CHAPTER IV
FLOWER OF THE THORN
One evening as these lovers sat out on their stone bench in the
solitude over which the night fell, they suddenly perceived a hawthorn
bush, which grew solitarily between the rocks, by the side of the
road, covered with tiny flowered tufts.
"It looks as if 'twas in bloom," said Yann.
They drew near to inspect it. It was in full flower, indeed. As they
could not see very well in the twilight, they touched the tiny blooms,
wet with mist. Then the first impression of spring came to them at the
same time they noticed this; the days had already lengthened, the air
was warmer, and the night more luminous. But how forward this
particular bush was! They could not find another like it anywhere
around, not one! It had blossomed, you see, expressly for them, for
the celebration of their loving plight.
"Oh! let us gather some more," said Yann.
Groping in the dark, he cut a nosegay with the stout sailor's knife
that he always wore in his belt, and paring off all the thorns, he
placed it in Gaud's bosom.
"You look like a bride now," said he, stepping back to judge of the
effect, notwithstanding the deepening dusk.
At their feet the calm sea rose and fell over the shingle with an
intermittent swash, regular as the breathing of a sleeper; for it
seemed indifferent or ever favourable to the love-making going on hard
by.
In expectation of these evenings the days appeared long to them, and
when they bade each other good-bye at ten o'clock, they felt a kind of
discouragement, because it was all so soon over.
They had to hurry with the official documents for fear of not being
ready in time, and of letting their happiness slip by until the
autumn, or even uncertainty.
Their evening courtship in that mournful spot, lulled by the continual
even wash of the sea, with that feverish impression of the flight of
time, was almost gloomy and ominous. They were like no lovers; more
serious and restless were they in their love than the common run.
Yet Yann never told her what mysterious thing had kept him away from
her for these two lonely years; and after he returned home of a night,
Gaud grew uneasy as before, although he loved her perfectly--this she
knew. It is true that he had loved her all along, but not as now; love
grew stronger in his heart and mind, like a tide rising and
overbrimming. He never had known this kind of love before.
Sometimes on their stone seat he lay down, resting his head in Gaud's
lap like a caressing child, till, suddenly remembering propriety, he
would draw himself up erect. He would have liked to lie on the very
ground at her feet, and remain there with his brow pressed to the hem
of her garments. Excepting the brotherly kiss he gave her when he came
and went, he did not dare to embrace her. He adored that invisible
spirit in her, which appeared in the very sound of her pure, tranquil
voice, the expression of her smile, and in her clear eye.
