And the
better I love you, the worse I paint you. That's funny, isn't it?"
"Iss, 'tis coorious. But I'm sure you do draw me a mighty sight finer than
I be. 'Tis wonnerful clever, an' theer edn' no call to be sad, for no man
else could a done better, I lay."
He did not answer, and still held her hand. Then there came a harder breath
of wind with a sob of sound in it, while already over the distant sea swept
separate gray curtains of rain.
"It's coming, Joan; the storm. It's everywhere, in earth and air and water;
and in my blood. I am savage to-day, Joan, savage and thirsty. What will be
the end of it?"
He spoke wildly, like the weather. She did not understand, but she felt his
hand clinch tightly over hers, and, looking at the white thin fingers
crooked round her wrist, they brought to her mind the twisted claws of a
dead sea-gull she remembered to have found upon the beach.
"What will be the end of it, Joan? Can't you answer me?"
"Doan't 'e, Mister Jan; you'm hurtin' my hand. I s'pose as a sou'westerly
gale be comin'. Us knaws 'em well enough in these paarts. Faither reckoned
theer was dirty weather blawin' up 'fore he sailed. He was away by
daylight. The gales do bring trouble to somebody most times."
"What will be the end of us, I mean, not of the weather? The rain will come
and the clouds will melt, and we know, as sure as God's in heaven, that we
shall see sunshine and blue sky again.
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