But the music of her happy voice
was in his blood. The child had come out of the valley of sorrow and she
was boisterously happy and her laughter made him wild. Mists gathered in
his eyes and his breath caught now and again. Passion fairly gripped him by
the throat till even the sound of his own voice was strange to him and he
felt his knees shake. He put down his brushes, turned from the picture, and
went to the cliff-edge, there flinging himself down upon the grass.
"I cannot paint to-day, Joan; I'm too over-joyed at getting you back to me.
My hand is not steady, and my Joan of paint and canvas seems worse and
feebler than ever beside your flesh and blood. You don't know--you cannot
guess how I have missed you."
"Iss fay, but I can, Mister Jan, if you felt same as what I done. 'Tweer
cruel, cruel. But then you've got a many things an' folks to fill up your
time along with; I abbun got nothin' now but you."
"I expect Joe often thinks about you."
"I dunnaw. 'Tis awful wicked, but Joe he gone clean out my mind now. I thot
I loved en, but I was a cheel then an' I didn't 'sackly knaw what love was;
now I do. 'Twadden what I felt for Joe Noy 'tall; 'tis what I feels for
you, Mister Jan."
"Ah, I like to hear you say that. Nature has brought you to me, Joan, my
little jewel; and she has brought Jan to you. You could not understand that
last time I told you; now you can and you do.
Pages:
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162