then, lighting a cigarette, I announced my intention of commanding an exploring expedition consisting of Sweetheart and myself. A scratching at the door and a patter of feet announced that I had been overheard.

Sweetheart unlatched the door, and the pointer pup of the evening before charged into the room and covered us with boisterous caresses, which we took to indicate that he not only approved of the expedition, but intended to undertake the general supervision of it himself. I resigned the leadership at once.

“His name,” said Sweetheart in the tone of one who presents a distinguished guest, “is ‘Luff.’”

I gravely acknowledged the honour by patting his head.

“I’m afraid,” I said to Sweetheart, “that there is a bar sinister upon his escutcheon, but possibly it is only the indelible mark of the conquering British foxhound.”

Sweetheart said, “Nonsense!” and the expedition moved, Luff leading with a series of ear-splitting orders in the dog language which we perfectly understood.

In ten minutes we stood on the cliffs, the salt wind whipping our faces. Saint-Gildas-des-Prés lay at our feet.

“I know,” observed Sweetheart calmly, “all about this place. Captain Ylven told me at breakfast.”

“Well,” said I, “what’s that island on the horizon?”

Then she overwhelmed me with erudition, until I longed for Baedeker and revenge.

“That is the Isle de Groix, and all about us is the Bay of Biscay. This little hamlet on the cliff is St. Julien, and if we follow the coast far enough we come to Lorient.”

“Follow the coast? Which way?”

Sweetheart had forgotten, and I triumphed in silence, until she stamped her foot and marched off to assist Luff in investigating a suspicious hole in the cliff.

I went to the edge of the plateau and looked over. The surf thundered against the rocks, tossing long strands of seaweed over the pebbly beach. A man with a wooden rake stood in the water up to his knees. He raked the seaweed from the breakers as a farmer rakes weeds from the lawn. The salt wind began to sting my lips and eyes. My throat felt dry and salty. I turned toward the hamlet of St. Gildas. I had not imagined it so small. Besides our house there were but three others clustered under the river bank. Behind it stretched woods and grain fields broken by patches of yellow gorse. Across the river stood a stone chapel almost lost in the miles of moorland. To the east and west the downs covered with gorse and heather rolled to the horizon. Here and there along the cliffs stood what appeared to be the ruins of ancient forts, and on a rock, just where the river sweeps out into the sea, rose a dirty white signal tower. The tower was low and squatty and wet. It looked like some saline excrescence which had slowly exuded from the brine-soaked rock. On the bar hundreds of white gulls rose and settled as the tide encroached; curlew were running along the foam-splashed shore under the eastern cliffs across the river.