Front matter (continued 4)

Both their minds, however, were at work more on the change that was coming than on Sarah's sudden craze, since always the pressing business of life must supersede the dream. Simon, indeed, did not want to think about Sarah's behaviour further than he could help, because of that sinister saying about the doings of blind brains. As for Sarah herself, she had done with the dream for ever in that moment when she came face to face with the limits of her lie. It had had its tremendous hour in the down-treading of a lifelong foe, but in that one stupendous achievement it had finally passed. Never again would she be able to shut herself in the spell, until the blind saw and the lost spoke, and the sea was crossed in a leap. Never again would she be able to believe that Geordie might come home.

In spite of their shameful departure, fast fading, however, from his mind, Simon was already planning the bitter-sweet prospect of their near return. Like so many ideas impossible and even repellent at the start, this had already become natural and full of an acid charm. For the time being he was content to ignore the drawbacks of the position, and to concentrate only upon its obvious gains. His mind, hurrying forward over the next few months, was already disposing of stock, farm-implements and surplus household gear; and in his complete absorption he forgot that he was not alone, and kept jerking out fragments of disjointed speech. Sarah allowed him to amuse himself after this fashion for some time, and then broke dryly into his current of thought.

"You may as well tell me what's settled, and get it by with," she observed in a sardonic tone. "So far, even Eliza seems to know more about it than me. You and Will seem to ha' fixed things up wi' a vengeance, that you have! You'd best to tell me how it come about, instead of booing away to yourself like a badly calf."

"Nay, it was all fixed that sharp," Simon grumbled, with an injured air, though very relieved at heart to hear her speak. "There was no time to ax nobody nor nowt. I'm still a bit maiselt about it myself, for the matter o' that. I don't know as I'll be that surprised if I hear to-morrow it's all off. As for Eliza, it fair beats me how she could ha' got wind of it so smart! She likely hid herself somewheres when we was talking it out; though she's not that easy to miss,--gert, spying toad!"

He brisked considerably now that the first awkwardness was past, and went on to tell her, after his usual backwards and forwards fashion, exactly how the new arrangement had come about.

"It's not much to crack on, I dare say," he finished, pleading with her across the disapproving silence which had again risen between them like a wall, "but, when all's said and done, it's a sight better than I'd looked for, by a deal. I'd ha' been bound to hire myself somewheres, to help us make out, and there isn't a decenter master in t'countryside than Will. It's a deal better than being odd-job man at some one-horse spot, or maybe scrattin' up weeds and suchlike at some private house. There'll be a decent wage, think on, and milk,--ay, and happen a load o' coal an' all. Will'll see as we're rightly done by, never fret! We'll be right comfortable, I'm sure. Will says his lasses'll give you a hand wi' washing and the like, and if happen we get a good sale we might run to a bit o' help ourselves. You'll miss t'horse and cart, I reckon, but we'll find a way out o' yon as well. If you felt as you fancied a bit of a ride, Will'd like enough loan me a horse and trap."

He was coaxing her for all he was worth, but neither the coaxing nor the explanation seemed to get any further than her ears. Again he felt the spasm of irritation which he had felt in the parlour, and was at the same time reminded of its original cause.

"I don't say it'll be over pleasant for either on us," he went on vexedly, as she did not open her lips, "but you'll likely admit I did the best I could for us, all the same. It's a sad pity you and Eliza pull together so bad, but it's over late to think o' mending it now. Anyway, you did nowt to mend it by telling yon string o' lies this afternoon! What, in the name o' goodness, made you act so strange?"

She moved then, a touch of the afternoon glamour reaching from Blindbeck, and following her down the lane.

"Nay, I don't know.... Things come over folk, now and then. I'm right sorry, though, if I set you thinking it was the lad."

"I've given up thinking owt o' the sort long since," he said dejectedly. "I should ha' thought you would ha' done the same an' all."

"Things come over folk," she repeated, unwilling to say more, and he nodded his head, relieved by her softer tone. "You'll try to make up your mind to Blindbeck, will you, missis?" he pressed on nervously, hoping her mood would last. "It's a bad best, maybe, but I nobbut did what I could."

She gave a sharp sigh, but her voice was firm. "Ay, I'll make up my mind to it, after a bit."

"It's a big change at our time of life, but you'll settle, never fear."

"Ay, I'll settle all right. Don't you fret."

"It's a good shop, Sarah."

"Ay."

"And Will's a right good sort."

"Oh, ay."

The sudden gentleness of her mood prompted him to a further unburdening of his soul. He leaned forward a little in the trap, staring over the grey fields, and with the note of pleading rising and falling in his tone.

"I don't mind telling you now, Sarah, but I've been fair fretted out o' my senses all this while. There's been times I've felt like just making off on t'sands, and letting tide settle it for me for good an' all. Ay, and by Gox! it very near come about, too, one day when I was mooning along and not looking where I was at! But there was you to see to, and I couldn't rightly bring myself to chuck up the sponge. 'Tisn't as if the lad was dead, neither,--there was that as well. He's as good as dead, likely, but it's a different thing, all the same. Folks can get along on a mighty little hope,--same as yon old horse as died just when it was learning to live on nowt! We've come to a bonny pass, these days, you and Geordie an' me, but the world isn't past bearing as long as the three on us is over sod."

It was with a sense of enlightenment and escape that they came out finally on to the high road, for in the cleft of the lane every curve of the land stole what little clarity was left to the slowly withdrawing earth. Even Sarah was faintly conscious of lightened lids, as well as of easier breathing as the borders of the road drew further apart. In the lane they had been high, looming presences, over-close to the lurching wheels, but now they ceased to oppress her, though she was still aware that they marched with her as she went. It was as if the furniture of the land was being withdrawn into the wings before the curtain of night was really down; yet even in its slow departure it still formed the picture and dominated the scene. The only real comfort for brain and eyes was on the unfurnished marsh, where even the fenced roads lifted themselves as often as not above their fences to look abroad.

There was more life, also, on the open road,--cycles and traps, and people walking in twos and threes; motor-cars, too, at which Simon never so much as glanced aside, though now they were really beginning to look like ghosts in the sinking light. Even when there was nobody on the road there was still the sense of being part of an unseen train, the link which binds traveller to traveller on every principal highway in the land, but especially on those which run north and south. The link strengthens and the thrill deepens as the day lengthens and the hours go on. Each wonders instinctively to what home the other is hastening before he is overtaken by the dark. From each to each at the hour of dusk passes the unconscious Godspeed uniting all who are drawing together towards the adventure of the night.

And, for Simon and Sarah, as for all, either man or beast, even in this bitter hour, there was the comfort of the road that goes home. There is always a lamp set high in the house to which one returns, even though it be poor and empty and dark. The greatest sorrow awaiting one at the end is not really a sorrow until one steps inside. The ease of the road home is the ineffable ease of the mind. Stout hearts and limbs may carry us out, and barely suffice to stagger us back, but the running and leaping mind can comfort the body on. There is always a lamp set high at the end of the road that is going home....

Not until they had lost it would they realise the perpetual consolation of that long-accustomed road. Times without number they had travelled it, seething with anger and hate, and yet always they were the richer for having passed that way. Simon, busily thinking of Blindbeck and all the advantages of the wealthy farm, did not know that he was putting his real wealth from him with every thought. Yet he would know it all the rest of his life when he drove a road that was not consecrated by the years, when the folk that hailed them in passing were not part of a lifelong chain; when the turns of the road were no longer pictures and books, with each house where it should be and would be for all time; when he stopped at a gate in the dusk and knew it was not his; when he entered a meaningless building at last and knew it was not home....

But just for the moment he was thinking neither of the immediate present nor of the greater part of his long-reaching past. His mind, unusually stimulated by the day's events, swung easily to and fro between the future at Blindbeck and the far-off boyhood which he had spent with Will. Blindbeck had never been his home in any sense, but his call to Blindbeck was nevertheless the call of the past. They would renew their youth for each other, the two old men, and forget when they were together that they were old. They turned instinctively to each other, as all turn to those who can recreate for them the young beginnings of their lives. On the marsh Simon always felt immeasurably old, weighted as with an actual burden by the years. He saw himself looking behind him at them as at monsters created in his pride, which now and for ever were out of his control. With Will beside him, they would lie in front as they used to do, rolling meadowlands still untouched by the plough of time. Because they had been young together it would be impossible for them to be really old. Because they had been young together they could took smiling, shoulder to shoulder, into the unbelievable grave.

Not that his longing had any such definite frame of thought as this, though he was aware that in it had lain the motive which had fixed his mind. He only moved towards its fulfilment as all untutored souls move naturally towards release from strain. He scarcely remembered Sarah after their talk had come to an end that was hardly an end, like an unravelled cord of which no one troubles to count the untwisted strands. That mighty leap which he was taking across the years carried him well above both Sarah's and Geordie's heads. The school-years, the climbing, running, hungry years were more distinct to him than the heavy, responsible years of marriage and middle life. He saw himself and Will running after the hounds, paddling in calm lakes of gold-shot evening tides, skating by slowly rising moons. He saw a raw lad going shyly but stolidly to his first place, already a man in the awed estimation of the brother left behind. He heard the clink of the first money he had ever earned, which had gone straight from his pocket into the family purse. He had handed it over without a twinge of regret, and his empty hands had continued to thrill with pride. Later, he had begged a couple of shillings for himself and Will, and had never thought of the money then or since but as a gift....

They came at last to the dangerous, right-angled turn which dropped them down to the marsh, and as the horse began to jerk itself down the hill a car passed slowly above them along the open road. Although the day still lingered, the tail-light was already lit, as if the car were setting out on a journey instead of going home. Yet it went slowly and almost reluctantly, like a man who looks over his shoulder all the while. It was as if it was only waiting its opportunity to turn itself in its tracks. But all the time it was drifting gradually away, and the red light, that could hardly as yet impress itself on the dusk, seemed to hesitate for a moment at a curve of the road, and then, as if a hand had been clapped in front of it, was suddenly gone.

The drop from the highway was like being dropped from a cliff, so distinct was the change to the loneliness of the marsh. The link was broken which made them members of a purposed line, leaving them mere strayed wanderers of whom nobody was aware. The few farmhouses, lifeless-looking in the deadened light, stared always towards great distances over their puny heads. The few trees sprang up before them, suddenly strange, acquiring an almost violent personality against the meaningless scene.

The straight miles dragged reluctantly past their heavy wheels, and on the unending road they seemed to go forward without purpose and to be set on a journey that had no goal. When at length the stretches of meadow and cropped land gave place to the pale-coloured desert of the sand, there seemed no possible reason why one should cease and the other begin. Away out behind the mist there was a living, moving tide, but here on the marsh there was no consciousness of tide. Things just stopped, that was all, and from the garden became the waste, just as the growth and renewal of life had stopped for the old pair, leaving nothing but desolation before their feet.

Yet still the earth was with them, and Simon turned his eyes again and again to its vague outlines with relief. Across the bay the cone of the Knott still held to its tangibility and form, protesting against the swamping hand of night. The crown of it, fitted with wood as closely as with a cap, was darker against the sky than the shadowy slopes on which the houses climbed. And, nearer inland still, on the low edge of shore that was like a trail of smoke on the farther side of the sands, a blur of formless yet purposeful grey showed where the tiny hamlet of Sandyeat clustered about the 'Ship.'

Sandholes was in sight now, and the horse quickened its pace, triumphing over the last few wearisome yards. As they approached the house, with its white face set on a body of looming buildings behind, they had as always a mingled sensation of sadness and relief. Not that the place was sad to them because of its dreary emptiness set amongst formless fields. In the course of years it had become for them merely an atmosphere, not a thing of sight. They were only depressed by it because for them it was the heart of failure and loss. And in the same way they were relieved by it, dignified, sanctuaried and consoled, because this was their hiding-place against the world, and here the heart of their few memories of joy.

The house was dark, but they were accustomed to that, used to the door that would not open, however they knocked, and the windows that for ever would never frame a face, however they hailed. They were used to that stumbling into the place in the folding dark, to the striking of a match that brought them nothing but the dreary waiting rigidity of the things they had left behind. They were used, too, to an uprising fear on the struck light that some terrible change might have taken place in the empty house; that even the waiting things might have played them false while they were gone....

So lonely looked the place, that it seemed as if it might even revenge itself upon those who had the temerity to awaken it during that sinking hour, but, as they reached the gate, the old dog asleep in a loose box aroused himself to a hoarse, recognising bark. The few cows, also, waiting to be fed, sent out deep complaints at the sound of the coming wheels. And as they finally rattled into the uneven yard, a woman's figure stood up and waved to them from the sea-wall.

PART III

MAY

I

The afternoon which had seen Sarah's short-lived splendour had been sweet also for May. Sweeter, indeed, since for her there was no clashing of fierce passions to jar the tender witchery of her mood. And though the glamour was of the past,--a sheet of gold as of sunlight far at the back of her mind; a sea of gold from which she moved ever inward towards the darkness of the hills,--a tongue of light had suddenly darted from it to stream like a golden wind-blown ribbon over her path. That light was the knowledge that in her own hands lay the possibility of Geordie's return.

Youth came back to her with the thought, and she sat straighter still in the trap, holding her unused whip at a jaunty angle across the elastic bar of the reins. The good horse swung homewards in a generous stride; the bright wheels of the dog-cart flashed through the dull country like a whirled autumn leaf. The passers-by found a special sweetness in her ready smile, because it reflected the secret in her heart. As they went on their way they said what they always said,--that it was a marvel she had not married long ago.

Yet the secret, fair as it was, had also the folly of all great ventures, since, in laying her hands upon the future, she risked the memory that had coloured her whole life. To bring Geordie home might mean nothing but disappointment for herself, sordid disappointment and shame for a mis-spent girlish dream. Things would be different, at the very best; part of the memory would have to go. But the chief people to be considered were the old folks who had so often been the footballs of fate. Nothing that she might fear on her own account should stand in the way of this sudden fulfilment for a frustrated old man, this light to the eyes for an old woman going blind. In any case May was the sort that would tenderly handle the cracked and mended pot right up to the moment of dissolution at the well. No disappointment that Geordie could bring her would remain sordid for very long. Out of her shattered idols her wisdom and humour would gather her fresh beauty; clear-eyed, uplifting affection for youthful worship, and pity and tenderness for passion.

It was true that Sarah had already rejected her offer,--brutally, almost, in her determination that May should suffer no further for her son. But May had already almost forgotten the rough sentences which for the time being had slammed the opening door in her eager face. Sarah was strong, she knew, but she herself, because of love in the past and pity in the present, felt stronger still. She said to herself, smiling, that sooner or later she would find an argument that would serve. Sooner or later Sarah would yield, and share with secret delight in the surprise that they would so gaily prepare for the old man. Sooner or later the boat would put out from port that carried the lost lad,--Geordie, with his pockets empty but his heart full, and every nerve of him reaching towards his home.

Now she had turned the end of the bay, and was running along the flat road that hugged the curve of the shore. Below on her right were the sands, almost within flick of her whip, with the river-channel winding its dull length a hundred yards away. Beyond it, the sand narrowed into the arm of the marsh, until the eye caught the soft etching of the Thornthwaite farm, set on the faint gold and green of the jutting land.

The inn, low, white-faced, dark, with all the light of it in the eyes that looked so far abroad, was very quiet when she came to it about three o'clock. The odd-job man was waiting about to take her horse, and she paused to have a word or two with him in the yard. Then she went briskly into the silent place, and at once the whole drowsy air of it stirred and became alive. The spotlessness of the house seemed to take on a sparkling quality from the swift vitality of her presence. The very fire seemed to burn brighter when she entered, and the high lights on the steels and brasses to take a finer gleam. Her father called to her from the room where he lay upstairs, and her buoyant tread, as she went up, seemed to strengthen even his numb limbs and useless feet.

She sat by his bed for some time, telling him all the news, and conveying as much as she could of the hiring and marketing stir combined. This particular person had wished to know how he was; the other had sent him a message to be delivered word for word. One had a grandmother who had died in similar case; another a remedy that would recover him in a week. Bits of gossip she had for him, sketches of old friends; stories of old traits cropping up again which made him chuckle and cap them from the past. By the time she had finished he was firmly linked again to life, and had forgotten that deadly detachment which oppresses the long-sick. Indeed, he almost forgot, as he listened, that he had not been in Witham himself, hearing the gossip with his own ears and seeing the familiar faces with his own eyes. For the time being he was again part of that central country life, the touchstone by which country-folk test reality and the truth of things, and by contact with which their own identity is intensified and preserved.

But her eyes were turned continually to the window as she chatted and laughed, dwelling upon the misty picture even when they were not followed by her mind. Only her brain answered without fail when her gaze travelled to the farm on the farther shore. Gradually the picture shadowed and dimmed in line, but still she sat by the bed and laughed with her lips while her heart looked always abroad. Neither she nor her father ever drew a blind in the little inn. They had lived so long with that wide prospect stretching into the house that they would have stifled mentally between eyeless walls.

She talked until he was tired, and then she made his tea, and left him happy with the papers which she had brought from Witham. Her own tea she ate mechanically, with the whole of her mind still fixed on the promise of the day, and when she had finished she was drawn to the window again before she knew. The Thornthwaites would be home by now, she concluded, looking out. Tired and discouraged, they would be back again at the farm, feeling none of the quivering hope which lifted and thrilled her heart. Sarah would not even dwell on the offer, having put it by for good, and Simon did not as much as know that there had been an offer at all. They would creep to bed and sleep drearily, or wake drearily against their will, while she would wake of her own accord in order to clasp her purpose and find it still alive. She could not bear the thought of the long, blank night which would so soon be wrapping them round; even a stubborn refusal of her hope would be a better friend to them than that. Stronger and stronger grew the knowledge within her that she must see them before they slept. It was for their sake, she told herself, at first, thirsting to be across, and then, as she clinched her decision, knew it was also for her own.

She went upstairs again to put on her coat and hat, wondering as she did so what her father would have to say. He would be sure to enquire what took her across the sands so late, yet he would wonder and fret if she left him without a word. Geordie's name had dropped into silence between them for many a year, and, lately as she had spoken it to Sarah, it would be hard to speak it now. She knew only too well what her father would think of her offer of hard-saved gold. He had always been bitter against Geordie for her sake, and would want no wastrel fetched overseas to play on her pity again. She stole half-way down the stairs, and then was vexed with herself and went up again with a resolute tread. Once more she hesitated, with her hand on the door-latch, and then it slipped from her finger and she found herself in the room.

Fleming looked up from his paper with his faded eyes. "Off again, lass?" he enquired, noticing how she was dressed. "Is there a pill-gill Milthrop way to-night?"

She shook her head.

"Not as I know of.... Nay, I'm sure there's not." She stood staring at him, uncertain what to say, and then her eyes, as if of their own accord, turned back towards the sands. "I just felt like going out a bit again, that's all."

"Likely you're going up road for a crack wi' Mrs. Bridge?"

"Nay ... I didn't think o' going there."

"To t'station, happen?"

"Nor that, neither...." There was a little pause. "Just--out," she added, and the note in her voice seemed to reach before her over the sandy waste. Fleming heard it, and saw the track of her gaze as well.

"What's up, lass?" he asked quietly, letting his paper drop. "What d'you want to do?"

She braced herself then, swinging round to him with one of her cheerful laughs. "You'll think I'm daft, I know," she said, looking down at him with dancing eyes, "but I'm right set on seeing Mrs. Thornthet again to-night. We'd a deal to say to each other this morning, but we didn't finish our talk. I thought I could slip over sand and back before it was dark."

Fleming looked perturbed.

"It's over late for that, isn't it?" he asked. "Light's going pretty fast an' all. Hadn't you best bide till morning, and gang then?"

"I don't feel as I can. I'm set on going to-night. I've often been across as late, you'll think on. I'll take right good care."

"What about tide?"

"Not for a couple of hours yet, and I've not that much to say. Boat's ready alongside channel; it nobbut wants shoving off. I'll be there and back before you can say knife."

"Ay, well, then, you'd best be off, and look sharp about it!" Fleming conceded in a reluctant tone. "I'll have t'lamp put in winder as usual to set you back. Don't you get clattin' now and forget to see if it's there."

"I'll look out for it, don't you fret. Like as not I'll never go inside the house. There's just something I want to make sure of before I sleep."

She nodded brightly and began to move away, but he called her back before she reached the door. With the quickness of those who lie long in a sick room, he had noticed the change in her atmosphere at once. Restlessness and impatience were strange things to find in May, and there was a touch of excitement in her manner as well. He looked at her thoughtfully as she retraced her steps.

"Is there any news o' that wastrel lad o' theirs? Happen he's thinking o' coming back?"

The words spoken from another's mouth brought a rush of certainty to her longing mind. She answered him confidently, as if she held the actual proof.

"That's it, father! That's right." She laughed on a buoyant, happy note. "Our Geordie's coming home!"

"To-night?" Fleming's mouth opened. "D'ye mean he's coming to-night?"

"Nay, I don't know about that!" She laughed again. "But it'll be before so long. I feel as sure about it as if he was knocking at Sandholes door!"

"You've no call to be glad of it, as I can see," Fleming said, with a touch of fretfulness in his tone. "Are you thinking o' wedding him after all this time?"

Her head drooped a little.

"I'm past thinking o' that, and he'll have been past it long ago. I'm just glad for the old folks' sake, that's all. It's like as if it was somebody dead that was coming back, so that I needn't believe in death and suchlike any more. It's like as if it's myself as is coming back,--as if I should open door and see the lass I used to be outside."

"I'd be glad to see you settled afore I went, but not wi' an idle do-nowt as'd spoil your life. It'll be queer to me if Geordie Thornthet's made much out. He was a wastrel, right enough, for all his wheedlin' ways."

"I'm past thinking o' marriage," she said again. "It's just what it means to the old folks, poor old souls!"

"Ay. They've had a mighty poor time, they have that." He sighed, thinking of many a tale of woe unfolded by Simon beside his bed. Then he looked up at her with a whimsical smile. "They'd nobbut the one bairn, same as your mother and me, and there's been whiles I've been real mad because you weren't a lad. Ay, well, I've lived to see the folly o' my ways, and to thank God I'd nobbut a lass! You're worth a dozen Geordie Thornthets any day o' the week...."

She was gone with an answering smile directly he finished his speech, and the sound of her feet was light and swift on the stair. Hearing her, he, too, seemed to see her a girl again, gone to meet Geordie Thornthwaite along the shore. But instead of reviving and cheering him, it made him sad. He was too near the end to wish himself back at the start. He glanced at the lamp on the table to make sure that it was filled, and settled himself back to his papers with a sigh.

II

May stopped to speak to the hired girl as she went out, and was alarmed by the creeping dusk already in the inn. She breathed again when she was in the road, and saw the dull light holding yet on either hand. The soft closing of the door behind her back gave her a long-forgotten thrill, bringing back similar autumn evening hours, when she had gone to meet a lover from over the sands.

She got down to the shore about the time that the scene at Blindbeck was drawing to an end. She hurried, not only because she had little or no time to waste, but because she could not have gone slowly if she had tried. The young May had never gone slowly, who was all kindness and knew nothing of pride. She ran down the shingle and across the sand, only pausing to draw breath and to reprove herself at the channel's edge. Passers-by on the flat road stopped to stare at her as she sped across, wondering what she could be doing at that hour. Pausing, she looked across at the farm before she bent to the boat, chiding herself for her almost childish haste. But her tongue ached to let loose the words of persuasion that she carried with her, and her heart ached for the word of permission that she was sure she would carry back. She did not doubt for a moment that Sarah would give way, so strong was her inward belief that Geordie was coming home.

At last she pushed off, stepped in and punted herself across, and once out again on dry ground tried to hold herself to a walk. The sand, ribbed and hard beneath her feet, spoke to the fact that the tide had been gone for hours. It was extraordinary how forgotten the sands always seemed as soon as the tide had gone away. Only those who had proved it by daily experience could believe that the water would ever return. Even to them it remained something of the miracle that it was in truth, arousing continually a thrill of awed surprise. Yet, side by side with that impression of final retreat, of waste that had always been waste and would never be reclaimed, was one of a brooding terror that was only waiting its hour. The sea and the sands were like cat and mouse, May thought,--the one, aloof, indifferent, yet always poised to leap; the other, inert, paralysed though apparently free, and always the certain victim in the end.

She looked behind and before from the quiet home which she had left to the still more lonely and quiet house which was her goal. There was a point about half-way across at which it seemed as if she would never reach the one, never get back to the other in all time. Both seemed to recede from her equally as she moved, vague shapes formed only of imagination and the mist. Just for a moment that vagueness of things which she knew to be concrete caught her by the throat. The little that she could see of the earth was so cloudlike, so lacking in sturdy strength. The very shore of the marsh looked as though a breath might dissolve it in thin air. Though the distance across was little more than a mile, the feeling of space around her was infinite as the sky. The sands seemed suddenly to become a treadmill under her feet, turning and turning, but never bringing her to the horizon which she sought. The whole doorway of the bay was blocked by the great wall of mist, and over the Lake mountains there was a smother of mist, and mist over all the land that went east to the Pennine range. She began to fear even the crinkled sand which felt so firm, as if it might suddenly sway and shift like one of the many traps with which the bay was sown. Behind her, the grey, faint-gleaming strip of the channel seemed to cut her off from her safe home. A slice of the bank broke suddenly with an echoing spash, chilling her with the lonely terror of water that has a victim in its hold. The boat, helpless-looking, inert, a mere black speck on the channel edge, seemed the only insoluble thing beside herself. She longed for the comfort of her feet on the tarred boards, for the reassurance of her hands against the sculls. It was a moment or two before she had the courage to let it go, and face a world that was full of bodiless shapes and evanescent shores.

But almost before she knew it she was on the opposite side, scrambling up the stones to the grassy slope beyond, and so, panting and hurrying, to the top of the sea-wall. She saw at once that there was nobody in the house, that it was still with the growing stillness of augmented hours, and a further chill fell on her happy mood. Yet she was glad at least to be there to welcome the old folks when they came, and in any case they could not be very far. Every jolt of the trap must be bringing them nearer to the net which she was spreading so lovingly for their feet. They would be tired, of course, and probably very cross, but May was used to market-day moods and would not care. With affectionate ruthlessness she told herself that would yield to her all the sooner for being tired. Presently they would agree unwillingly that she might have her way, and then she would hurry home again as if on wings. They would be crosser than ever after she had gone, vexed both with her and themselves and terribly touched in their pride. And then, slowly but surely, the hope that she had forced upon them would begin to race its stimulant through their veins. They would lie down to sleep with a secret gladness that they had not the courage to confess, and would wake in the morning and know that the world had been made for them anew.

She kept stopping the rush of her thoughts to send her senses over the marsh, but no sign of life came back to her, or sound of wheel or hoof. The wide stretches of grass and plough and the long length of road seemed almost as unsuggestive of human influence as the sands themselves. Swifter and swifter faded the passionate confidence which had sent her out, leaving the risks of the matter uppermost in her mind. She remembered that it was possible to be patient all one's life, and yet to wreck the fruits of it in an unguarded hour. This sudden mental and physical rashness might be symbolical of a greater rashness of the soul. Perhaps after to-night all her footholds and anchorages might go, leaving the world that she had managed so bravely only a nightmare blurred by tears.

The dusk thickened about her as the night tried to impress itself on the earth as a separate entity from the mist. The most that it could do, however, was to produce the effect of a hovering shadow from some huge arrested wing. The real warning of night was in the deepened sense of loneliness and dread of personal diminution in a growing space, in the further recession of things unseen as well as seen. It lay, too, in the stirring consciousness of the impending advent of the tide. She began to look anxiously towards her father's window for the lamp, and though she was comforted when she saw no sign, it stamped the illusion of desolation on her mind. Then she heard the cattle stir in the shippon as she walked along the wall, and was cheered and companioned by them for a little while. She would have gone down to them, or to the dog, who was always a firm friend, but she was afraid of losing her consciousness of time. She could not tear herself, either, from her breathless waiting for the silence to fill with life. She was cold whether she stood or walked, and more and more oppressed by a sense of folly and grave doubt. She even laughed at the middle-aged woman who had thrilled like a girl, but she laughed between her tears. Once or twice she ran down the bank and on to the sand, but always something drew her back, and at last, when she had listened so long that she had ceased to hear, there came the crunching sound of the Thornthwaite wheels. It was there suddenly where there had been no sign, as if it had only begun at the moment it reached her ear. At once her courage sprang up again, and her spirits rose. The whole affair was sweet and brave once more. It was as if she had heard her lover himself coming surely towards her over the lonely marsh....

III

Simon uttered an exclamation when he saw the figure on the wall. His heart leaped first with a supernatural fear, and then with a sudden foreboding of some normal ill. His nerves were still unstrung from his experience with the car, and ready enough to shape familiar objects into ghosts. Even when he had recognised May and spoken her name, he could not rid himself of his feeling of alarm.

So he was not pleased to see her when she came running down, and Sarah, who had spent so kindly a morning with her, was not pleased either. In the last few miles she had seemed to travel out of human touch, and there was a jar in the sudden intrusion of even this one thing left to her to love. Her brow contracted both with the effort of thought and the effort of sight, but indeed she knew well enough why May was there. Her intuition had worked uncertainly all the day, but it warned her now. She knew what impulse had brought May out to await their coming home.

Simon, however, had no clue to this sudden appearance at his journey's end. He sat still in the trap as she came swiftly through the yard, and then leaned out to address her with an anxious frown.

"Nay, now whatever's brought you trapesin' here so late? Nowt wrong, is there? Father badly again? Is he axin' for me, by any chance?"

She reassured him with a shake of the head and a smile, and, as in the case of Mr. Dent, he felt a sudden resentment towards smiles. In all his life Simon had never encountered so many smiling faces as had looked at him that day.

"All's right, thank you.... Father's much about the same. I wanted a word with Mrs. Thornthet, that was all.

"You've been a terble while on the road, though!" she added gaily, before he could speak. "I'd about made up my mind as I'd have to be getting back."

"We were kept at Blindbeck, that's how it was," Simon said, remembering suddenly and with gloom the precise circumstances under which they had been kept. "But if you nobbut wanted a word wi' the missis, you could surely ha' waited while morn. It's a daft-like trick to be lakin' on t'sands when it's getting dark."

His words made her turn again to throw a glance at the inn, but still there was no summoning gleam from the room upstairs. "Ay, but tide isn't till six," she answered him coaxingly, turning back, "and I shan't be long. Father'll show a light for me when it's time I was setting off."

Sarah, ignoring the pair of them, had already clambered out, and Simon remembered that he had the horse to stable and the cows to milk and feed. "Danged foolishness, that's what it is!" he growled, as he scrambled down, giving May a very unaccustomed scowl. "If I did as I ought, I'd be skifting you pretty sharp. Say what you've gitten to say, and then clear out!"

Sarah had been moving away from them towards the house, but, as May followed her, she swung about. There was no invitation, however, in her rigid face.

"You've nowt to say as I know on," she said in a curt tone, "and I'm rarely tired. Anyway, there's no sense in lossing yourself for a bit of a chat."

"I'll not lose myself, not I!" May laughed, advancing towards her, full of kindly warmth. She had been prepared for some such reception as this, and was not depressed. "What, I've been across that often, it's the same to me as the road! I've been over when it was snowing,--ay, and by moonlight, too. As for Geordie," she added, with a tender laugh, "he's crossed in the pitch dark, with only his nose to tell him where he was at!

"I was bound to ask you again before I slept," she urged, casting a glance at Simon, busy with the horse. "Can't I come in a minute?--I won't be long. It's late to be telling my business in the yard."

"You've no business wi' me," Sarah said stolidly, "so you can stop off yon weam voice. You're not coming into Sandholes to-night, May Fleming, so that's flat!"

May laughed again, but there was less confidence in the laugh. She waited to speak again until Simon had moved away, the dog leaping and barking under the horse's nose.

"It's a shame," she said cheerfully, "to bother you so late, but I just couldn't bring myself to wait. It was you as brought it all back, Mrs. Thornthet, come to that, with yon talk at the doctor's of Geordie coming home!"

"There's no talk of him coming," Sarah said coldly, "and never was." With one magnificent sweep she disposed of the fallacy of the afternoon. "You ought to ha' more sense than to go fancying things like that!"

"But you'd a letter, you said, begging his fare?" May was slightly bewildered, but went pressing on. "You said he was keen to come, if he had the brass."

"Ay, and there wasn't no brass; so yon's finished and by wi'," Sarah said.

"Ay, but there is," May pleaded. "Plenty o' brass!" She faltered a little before the other's lack of response. "Nay, Mrs. Thornthet, don't you look like that! What does it matter where it comes from if it makes folks glad?"

"I'll buy no gladness o' mine from you, my lass, as I said before."

"I can spare the brass right enough,--if it's only that."

"Ay, but I can't spare the pride to take it," Sarah said.

"Ay, well, then, think as you're buying my happiness!" May begged. "I'd be real proud to think as I'd brought him back, even if he never looked aside at me again."

"You'd have lile or nowt to be proud on, I'll be bound!" There was a touch of weary impatience in Sarah's voice. "And what-like happiness would it be for you in the end? Nay, May, my girl, we've thrashed the matter out, and I'm over-tired to be fret wi' it to-night."

May sighed, and stood looking at her with troubled eyes, but she was unable to let the whole of her hope go.

"I'm right sorry to have put you about," she said sadly. "It's a real shame! Can't you promise to think it over a bit? I'll come over to-morrow for another talk."

"I want neither talking nor thinking, so that's flat!" Sarah snapped. "I'll promise to turn key in the door when I see you coming, and that's all!"

The tears came into May's eyes.

"You've no call to go telling me off like that," she said, with a little break in her voice. "I haven't done anything that's wrong, I'm sure."

"You've shoved your nose into other folks' business," Sarah said roughly,--"that's what you've done! I'll thank you to leave us to do for our lad as'll suit us best!"

"He was mine, too!" May flung at her suddenly, roused at last. "Long ago, maybe,--years on years,--but he was mine as well!"

Sarah gave a sneering laugh.

"There'll be more than one lass, I reckon, setting up to think that!"

May uttered a little cry, wounded to the heart.

"Eh, but you're a cruel woman, Mrs. Thornthet!" she exclaimed, in a voice quivering with pain. "It's true I'd be glad to see Geordie again, but it don't make that much difference now. It's for your sake and poor Mr. Thornthet's that I want to see him back....

"You're fond o' me, nowadays," she went on bravely, controlling herself again. "You like me well enough now, whatever you felt once. Can't you take the money for the sake of bygone times?"

But already Sarah had turned away from her and was moving towards the door. She fitted the key in the lock with the ease of use, and gave the rickety door an opening push. And again May followed and stood, strong in the courage of those who plead for the thing that they have at heart.

"Don't go away feeling mad with me, Mrs. Thornthet!" she begged. "I'm sorry I spoke as I did. Think on how happy we were together, this morning, you and me. Think how it would be if he was to come marching into the yard...."

Sarah was now over the threshold, with her hand against the door, but May's hand was also against it, refusing to let it close. Her face was white as a flower upon the dusky air, pleading and sweet with frank lips and tearful eyes. Sarah herself was engulfed by the dark house, a shadow that was yet more surely a block than the actual door. It seemed to May that she had all the passionless resistance of some ancient, immovable stone. A lantern across showed the black squares of the shippon stalls, the white coats of the beasts and Simon moving from dark to light. May did not know that the old woman's purpose was giving in the pause, that that last sentence of hers had broken the stubborn will. She waited despairingly, seeking for more to say, and finding nothing, since the right word had been said. And because she despaired she broke the pause too soon, in an access of hopelessness flinging away her chance. Taking her hand from the door, she pointed to Simon at his job.

"I'll ask Mr. Thornthet, then!" she cried sharply, beginning to move away. "Happen he'll see to it for me instead of you. Happen he'll see the offer's kindly meant, and not let pride and suchlike stand between!"

But Sarah, too, cried out before she had gone a yard, her voice harsh with wrath and a sort of fear.

"You leave Simon be," she cried fiercely,--"let him be! I've had enough o' your worry, without plaguin' him an' all. You get back to your dad, and don't come interfering again. You came between me and my lad, but you shan't meddle wi' my man! You mean well enough, I don't doubt, but you're nobbut a meddler, all the same. It never does to go shoving kindnesses at folk who keep on saying nay. If you force 'em, you do 'em more harm than good in the long run, by a deal. D'you think I want Geordie coming back in rags, as like a tramp on t'roads as a couple o' peas? D'you think I want a drunken do-nowt loafing about t'spot,--a thief, maybe, or happen summat worse? What sort o' food and drink would yon be to Blindbeck, d'you think? Eliza's gitten enough on her tongue, without the likes o' that! Nay, the lad as went was a limb, but he was bonny and smart, and Eliza'll always think of him like yon. She'll always think in her heart as he was the better o' Jim, for all she talks so loud. But if he come back to shame us, it'd rob me even o' that. I couldn't abide it!" she finished vehemently. "It'd be worse than death. I'd rather the sea took him afore ever he reached home!"

She stopped with an indrawn breath, and the door, creaking abruptly, showed that her weight was heavy on the latch. May stood still in the yard, as still as the shadow that had once again turned to ancient stone. The silence that had fallen between them seemed to push her away, to drive them so far apart that never again would they be able to speak. At last, in that terrible outpouring, May had discovered the real barrier to her desire. There were pride and generosity in the way, but there was also something which she could not fight. The monstrous, lifelong obsession of Eliza had slopped even the natural road to a mother's heart.

Fear came over her, a more terrible fear than had taken her on the sands. In the quiet spot that should have been homely because of the moving light and the dumb beasts, she had a hint of something not quite sane. Things that had no place in the life of the soil seemed suddenly to have forced a passage in. She peered into the darkness of Sarah's mind, as her bodily eyes sought for her hidden face.

She was startled into action again by the old dog's nose thrust kindly into her hand. He had listened to the urgent voices with constantly pricked ears, knowing by instinct that somebody suffered and was afraid. Now he came to May, begging her to take charge of her soul, lest he, too, whose only trust was in Man, should suffer fear. She laid her hand for a moment on the warmth of his head, dropping her gaze to meet his upturned eyes. Instantly, however, as if he had brought her a further message, she looked towards the bay, and saw the lamp in her father's window spring to life.

She was loth to go with this wreck of things at her feet, but in her destitution of heart she was afraid to stay. Armed with the promise, she would have cared nothing for dark or tide, but with this weight at her heart it seemed as if it would take her all the night to cross the sand. She tried to believe that she would return to wrestle with Sarah in the day, but she knew well enough that she would never return. Eliza, and all that Eliza had meant in their spoiled lives, lay like a poisonous snake across her path.

She wondered drearily what had become of the passionate certainty with which she had set out. The sea still sundered her lover and herself, the bar of the sea so much greater than any possible stretch of land. There were people to whom the sea was a sort of curse, and perhaps, without knowing it, she was one of those. She loved it, indeed, but she never forgot that it had taken her first hope. Perhaps it mocked at her love as Sarah had mocked her love. Perhaps it was only waiting out in the dark to do her harm....

She made one last entreating movement towards the shadow that was stone, but nobody moved in the darkness and nobody spoke. She could not be sure at that moment whether Sarah was there, or whether all that she begged of was merely blackened space. Then she began by degrees to move away, wrenching her feet, as it were, from the ground of the yard. Sadly, without looking back, she mounted the sea-wall, bowed by her burden of failure and sorrow and self-contempt. But the fear took her again as soon as she faced the sands, and she hurried down the further side. The good angel of the Thornthwaites fled away into the night as if driven by flails.

PART IV

GEORDIE-AN'-JIM

I

The blackness stirred in the doorway and became human again, setting the door to the jamb with a firm, decisive push. Sarah followed the dark stone passage to the kitchen, moving with freedom on the ground she knew. In the bare, silent room, that seemed at the same time barer and yet more peopled because of the dusk, she took off her old mantle, her shabby bonnet and her black thread gloves. She set a lighted candle on the table in the middle of the room, and from the cupboard by the hearth she took paper and wood, and kindled a pale, unhomely glow in the dusty, ash-filled grate. In the outer darkness that was the scullery she filled the kettle, and brought it to wait the reluctant patronage of the fire. It was not yet night over the sands, but the candle was more than sufficient to quench the fainting effort of the day. The only outside light was the steady glow of the lamp, set in the face of the inn to call its daughter home.

Still, however, the house seemed unaroused, and would remain so until the master came in, because those who live much by themselves do not hear the sound of their own feet. They seem to themselves to move like ghosts through the rooms; it is only their thoughts that they hear about the place. And there are no houses so quiet as those which spend half their days hearkening to that eternal talker, the sea. The other half of their lives is still as the sands are still, sharing that same impression of quittance for all time.

The kitchen, once perfectly kept, was already beginning to show signs of Sarah's failing sight. There were holes in the cloth rug which she unrolled before the fire, and slits in the patch-work cushions on the rush-bottomed chairs. The pots in the half-empty pot-rail were all askew, and the battered pewter and brass had ceased to put in its claim to be silver and gold. There was an out-of-date almanack under the old clock, and an ancient tide-table over the mantelshelf. But the real tragedy of the place was not in its poverty but in its soul. Behind the lack of material comfort there was a deeper penury still,--the lack of hope and a forward outlook and a reason for going on. The place was cold because the hearts of its tenants were growing cold.

The candle, as always, drove the impression of utter desolation home. No other light produces that same effect of a helpless battle against the dark. No other is so surely a symbol of the defiant human soul, thinking it shines on the vast mysteries of space. No other shows so clearly the fear of the soul that yet calls its fear by the name of courage and stands straight, and in the midst of the sea of the dark cries to all men to behold that courage and take heart.

All about that little challenge of light were the brooding obscurities of sand and marsh, and, nearer yet, the looming enigma of the empty house. At the back of the mind there was always the consciousness of unlit rooms, of echoing passages, and climbing, creaking stairs. Always at night there is that mystery of terror in a half-used house, pressing on those who crouch in some charmed corner of its walls.

Sarah was different, somehow, now that she was at home, and free of the outdoor-clothes which she had worn all day. It was as if bonnet and mantle were the armour of her class, in which she was ready to face the offensive of the world. Without it she was more primitive and more human, relaxed in muscles and nerves. Now one could guess at the motherliness in her to which Jim had clung, unswervingly trusting in spite of her dislike. Her grey hair had been slightly ruffled both by the bonnet and the drive, and on her old neck it even curled a little, showing itself still soft and fine.

She was tired with that terrible tiredness which sees the day behind like a series of folding cardboard views. She seemed to have lived many days in that single day, with never a moment between them to fit her for the next. More than once, indeed, she had been ready to collapse, but always the stimulus of some fresh event had set her going again. Now she had reached the point when she was too tired to allow herself to be tired, when body and mind, usually careful to save the next day's strength, recklessly lay both hands upon their all.

Even at the last moment had come the sudden struggle with May, and the zest of that strife still tingled in her veins. After that long day of damaged pride it was pleasant to have asserted it in the end, to have claimed the right to suffer rather than be forcibly blessed. All day she had tasted in prospect the salt savour of another's bread, but here was something that she could refuse. She was still too stiff with fight to care that she had wounded a generous nature in the act. It was true that she could not have borne the sight of a Geordie who would have brought her fresh disgrace. The love that cares for the broken more than the sound could not thrive while she feared the sneer of the idol to whom she would not bow.

Beyond, in the dairy, there came the sound of metalled boots, and the pails spoke musically on the flags as Simon set them down. She heard him shuffling across to open the inner door, and then--"Milk's in, missis!" he called to her, as his head came through.

There was a nervous sound in his voice, at which Sarah almost smiled, knowing that his conscience must be ill at ease. She answered "Oh, ay," without turning, for she was busy with the fire, which, as if hating the atmosphere into which it was born, was doing its best to escape from it again.

"I'll see to the fire for you, missis," he said, crossing to her side. "Set you down and be easy a bit. You're likely tired."

"Nay, I'll manage all right," she protested stolidly, and then suddenly yielded to him, and moved away. She did not sit down, however, but remained standing on the hearth, while he went on his knees to set the bellows between the bars.

"May give me a fair start," he observed presently, when the flame had consented to grow. "What was she after, coming off like that?"

"Nay, it was nowt much," Sarah said easily, in an indifferent tone. "It was nobbut some daftness she'd got in her head, that's all."

"She mun ha' been rarely keen to come across so late. Was it summat or other she wanted you to do?"

"Ay," Sarah said firmly, "but I couldn't see my way. I tellt her so this morning when I see her in town."

"Summat about your eyes, likely?" he enquired nervously, blowing hard.

"Losh save us, no! It was nowt to do wi' that."

"Will was rarely put out when I tellt him what doctor had said," Simon went on. "He was right sorry, he was, and real anxious to do what he could."

"Ay, he's kind, is Will. He's a right good friend. But I won't take owt I can help from him, all the same."

"Because o' yon woman of his?" Simon asked angrily, stumbling to his feet. He threw a last glance at the fire, and saw that it seemed resigned to its now evident fate. He was sorry for Sarah, and guiltily conscious of his own relief, but the thought of Eliza whipped his mind to rage. This was nothing new, though, either to man or wife, after the usual meeting at the end of the week. However long they had held their tongues from her name, it was suddenly out, and the air was vibrating at once with the rising tremolo of their hate.

"Nay, then, what's yon besom to do wi' it, any way round? Will's money's his own, I reckon, and he can do as he likes. Happen you'll choose to see sense about it come Judgment Day, but not afore!"

"A farmer's wife addles half his brass,--we all know that. You can't touch a man wi'out laying a finger on his folks."

"A deal Eliza's done for him," Simon scoffed, "barrin' giving him best of her tongue! I'll be bound you'd never think twice about t'brass if you and Eliza was friends. It's this spite as there is atween you as sets you taking things amiss. Eliza would likely ha' been no worse than most, if you hadn't made sure she was always wanting a slap!"

Sarah received these remarks with an ironic smile.

"Bosom friends we'd ha' been, d'ye think," she asked, "if I'd nobbut seen my way to a bit more care?"

"Nay, well, I wouldn't be sure about that," he returned grandly, hedging with ease. "But we'd all ha' done better, I'll take my oath, if you hadn't been that smart to take offence."

"Happen I'd ha' done best to hold my tongue, when she was telling all Witham we'd gitten notice to quit?"

"Nay, I don't know about that!" ... He was stamping about the floor. "A bit o' tact wi' her, happen? ... nay, dang her, I don't know! ... Leastways, you needn't ha' tellt her yon rubbish this afternoon," he concluded, brought to a stand.

"You'd have had me set by and say nowt while she sneered at our lad?"

"Nay, then, I wouldn't,--dang her! ... I wouldn't, that's flat!"

"You'd have had me say nowt, neither, yon day we was wed,--give her a kiss, happen, and praise her gown----?"

"Nay, then, I wouldn't, I tell you! Blast you! Nowt o' the sort!" Simon was fairly shouting now. He thumped at the table in his rage. "I wish to Gox I could ha' gitten my hands round her throat wi'out having to swing!"

Sarah looked at his prancing shape with the same ironic smile.

"Nay, my lad, there's better ways than that wi' Eliza, by a deal. D'ye think I haven't gitten a bit o' my own back, now and then? I've had my knife in her deep,--ay, deep!--time and again. There's better ways wi' Eliza than just twisting her neck. What, this very day I've made her weep tears as she's never wept afore,--tears as near tears o' blood as Eliza'll ever weep...." She stopped, recalling the scene in which Nature had shone like a star in Eliza just for once.... "Nay, Simon," she went on quietly, "there's no sense in our getting mad. It's over late to go preaching love atween Eliza and me. Men don't know what hate can be between women when it's gitten hold. It's a thing best let alone,--never mentioned,--let alone. It's a big thing, caged-like, as was small once, and then comes full-grown. It's over late to go trying to stroke it through the bars."

"I nobbut wanted to make the best o' things," Simon muttered, ashamed. "The Lord knows I'd give my hand to put you top-dog of Eliza just for once. But I'm not denying I'm terble thankful to ha' fixed things up. I reckon I'll sleep to-night as I haven't for weeks. I'm right sorry, though, if you're taking it hard."

"I'll take it right enough when it's here," Sarah said gently, turning away. "I won't make no bother about it, don't you fret."

She picked up the kettle and set it on the fire, as if she meant to put an end to the talk. Simon lingered, however, casting uneasy glances at her face.

"I've a job in t'far shuppon to see to," he said at last, and lighted the old lantern that swung against the wall.... "Yon's tide, surely?" he added suddenly, as he took it down.... "Nay, it's over soon."

He lifted the lantern to look at the table above the shelf, but Sarah shook her head.

"Yon's an old table, think on. It's no use looking there. Tide's six o'clock, it you want to know."

He said, "Oh, ay. I'd clean forgot," and still stood on the hearth, as if reluctant to go. Presently he spoke humbly, twisting the lantern in his hand.

"It's real hard on you, Sarah, to come down like this. I don't know as I like it myself, but it's worse for you. But we've been right kind wi' each other all these years. You'll not think shame on me when I'm a hired man?"

She turned back to him, then, trying to see his face, and it seemed to him that she really saw him for the first time in many months. But, in point of fact, it was the eyes of the mind that were looking at the eyes of the mind.... And then, unexpectedly, he saw her smile.

"Nay, my lad," she said strongly, "you mun be wrong in t'garrets to think that! If there's owt to think shame on it'll be stuff like yon. You're the same lad to me as when we was wed, just as Eliza's the same cruel, jibing lass. I reckon that's where the trouble lies, if it come to that. Love and hate don't change, neither on 'em, all our lives. D'you think I'd ha' kept my hate so warm if I hadn't ha' kept love?"

He nodded doubtfully in reply, and began slowly to edge away. But before he had reached the threshold he paused again.

"Anyway, we've had the best on't!" he cried triumphantly, as if inspired. "Eliza's had what looks most, but we've had the real things, you and me!" And then, as she did not speak, the spirit died in him, and his head drooped. "Ay, well, we mun do what we can," he finished lamely. "We mun do what we can. 'Tisn't as if it'll be so long for either on us, after all."

"Shall I see to t'milk for you?" he added diffidently, but was refused.

"Nay," Sarah said. "I can manage right well. I know they milk-pans better than my face. I'd like to stick to my job as long as I can."

Simon said--"Ay, well, then, I'll be off!" and looked at the door; and stared at the door, and said--"Ay, well, I'll be off!" again. He had an uneasy feeling that he ought to stay, but there was that job in the far shippon he wanted to do. He wandered uncertainly towards the outer door, and then, almost as if the door had pushed him, stumbled into the yard.

II

Sarah stood thinking after Simon had gone, following with ease the troubled workings of his mind. The smile came back to her lips as she recalled his obvious sense of guilt. Behind all his anger and chafing humiliation it was easy to see his growing pleasure and relief. It was more than likely, indeed, that he would be priding himself on his new position before so long. Perhaps age, which has a merciful as well as a cruel blindness of its own, might prevent him from ever realising where he stood. She could picture him lording it over the gentler-natured Will, and even coming in time to dominate the farm. It was only for her that there would be no lording it,--and open sight. It was only on her account that he was still ashamed.

It was cruel to grudge him the little solace he had left, but the thing which eased the position for him would form a double cross for her. Hitherto, they had stood together in their hatred of Blindbeck and its female head, and in the very depth of their darkness still had each other to soothe their shame. But now Simon's attitude was bound to alter at least towards the farm. There would come a day when he would turn upon her for some chance remark, and from that hour he would be openly on Blindbeck's side. The new tie would make him forget those bitter upheavals of jealous rage. Slowly the place would come between them until she was left to hate alone.

For her, the change would simply deliver her, blind and bound, into Eliza's hand. She could have laughed as she saw how the thing she had fought against all her life had captured her at last. Even with Eliza dead or gone, Blindbeck would still have stifled her as with unbreathable air. Her spirit and Eliza's would have lived their battles again, and even over a grave she would have suffered and struggled afresh. But Eliza was neither dead nor mercifully removed, but was already snuffing the battle-smoke from afar. The whole account of their lives would come up in full, and be settled against the under-dog for good. It was as whipping-boy to Eliza that she would go to the house by Blindbeck gates.

At the present moment, however, she neither suffered nor rebelled. Physically, she had reached the point at which the mind detaches itself resolutely from further emotional strain. The flame of hate burnt steadily but without effort, and with almost as pure a light as the flame of love itself. Like all great passions, it lifted her out of herself, lending her for the time being a still, majestic strength. There is little to choose at the farthest point of all between the exaltation of holiness and the pure ecstasy of hate. To the outside eye they show the same shining serenity, almost the same air of smiling peace. It is the strangest quality in the strange character of this peculiarly self-destroying sin. Because of it she was able to go about her evening tasks with ease, to speak gently to Simon in the little scene which had just passed, and even to dwell on his methods with a humorous smile upon her lips.

In the clarified state of her mind pictures rose sharply before her, covering all the years, yet remaining aloof as pictures, and never stirring her pulse. So clear they were that they might have been splashed on the canvas that instant with a new-filled brush. They sprang into being as a group springs under the white circle of a lamp, as the scenes the alive and lit brain makes for itself on the dark curtain of the night. The few journeys she had taken in life she travelled over again,--rare visits to Lancashire and Yorkshire ... Grasmere ... Brough Hill Fair. They had stayed in her mind because of the slow means by which they were achieved, but they counted for very little in the tale of things. It is not of these casual experiences that the countryman thinks when the time comes for a steady reviewing of his life, that intent, fascinated returning upon tracks which is the soul's preparation for the next great change. They flit to and fro, indeed, like exotic birds against a landscape with which they have nothing to do, but it is the landscape itself which holds the eye, and from which comes the great, silent magic that is called memory, and mostly means youth. It is the little events of everyday life that obsess a man at the last, the commonplace, circular come-and-go that runs between the cradle and the grave. Not public health problems, or new inventions, or even the upheavals of great wars, but marriage, birth and death, the coming of strangers destined to be friends, the changing of tenants in houses which mean so much more than they ever mean themselves. Binding all is the rich thread of the seasons, with its many-coloured strands; and, backing all, the increasing knowledge of Nature and her ways, that revolving wheel of beauty growing ever more complex and yet more clear, more splendid and yet more simple as the pulses slow to a close.

She loved the plain, beautiful farming life that a man may take up in his hand because it is all of a piece, and see the links of the chain run even from end to end. Even now she could see the fair-haired child she had been still running about her home, the child that we all of us leave behind in our sacred place. She could hear the clatter of clogs in her father's yard, and all about her the sound of voices which the daisied earth had stopped. It was strange, when she came to think of it, that she never heard her own. In all her memories of the child it seemed to her lip-locked, listening and dumb. Perhaps it was because she was shut in the child's brain that she could not hear it speak. She could hear her mother's voice, light and a little sharp, and her father's a deep rumble in a beard. Even in the swift pictures flashing by her he looked slow, drifting with steady purpose from house to farm. Because of his slowness he seemed to her more alive than his wife; there was more time, somehow, to look at him as he passed. Her bustling, energetic mother had become little more than a voice, while the seldom-speaking man was a vital impression that remained.

Rising up between the shadows that blotted them out was a certain old woolly sheep-dog and the red torch of the flowering currant beside the door. There was also a nook in the curve of the garden wall, where, under a young moon, she had seen the cattle coming across the fields, sunk to their horns in a fairy-silver mist....

It was an open-air life that took her long miles to school, clogging on frozen roads, through slanting rain or fighting against the wind. School itself seemed patched in a rather meaningless fashion on that life, much as the books in the parlour on the busy, unthinking house. A life of constant and steadily increasing work, from errands of all sorts, feeding the hens and fetching home the cows, to the heavier labour of washing and baking, milking, helping with the stock. Presently there had been the excitement of the first shy dance, and then the gradual drawing towards marriage as the tide draws to the moon.

And all the time there had been Eliza making part of her life, from the plump little girl whom people stopped to admire to the bold intruder at the altar-rail. Looking back, she could see herself as a stiff and grave-eyed child, grimly regarding the round-faced giggler from the start. Even then she had always been the dumb man in the stocks, of whom the street-urchin that was Eliza made mock as she danced and played. Only once had she ever definitely got the better of her, and it had had to last her all her life. Eliza had had many lovers, drawn by the counterfeit kindliness which hid her callous soul, but when she had chosen at last, it was Simon who was her choice. Perhaps the one gleam of romance in Eliza's life had been when she looked at Simon ... and Simon had looked away. Quite early he had fixed his affections on Sarah, and during their long courtship he had never swerved. Plain, business-like Sarah had drawn him after her as the moon draws the willing tide....

She began to put away the things she had bought in Witham, stowing them in a cupboard between the pot-rail and the door. During the morning she had felt royally that she was buying half the town, but now she saw how small her share of the marketing had been. There was a troubled feeling at the back of her mind that something had been missed, and even though she was sure of her purchases, she counted them again. Afterwards, she stood muttering worriedly through the list ... tea, candles, a reel of cotton ... and the rest. And then, suddenly, without any help from the candles and cotton, she remembered what it was, and smiled at the childish memory that would not stay asleep.

More than twenty years, she reminded herself,--and yet she still looked for the fairing that Geordie had brought her on Martinmas Day! There had scarcely been any special season,--Christmas, Whitsun, Easter or Mid-Lent,--but he had remembered to mark it by some frolicsome gift. He had always withheld it from her until the last, and then had stood by her laughing while she unwrapped some foolish monkey on dancing wires. All the time he was saying how splendid the fairing was going to be,--"It's gold, mother, real gold,--as bright as the King's crown!" And when she had opened it, she would pretend to be cast down, and then put it snugly away and say it was "real grand!"

Jim had had his fairings for her, too, but she was trying her very hardest not to remember those. Jim's had been prettier and more thoughtful,--often of real use, but she had long since forgotten what the things were like. A mug with her name on it, a handkerchief, a brooch,--long ago broken or lost, or even given away. But every ridiculous object of Geordie's was under lock and key, with even a bit of camphor to keep the monkey from the moth....

She stood there smiling, softly folding her hands, as if she laid them lightly over some sudden gift. On either side of her was a laughing face, and even she found it hard to tell which was which. She was very still as she made that perfect transition into the past, and the only sound in her ears was through the lips that laughed. And then, into that full stillness, in which no step moved or voice called or bird flew, there came the cry of a heron outside the door.

III

It did not reach her at first. She heard it, indeed, coming back to the present with the sound, but that Was all. The thing behind it had to travel after her over twenty years. The cry of the heron was natural enough, with a famous heronry so near, and it was only because of the exceptional stillness of the night that it drew her attention now. Her mind went mechanically to the high wood behind the Hall, to the long-necked, slender-legged birds going home to the tall trees that on this unstirred evening would be stiff as a witch's broom. She even had time to remember the old legend of their battle with the rooks, before the thing that had been running for twenty years entered her consciousness with a rush.

She stiffened then. From being softly still she became a rigid thing, stiller than sleep, stiller than death, because it was passionate will-power that held her still. It was already a moment or two since the sound had passed, but it still rang in the ear which had seemed to refuse to take it in. It had flashed through her brain like a bright sword flung in a high arc through a night without a star, but the truth that was behind it she held rigidly from her even as it tried to step within. She knew that it was too low for a bird's call, too sharp and clear in that muffle of mist, but she shut the knowledge out. She would not let herself either breathe or think until she had heard the sound again.

The shock was as great the second time, but it had a different effect. She began to tremble from head to foot; even her lips parted and shook; her hands relaxed and began to pluck at her gown. Her breath came in quick gasps that were almost sobs as her eyes strained towards the darkness that held the door. Her brain kept telegraphing her body that it must be still, but it was too strong for it, and paid no heed. Her heart alone, beating in hard, ponderous strokes, seemed as if by itself it must shut out any further sound; and when the call came the third time, breaking the silence so that it could not close again, her own power of restraint went by the board as well. Her hands lifted themselves and gripped each other across her breast, and her voice, shaken and full of tears, forced itself into her throat. "Jim!" she heard herself saying, "Jim!"--with no knowledge that she had meant to speak, and in that one word admitted the final defeat of all her life.

Then the knocking began, the terrible brazen knocking which soulless iron makes on the unresponsive door of an empty house. It was as if whoever knocked frightened himself by the knocking, and tried to beat away his fear with still louder blows. But to the woman who tried to pretend that the house was really empty it was more terrible still. It seemed to take on the sound of a summons to the soul itself to issue forth. The noise of it flooded the place, echoed its way upstairs and into far rooms, so that strange voices answered it sharply from wood and stone. The heavy, storm-tried walls were suddenly no more than paper, so that the knocking became folly when a push would have forced them in. It seemed to Sarah that they must hear it from end to end of the marsh, across at the 'Ship,' and out to the hidden edge of sea. She wondered why Simon did not come running, and the dog break into hoarse barks, for even in the far shippon they must surely hear. But there was only that great knocking in all the world, cheerful, impatient, or resigned by turn. It paused at moments, but only as the passing-bell pauses, Sarah thought, waiting to speak its single word afresh.

The noise had swept away in a moment both the false serenity of hate and the almost falser calm of that dwelling memory of love. From the respite, indeed, the live passion seemed to have sunk, as it were, on its haunches for a fiercer leap. She could not think clearly or control her limbs under the sudden impact of its spring. It seemed to fling itself on her as she had seen the tides in the winter crash against the wall. She, too, went under as if the water had beaten her down, and the noise at the door became the blows of the waves and the roar of the dragged beach.

She had that impulse to laughter which comes with long-expected woe, as if the gods were guilty of bathos when they stooped at last to strike. Scorn is the first sensation of those who seem to have watched the springs of action long before the hour. Sudden sorrows, quick blows have a majesty of their own, as if the gifts of the gods made for honour in good or ill. But long-deferred trouble, like suspended joy, has a meaner quality in fulfilment, and a subtle humiliation in its ache. That when the gods come they come quickly is true for both libations from the emptied cup. Royal sorrows, like royal joys, fall swift as thunderbolts from heaven.

She had always known in her heart that there was no fighting Blindbeck luck, that even the dregs of it were more potent than the best of the Sandholes brand. It could hardly fail to reach even across the sea, so that one of the failures would be less of a failure than the other in the end. The trouble of being the under-dog too long is that even the dog himself begins at last to think it his rightful place. For all her dreaming and lying on Geordie's behalf, she would have found it hard to believe in his ultimate success. Not for nothing had Eliza carefully tended her Method all this while, and watered it weekly with the Simons' tears.

At first she told herself that she would put out the light, and let the knocker knock until he was tired. Perhaps he would open the door and step inside, but the darkness would surely thrust him out again. He might even go to the foot of the stairs and call, until the silence itself put a hand upon his throat. But already the strain was more than she could bear, and each blow as it came was a blow on her own heart. She tried to move, but was afraid of the sound of her own feet, and it was only under the cover of fresh knocking that she made the effort at last. Now she was facing the door which she could not see, though she knew its panels like the palm of her hand. Behind it, she felt the knocking ring on her brain, but now she had come within range of a more persistent power than that. Plainly, through the wooden barrier that was raised between them, she felt the presence of the man who stood without.

There is always an effort, a faint dread, about the opening of a door, as if the one who entered were admitted to more than a room. From each personality that enters even for a moment into one's life something is always involuntarily received. The opening is only a symbol of the more subtle admission of the two, which leaves an intruder behind when the actual bodily presence has passed away. And of all openings there is none that includes such realisation and such risk as that which lets in the night and a stranger's face.

And then suddenly the knocking ceased, as if the knocker was now as aware of her presence as she of his. They were like enemies, crouched on either side of a barricade; or like lovers, so near and yet so far, in the last, long second before the bars are down. Each waited for a breath, a touch, a turn of the hand that would bring the flash of the final blow or the thrill of the first kiss.

Their consciousness of each other was so strong that she knew at once when he lifted his arm again, just as he knew when she stirred in fear of the fresh attack. The latch gave its loose, metallic clink as she raised it and let it drop, and then the door began to open with the almost human grudging of old doors. The stranger put out a hand to help it on its way, and with a harsh shriek that sounded like protest it dragged across the flags.

At once the bulk of his big form was in the open square, substantial even in the dissolving light. There was a last pause as the shock of the actual meeting smote upon their minds, and then his voice, cheerful and loud as the knocking, flooded the house.

"Everybody dead here?" he demanded gaily, bending forward to peer at the figure set like a statue just inside. The tone of his voice, deep and kindly, had yet a touch of nervousness at its back. The strain of the waiting had told upon him as well as on her. "Say, you are real, ain't you?" he enquired sharply, and then laughed. "Mercy! I sure thought everybody must be dead!"

Sarah had another shock at the sound of his voice, topped by the accent from over the pond as the deep note of flood is topped by the thinner note of the surf. She had listened instinctively for the Jim-an'-Geordie voice, but this was the voice of neither Geordie nor Jim. It was as strange to her who knew nothing of other peoples' speech as if it had been a voice from another star. She shrank away from him, saying--"I thought it was Jim." And then, almost violently, "You're never Jim!"

The man laughed a second time, but more naturally, as if reassured the moment he heard her speak. "I sure am!" he answered her joyfully. "Why shouldn't I be? Leastways, I'm all of Jim Thornthet that's managed to swim across!" The smile stayed on his lips as he stared, but died when she did not respond. "May I come in a spell?" he enquired anxiously. "I've only struck England to-day, and I've a bag of news."

But again she blocked the entrance as she had blocked it for May. It was the way into herself as well as into the house that these people sought, and she yielded to neither of them by an inch. "You can get out, if you're Jim," she said caustically, "and as smart as you like! Blindbeck's your spot. We want nowt wi' you here."

The sharp words did not depress him, however. They were too reminiscent of old time.

"That's a real mean Howdy!" he answered her humorously, advancing a foot. "'Tisn't like Westmorland folk to keep folk tugging at the latch.... Shucks for Blindbeck!" he added laughingly, as she began the word again. "Sandholes is my little old home,--always was, and always will be." He advanced further, a merry, teasing note in his big voice. "You can't keep me out, old woman! You never could. I'm coming right in, old woman! ... I'm sure coming.... I'm right in!"

It was true, too. He was in the passage now, making his way by a force of desire stronger than May's entreating love. Something else helped him as well, perhaps,--some old extorted freedom of house and board. He put out his hand to Sarah as he turned to the light, but she shrank away from him against the wall.

"I won't have you in t'house!" she cried angrily to his dim form. "Be off with you now, and look sharp about it!"

But again he seemed to be pleasantly cheered by her wrath, as if with a happy echo from the past.

"I'll shin off right quick when I've had a word," he coaxed. "Come on in, old woman, and look at me where there's a bit more sun!" The flickering light seemed to beckon him on, for he began to move towards its dim dwelling. "I've news of Geordie for you," he called back to her, as she did not stir. "You'll sure be wanting to hear that!"

She heard him pass into the kitchen, his firm, confident tread raising a ring from every flag, and wondered, as with the knocking, why it did not carry all over the marsh. But still she stayed behind, fighting with herself and with the longing to hear his news. It could be of nothing but failure, she reminded herself, and her heart answered that that would be better than nothing at all. She heard him walking about the kitchen, as if he walked from this memory to that, peering into old cupboards and laying a hand upon old chairs. Presently, however, there came a silence as if he had seen enough, and, in a sudden panic lest he should be gone, she hurried after him into the room.

At once, as she went in, she traced the shape of him on the hearth, though she could not see his huge shadow that climbed the ceiling and swamped the wall. Clearly, too, she could feel his dominant personality all about, too heady a wine for the frail, cob webbed bottle of the place. Paused on the hearth, he was still looking around him with a wistful, humorous smile. He was thinking, as all think who return, how strong and yet how slender was the chain, how futile and yet how tenacious were the humble things which had held him through the years! He was thinking, too, how amazingly tiny everything had grown,--the house, the kitchen, and the old woman within the door. Even the stretch of sand, which he could vaguely see, seemed narrow to him who had known much greater wastes.