This evening Dan came; during supper he handed Pasiance a roll of music;
he had got it in Torquay. The shopman, he said, had told him that it was
a “corker.”
It was Bach's “Chaconne.” You should have seen her eyes shine, her
fingers actually tremble while she turned over the pages. Seems odd to
think of her worshipping at the shrine of Bach as odd as to think of a
wild colt running of its free will into the shafts; but that's just it
with her you can never tell. “Heavenly!” she kept saying.
John Ford put down his knife and fork.
“Heathenish stuff!” he muttered, and suddenly thundered out, “Pasiance!”
She looked up with a start, threw the music from her, and resumed her
place.
During evening prayers, which follow every night immediately on food,
her face was a study of mutiny. She went to bed early. It was rather
late when we broke up—for once old Ford had been talking of his
squatter's life. As we came out, Dan held up his hand. A dog was
barking. “It's Lass,” he said. “She'll wake Pasiance.”
The spaniel yelped furiously. Dan ran out to stop her. He was soon back.
“Somebody's been in the orchard, and gone off down to the cove.” He ran
on down the path. I, too, ran, horribly uneasy. In front, through the
darkness, came the spaniel's bark; the lights of the coastguard station
faintly showed. I was first on the beach; the dog came to me at once,
her tail almost in her mouth from apology. There was the sound of oars
working in rowlocks; nothing visible but the feathery edges of the
waves. Dan said behind, “No use! He's gone.” His voice sounded hoarse,
like that of a man choking with passion.
“George,” he stammered, “it's that blackguard. I wish I'd put a bullet
in him.” Suddenly a light burned up in the darkness on the sea, seemed
to swing gently, and vanished. Without another word we went back up the
hill. John Ford stood at the gate motionless, indifferent—nothing had
dawned on him as yet. I whispered to Dan, “Let it alone!”
“No,” he said, “I'm going to show you.” He struck a match, and slowly
hunted the footsteps in the wet grass of the orchard. “Look—here!”
He stopped under Pasiance's window and swayed the match over the ground.
Clear as daylight were the marks of some one who had jumped or fallen.
Dan held the match over his head.
“And look there!” he said. The bough of an apple-tree below the window
was broken. He blew the match out.