Leaning on a gate stood Zachary, an hour before his time; dressed in the
same old blue clothes and leather-peaked cap as on the day when I saw
him first. He knew nothing of what had happened. But at a quarter of the
truth, I'm sure he divined the whole, though he would not admit it to
himself. He kept saying, “It can't be. She'll be well in a few days—a
sprain! D' you think the sea-voyage.... Is she strong enough to be moved
now at once?”
It was painful to see his face, so twisted by the struggle between his
instinct and his vitality. The sweat poured down his forehead. He turned
round as we walked up the path, and pointed out to sea. There was his
steamer. “I could get her on board in no time. Impossible! What is it,
then? Spine? Good God! The doctors.... Sometimes they'll do wonders!” It
was pitiful to see his efforts to blind himself to the reality.
“It can't be, she's too young. We're walking very slow.” I told him she
was dying.
For a second I thought he was going to run away. Then he jerked up his
head, and rushed on towards the house. At the foot of the staircase he
gripped me by the shoulder.
“It's not true!” he said; “she'll get better now I'm here. I'll stay.
Let everything go. I'll stay.”
“Now's the time,” I said, “to show you loved her. Pull yourself
together, man!” He shook all over.
“Yes!” was all he answered. We went into her room. It seemed impossible
she was going to die; the colour was bright in her cheeks, her lips
trembling and pouted as if she had just been kissed, her eyes gleaming,
her hair so dark and crisp, her face so young....
Half an hour later I stole to the open door of her room. She was still
and white as the sheets of her bed. John Ford stood at the foot; and,
bowed to the level of the pillows, his head on his clenched fists, sat
Zachary. It was utterly quiet. The guttering of the leaves had ceased.
When things have come to a crisis, how little one feels—no fear, no
pity, no sorrow, rather the sense, as when a play is over, of anxiety to
get away!
Suddenly Zachary rose, brushed past me without seeing, and ran
downstairs.
Some hours later I went out on the path leading to the cove. It was
pitch-black; the riding light of the Pied Witch was still there, looking
no bigger than a firefly. Then from in front I heard sobbing—a man's
sobs; no sound is quite so dreadful. Zachary Pearse got up out of the
bank not ten paces off.
I had no heart to go after him, and sat down in the hedge. There was
something subtly akin to her in the fresh darkness of the young night;
the soft bank, the scent of honeysuckle, the touch of the ferns and
brambles. Death comes to all of us, and when it's over it's over; but
this blind business—of those left behind!
A little later the ship whistled twice; her starboard light gleamed
faintly—and that was all....