Her uncle still tarried, and Joan, weary of waiting, betook herself and her
sorrows to the old garden, there to view a spectacle which she never tired
of. She watched the evening primroses, saw their green bud-cases spring
open and the soft yellow leaves tremble out like butterflies new come from
the chrysalis. She loved these little lemon-colored lamps that twinkled
anew at every sundown in the green twilight of the garden. She knew their
eyes would watch through the night and that their reward would be death.
Many shriveled fragments marked the old blossoms on the long stems, but the
crowns of each still put out new buds, and every dusk saw the wakening of
fresh blossoms heedless of their dead sisters below. "They was killed
'cause they looked at the sun," thought Joan. "I suppose the moon be theer
mistress and they should not chaange their god. Yet it do seem hard like to
be scorched to death for lookin' upward."
What she saw now typified in a dead flower was her own case under a new
symbol; but the girl wasted no anger on the man who had played with her to
make a holiday pleasant, on that mock sun whose light now turned to
darkness. Her mind was occupied entirely with pity for herself. And that
fact probably promised to be a sure first step to peace. The lonely void of
her life must be filled, else Joan was like to go mad; and the filling,
left to Faith, might yet be happily accomplished.
Pages:
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305