I'll gaw, I'll gaw so far away as ever I can; an'
I'll never call 'e my faither agin, s'elp me God!"
Mrs. Tregenza had thanked Providence under her breath when Joan rescued the
notes, but now, almost for the first time, she realized that her own
interest in this pile of money was as nothing. Every penny belonged to her
stepdaughter, and her stepdaughter evidently meant to keep it. This
discovery hit her hard, and now the bitterness came forth in a flood of
words that tumbled each over the other and stung like hornets as they
settled.
Gray Michael's broadside had roared harmlessly over Joan's erect head;
Thomasin's small shot did not miss the mark. She was furious; her husband
stood dumb; her virago tongue hissed the truth; and Joan, listening, knew
that it was the truth.
No matter what the elder woman said. She missed no vile word of them all.
She called Joan every name that chills the ear of the fallen; and she
explained the meaning of her expressions; she bid the girl take herself and
the love-child within her from out the sight of honest folks; she told her
the man had turned his back forever, that only the ashy road of the ruined
remained for her to tread. And that was how the great news that Nature had
looked upon her for a mother came to Joan Tregenza. Here was the riddle of
the mysterious voice unraveled; here was the secret of her physical sorrows
made clear.
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