"
"God send it edn' as bad as it do look, master. 'Er caracter belike ban't
gone. S'pose as she'm married?"
"Hould your clack, wummon. I be thinkin'."
He was thinking, indeed. In the face of this discovery, the ghost of an
idea, which had haunted Gray Michael's mind more than once during the
upbringing of Joan, returned a greater and more pronounced shadow than ever
before. The conviction carried truth stamped upon it from the standpoint of
his present horrid knowledge. To an outsider his thought had appeared
absolutely devilish, to the man himself it was as a buoy thrown to one
drowning. The belief flooded his mind, swept him away, convinced him. Its
nature presently appeared as he answered Thomasin. She was still thinking
of the thousand pounds.
"Theer's no word in the Book agin mercy, Michael. Joan's your awn
darter--froward or not froward."
"You'm wrong theer," he said. He was now cool and quiet. "I did think so
wance; I did tell her so when us walked not two hour agone. Now I sees
differ'nt. She'm none o' mine. She'm no Tregenza. Be Nature, as made us
God-fearin' to a man, to a wummon, to a cheel, gwaine to lie after
generations 'pon generations? Look back at them as bred me, an' them as
bred them--back, an' back, an' back. All Tregenzas was o' the Lard's
harvest; an' should I, as feared God more'n any o' 'em, an' fought for the
Lard of Hosts 'fore I was higher'n this table--should I--Michael Tregenza,
breed a damned sawl? The thot's comed black an' terrible 'pon my mind 'fore
to-day; an' I've put en away from me, judgin' 'twas the devil.
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