CHAPTER VII
THE COMFORTER
Thus did Gaud, coming in for news in the evening, find her; her hair
dishevelled, her arms hanging down, and her head resting against the
stone wall, with a falling jaw grinning, and the plaintive whimper of
a little child; she scarcely could weep any more; these grandmothers,
grown too old, have no tears left in their dried-up eyes.
"My grandson is dead!" She threw the letters, papers, and medal into
her caller's lap.
Gaud quickly scanned the whole, saw the news was true, and fell on her
knees to pray. The two women remained there together almost dumb,
through the June gloaming, which in Brittany is long but in Iceland is
never-ending. On the hearth the cricket that brings joy was chirping
his shrill music.
The dim dusk entered through the narrow window into the dwelling of
those Moans, who had all been devoured by the sea, and whose family
was now extinguished.
At last Gaud said: "/I'll/ come to you, good granny, to live with you;
I'll bring my bed that they've left me, and I'll take care of you and
nurse you--you shan't be all alone."
She wept, too, for her little friend Sylvestre, but in her sorrow she
was led involuntarily to think of another--he who had gone back to the
deep-sea fishery.
They would have to write to Yann and tell him Sylvestre was dead; it
was just now that the fishers were starting. Would he, too, weep for
him? Mayhap he would, for he had loved him dearly. In the midst of her
own tears, Gaud thought a great deal of him; now and again waxing
wroth against the hard-hearted fellow, and then pitying him at the
thought of that pain which would strike him also, and which would be
as a link between them both--one way and another, her heart was full
of him.
