A something wild was in the air; it seemed to sweep across the downs and combe, into the very house, like a passionate tune that comes drifting to your ears when you're sleepy.But who would have thought the absence of that girl for a few hours could have wrought such havoc! We were like uneasy spirits; Mrs.Hopgood's apple cheeks seemed positively to wither before one's eyes.I came across a dairymaid and farm hand discussing it stolidly with very downcast faces.Even Hopgood, a hard-bitten fellow with immense shoulders, forgot his imperturbability so far as to harness his horse, and depart on what he assured me was "just a wild-guse chaace." It was long before John Ford gave signs of noticing that anything was wrong, but late in the afternoon I found him sitting with his hands on his knees, staring straight before him.He rose heavily when he saw me, and stalked out.In the evening, as I was starting for the coastguard station to ask for help to search the cliff, Pasiance appeared, walking as if she could hardly drag one leg after the other.Her cheeks were crimson; she was biting her lips to keep tears of sheer fatigue out of her eyes.She passed me in the doorway without a word.The anxiety he had gone through seemed to forbid the old man from speaking.He just came forward, took her face in his hands, gave it a great kiss, and walked away.Pasiance dropped on the floor in the dark passage, and buried her face on her arms.
"Leave me alone!" was all she would say.After a bit she dragged herself upstairs.Presently Mrs.Hopgood came to me.
"Not a word out of her--an' not a bite will she ate, an' I had a pie all ready--scrumptious.The good Lord knows the truth--she asked for brandy; have you any brandy, sir? Ha-apgood'e don't drink it, an'
Mister Ford 'e don't allaow for anything but caowslip wine."I had whisky.
The good soul seized the flask, and went off hugging it.She returned it to me half empty.
"Lapped it like a kitten laps milk.I misdaoubt it's straong, poor lamb, it lusened 'er tongue praaperly.'I've a-done it,' she says to me, 'Mums-I've a-done it,' an' she laughed like a mad thing; and then, sir, she cried, an' kissed me, an' pusshed me thru the door.
Gude Lard! What is 't she's a-done...?"
It rained all the next day and the day after.About five o'clock yesterday the rain ceased; I started off to Kingswear on Hopgood's nag to see Dan Treffry.Every tree, bramble, and fern in the lanes was dripping water; and every bird singing from the bottom of his heart.I thought of Pasiance all the time.Her absence that day was still a mystery; one never ceased asking oneself what she had done.
There are people who never grow up--they have no right to do things.
Actions have consequences--and children have no business with consequences.
Dan was out.I had supper at the hotel, and rode slowly home.In the twilight stretches of the road, where I could touch either bank of the lane with my whip, I thought of nothing but Pasiance and her grandfather; there was something in the half light suited to wonder and uncertainty.It had fallen dark before I rode into the straw-yard.Two young bullocks snuffled at me, a sleepy hen got up and ran off with a tremendous shrieking.I stabled the horse, and walked round to the back.It was pitch black under the apple-trees, and the windows were all darkened.I stood there a little, everything smelled so delicious after the rain; suddenly I had the uncomfortable feeling that I was being watched.Have you ever felt like that on a dark night? I called out at last: "Is any one there?" Not a sound!
I walked to the gate-nothing! The trees still dripped with tiny, soft, hissing sounds, but that was all.I slipped round to the front, went in, barricaded the door, and groped up to bed.But Icouldn't sleep.I lay awake a long while; dozed at last, and woke with a jump.A stealthy murmur of smothered voices was going on quite close somewhere.It stopped.A minute passed; suddenly came the soft thud as of something falling.I sprang out of bed and rushed to the window.Nothing--but in the distance something that sounded like footsteps.An owl hooted; then clear as crystal, but quite low, I heard Pasiance singing in her room:
"The apples are ripe and ready to fall.
Oh! heigh-ho! and ready to fall."
I ran to her door and knocked.
"What is it?" she cried.
"Is anything the matter?"
"Matter?"
"Is anything the matter?"
"Ha-ha-ha-ha! Good-night!" then quite low, I heard her catch her breath, hard, sharply.No other answer, no other sound.
I went to bed and lay awake for hours....
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.
