AN UNFINISHED TALE.

Otago Witness, Issue 2666, 19 April 1905, Page 85

AN UNFINISHED TALE.

By Cj-dyaix Walmi-r,

(For the Witness.)

Weil do I remember the clay we arrived at Brea. that sweet little village nestling in the dimples of the south coast of Brittany, typical of that country, and unspoilt by a sight-seeing public. We had travelled all night from Paris, and it seemed just like a dream to me. I had not slept for more than half an hour, but Nan, my sister, was dozing most of the time, and missed J..11 the beauties that I saw — those dark hills flashing past, with the farms and villages huddled in the misty hollows, and the tall, lank poplars silhouetted against the partially moon-lit sky. It was all so weird-looking ! It wasn't quite 6 o'clock when we arrived at Ovau, a little station, where we had to get down and climb into a funny oid omnibus, with all our bags and baggage heaped around us and up on the roof over am heads. San was very hungry, more than I was, but tk<e novelty of everything made me forget to think about inner wants.

The 'bus wa< hah. full — such a funny mixture of people. Nan and 1 were the only repiesentatives of Great Britain. There was an American — a tall, thin man, and fair, with pince-nez, and weak-looking, mild blue eyes He was evidently an artist, judging from his paint boxes and bundles.

In the farthest corner was a brown, healthy fisher-boy, in a blue blouse ; and beside him an old, wrinkled woman in sabots, with a huge market basket full of vegetables and mysteries. Opposite us was a slim girl, with quick, brown eyes, and olive skin. She had quantities of pale, yellow hair, plaited thickly underneath a quaint white cap. She was certainly very neat and aristocratic-looking and pretty, and the more I looked at her the more I liked her. Her clothes were coarse, just like any other fisherwoman's of those parts, and her s&bots quite ordinary -looking. But there was a something about her that maik?d her different from the rest. Her Lands- too, wers so small and neat, though tanned and roughened with work She seemed lo be rather interested in us. Not v ishin j to appear rude and too staring, I looked a gpod deal out of the rattling vrindows. though there was little to be seen in any direction, owing to the cold, damp mist that hung over everything. It was autumn, and already half-daik at 6 m the morning. The journey in the coach took about two hours. As: this was our first visit to this part of Brittany, I thought I might try and find out something about it from the brown-eyed girl. I didn't know -whether she spoke French or not Few of the folk in the' remote corners j>^ Brittany have yet learnt the "language of Paris.'' However, I ventured to ask her something, an:! she answered in perfect French. I had been mostly educated in Paris, and so was able to judge for myself in such matters. She was certainly no Brittany peasant, nor did she come from Normandy. Hei accent was Parisian. I remarked as much to her. but s he only smiled, without replying. Her manner and everything about her l'aised my greatest curiosity, but I deemed it rude to venture any more personal remarks.

Afterwards &he began chatting tc my sister, who is five years my junior, and ,!ill comparatively a schoolgal. The French girl was certainly fascinating. Hei mouth was large, but well-shaped, and her teeth were beautiful. Before the end of the journey we learnt that her name was Marie Grevin\ and that she lived in a. little cottage up on the cliffs, a few minutes" walk from the village where we were tr ttay for a fortnight with a little French iirtist and wife, who were friends of ours. They .^pent the summer and autumn always at Biea.

As we npared our destination the mist cleared, and the sun came out. From the lop of the hill we looked down into a hollow, and -there lay the snug little redroofed village, all its dirtiness and poverty cbliterated by distance. The cliffs, which closed in all rcund and descended to th© rocky beach below, were grey with biownisb-green tops, and a few scraggy, dusty trees, mostly poplars, bravely lifting up their headb ; and the grey, grey sea, breaking many feet below us in soapy, white froth. Half a dozen boats lay high and dry on the shore, and away out at s-ea were the red-brown sails of two fisher boats, the last of the fleet going; cut. That was all ! And yet how beautiful it was : so sad and yet so peaceful !

We bade good-bye to Marie Grevin, having grown quite friendly with her during cur last hour's drive. We received a warm welcome from onr friends, and we made tfcort work of the delicious "cafe" and "petits pains"' that the old "bonne" set before us. Wo were two hungry girls ! And then we went out on the cliffs to blow away the dust and stuffiness of our previous night's journpy. I lemember iiow, on looking upwards, on the '.lope of a higher cliff. I saw a neat little cottage, with a few flowers in a stiip of garden in fi\>nt. and ro^es climbing up the tloors'de. It was tho only glimpse of flowers I had got in Brea, and the?e v ore certainly rather bedraggled. I suppose it was Hie lesult of the diy season ihey had had iliat year. As I was still looking upwards a slim figure in a blue dre&s and white-winged cap appeared at the door •mki waved to us. "Look, Alice!" cried N.m, somewhat cxi ilertly ; "there's Marie (Jrevin!" The blue dress disappeared for a moment, and tben reappeared, and ran cioTTn the pathway lo us. "See !" she suid,

pointing out steps that were cut in th* cliffs; "we can go down to the bhore br those steps I have no moie to do in the houso, and Jean is ay, ay lon coir.c, too !"

I wondered vLo ''Jean" was i« votit husband?"' 1 asked her.

"Aon! non ! Jean i^ not by husband" she answered quickly. '"He has gone fish in<; with the fleet."

We went down to the beach and chatl«*d about the customs of the fisher folk, and watched the crabs scuttling over the w»t sand. Nan g<>ve them clivers little pokea with a long stick to make them go fasiei sometimes.

We saw Marie nearly every day aftei that. It was three days before we vc v «

to go back to Paris, Nan and I, that she told me about herself. Nan wasn't feel-

ing well, and didn't come out on the cliffs ' with me when I suggested going out for a little breeze. I came across Marie, sitting with folded hands, gazing away out to sea, the sea that was always grey and calm here. So far I had never seen it anything else all the time I had been at Brea, and I wondered if it ever was rough there, or blue, or even green ! Marie seemed very sad about something. "What is the matter?" I asked her. It •wasn't mere curiosity on my part. I had ototo fond of her, and couldn't bear to see her looking so mournful. "You would .care to know?" she asked me, looking straight into my face. She didn't wait for my answer. She evidently understood that I did care. "Well Mademoiselle Alice, I am the daughter of a lawyer in Paris, though I "do wear these clothes and work Use a fisherwo-man. My nrother died before I could /remember what she was like, and 1 was the only child. I was brought up in B convent, and my father wished that I •should become a nun. Oh! how I hated the idea! I vowed I should never be a nun! It was only a few nights before they were going to make me one of thennumber that I resolved to try and escape I had a hundred francs in my purse, and I got away with a great deal of difficulty. In the early morning I took the train for «rea having discarded my convent clothes for a' coarse woollen dress, and a shawl for »y head, which I had bought from one «i the women who came with the bread ■to the convent every day. And with the remainder of my money spent on a ticket, I cams here, believing no on© would ever trace me— ana in truth no one-ever has ! she said, smiling somewhat bitterly. "I came here, and then, of course, what •was Ito live upon? I had no more money ! I went from cottage to cottage, but they all stared at me, these fisher folk, lhey only half understood what I was talking -about, and they could ill afford to hire a woman to work for them ! It was as much as they could do to find work for themselves. At last, in dispair, I came here on the cliffs, here where we are nowBitting, mademoiselle! And I cried. A man °eaine up, and, seeing me in that plight, asked me something, but I didnt understand his pe asant tongue. I wiped my tears away hastily and stood up. He■was big and 'brown and strong, and his face was good and open, though somewhat ■tern. - His grey eyes were, however, so % kind. He must have guessed that I was no common woman, for- he looked most surprised, and he took off his cap and aeld it in his hands. Then he asked me, in good "French, what was the matter. I learned afterwards • that he had once been » sailor on a merchant vessel, trading between Marseilles and Algeria, and that was bow he had picked: up the language. I felt that I could trust this man, and before I had quite made up my mind what to say I found myself telling him everything. He was so kind, Mademoiselle Alice! He said his sister, 'who had kept house for him, had married and gone away, and he was . alone,, and would I look after the house for him. He could give me little money, but I would have the home till I found something else to do. He seemed so nervous and ashamed over it all, too. But I wasn't. I was only too glad to get a home. And all that was two months ago." —

Marie stopped and turned her face away from me. I knew there was more to be bold, and in a few minutes she continued her story. "Since then he has been working," she said. "He goes fishing, you know! And I found out that he loved me, mademoiselle ! At first it horrified me. He never let a word pass his lips, but I guessed it. I was proud, and felt that ■* a common fisherman had no right to love me ! I was foolish, but I had been brought up in a convent, and had seen nothing of the world. It went on for some weeks. •Yesterday he was going away for two days' fishing, and he told me that he cared for me. He was so humble about it, and he said he was not worthy, and', oh! a lot of tkings that I didn't hear because I was so angry. I said cruel things to him, and his face was so white, mon Dieu ! He begged me to forgive him, but I wouldn't. And now, when I think of it all, how wicked I was !" There were tears in Islarie'g eyes, and "ker face was quivering pitifully. "He looked so dreadful and — and broken. 'He said he left me everything, and then ,went away down to his boat and sailed away out to sea. I watched his sails till f. could sea them no longer — and then, only then, did I realise that I loved him, and .■what I had done, and how unworthy I was of him. But," she said, smiling wistfully, "when he comes Back to-night I shall be here to meet him, and I shall tell him everything, and 1 he will forgive me !" A tear for Marie and for the man who !had gone away came over me, and I turned, my head away, so that those quick brown eyes would guess nothing of my thoughts. She was only a child after all, and — ah, well! I wondered if this was the beginning of n biCter lesson to last hex a life-time! She sat there, looking out to «ea. "He will come back to-night?" I asked her. "Yes," she said quite simply, and she believed it. I kissed her and went ;back to Nan. And so we parted. The next day there raged a terrible storm, and H was impossible for us to go out, but "the third day — .the day we were leaving for Paris — I went on the cliffs for a last glimpse of everything — and Marie. I found Sier crouching there, gazing out to sea, the eea that had once more grown calm and and glassy. I bade her good-bye, but »he didn't seem to understand that we itrere going away. Her thoughts were only for Jean's return.

As our coach reached the top of the Jiill, Where we had first looked down on jyie little milage, I took one last look at

Brea, and at Marie. She was still waiting, with her face turned out to the sea.