“Drop it, Dan!” I said.
He turned on his heel suddenly, and stammered out, “You're right.”
But he had turned into John Ford's arms.
The old man stood there like some great force, darker than the darkness,
staring up at the window, as though stupefied. We had not a word to
say. He seemed unconscious of our presence. He turned round, and left us
standing there.
“Follow him!” said Dan. “Follow him—by God! it's not safe.”
We followed. Bending, and treading heavily, he went upstairs. He struck
a blow on Pasiance's door. “Let me in!” he said. I drew Dan into my
bedroom. The key was slowly turned, her door was flung open, and there
she stood in her dressing-gown, a candle in her hand, her face crimson,
and oh! so young, with its short, crisp hair and round cheeks. The old
man—like a giant in front of her—raised his hands, and laid them on her
shoulders.
“What's this? You—you've had a man in your room?”
Her eyes did not drop.
“Yes,” she said. Dan gave a groan.
“Who?”
“Zachary Pearse,” she answered in a voice like a bell.
He gave her one awful shake, dropped his hands, then raised them as
though to strike her. She looked him in the eyes; his hands dropped, and
he too groaned. As far as I could see, her face never moved.
“I'm married to him,” she said, “d' you hear? Married to him. Go out of
my room!” She dropped the candle on the floor at his feet, and slammed
the door in his face. The old man stood for a minute as though stunned,
then groped his way downstairs.
“Dan,” I said, “is it true?”
“Ah!” he answered, “it's true; didn't you hear her?”