Her father
lost his majestic proportions; the Luke Gospelers became mere objects for
compassion; the petty, temporal interests and concerns of the passing hour
appeared mere worthless affairs for the occupation and waste of time.
"Mister Jan" loved her, and she loved him, and what else mattered? Past
hours of unrest and wakefulness were forgotten; her tears washed the dead
anxieties clean away; and the kiss which had caused them, though it
scorched her lip when it fell there, was now set as a seal and a crowning
glory to her life. He never kissed any other woman. That pledge of this
rare man's affection had been won by the magic of love, and Joan welcomed
Nature gladly and called it God with a warm heart and thankful soul; for
Nature had brought about this miracle. Her former religion worked no
wonders; it had only conveyed terror to her and a comprehensive knowledge
of hell. "Mister Jan" smiled at hell and she could laugh at her old fears.
How was it possible to hesitate between two such creeds? She did not do so,
and, with final acceptation of the new, and secret rejection of the old,
came a great peace to Joan's heart with the whisper of many voices telling
her that she had done rightly.
So the storm gave place to periods of delicious calm and content only
clouded by a longing to be back with the artist again. He loved her; the
voice of his love was the song of the spring weather, and the thrush echoed
it and the early flowers wrote it on the hedgerows.
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