ith her; but he must
be furthering his own ends. He is vital--horribly vital! I wonder less
now that she should have yielded.

What visions hasn't he dangled before her. There was physical
attraction, too--I haven't forgotten the look I saw on her face at Black
Mill. But when all's said and done, she married him, because she's
Pasiance Voisey, who does things and wants "to get back." And she lies
there dying; not he nor any other man will ever take her away. It's
pitiful to think of him tingling with passion, writing that letter to
this doomed girl in that dark hole of a saloon. "I've wanted money," he
wrote, "ever since I was a little chap sitting in the fields among the
cows.... I want it for you now, and I mean to have it. I've studied the
thing two years; I know what I know....

"The moment this is in the post I leave for London. There are a hundred
things to look after still; I can't trust myself within reach of you
again till the anchor's weighed. When I re-christened her the Pied
Witch, I thought of you--you witch to me...."

There followed a solemn entreaty to her to be on the path leading to the
cove at seven o'clock on Wednesday evening (that is, to-morrow) when he
would come ashore and bid her good-bye. It was signed, "Your loving
husband, Zachary Pearse...."

I lay at the edge of that cornfield a long time; it was very peaceful.
The church bells had begun to ring. The long shadows came stealing out
from the sheaves; woodpigeons rose one by one, and flapped off to roost;
the western sky was streaked with red, and all the downs and combe bathed
in the last sunlight. Perfect harvest weather; but oppressively still,
the stillness of suspense....

Life at the farm goes on as usual. We have morning and evening prayers.
John Ford reads them fiercely, as though he were on the eve of a revolt
against his God. Morning and evening he visits her, comes out wheezing
heavily, and goes to his own room; I believe, to pray. Since this
morning I haven't dared meet him. He is a strong old man--but this will
break him up....

VII

"KINGSWEAR, Saturday, 13th August.

It's over--I leave here to-morrow, and go abroad.

A quiet afternoon--not a breath up in the churchyard! I was there quite
half an hour before they came. Some red cows had strayed into the
adjoining orchard, and were rubbing their heads against the railing.
While I stood there an old woman came and drove them away; afterwards,
s