up the long road from rilchester came joan, her wet skirt blown about her by the wind. weary though she was, the breeze had kissed fresh color into her face, and her eyes were brave under the faded roses in her old straw hat. overhead the sky hurried, gray and sullen, unsilvered by the sun. rain fell in swift, hurrying showers, dimming the landscape, wiping out the sea. the trees moaned and waved to one another, troubled by the restless melancholy of the wind.

joan’s eyes brightened as she drew near towards her old home. the meadows rippled at her feet; the great trees called to her like old playmates out of the woods; the very wind blew blithely in her hair. the past rushed back, vivid and wistful; memories of her childhood glimmered through her brain. yonder in the valley lay the mallan water, where she had first met gabriel when the woods were green.

betimes burnt house rose up before her in the east, its red roof warm above the yews and cypresses, its old wall filleting the brow of the hill. joan’s heart beat fast, and for the moment her eyes were dim. was there yet hope for her within those well-loved walls? how would her father greet her?—as of old with his rude, rough tongue?

she reached the iron gate and set it creaking on its rusty hinges. the shrubs and trees were wild and untrammelled as of yore. they seemed to welcome her like green-limbed guardians of the past, tossing their hands, breathing forth deep greetings. joan saw the track of wheels upon the grass-grown drive, tracks freshly graven, glistening with the rain. to the left the orchard flashed before her eyes, with petals rosy and white scattered by the wind upon the tall, rank grass. primroses and hyacinths were in bloom there, and daffodils shook their golden faces to the breeze.

she crossed the stretch of gravel and entered the old porch. her hand held the iron handle; the bell clamored through the silent house. she waited with her heart hurrying, her eyes watching the waving trees. slow footsteps sounded within. the great door opened a very little and mrs. primmer’s yellow face peered out from the gloom.

joan confronted her with no wavering or fear, the sense of innocence strong within her heart. the woman’s figure closed the entry; with one bony hand she held the door.

“well, mistress?”

there was an insolence in the very word that made joan color. she moved forward a step, but mrs. primmer did not falter.

“make way, please.”

“mr. gildersedge is ill.”

“my father ill?”

“he maunt see nobody; i have my orders.”

it was plain to joan that the woman’s rudeness arose from no superabundance of sincere concern. there was an intentional insult in her very attitude. joan’s gray eyes kindled; she was no child to be shamed and frightened by a frowning face.

“i have come,” she said, quietly, “to see my father.”

“doctor’s orders—”

“make way, woman.”

she stepped in and set one hand on mrs. primmer’s shoulder. there was no unseemliness in this strength of hers. the hireling fell back even as a hireling should.

“stand aside!”

“i’ve had my orders.”

“and your pay.”

joan crossed the hall, unfastening her hat and ignoring the lean, black figure by the door. she climbed the oak stairway, halted in the gallery above, turning to find mrs. primmer had followed from the hall. throwing her hat upon a broad window-sill, she looked down on the woman with a dignity that was not mute.

“stay,” she said, stretching out a hand.

“dr. marjoy told me—”

“are you the mistress of this house?”

“you won’t get anything out of him, young woman.”

“spare your words,” said the girl, calmly. “i have come to see my father, and to see him alone. go back to the kitchen. that is your proper place.”

very pale but very purposeful, joan moved down the gallery towards her father’s room. she halted a moment outside the door, listening, watching to see whether the woman followed. there were no sounds save the moaning of the wind, the chattering of the casements, and the beating of boughs against the panes.

very quietly joan turned the handle and stood on the threshold of her father’s room. the old man’s bed faced the broad window, where rain clouds raced over the rolling downs. he lay half propped upon pillows, staring at the sullen sky, his thin hands stretched upon the coverlet.

it was not till joan had closed the door and moved forward into the room that her father awoke to her presence there. a great change had come over him those winter months, for disease had dragged him near to the grave. the yellow skin hung in folds about the neck, the eyes were sunken, the lips bloodless and marked by the teeth. it was the face of the dead more than of the living, sharp, earthy, and repulsive, still infinitely cunning.

when zeus gildersedge saw his daughter, a look of peculiar vindictiveness sharpened his thin face. he strove to rise higher in the bed, his yellow talons clawing at the coverlet as he raised himself upon his elbows, the muscles contracted in his pendulous throat. as by instinct joan had started towards him to help him as of old; the look in his sunken eyes beat her back.

“so you have sneaked home,” he said to her, breathing hard, his eyes glistening with an indescribable malice.

“father!”

“to beg, eh?”

“can a daughter beg?”

“he has deserted you, the fine fellow—”

“no, no, not that.”

zeus gildersedge propped himself upon his pillows, his birdlike head straining forward upon its yellow neck.

“you have timed it well, eh?”

“timed it, father?”

“to sneak back and play the pretty penitent and finger the old man’s money.”

“we are poor, father.”

“poor, eh?”

“the world has wronged us.”

there was an unhallowed smirk on zeus gildersedge’s face.

“what about your father?” he asked; “you didn’t come to see him. no, by god! he can die, and that’s about the best thing you think he can do.”

“father!”

she stretched out her hands to him as though to stem back his taunting words. zeus gildersedge was a dying man; the bitterness of the approaching hour, the sordid realism of his past, only incensed him against his fate. there was none of the mild solemnity of death in that dark room. nothing but malice seemed quick in the lean body, nothing but mocking anger alive in the dim eyes.

“is it my money you want?” he panted. “i am to be deserted, am i, and then squeezed on my death-bed like a sponge, to keep you and your blackguard from the gutter? gold, is it? curse them, they’re all scrambling for it—the parson, the doctor, that woman in the kitchen. what do they care about me—what do they care about me, i say? by god, wench, i won’t give you a farthing!”

he sank back upon his pillows, seized with a spasmodic fit of coughing. his face grew dusky, his eyes suffused. the veins were turgid and swollen in the straining neck; one claw of a hand was hooked in the collar of his shirt.

joan stood and gazed at him, mute and impotent. his words had stunned her and she could not think. rain came rattling against the window; storm-clouds darkened the room; the wind moaned in the chimney and whistled over the roof.

the old man upon the bed had recovered his breath. he struggled up and gestured at her with one trembling hand, his eyes shining with a peculiar brightness in his dusky face.

“get out from here!” he cried.

“father!”

“i’ll not be bled upon my death-bed. away, you wastrel! starve, starve! i’ll not pay for your shame.”

she drew back from him, shuddering. an utter hopelessness descended upon her soul. she knew full well at last that there was no pity in her father’s heart.

“i will go,” she said, moving towards the door.

“out of my house, you wanton.”

he was leaning from his pillows, his face distorted, one outstretched hand pointing her away. joan had opened the door; she halted for a moment on the threshold.

“god forgive you,” she said.

“forgive me!” he screamed; “by god, you have the impudence of the devil!”

joan went out and closed the door, leaned against the wainscoting with her hand over her eyes. slowly her strength came back to her. she passed down the old gallery, filled with sad memories of the past, took her hat from off the window-sill, and went down the stairs. in the dusk of the hall mrs. primmer met her. joan swept by the woman without a word, unlatched the door, and went out into the wind and rain.

but before night came zeus gildersedge lay dead.