The sound of the iron hammer on
the malleable metal was like muffled silver, and the sparks flew out like
jocund fireflies. She was making two hooks for her kitchen wall, for she
was clever at the forge, and could shoe a horse if she were let to do so.
She was but half-turned to Valmond, but he caught the pure outlines of
her face and neck, her extreme delicacy of expression, which had a
pathetic, subtle refinement, in acute contrast to the quick, abundant
health, the warm energy, the half defiant look of Elise. It was a picture
of labour and life.
A dozen thoughts ran through Valmond's mind. He was responsible, to an
extent, for the happiness of these two young creatures. He had promised
to make a songstress of the one, to send her to Paris; had roused in her
wild, ambitious hopes of fame and fortune--dreams that, in any case,
could be little like the real thing: fanciful visions of conquest and
golden living, where never the breath of her hawthorn and wild violets
entered; only sickly perfumes, as from an odalisque's fan, amid the
enervating splendour of voluptuous boudoirs--for she had read of these
things.
Valmond had, in a vague, graceless sort of way, worked upon the quick
emotions of Elise.
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