stirring through the rooms. I see the bits o’ sticks we bought when
we was wed, and the hearth where we set together of a night. But now
I’m back I can’t see any o’ they things no more.”
“Times change, dad,” pleaded his son, “but we’ll make you
comfortable, I’m sure.”
“You can’t bring back the dead to the lone living. You can’t put back
the laylock by the door.”
“Nay, I wish I could!” Thomas’s face fell.
“At Marget’s I had ’em both.”
“It’s your old home, think on,” Agnes said wistfully, but he shook
his head.
“’Tisn’t home when the music’s all ganged.”
A silence fell on the three of them after that, the silence of
helplessness ceasing from futile speech. There are things that
cannot happen to our desire because we have stopped the way for them
ourselves. The gains of life are all of them had through loss, and
for every coin that we take at least we must put a counter down. The
old and the young folks had both shut a door at their backs, and when
they tried to get through to each other the doors were barred. Kit
knew that, since the music had failed, there was no place for him
here. The music could only live where the dream lived, and he had
left it behind. He had always risked the counters of life for fairy
gold, and now all that remained to him was his invisible treasure of
the heart. Comfort, position, peace in his last days—all must go into
the fire to serve the fine flame of his dream. He was only a vague
old man who had made a muddle of life, but firmly and fightingly he
was sure of that. There was nothing here for him but the shell of
lovely things grown strange. That which he had made for himself he
might have, but nothing else. “For what we take we must pay, and the
price is cruel hard.”
And Thomas and Agnes, with their unaccepted oblation of satisfaction
and thanks? They, too, had taken, and would have to pay....
“You’ll settle after a bit,” Thomas argued, but his voice was flat.
“I’ll never settle, not I.”
“It’s early days to say that.”
For the first time Kit looked him firmly in the face.
“I’m going back to Marget,” he declared aloud.
Agnes uttered a sharp cry, and Thomas flushed. “Nay, Father, you’re
not,” he answered, setting his mouth.
“Ay, but I am that. I shouldn’t ha’ come. Folks as gang once should
bide away.”
“What, she’s as bad to you as an old witch!” Agnes broke out. “She’s
been bad to you all along. She doesn’t do right by you at all.”
“I care nowt for that if I have the rest.” The stress and anguish had
gone out of his face, as well as the look that sought and couldn’t
find. He looked older and frailer, but he looked certain and secure.
The little strength that he had was going fast, but he would never
have to try it like this again. He took a firm step towards the door,
but Thomas put himself in between.
“Nay, then, you’ll gang none!” he said through his shut teeth. The
dark flush rose in his face to the roots of his hair. His voice was
suddenly brutal, fierce and coarse. “What-like fools d’ye think
we’ll look?” he cried; “and after all the trouble we’ve took an’ all?”
“I’ve got to gang,” Kit told him, looking him in the eyes.
“Well, you waint, an’ that’s flat!”
“Let me gang,” the old man begged.
“Couldn’t you bide just the one night?” Agnes coaxed. She came across
to him and laid a hand on his arm. “You’ll feel a deal better in
t’morn, I’m sure, and it’s real comfortable upstairs.”
“I’m feared to gang upstairs....” He shrank away from her, letting
her hand drop. His eyes hated her—hostile, terrible eyes. He returned
to the door. “Now, lad, get by.”
“Nay.”
He let himself go then, and became all fear and rage, a wild old
creature fighting and raving to be free. “I’ll not bide—I waint!” he
cried, his voice rising and cracking as it rose. “I can’t bide. I mun
seek they things as is gone an’ lost!” He clubbed the fiddle and came
at his son with it raised in the air. “Mun I crack fiddle over thy
danged head?”
“Let him be, the poor old man!” Agnes cried, weeping aloud, but
Thomas’s attitude had already changed. The futile act of defiance had
shown him plainly the nature of his father’s need. He must be out of
himself to risk his precious fiddle like that! He felt ashamed of
himself, too, for bringing that evil into his kindly face. He moved
away from the door, his expression softened, almost shocked. “Don’t
take on,” he said gently. “You shall gang if you want.”
“I can gang to Marget?” Kit demanded, hard of faith.
“Ay, if you’re that set.”
“We’d best be off, then, or we’ll be missing Bob.” He was still
shaking a little in every limb, but now it was with excitement and
relief. Close to the door, “Where’s t’bundle?” he asked, wheeling
round in a sudden scare. Marget would give it him, he knew, if he
left the bundle behind. When he had left Marget’s he had seemed
half-dazed, hypnotised, as it were, into going against his will. Now
he was all bustle and business, thinking for himself, straining every
nerve to get away....
“Here’s t’bundle.” Thomas took the red handkerchief from his wife.
“You’ve gone and hid my hat!” Again his voice rose.
“Nay, it’s here.”
The sun was leaving the kitchen at long last, but it was still
smoothly golden on the sands. In garden and orchard the shadows were
growing long, and the yew had a passing brother on the ground. Out
at sea there was a new life stirring, a new tide coming out of the
deep, but where Agnes stood in the kitchen a vapoury shadow grew,
pointing and reaching and deepening towards the stair.... Suddenly
she ran to the old man and caught him round the neck.
“Eh, if you would nobbut try!” she said, with tears. “I can’t abide
to think o’ you going back to yon hard woman and poor house!”
He waited patiently while she held him, but his eyes moved on. “It’s
never a poor house,” he said, “where folks find their dreams....
Good-bye, my lass,” he added, kindly enough, and hurried out, and did
not stumble as he crossed the door. Thomas had to lengthen his stride
to catch him on the path.
“I’ll be best wi’ Marget,” Agnes heard him say, and almost at once
she heard him say it again. She watched him until he was through the
garden gate, but he never once looked back. Out of the sea-window she
saw the tide come in.
“_Nothing is here for tears, nothing to wail
Or knock the breast ... nothing but well and fair._”
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