“That ends it,” he said at last; “there's the old man to think of.”
“What will he do?”
“Go to the fellow this very night.” He seemed to have no doubt. Trust
one man of action to know another.
I muttered something about being an outsider—wondered if there was
anything I could do to help.
“Well,” he said slowly, “I don't know that I'm anything but an outsider
now; but I'll go along with him, if he'll have me.”
He went downstairs. A few minutes later they rode out from the
straw-yard. I watched them past the line of hayricks, into the blacker
shadows of the pines, then the tramp of hoofs began to fail in the
darkness, and at last died away.
I've been sitting here in my bedroom writing to you ever since, till my
candle's almost gone. I keep thinking what the end of it is to be; and
reproaching myself for doing nothing. And yet, what could I have done?
I'm sorry for her—sorrier than I can say. The night is so quiet—I
haven't heard a sound; is she asleep, awake, crying, triumphant?
It's four o'clock; I've been asleep.
They're back. Dan is lying on my bed. I'll try and tell you his story as
near as I can, in his own words.
“We rode,” he said, “round the upper way, keeping out of the lanes,
and got to Kingswear by half-past eleven. The horse-ferry had stopped
running, and we had a job to find any one to put us over. We hired the
fellow to wait for us, and took a carriage at the 'Castle.' Before we
got to Black Mill it was nearly one, pitch-dark. With the breeze from
the southeast, I made out he should have been in an hour or more. The
old man had never spoken to me once: and before we got there I had begun
to hope we shouldn't find the fellow after all. We made the driver pull
up in the road, and walked round and round, trying to find the door.
Then some one cried, 'Who are you?'
“'John Ford.'
“'What do you want?' It was old Pearse.
“'To see Zachary Pearse.'
“The long window out of the porch where we sat the other day was open,
and in we went. There was a door at the end of the room, and a light
coming through. John Ford went towards it; I stayed out in the dark.
“'Who's that with you?'
“'Mr. Treffry.'
“'Let him come in!' I went in. The old fellow was in bed, quite still on
his pillows, a candle by his side; to look at him you'd think nothing of
him but his eyes were alive. It was queer being there with those two old
men!”
Dan paused, seemed to listen, then went on doggedly.
“'Sit down, gentleman,' said old Pearse. 'What may you want to see my
son for?' John Ford begged his pardon, he had something to say, he said,
that wouldn't wait.
“They were very polite to one another,” muttered Dan ....
“'Will you leave your message with me?' said Pearse.
“'What I have to say to your son is private.'
“'I'm his father.'
“'I'm my girl's grandfather; and her only stand-by.'
“'Ah!' muttered old Pearse, 'Rick Voisey's daughter?'
“'I mean to see your son.'
“Old Pearse smiled. Queer smile he's got, sort of sneering sweet.
“'You can never tell where Zack may be,' he said. 'You think I want to
shield him. You're wrong; Zack can take care of himself.'
“'Your son's here!' said John Ford. 'I know.' Old Pearse gave us a very
queer look.
“'You come into my house like thieves in the night,' he said, 'and give
me the lie, do you?'
“'Your son came to my child's room like a thief in the night; it's for
that I want to see him,' and then,” said Dan, “there was a long silence.
At last Pearse said:
“'I don't understand; has he played the blackguard?'
“John Ford answered, 'He's married her, or, before God, I'd kill him.'
“Old Pearse seemed to think this over, never moving on his pillows. 'You
don't know Zack,' he said; 'I'm sorry for you, and I'm sorry for Rick
Voisey's daughter; but you don't know Zack.'
“'Sorry!' groaned out John Ford; 'he's stolen my child, and I'll punish
him.'
“'Punish!' cried old Pearse, 'we don't take punishment, not in my
family.'
“'Captain Jan Pearse, as sure as I stand here, you and your breed will
get your punishment of God.' Old Pearse smiled.
“'Mr. John Ford, that's as may be; but sure as I lie here we won't take
it of you. You can't punish unless you make to feel, and that you can't
du.'”
And that is truth!
Dan went on again:
“'You won't tell me where your son is!' but old Pearse never blinked.
“'I won't,' he said, 'and now you may get out. I lie here an old man
alone, with no use to my legs, night on night, an' the house open; any
rapscallion could get in; d' ye think I'm afraid of you?'
“We were beat; and walked out without a word. But that old man; I've
thought of him a lot—ninety-two, and lying there. Whatever he's been,
and they tell you rum things of him, whatever his son may be, he's a
man. It's not what he said, nor that there was anything to be afraid
of just then, but somehow it's the idea of the old chap lying there. I
don't ever wish to see a better plucked one....”
We sat silent after that; out of doors the light began to stir among the
leaves. There were all kinds of rustling sounds, as if the world were
turning over in bed.
Suddenly Dan said:
“He's cheated me. I paid him to clear out and leave her alone. D' you
think she's asleep?” He's made no appeal for sympathy, he'd take pity
for an insult; but he feels it badly.
“I'm tired as a cat,” he said at last, and went to sleep on my bed.
It's broad daylight now; I too am tired as a cat....