Here was the question which she had
asked herself so often answered once for all. Her heart leaped at tidings
of great joy, and as she looked up into his face the man saw infinite
wonder and delight in her own. Mind was adding beauty to flesh, and he,
fast losing the artist's instinct before another, thought she had never
looked so lovely as then.
"Oh, Mister Jan, you'm fond o' me!"
"Why, didn't you know it, Joan? Did it want my words to tell you so? Hadn't
you guessed it?"
He rose slowly and approached his picture.
"Oh, how I wish this was a little more like my dream and like reality! I
need inspiration, Joan; I have reached a point beyond which I cannot go. My
colors are dead; my soul is dead. Something must happen to me or I shall
never finish this."
"Ban't you so well as you was?"
"No, Joan, I'm not. A thing has come between me and my happiness, between
me and my picture. I know not what to call it. Nature has sent it."
"Then 'tis right an' proper, I s'pose?"
"I suppose so, but it stops work. It makes my hand shake and my heart throb
fast and my brains grow hot."
"Can't 'e take no physic for't?"
"Why, yes, but I hesitate."
He turned to her and went close to her.
"Let me look at you, Joan--close--very close--so close that I can feel your
breath. It was so easy to learn the furze; it is so hard to learn you."
"Sure I've comed out butivul in the picksher.
Pages:
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139