John Gore met his friend’s eyes. “Why should this—this man be shielded? There is blood upon his hands; he has stained the lives of others. Who shall consider him?” “John, John, you talk like a man who stabs fiercely at a shadow. No man is wholly the devil’s creature, and, say what you will, his loins begot you.” “The greater the need, Sam, to put aside false sentiment. Still, he is out of our ken at present. We must bide our time—and watch.” Mr. Pepys rubbed his knees with the palms of his hands. “Do you know what I would have you do, John? Go back to this quiet farm; let the child come by her health and happiness. Keep the lawyers out of it, and marry her, if you can.” “You are echoing my own thoughts, Sam.” “Good; very good. See what a seal, my friend, you might set upon the past, if God granted you children and happiness, and the long love of wife and man.” John Gore understood his meaning. “The blood-debt might be wiped away, Sam, for the sake of the future.” “God grant it. And now, John, you will want money.” “Money! How do you know that?” “John, my man, when I was in love I was always poor. I know how Dan Cupid picks a man’s pocket. Besides, money is above the law, John, and at a pinch you might find it useful.” “I have money enough; it needs handling, that is all. There is all my property in Yorkshire.” “Give me a written authority, John, and I will act for you.” “Sam, you are a friend.” “I am a man of business, sir. I can receive and hand on rentals, can I not? And as for the present need, I always keep money in my house. Take what you want; the security is good enough.” John Gore began to thank him, but Mr. Pepys rose up from his chair and put his two hands on his friend’s shoulders. “Man John, there may be two or three souls in the wide world whom a man may love without prejudice and without disaster. The friends of a life are few, John, and we find them without forethought. Men come to me for favors, scores of them in the year; most of them are sycophants, rogues, hypocrites; I know it, and there is no deep pleasure in what I do. But there are some men, John, to whom the heart goes out in the game of life. To be a friend to a friend comes not so very often. A man who has seen life will swear to that.” XLIV Rain was falling and the wind beating about the chimneys of Furze Farm as the daylight waned toward a gray night like a fog coming up from the sea. Barbara and Mrs. Jennifer were sitting before the kitchen fire, the girl watching the sparks fly upward, the woman’s brown hands busy with thread and needle. Gusts of wind came down the chimney, making the wood-ash shimmer at red heat, even blowing flakes of fire out on to the bricks. Now and again the drippings of the rain fell on the red mass, rousing the fire to spit like an angry cat.