THE gable end of the cottage faced the shore, and I first became
conscious of the window by the sudden appearance of a faint light behind
its narrow panes. It was a stormy evening, the wind sweeping down
between the dunes in sudden gusts that caught up the sand from their
steep sides—which were indeed but sparsely covered with stargrass—and
sent it driving seawards in blinding eddies. I had wandered overlong
about the damp stretch of shore that bordered the remains of the
submarine forest, interested first by the curious contrasts of colour to
be noticed there—the silvery sweep of sand sloping downwards to the dusky
purplish brown of the remnants aforesaid, in the irregular surface of
which little pools and rivulets of water reflected the sky; the
blue-green of the star-grass interspersed with patches of dwarf willows
and bilberry plants, the foliage of which at this season had taken on a
variety of tints. Later on, when the tide had come roaring and leaping
in, I had been attracted by the magnificence of its fury, and had watched
wave after wave roll towards me, gathering and swelling as though with
suppressed rage, and finally breaking with a boom that went echoing
through the hills, while the spray dashed ever higher and higher.
Fascinated as I had been by the sight, I did not notice that the early
autumnal sunset was over, until a sudden roller, more adventurous than
its fellows, came rushing to my very feet, and, turning hurriedly to
escape from it, I observed that the world behind me was wrapped in gloom,
save for the lingering glare at the horizon. Almost at the moment that I
became aware of the approach of night, I became also conscious that the
gusts of wind before alluded to no longer carried stinging clouds of sand
with them, but were laden with a cold mist of rain almost as painful to
meet, a mist which, indeed, as I hastily threaded my way through the
yielding sand, soon turned to a downpour.
Clearly, unless I wished to be drenched as well as benighted on this
lonely waste, I must at once seek shelter; and, while I was
disconsolately wondering whither I should bend my steps, a sudden ray of
light drew my attention to the little habitation I had before noticed.
Drawing my cloak closely round me I made my way thither with all the
speed I could muster, and knocked loudly at the closed door; but my
summons passed unheeded, being most probably unheard in the increasing
fury of the gale; and, after repeated raps on the panels and rattlings of
the latch, I went round to the window, in the hope that my efforts to
attract attention might meet with some success from this point. No
curtain hung behind the panes, and pressing my face close to them I
peered into the room within. It was a small kitchen, kept with a
neatness and cleanliness which one learns to expect among north-country
folk. A small fire burnt upon the hearth, and a candle flickered in a
tin sconce over the homely mantle-shelf. By the light of these I
descried the figure of a woman sitting by the hearth; her hands were
folded on her lap, and her eyes were fixed upon the fire. She might have
been any age between fifty and sixty; the slight and erect form, and
handsome face, rendered remarkable by strongly-marked black brows, would
incline one to name the lesser figure, had not the deep lines about eyes
and mouth, and the snow-white, if still abundant hair, inclined one to
think her an older woman.
But I was in no mood to examine or criticise just then; with my face
still close to the casement I tapped sharply on the topmost pane. The
woman started, and turned her face towards me, grasping the elbows of her
chair with both hands, but not otherwise attempting to move. I tapped
again, more impatiently. Still remaining seated she stretched out both
arms towards the window, a smile breaking over her face. Such a strange
smile! Tender, even yearning, and yet one might almost say, fearful.
Losing patience, I tapped again, and nodded. With arms still stretched
out she slowly left her chair and dropped upon her knees.
Then taking advantage of a momentary lull in the storm I shook the crazy
casement and shouted:
“Let me in; I shall be wet to the skin!”
At length she rose hurriedly to her feet; then, shading her eyes with her
hand, made her way towards me.
“Eh, dear!” she cried, as she drew near; “it’s not him—’tis a wumman!”
“Oh, do let me in,” I pleaded. “See how it rains! I only ask for
shelter until the storm is over.”
She signed to me to go round to the door, and in another moment my feet
were on the sanded floor within.
“Dear o’ me,” she cried, “yo’re wet, ma’am; yo’re terrible wet. I wish
I’d ha’ heerd yo’ before, but wind and rain were makkin’ sich a din I
didn’t notice nothin’.”
“And when you did notice, you took me for a ghost, I think,” I said,
laughing, but feeling still a little aggrieved.
No trace of the strange expression which I had noticed on her face when I
had first summoned her lingered there as she admitted me, but at these
careless words of mine I saw it come again.
“Coom nigh the fire,” she said, after a pause, during which she had gazed
at me as one half awake.
“Did you take me for a ghost?” I persisted, as I drew near the hearth.
“I took yo’ fur—summat,” she answered doggedly. Then, after a moment’s
silence, she began to press me hospitably to dry my “shoon,” and informed
me that she would “mak’ tay in a two-three minutes.”
“Yo’re out late,” she added presently, gazing at me as I basked in the
comfortable warmth. “Dun yo’ coom fro’ far?”
“I have walked along the shore from Saltleigh,” I said. “I am staying at
the inn there. It is not very far. When the storm is over I shall make
my way back by road.”
“Ah,” she commented, bending down to fill the little brown teapot from
the now bubbling kettle.
As she did so I caught sight of the glitter of a wedding-ring upon the
gnarled brown hand.
“Do you live here all alone?”
“Ah,” affirmatively.
“You’ve been married, I see.”
She nodded.
“Your husband is dead, I suppose?” Again the curious look, but no
answer. I repeated my question.
“I reckon he is dead, ma’am,” she replied in a low voice. “Yigh, I met
say I know he’s dead. It’s thirty-five year sin’ he went—he mun be
dead.”
“Did he not die here, then?”
“Nay, ma’am, he wur a sailor. He deed at say on jest sich a night as
this. He deed, and he thought on me.”
The smile which I had seen once before, which held so much of love, and
yet had in it a suggestion of fear, hovered about her lips again for a
moment, and was gone.
“Tay’s drawed nice now,” she said in a different tone. “Will yo’ please
to pull up, ma’am?” motioning me to draw my chair nearer the table.
“I’ve soom leet cake here as I’ll toast in a minute, but I have na’ a bit
o’ butter, I’m sorry to tell yo’; yo’ mun mak’ shift wi’out.”
As I murmured my thanks for the generosity with which she had set before
me the best her house contained, and emphatically assured her that I
infinitely preferred light cake without butter, my hostess reseated
herself in her elbow-chair, and gazed at me, while I ate and drank, with
evident satisfaction. But she did not speak, and each furtive glance
that I sent in her direction increased my curiosity.
It was such a handsome face, with its great dark eyes, its still
beautiful colouring, its expression of reserved strength, of patience,
of—what was it? Expectation or longing? A little of both, perhaps, but
all placid and contained.
“You must be very lonely,” I said, pushing away my cup at length, and
leaning back in my chair. She looked up quickly, sighed, and suffered
her hands to drop together in her lap.
“I am that,” she said, half to herself.
“How long were you married before you lost your husband?”
“Nobbut a year,” she returned; “scarce a year.”
“So short a time! How very sad. It must have seemed hard to you that he
should go to sea and leave you—but of course he had to do it.”
“Yigh, ma’am, he had to do it—but I took it very ill.”
Her voice had sunk, so that the words were scarcely audible; it seemed to
me that there were tears in the dark eyes. Impulsively leaving my chair
I knelt down by her side, taking the worn hands in mine.
“It is all forgiven now,” I said. “The few hasty words are forgotten,
but the memory of the love remains.”
“Ah,” she said, still speaking half to herself, “all’s forgiven now—all
wur forgiven long sin’—before he deed. He thought of me before he deed,
and loved me jest same as ever. He looked at me so lovin’—God rest him!
He was never one to bear a grudge.”
“But I thought you said he died at sea.”
“Yigh, he deed at say, fur sure,” she added, looking at me as though in
surprise; “but I knowed he loved me and forgave me.”
“Some of his comrades told you all about it, I suppose?”
“Nay, nay, nobry towd me—nobbut hissel’. His mates was all drownded,
too; naught was niver heerd on ’em at arter ship sailed that last time.
Noan of ’em ever coom back—nobbut him, and he coomed to nobry but me.”
“Do you mean that his spirit came back?” I asked, half-incredulously,
half awe-stricken.
“Ma’am, I can’t reetly tell you how he coom back, but it was him. He
coomed to tell me he wur dead, and to let me know as he’d forgive me.”
“Was nothing ever heard of his ship?” I enquired.
“Naught was niver heerd of ship, nor captain, nor crew,” she said. “Noan
of ’em coom back, nobbut my Will.”
The wind raging round the house drove the rain fiercely against the
little window, and I glanced towards it fearfully; then, laughing
inwardly at my own folly, I turned to the woman again.
“Don’t you think it may have been fancy?” I said. “You are so lonely
here, you see, and you had been fretting perhaps because of your little
quarrel, and because you had, I suppose, no news of him. And then you
imagined you saw his face—at the window—was it? he used perhaps to come
to the window—”
“Ah,” she interrupted, “he all’ays coom theer—all’ays fro’ the time when
he wur a little lad. He’d coom theer, and press his face to the window,
and tap three times same as yo’ did to-neet—he all’ays tapped three
times. And I used to look up from my little stool i’ the corner and nod
at him, and at arter a bit get up and stale out when feyther and moother
wurna lookin’—fur they’d all’ays barge if they cotched me playin’ wi’
Will Davis. The Davises were cocklin’ folk—very rough—a bad lot ’twas
said, and my feyther didn’t reckon to let me go wi’ ’em. But my Will, he
was never same as t’others—a gradely little lad he wur, good at’s books
and never up to no mischeef. ‘I’ll noan be a cocklemon same as my
feyther,’ he’d say; ‘when I goo to say I’ll goo a bit fur’er off. I’ll
sail fur, wheer theer’s no lond an’ no houses, an’ no naught, nobbut
wayter, wayter, wayter—same as it says in my book.’ Folks thought it a
wonderful thing to see a little chap same as him goin’ so reg’lar to
school. But t’other lads ’ud laugh at him for goin’ barefoot; poor Will,
he hadn’t niver a shoe to his foot.”
She broke off to laugh softly to herself; her eyes were again fixed, on
the fire, and her mind had evidently conjured up a vivid picture of the
lad as he had been in bygone days.
“Eh, I mind when he’d coom patterin’ ower th’ weet sand to this place
he’d leave tracks o’s little bare feet all round the house; and my
feyther ’ud barge and sauce me terrible if he coom out and saw them.
“‘Yon little raskil Will’s been here again,’ he’d say; ‘my word, I’ll
thrash him if I cotch him here.’
“And moother, hoo’d tak’ me by the ear, and drag me across the kitchen
and sit me down on my stool i’ th’ corner wi’ my patchwork. ‘If thou
dar’s so mich as say a word to yon agin’, hoo’d say, ‘I’ll fetch
birch-rod to thee.’
“But ’tweren’t o’ no use. Soon as ever I’d hear the three taps, and see
the roguish e’en o’ Will laughin’ in at me through the window, I’d mak’
my way to him soom gate. Yigh, I wur terrible headstrong. Poor
mother—hoo’d a done better to ha’ takken rod to me—but hoo never did more
nor talk—hoo thought the warld o’ me, and so did my feyther.”
“Were your parents alive when you married?” I inquired, breaking in upon
the somewhat lengthy silence which ensued.
“Nay, ma’am, they deed both on ’em, when I wur eighteen year of age. My
aunt coomed to live wi’ me then for a bit, but we didn’t get on so well.
Will had been sailorin’ for nigh upon five year then, and I only seed him
now and agin. Eh, I mind well the time he coom at arter feyther and
moother deed. I had my blacks on, fur it were market day, and me and my
aunt had been down to th’ village. We had afallin’ out as we coom we’re
ways awhoam again, and my aunt hoo’d gone straight to her chamber, and
hoo said hoo didn’t want no tay, and hoo’d pack up and go next morn and
leave me alone, for I wur but an ill-mannered, ill-tempered wench. Well,
I coom in and sot me down here in cheer, and I got a-gate o’ cryin’, for
I wur feelin’ quite undone to think o’ my aunt goin’ that gate, and I wur
thinkin’ how lonely I was, and what a miserable thing it war for a lass
to be left same as me wi’out feyther nor moother, when all of a sudden I
heerd Will knockin’ at the pane. Didn’t I jump up, and didn’t I run out,
and didn’t he cotch me in’s arms and kiss me same as nobry’d ever kissed
me afore! ‘Why, my lass,’ says he, ‘wast thou cryin’? I never see those
bonny e’en o’ thine wi’ tears in ’em afore. Why, what wast thou cryin’
for, Molly?’
“I looked up in his face—eh, it was a bonny face, and so kind and anxious
like, that I fair burst out again. ‘Coom, lass,’ says he, ‘we’s ha’ no
more tears, but thou mun tell me all about it.’ ‘Eh, well,’ says I, ‘I’m
cryin’ because I am a cross, bad-tempered lass and nobry can’t a-bear to
live i’ th’ house wi’ me.’ ‘Coom, is that all?’ says he, and he laughed
till he fair shook; ‘I know soombry as could manage very well to live i’
th’ same house as thee. Coom, give over—I thought ’t were summat war
when I see thee i’ thy blacks and all.’
“‘Nay, but it is war,’ says I, ‘feyther and moother are dead o’ the
fever, and I am left wi’ nobry but my aunt Jane, and her and me cannot
agree, and we had words coomin’ awhoam fro’ market, and hoo says hoo
wunnot live wi’ me no more.’
“‘Eh, dear, eh, dear, there’s a tale,’ says he; ‘coom, will Aunt Jane eat
me, dost thou think, if I ax to coom in?’
“Hoo cannot eat thee if hoo wants to,’ says I, howdin’ up my head. ‘This
house belongs to me now, and I am missus.’ We were steppin’ inside then,
and Will put his two hands o’ my shoulders and turned my face to the
leet.
“‘Thou’rt missus, art thou?’ says Will, ‘but thou’ll’t tak a master soom
day, my wench.’
“‘Master,’ says I, half laughin’ and half cryin’; ‘I dunno. I don’t
fancy callin’ nobry my master.’
“He looked down at me so earnest for a bit, and then he smiled. ‘Dunnot
tell me that tale,’ says he. ‘Who was it I see cryin’ when I looked in;
cryin’, because hoo was so lonely?’
“‘I don’t want a master, as how ’tis,’ said I.
“‘Well then,’ says he, ‘give it another name. Say husband, Molly.’
“‘And what husband?’ says I, knowin’ very well what he was at, but
lettin’ on I didn’t understand. ‘Not a farmer,’ says I, ‘for I’m not
good enough to be a farmer’s missus; and not a cottager’s,’ says I, ‘for
I’m too good to be a poor man’s slave; and not a soldier fur sure, for
soldiers goes to the wars and gets killed; and not a sailor—’
“‘And why not a sailor, Molly,’ says he. ‘Sailors has half a dozen wives
they sayn,’ I answered him back as impudent as you please, ‘and what good
would it do me t’ wed wi’ a mon who was always at say?’
“‘Sailors gets paid off ship now and again; then they likes to think
there’s a little whoam and a little wife waitin’ for ’em. ’Tis a
miserable thing,’ says he, ‘to know as theer’s nobry lookin’ out for yo’,
nobry as cares whether you are dead or wick, no place wheer yo’re made
welcome.’
“‘Poor Will,’ says I, wi’ my face turned away, and my e’en cast down.
“‘Nay,’ says he, ‘it’s not poor Will, for Will knowed theer wur soombry
thinkin’ on him, and soombry lookin’ out for him.’
“‘Will tak’s too much conceit in hissel’,’ says I, makkin’ shift to spake
’ard like. But he geet his arm round me again and pulled round my face
to leet, an’ then it wur all ower wi’ me—he see plain enough as he’d
spokken truth.”
She relapsed into silence again, her face wearing a soft and tender smile
that made it look almost young.
“So when he came to court you he looked at you first through the window?”
said I.
Her face changed.
“Yigh, ma’am; and it wur theer he took his last look at me afore he went
away and left me. We’d been married then a good few month and I niver
thought he’d be for leaving me again till I noticed as he wur gettin’ a
bit onsattled-like. And wan neet he sot up in bed and shriked out,
‘Say’s callin’ me, Molly! say’s callin’ me.’ I towd him ’twere nonsense
and he mun ha’ been dreamin’, and he said no moor, but next day he went
wanderin’ up and down, up and down, yon by the shore. An’ he didn’t seem
like hissel’. And a two’three days at arter a letter coom for him, and
when he read it he went first red and then white as a sheet. ‘What does
it say?’ I axed. ‘It’s fro’ my owd captain,’ says he. ‘He wants me to
jine th’ ship agin. Molly, Molly,’ says he; ‘I towd thee say was callin’
me.’ ‘Nay, Will, dunnot be a fool,’ says I. ‘Thou mun write and tell
captain as thou’s wed and has gettin’ wark upo’ dry lond, and as he mun
look out for soombry else.’ But Will he coom aroun’ table to me and
looked into my e’en, an’ his own face were half-sorrowful, and
half-j’yful. ‘Nay, my lass,’ says he, ‘but I mun go. Sailors same as me
connot live long wi’out they feel the wayter under them. I’s not be long
away fro’ thee, my bonny wench—captain says it ’ull be nobbut a short
v’yage, an’ I’ll be fain to get awhoam again—but I feel as I mun go.’ I
pulled his two hands down and I pushed him fro’ me. ‘Thou’rt be fain to
get back,’ says I—‘nay, but thou’rt fain to go. I tell thee if thou goes
I’ll ne’er ha’ no more to say to thee. If thou can do wi’out me I can do
wi’out thee.’ And then I geet agate o’ cryin’. ‘Eh,’ I said, ‘I didna
think thou’d sarve me that gate. Thou’rt a false ’ard-’arted deceivin’
felly—that’s what thou art, Will Davis! What brought thee here wi’ thy
soft words, an’ thy lovin’ ways—lees all on ’em—to tak’ all as I had, and
mysel’ along wi’ it—to tee me, hand and foot, and then to go away and
leave me?’ I throwed apron over my head and sobbed like a child, but my
cheeks were as hot as two coals wi’ anger. First Will tried to pull away
th’ apron, but I held fast and stopped my ears as soon as ever he began
o’ speakin’, and arter a bit he gave o’er, and went away whistlin’. I
wouldna speak a word all that day, nor yet the next, though I see him
gettin’ together his things and makkin’ ready.
“Late i’ th’ arternoon he coom and stood by my cheer.
“‘My wench,’ says he, ‘sin’ thou wunnot speak to me nor look at me, I may
as well be off at wonst. Captain towd me jine him soon as ever I could.’
My heart wur like lead, but I kept my face turned away from him. ‘Well,’
says I, ‘sin’ thou wants to go, thou can go for aught I care.’ He stood
a bit longer, and then he stooped his face down to mine. ‘Coom, Molly,’
he says, ‘gie us a kiss, and let’s part good freends. Thou’rt a bit
vexed still, but when thou cooms to think it ower thou’lt see I wur
nobbut reet. A man mun stick to the lot he’s chose.’
“‘And what about the wife he’s chose?’ cries I. And I pushed away his
face and pushed back cheer. ‘Nay, I’ll noan gi’e thee a kiss. Go thy
ways and leave me.’ He waited a bit longer, but I didn’t turn my head;
and then he took up his bundle and went out. I heard his step on th’
sand, very slow and lingerin’, and then I heard his tap on th’ window.
‘Coom, my wench,’ he called out; ‘gi’e us a look then. Gi’e us a look
sin’ thou’lt gie me naught else.’
“But I hitched my cheer round and turned my back on him. Eh, my lad!
Eh, my poor lad, I might ha’ seen thy bonny face then and I wouldna look.
Eh, I wonder the Lord didna strike me down dead that day for my wicked
pride and anger.”
She brought down one clenched hand upon the open palm of the other with
such sudden fiery energy that for a moment the veil of years was lifted,
and I saw before me the passionate, resentful girl-wife who has sent her
husband from her with such a sore and angry heart.
By-and-by I saw tears upon her withered cheeks, and gently patting the
nearest hand I said consolingly, “Do not fret; it is all over long ago,
and you know you told me you felt he had forgiven you.”
“Ah, that’s true,” she sighed, lifting the corner of her apron to her
eyes with her disengaged hand. “I knowed that long ago. I’ll tell yo’
about it. It seems to coomfort me like to talk about him. ’Twas jest
sich a neet as this—I wur sittin’ nigh to fire thinkin’ on him—he’d been
gone a good few months then, and I began o’ wonderin’ how soon I met
reckon to see him back, and to plan what a welcome I’d gi’e him. Eh, I
wur ashamed o’ mysel’ and my ill-tempers by that time, and I thought soon
as ever I see him comin’ I’d run and throw my arms round’s neck and ax
his parden. And then I’d bring him in, I thought, and set him i’ th’
cheer here, and tell him that the wife and the whoam would always be
ready and waitin’ for him. But all on a sudden I bethought mysel’ that
it wur a very stormy neet, and I geet all of a shake thinkin’ of him out
yon on the dark wayter, and every time the big waves ’ud lep up an’ roar
upo’ the shore, I’d beat my breast and pray to the Lord to ha’ mercy on
the folks at say, and not to let my dear lad dee wi’out I see him agin
and knowed he forgive me. It got to be a dark neet, but I couldna go to
bed, but sot here cryin’ and prayin’ by the fire till the cowd grey morn
coom. And then there coom a quiet minute, as if storm was howdin’ back
for summat, and I heard plain the three taps o’ th’ window as Will always
made, and I looked up and there he wur, lookin’ at me and smilin’ so
lovin’. I jumped up fro’ my cheer—this here cheer as was stood in this
here corner jest as it is now, and I ran towards window, and I see him
plain—as plain as I see you jest now. His face were a bit pale, and the
wayter wur drippin’ fro’s hair, and fro’s cloo’es—he was as weet as weet.
But he stood there smilin’, and lookin’ at me lovin’.
“‘Bide a bit,’ says I, ‘I’ll oppen door in a minute.’ And I ran to door,
and oppened it, and wind and rain coom rushin’ in. Down yon on the shore
I could hear waves rushin’ and roarin’—I could scarce mak’ my voice heerd
wi’ th’ din. ‘Coom in, Will,’ says I, ‘coom in. Dunnot stond theer i’
th’ wind and the rain. Coom in to thy wife.’ But nobry answered, and
then I run round the corner, wrastlin’ wi’ the wind as was near liftin’
me off my feet, and when I come to the window there weren’t nobry theer.
Eh, you may think how I skriked out. I run round the house agin and
looked in at door, but theer warn’t nobry inside, and then I coom out
agin, and sarched and sarched, an’ called an’ called, but I heerd naught
but wind and rain, and the waves thunderin’ o’ th’ beach.
“An’ then I knew he wur dead.”
Her voice, which had been lifted excitedly as she told her tale, dropped
at its close, and the hand, which had twitched convulsively in mine, lay
passive once more. It was an eerie tale, but convincing withal, and my
eyes again stole towards the window nervously.
“Did you think he had come again when I knocked to-night, then?” I
inquired, after a pause.
She nodded.
“Have you ever seen him or his spirit since the night you told me of?”
“Nay, ma’am, but I’m all’ays waitin’ for him.”
“You think he will come?”
“I know he’ll come,” she said. “Eh, I wish to the Lord he would coom. I
am longing for’t.”
“Yet when I looked in I thought you seemed—almost frightened.”
“I am afeared,” she returned in a low voice, “but I’m not afeard o’
him—I’m afeared o’ what he’ll bring when he cooms. And yet, God knows,
I’ll be fain to—”
“What do you mean?”
“Nay, never mind. Maybe ’tis foolish talk. . . . The rain has gived
ower now, ma’am, and yo’d happen do well to mak’ a start.”
There was no disputing the advisability of this course, and I took my
leave, promising to come and see the old woman again on my next visit to
the neighbourhood.
Two years passed, however, before I again found myself in that part of
the world, and even then I had been staying at Saltleigh for a week or
two before I could make time to betake myself to the cottage on the
lonely dunes. I walked along the shore as I had done on that former
occasion, and, as I drew near, my eyes instinctively sought the little
window which had played so important a part in the old woman’s story, and
I stared in surprise at its altered aspect. The ledge behind the
casement hitherto left blank—no doubt because Molly would tolerate no
intervening objects between her and the panes on which her eyes loved to
linger—was now closely packed with flower pots; gay scarlet geraniums
pressing forward to the light. I quickened my steps, but before I could
reach the house a yet more astonishing sight appeared amid the clusters
of bloom; neither more or less than the laughing face of a little child,
which peered curiously out at me, and was by-and-by supplemented by two
fat, dimpled hands, which hammered gleefully upon the glass.
Full of forebodings I knocked at the cottage door, which was presently
opened by a tall young woman with a baby in her arms.
“I came to see Molly Davis,” I said hesitatingly. “Is she—is she—”
“Eh, ma’am, hoo’s dead,” returned the young woman, answering my wistful
look rather than the unfinished sentence. “Hoo deed nigh upon a year
ago—last autumn it wur. Poor soul, hoo was glad to go, I doubt, for hoo
was but ’onely here.”
“Do you know—what she died of? Was she long ill?”
“Hoo seemed to be failin’ like, but hoo wasn’t not to say sick. Eh, it
gived every one a turn when they coom and found her.”
“Do you mean to say they found her dead?”
“Yigh, ma’am, little Teddy down yon fro’ Frith’s farm coom up wi’ the
milk—hoo couldn’t fotch it for hersel’ for two-three weeks afore hoo
died—he hommered at door and couldna get no answer, and then he run round
to window, and theer he found her, poor body, leein’ close under it on
her face. He ran down to farm and they coom and brok’ oppen door and
fotched doctor, but doctor said hoo’d been dead for mony hours. . . .
Dunnot tak’ on ma’am”—for I was weeping—“coom in and set yo’ down. I
doubt it giv’ yo’ a turn to hear o’ poor Molly goin’ that way. But we’ll
all ha’ to go when we’re turn cooms,” she added philosophically.
Wiping my eyes I went into the little kitchen which I remembered so well;
its aspect was changed and modernised. A gay square of oil-cloth covered
the tiled floor, the walls were decked with gaudily coloured pictures;
Molly’s great elbow-chair was gone, and in its place stood a horsehair
covered sofa.
“Ah, we’s all ha’ to go when we’re turn cooms,” repeated my new hostess
with the gloomy relish, with which your rustic enunciates such
statements; “and Molly, hoo were fain to goo. Onybody could see that as
coom to see her laid out—so peaceful hoo looked, wi’ a smile upon her
face.”
“She was found under the window you say?”
“Ah! Her knittin’ wur throwed on the floor nigh to her cheer, and hoo’d
knocked down a stool on the way to the window—doctor said hoo’d wanted to
oppen it and let in fresh air, very likely—for her arms were stretched
out towards it. But hoo didn’t ha’ time, poor soul, hoo was took afore
hoo could get theer. Eh, dear, yes. That was the very way they found
her, lyin’ on her face wi’ her arms stretched out, and smilin’—smilin’
quite joyful like.”
So there had been no fear at the last—no fear either of Will himself or
of the grim comrade who had accompanied him. Molly’s presentiment had
been realised; the much loved spirit of her husband had come to seek and
sustain her in the last solemn moment. Stormy youth and lonely
middle-age had alike been forgotten; for Molly the end had been peace.
And as I took my way homewards to the sound of the gentle lapping waves,
I thought of her, not as she had described herself to me, handsome,
wilful, impetuous; not as I had seen her, expectant, regretful—not even
starting forward at the sound of the well-known signal, or lying prone
with outstretched arms upon the floor. No, I pictured to myself the
placid face smiling on the pillow, the folded hands at rest, every line
of the quiet figure bearing the imprint of a peace that would never more
be broken.