"Eh? Taylor, did ye say?" Simon stared, for the man had been at

Blindbeck for years. "What's amiss?"

"Nay, there's nowt wrong between us, if you mean that. But his wife's

father's had a stroke, and wants him to take over for him at Drigg.

News didn't come till I was off this morning, or I might ha' looked

round for somebody while I was in t'town."

Simon began a fresh violent poking with his ancient stick. "You'll ha'

somebody in your eye, likely?" he enquired. "There'll be plenty glad o'

the job."

"Oh, ay, but it's nobbut a weary business learning folk your ways." He

glanced at his brother a moment, and then looked shyly away. "If you're

really after a shop, Simon, what's wrong wi' it for yourself?"

The painful colour came into the other's averted face. He poked so

recklessly that he poked the dog, who arose with an offended growl.

"Nay, it's charity, that's what it is! I'm over old.... You know as

well as me I'd never get such a spot anywheres else."

"You know the place, and you're a rare hand wi' stock. I could trust

you same as I could myself."

"I'm over old," Simon demurred again, "and done to boot. I'd not be

worth the brass."

"We've plenty o' help on the place," Will said. "It'd be worth it just

to have you about. Nigh the same as having a vet on t'spot!" he added

jokingly, trying to flatter him into acquiescence. "I'd be main glad

for my own sake," he went on, his face grave again and slightly wistful.

"There's times I fair ache for a crack wi' somebody o' my own. Women is

nobbut women, when all's said and done, and lads is like to think they

know a deal better than their dad.... Ay, well, you can think it over

and let me know," he finished, in a disappointed tone.

Simon poked for a while longer, and succeeded in poking the cow as well

as the dog. He was fighting hard with his pride as he scraped busily at

the flags. The tie of blood pulled him, as well as the whole atmosphere

of the prosperous place. He knew in his heart that he was never so

happy as when he was with his brother, never so good a man as when he

was preaching in Will's shippons. As for pride, that would have to go

by the board sooner or later; indeed, who would say that he had any

right to it, even now? He made up his mind at last on a sudden impulse,

lifting his head with a hasty jerk.

"I've had enough o' thinking things over, thank ye all the same. I'll

be main glad o' the job, Will, and that's the truth...." He sank back

instantly, however, and fell to poking again. "Folk'll have plenty to

say, though, I reckon," he added bitterly, "when they hear as I'm hired

man to my younger brother!"

"They've always a deal to say, so what's the odds? As for younger and

older, there isn't a deal to that when you get up in years.... There's a

good cottage across t'road," he went on eagerly, bringing up

reinforcements before Simon should retire. "It's handy for t'stock, and

there's a garden and orchard as well. Lasses could see to Sarah, you'll

think on, if she's that closer. There's berry-bushes in t'garden and a

deal besides...."

Simon was busy shaking his head and saying he wasn't worth it and that

he was over old, but all the time he was listening with interest and

even pleasure to Will's talk. Milking had now begun, and already, as

the levers swung back and forwards over the cattle's heads, he found

himself looking about the shippon with a possessive eye. Even in these

few moments, life had taken a turn for the Thornthwaite of the desolate

marsh farm. Already his back felt straighter, his eye brighter, his

brain more alive. The drawbacks of the proposed position began to

recede before the many advantages it had to offer. It was true, of

course, that he would be his brother's hired man, but it was equally

true that he was the master's brother, too. To all intents and purposes

he would be master himself,--that is to say, when Eliza wasn't about!

Will's cottages were good, like everything else of Will's, and the

lasses could see to Sarah, as he said. For himself there would be the

constant interest and stimulant of a big farm, as well as the mental

relief of a steady weekly wage. He felt almost excited about it as they

crossed the yard, making for Taylor's cottage over the road. He tried

not to think of what Sarah might say when she heard the news, still less

of what Mrs. Will would most certainly say. He felt equal to both of

them in his present spirited mood, and even tried to convince himself

that in time they would make friends.

As they stood looking at Taylor's cottage and Taylor's gooseberry bushes

and canes, Will suddenly asked his brother whether there was any news of

Geordie. And Simon, when he had given the old answer that there was no

news that was worth crossing the road to hear, turned his face away in

the direction of Taylor's hens, and enquired whether there was any news

of Jim.

"There's been none for a sight o' years now," Will answered sadly,

leaning on the wall. "Eliza wrote him a letter as put his back up, and

he's never sent us a line since. He always set a deal more by you and

your missis than he ever did by us. I'd ha' stood his friend, poor lad,

if he'd ha' let me, but he always took it I was agen him, too."

There was silence between them for a while, and then,--"Eh, well, you've

a mort of others to fill his place!" Simon sighed, watching a

well-built lad swing whistling across the yard.

Will raised himself from the wall, and watched him, too.

"Ay, but I'd nobbut the one eldest son!" was all he said.

V

Sally led her aunt to the grand but unused parlour in which so many

expensive and handsome things were doomed to spend their lives. There

was a piano, of course, which none of the Blindbeck folk knew how to

play, in spite of Eliza's conviction that the gift was included in the

price. A Chippendale bookcase made a prison for strange books never

opened and never named, and the shut doors of a cabinet kept watch and

ward over some lovely china and glass. There was a satin-wood table

with a velvet sheen, whose polished mirror never reflected a laughing

human face. There was an American rocking-chair, poised like a floating

bird, with cushions filled with the finest down ever drawn from an

heirloom of a feather-bed. Sarah would not have taken the rocking-chair,

as a rule; she would have thought herself either too humble or too

proud. But to-day she went to it as a matter of course, because of the

false pomp that she had drawn to herself like a stolen royal robe. With

a sigh of relief that was half physical and half mental, she let herself

gently down, dropped her rusty bonnet against the silk, and peacefully

closed her eyes.

Sally stood looking at her with an expression of mingled pity, curiosity

and awe. She had pitied her often enough before, but she had never

before seen her through the slightest veil of romance. Sometimes,

indeed, the tale of the damaged wedding-day had touched her imagination

like the scent of a bruised flower, but it was so faint and far-off that

it passed again like a breath. To-day, however, she had that sudden

sense of exquisite beauty in the old, which all must feel who see in

them the fragile storehouses of life. The old woman had known so much

that she would never know, looked on a different world with utterly

different eyes. There was romance in the thought of the dead she had

seen and spoken to and laughed with and touched and loved. And even

now, with the flower of her life apparently over and withered back again

to its earth, this sudden splendour of Geordie had blossomed for her at

the end.

The girl waited a moment, hoping for a word, and then, though rather

reluctantly, turned towards the door. She wanted to hear still more

about the marvellous news, but the old woman looked so tired that she

did not like to ask. She was anxious, too, to get back to the kitchen

to keep an eye on Mary Phyllis. Yet still she lingered, puzzled and

curious, and still touched by that unusual sense of awe. An exotic

beauty had passed swiftly into the musty air of Eliza's parlour, a sense

of wonder from worlds beyond ... the strong power of a dream.

"You're over-tired, aren't you, Aunt Sarah?" she repeated, for want of

something better to say. She spoke rather timidly, as if aware that the

words only brushed the surface of deeper things below.

Sarah answered her without opening her eyes.

"Ay, my lass. Just a bit."

"You'd best stop here quietly till Uncle Simon's yoked up. I'll see

nobody bothers you if you feel like a nap. I'd fetch you a drop of

cowslip wine, but mother's got the key."

"Nay, I want nowt wi' it, thank ye," Sarah said. "I'll do all right."

She lifted her hands contentedly, and folded them in her lap. "Likely

I'll drop off for a minute, as you say."

"Ay, well, then, I'd best be getting back." She moved resolutely now,

but paused with her hand on the latch. "Aunt Sarah," she asked rather

breathlessly, "was all that about Cousin Geordie true?"

Sarah's lids quivered a little, and then tightened over her eyes.

"Ay. True enough."

"It's grand news, if it is! ... I'm right glad about it, I'm sure! I've

always thought it hard lines, him going off like that. And you said

he'd done well for himself, didn't you, Aunt Sarah? ... Eh, but I wish

Elliman could make some brass an' all!"

"There's a deal o' power in brass." The words came as if of themselves

from behind the mask-like face. "Folks say it don't mean happiness, but

it means power. It's a stick to beat other folk wi', if it's nowt

else."

"I don't want to beat anybody, I'm sure!" Sally laughed, though with

tears in her voice. "I only want what's my own."

"Ay, we all on us want that," Sarah said, with a grim smile. "But it's

only another fancy name for the whole world!"

----

She sat still for some time after the girl had gone out, as if she were

afraid that she might betray herself before she was actually alone.

Presently, however, she began to rock gently to and fro, still keeping

her hands folded and her eyes closed. The good chair moved easily

without creak or jar, and the good cushions adapted themselves to every

demand of her weary bones. Geordie should buy her a chair like this,

she told herself as she rocked, still maintaining the wonderful fiction

even to herself. She would have cushions, too, of the very best,

covered with silk and cool to a tired cheek. A footstool, also, ample

and well stuffed, and exactly the right height for a pair of aching

feet.

But though one half of her brain continued to dally with these pleasant

fancies, the other was standing amazed before her late stupendous act.

She was half-aghast, half-proud at the ease with which she had suddenly

flung forth her swift, gigantic lie. Never for a moment had she

intended to affirm anything of the kind, never as much as imagined that

she might hint at it even in joke. She had been angry, of course,

bitter and deeply hurt, but there had been no racing thoughts in her

mind eager to frame the princely tale. It had seemed vacant, indeed,

paralysed by rage, unable to do little else but suffer and hate. And

then suddenly the words had been said, had shaped themselves on her lips

and taken flight, as if by an agency with which she had nothing to do.

It was just as if somebody had taken her arm and used it to wave a

banner in the enemy's face; as if she were merely an instrument on which

an angry hand had suddenly played.

So she was not ashamed, or even really alarmed, because of this inward

conviction that the crime was not her own. Yet the voice had been hers,

and most certainly the succeeding grim satisfaction and ironic joy had

been hers! She allowed herself an occasional chuckle now that she was

really alone, gloating freely over Eliza's abasement and acute dismay.

For once at least, in the tourney of years, she had come away victor

from the fray. No matter how she was made to pay for it in the end, she

had had the whip-hand of Blindbeck just for once. Indeed, now that it

was done,--and so easily done,--she marvelled that she had never done it

before. At the back of her mind, however, was the vague knowledge that

there is only one possible moment for tremendous happenings such as

these. Perhaps the longing engendered by the Dream in the yard had

suddenly grown strong enough to act of its own accord. Perhaps, as in

the decision about the farm, a sentence lying long in the brain is

spoken at length without the apparent assistance of the brain....

She did not trouble herself even to speculate how she would feel when at

last the truth was out. This was the truth, as long as she chose to

keep it so, as long as she sat and rocked and shut the world from her

dreaming eyes. From pretending that it was true she came very soon to

believing that it might really be possible, after all. Such things had

happened more than once, she knew, and who was to say that they were not

happening now? She told herself that, if she could believe it with

every part of herself just for a moment, it would be true. Up in

Heaven, where, as they said, a star winked every time a child was born,

they had only to move some lever or other, and it would be true.

A clock ticked on the mantelpiece with a slow, rather hesitating sound,

as if trying to warn the house that Sunday and the need of the

winding-key were near. There was a close, secretive feeling in the

room, the atmosphere of so many objects shut together in an almost

terrible proximity for so many days of the week. She was so weary that

she could have fallen asleep, but her brain was too excited to let her

rest. The magnitude of her crime still held her breathlessly

enthralled; the glamour of it made possible all impossible hopes. She

dwelt again and again on the spontaneity of the lie, which seemed to

give it the unmistakable stamp of truth.

She had long since forgotten what it was like to be really happy or even

at peace, but in some sort of fierce, gloating, heathenish way she was

happy now. She was conscious, for instance, of a sense of importance

beyond anything she had ever known. Even that half of her brain which

insisted that the whole thing was pretence could not really chill the

pervading glow of pride. She had caught the reflection of her state in

Eliza's voice, as well as in others less familiar to her ear. She had

read it even in Sally's kindly championship and support; through the

sympathy she had not failed to hear the awe. The best proof,--if she

needed proof,--was that she was actually here in the sacred parlour, and

seated in the precious chair. Eliza would have turned her out of both

long since, she knew, if she had not been clad in that new importance as

in cloth of gold.

The impossible lies nearer than mere probability to the actual fact; so

near at times that the merest effort seems needed to cross the line.

Desire, racking both soul and body with such powerful hands, must surely

be strong enough to leap the slender pale. The peculiar mockery about

ill-luck is always the trifling difference between the opposite sides of

the shield. It is the difference between the full glass and the glass

turned upside-down. But to-day at least this tired old woman had swung

the buckler round, and laughed as she held the glass in her hand and saw

the light strike through the wine.

In this long day of Simon's and Sarah's nothing was stranger than the

varying strata of glamour and gloom through which in turn they passed.

Their days and weeks were, as a rule, mere grey blocks of blank,

monotonous life, imperceptibly lightened or further shadowed by the

subtle changes of the sky. But into these few hours so closely packed

with dreadful humiliations and decisions, so much accumulated unkindness

and insult and cold hate, there kept streaming upon them shafts of light

from some centre quite unknown. For Simon there had been the unexpected

stimulant of his Witham success, and later the new interest in life

which Will's proposal had seemed to offer. For Sarah there was the

wistful pleasure of her morning with May, as well as the unlawful but

passionate pleasure of her present position. The speed of the changes

kept them over-strung, so that each as it came found them more sensitive

than the last. They were like falling bodies dropping by turn through

cloud and sunlit air. They were like total wrecks on some darkened sea,

catching and losing by turn the lights of an approaching vessel.

The slow clock dragged the protesting minutes on, and still no one

disturbed her and the dream widened and grew. Tea would be brought in

soon, she told herself in the dream,--strong, expensive, visitor's tea,

freshly boiled and brewed. The silver teapot would be queening it over

the tray, flanked by steaming scones and an oven-new, home-made cake.

Eliza herself would appear to entertain her guest, always with that new

note of reverence in her voice. When the door opened they would hear

another voice,--Geordie's, laughing and talking in some room beyond.

All the happy young voices of the house would mingle with his, but

always the youngest and happiest would be Geordie's own. Hearing that

voice, she would make mock of herself for ever having feared Eliza's

tongue, still more for ever having cared enough to honour her with hate.

A small thing then would be the great Eliza, in spite of her size,

beside the mother for whom the dead had been made alive. She would talk

with Eliza as the gods talk when they speak with the humble human from

invisible heights. So strong was the vision that she found herself

framing the godlike sentences with gracious ease. The silver teaspoons

clinked against the cups, and the visitor's tea was fragrant in the

musty room. She spread a linen handkerchief across her knee ... a snowy

softness against her silken knee.... And always, always, as the meal

progressed, the voice of her ecstasy sang in her happy ear....

She had that one moment of clear beauty unprofaned by hate, with

Geordie's face swimming before her in a golden haze. Then her hand,

going out to the silk and linen of the dream, encountered the darned and

threadbare serge of dreary fact. The dream rent violently all around

her, letting her out again into the unlovely world. Even her blindness

had been forgotten for the time, for in the dream she was never blind.

Now the touch of the darns under her hand brought back the long hours of

mending by candlelight which had had their share in despoiling her of

her sight. She would never be able to darn by candlelight again, and

the loss of that drudgery seemed to her now an added grief, because into

this and all similar work, as women know, goes the hope of the future to

emerge again as the soul of the past.... Sarah knew that her hand would

ache for her needle as the sailor's hand aches for the helm, or the

crippled horseman's for the feel of the flat rein. She felt, too, a

sudden desperate anger against the woman who would have the mending of

Simon's clothes. Geordie's, she knew, she would simply have wrenched

from any stranger's hands, but since there was no Geordie she need not

think of that. The Dream had been merely the make-believe of the

bitterly oppressed, who had taken to desperate lying as a last resort.

Yet still the sweetness lingered, keeping her serene, like the last

scent of a passed garden or the last light upon darkening hills.

She smoothed her hands on the arms of the precious chair, and reached

out and smoothed the satin of the table. Through the dimness the solid

piano loomed, the rosewood coffin of a thousand songs. The carpet under

her feet felt elastic yet softly deep. There were ornaments in the

room, good stuff as well as trash, trifles pointing the passions of

Eliza's curious soul. But for once, after all these years, Eliza's soul

would be sorrowful in spite of her great possessions. Back in the

kitchen she would be gritting her teeth on the fact that it was Sarah's

son who was coming home, coming with money to burn and a great and

splendid will to burn it. She would exact payment, of course, when the

truth was known, but even the last ounce of payment could not give her

back this hour. For this hour, at least, it was hers to suffer and

Sarah's to reign. For this hour, at least, the heavily-weighted tables

of destiny were turned.

VI

That which had been the terrible Eliza sat still for a long moment after

Sarah had gone out. There was silence about the table until Elliman

Wilkinson took upon himself to speak.

"But Jim's never your son, Cousin Eliza?" he exclaimed, puzzled, rushing

in where not only angels would have feared to tread, but where the

opposite host also would have taken care to keep their distance. "It's

very stupid of me, of course, but I've always made sure that

Geordie-an'-Jim were twins."

Eliza turned baleful eyes upon the eager, inquisitive face. Her mind,

concentrated in sullen fury upon the enemy recently departed with

banners, found a difficulty in focussing itself upon this insignificant

shape. When it succeeded, however, she ground him into dust.

"Ay, well, next time you feel sure of anything, you can make certain

you're dead wrong!" she told him cruelly, surveying his bland

countenance with cold contempt. "Jim's my eldest, if you want to know,

and as much the better o' Geordie as Blindbeck's the better o' yon

mudhole down on the marsh! He was always the smarter lad o' the

two,--'tisn't likely he'd ha' been left.... I'll lay what you like it's

Jim as is really coming, after all!"

"But in that case you would surely have heard from him yourself?"

Elliman was still disporting himself with the brazen folly of innocence

upon the forbidden ground. "He'd have written to tell his mother,

surely,--not his aunt?"

A distinct thrill of apprehension ran through the company at this

tactful speech. Mary Phyllis's nudge on this occasion was one of sharp

reproof. The clouds thickened on Eliza's brow.

"Nay, then, he just wouldn't, Mr. Clever-Lad-Know-All, so that's that!

I'm his mother right enough, as nobody but a fool would ha' needed

telling, but he wouldn't ha' written me, all the same. Me and Jim got

across a while back, and he's taken sulks with me ever since. He'd be

like enough to write to Sarah, by way of giving me back a bit o' my own.

She always cockered him fearful, did Sarah, and set him agen me whenever

she could. And if there's brass about, as she says, she'll keep it warm

for him, never fear! She'll take right good care it never gets past her

to Blindbeck or any of his own!"

"Jim would ha' been right enough but for Geordie all along." Mrs.

Addison shook a loose and agile bonnet with an impressive air. "He was a

right-down nuisance, was Geordie Thornthet,--a bad lad as well as a

reg'lar limb! Such tricks as he was up to, I'm sure,--turmut-lanterns

and the like, booin' at folks' winders after dark, and hiding behind

hedges when folk was courtin' about t'lanes! Stephen and me wasn't wed

then, you'll think on, and I mind a terble fright as Geordie give us one

summer night. Stephen was terble sweet on me, as you'll likely know,

though he'd choke himself black in the face afore he'd own to it now.

Well, yon night as I'm speaking of he had hold o' my hand, and was

looking as near like a dying duck in a thunderstorm as ever I see.

'Jenny Sophia,' he was saying, as sweet as a field of clover, 'I'm that

set on you, Jenny Sophia'--when up pops Geordie on t'far side o' the

hedge, girning and making a hullaballoo like a donkey afore rain!"

"You've no call to go raking up yon d--d rubbish!" Mr. Addison burst

out, crimson to the hair, and quite forgetting the obligations of his

Christian mission. He had said the same thing to Eliza's eldest lass,

and much about the same time, and knew that Eliza knew it as well as he.

"Folks isn't right in their heads when they're courtin', as everybody

knows, and it's real mean to bring it agen 'em after all these years.

As for Geordie Thornthet, there was lile or nowt I could learn him, and

that's sure! T'lasses was always after him like bees at a bottle o'

rum."

"Nay, now, you mean our Jim!" Jim's mother corrected him with an air of

offence. "Nobody never reckoned nowt o' Geordie but May Fleming. He

couldn't hold a candle to Jim, any day o' the week. Folk said they

couldn't tell 'em apart, but I never see a scrap o' likeness myself."

She glanced defiantly round the table, as if expecting opposition, and

then swung round eagerly as Sally reappeared. "Well, my lass, well?" she

rapped out,--"did she tell you anything more? You've taken your time

about coming back, I'm sure!"

"Nay, she said nowt fresh," Sally answered evasively, without meeting

her eyes. She advanced to the table and began to gather the china

together, ready for clearing away. Her mother pushed back her chair

with an angry scrape.

"Well, of all the gert, helpless gabies!" she exploded violently. "I

made sure she'd talk when she'd gitten you by herself. Didn't she say

when letter come, or how much brass there was, or owt? ... Eh, well,

it's never Geordie as made it, that I'll swear!"

"She said it was Geordie." Sally went on mechanically with her task,

collecting cups and plates from under the noses of the still-stupefied

clan. "It's real nice, anyway, to see somebody happy," she added

suddenly, raising her eyes to look at the smug cousin. Elliman met them

unexpectedly and coloured furiously. On a sudden remorseful impulse he

shuffled a couple of plates together, and handed them to her with a

deprecating air.

"I can't say she looked very set up about it, anyhow!" Eliza sneered.

"What, she was even more glumpy than usual, seemed to me!"

"More like a burying than a home-coming, by a deal!" Mary Phyllis

finished for her, with a scornful laugh.

"As for Uncle Simon, he was as cross as a pair of shears!" Emily Marion

added in a fretted tone. The Thornthwaites were making things awkward

to-day for the bride-to-be. Simon had nearly queered the engagement at

the start, and now the company's interest was all for a Thornthwaite

whom she had never seen.

"Not how _I_ should take good news, certainly!" Elliman said, hoping

that no one had noticed his menial act. "I should have something more

to say for myself, I hope, than that."

Eliza's eyes brightened considerably at this unanimous point of view.

"Nay, you're right there," she took them up eagerly, "you're right

enough! 'Tisn't natural to be so quiet. I'll tell you what it is," she

added impressively, "it's one o' two things, that's all. It's either a

lie from beginning to end, or else--or else--well, it's our Jim!" She

pushed her chair further still, and got hurriedly to her feet. "Ay,

well, whichever it is, I'd best see for myself," she added quickly.

"You'll not mind me leaving you, Mrs. Addison, just for a little while?

I don't know as we're doing right to leave Sarah so long alone. She's

getting a bit of an old body now, you know, and she was never that

strong in her poor head."

She departed noisily after this surprisingly sympathetic speech, and

Sarah, hearing her heavy step along the passage, chuckled for the last

time. Her mind braced itself for the coming contest with a grim

excitement that was almost joy. Nothing could have been more unlike her

attitude of the morning in the inn-yard. She lay back in her chair

again and closed her eyes, and was rocking peacefully when Eliza opened

the door.

Just for the moment the sight of the tranquil figure gave her pause, but

neither sleep nor its greater Counterpart could still Eliza for very

long. "Feeling more like yourself, are you, Sarah?" she enquired

cautiously, peering in, and then repeated the question when she got no

answer. Finally, irritated by the other's immobility which was

obviously not sleep, she entered the room heavily, shutting the door

with a sharp click. "There's nowt amiss, from the look of you," she

added loudly, as she advanced.

Sarah exclaimed, "Eh now, whatever's yon!" at the sound of the harsh

voice, and sat up stiffly, winking her blind eyes. She even turned her

head and blinked behind, as if she thought the voice had come out of the

grandfather's clock. "Nay, I'll do now, thank ye," she answered

politely, discovering Eliza's whereabouts with a show of surprise.

"It'll be about time we were thinking of getting off."

Eliza, however, had no intention of parting with her just yet. She

stopped her hastily when she tried to rise.

"Nay, now, there isn't that much hurry, is there?" she demanded sharply.

"Yon old horse o' yourn'll barely have stretched his legs. Your master

and mine'd have a deal to say to each other an' all." She paused a

moment, creaking from foot to foot, and staring irresolutely at the

mask-like face. "You talked a deal o' stuff in t'other room, Sarah,"

she broke out at last, "but I reckon you meant nowt by it, after all?"

Sarah wanted to chuckle again, but was forced to deny herself the

pleasure. For appearance' sake she stiffened her back, and bristled a

little at Eliza's tone.

"Ay, but I did!" she retorted briskly, her voice firm. "Whatever else

should I mean, I'd like to know?"

The strong hope that had sprung in Eliza's heart died down again before

this brazen show.

"You can't rightly know what you're saying, Sarah," she said coldly,

"you can't, indeed! Geordie coming after all these years,--nay, now, yon

isn't true!"

"Ay, but it is, I tell ye,--true enough! True as yon Sunday fringe o'

yourn as you bought in Witham!"

"And wi' brass, you said?" Eliza let the flippant remark pass without

notice, and Sarah nodded. "A deal o' brass?"

"Yon's what he says."

"Eh, well, I never did!" The angry wind of her sigh passed over Sarah's

head and rustled the honesty in a vase behind. She repeated "I never

did!" and creaked away from the enemy towards the window. Behind her,

Geordie's mother allowed the ghost of a smile to find a fleeting

resting-place on her lips.

"And so he's on his road home, is he,--coming right back?" Mrs. Will

kept her back turned, thinking hard as she spoke. There was no section

of Sarah's statement but she intended to prove by the inch. "Ay, well,

it's what they mostly do when they've made their brass."

"He'll be over here, I reckon, afore you can say knife! Taking first

boat, he says he is, or the fastest he can find." She turned her head

towards the door through which his voice had come in the dream. "What,

I shouldn't be that surprised if he was to open yon door now!"

There was such conviction in her tone that Eliza, too, was startled into

turning her head. There was nothing to see, of course, and she turned

back, but her ears still thrilled with the thrill in Sarah's voice. The

cowman, passing, saw her face behind the glass, and said to himself that

the missis was out for trouble once again.

She was silent for a while, trying vainly to grapple the situation in

the pause. She saw well enough that there was nothing to be gained by

dispute if the story were true. She still looked to be top-dog in that

or any other case, because Blindbeck pride was founded on solid

Blindbeck gold; but there was no denying that the enemy would lie in a

totally different position, and would have to be met on totally

different ground. If, on the other hand, the great statement was a lie,

there would be plenty of time for vengeance when the facts were known.

Her malicious soul argued that the real game was to give Sarah plenty of

rope, but her evil temper stood in the way of the more subtle method.

It got the upper hand of her at last, and she flung round with an angry

swing.

"Nay, then, I can't believe it!" she exclaimed passionately,--"I just

can't! It's a pack o' lies, that's what it is, Sarah,--a gert string o'

senseless lies!"

This coarse description of her effort hurt Sarah in her artistic pride.

She stiffened still further.

"I reckoned you'd take it like that," she replied in a dignified tone.

"'Tisn't decent nor Christian, but it's terble nat'ral."

"I don't see how you could look for folks to take it different!" Eliza

cried. "'Tisn't a likely sort o' story, any way round. Ne'er-do-weels

don't make their fortunes every day o' the week, and your Geordie was a

wastrel, if ever there was one yet. You don't look like good news,

neither, come to that. They've just been saying so in t'other room."

"Good news wants a bit o' getting used to," Sarah said quietly, "same as

everything else. When you've never had no luck for years and years you

don't seem at first as if you could rightly take it in."

"More particular when you're making it up out o' your own head!" Eliza

scoffed, but growing more and more unwillingly convinced. "Nay, now,

Sarah!" she added impatiently, her hands twitching,--"what d'ye think

ye're at? What about all yon talk o' giving up the farm? No need for

such a to-do if Geordie's coming home!"

For the first time, though only just for a second, Sarah quailed. For

the first time she had a glimpse of the maze in which she had set her

feet, and longed sharply for her physical sight as if it would help her

mental vision. But her brain was still quick with the power of the

dream, and it rose easily to the sudden need. "It's like this, d'ye

see," she announced firmly. "Simon knows nowt about it yet. I didn't

mean telling him till we'd gitten back."

Eliza had followed the explanation with lowering brows, but now she

burst into one of her great laughs.

"Losh, Sarah, woman! but I'd have a better tale than that! What, you'd

never ha' let him give in his notice, and you wi' your tongue in your

cheek all the time! ... When did you get yon precious letter o' yours?"

she enquired swiftly, switching on to another track.

"Just last minute this morning as we was starting off." Sarah was

thoroughly launched now on her wild career. Each detail as she required

it rose triumphantly to her lips. "Simon was back in t'stable wi'

t'horse when postman come, so I put it away in my pocket and settled to

say nowt. I thought it was likely axing for money or summat like that,

and Simon had more than enough to bother him as it was. I got May

Fleming to read it for me at doctor's," she finished simply, with a

supreme touch. "I'm terble bad wi' my eyes, Eliza, if you'll trouble to

think on."

Once again Eliza was forced to belief against her will, and then once

again she leaped at the only discrepancy in the tale.

"You could ha' tellt Simon easy enough on the road out!" she threw at

her in a swift taunt. "There's time for a deal o' telling at your rate

o' speed!"

But now, to her vexed surprise, it was Sarah who laughed, and with a

society smoothness that would have been hard to beat. It was in matters

like these that the dream lifted her into another sphere, puzzling her

clumsy antagonist by the finer air she seemed to breathe.

"Eh, now, Eliza!" she said good-humouredly, and with something almost

like kindliness in her voice, "whatever-like use is it telling a man owt

when he's chock full o' summat else? Simon was fit to crack himself

over some joke as he'd heard in Witham, talking a deal o' nonsense and

laughing fit to shake the trap! Coming from market's no time any day

for telling a man important news, and anyway I'd never ha' got a word in

edgeways if I'd tried." She paused a moment, and then continued,

aspiring to still greater heights. "I'd another reason an' all for

wanting it kept quiet. I knew he'd be sure an' certain to go shouting

it out here."

"Ay, and why ever not, I'd like to know!" Eliza gasped, when she was

able to speak. "Come to that, you were smart enough shoving it down our

throats yourself!"

"Ay, but that was because I lost my temper," Sarah admitted, with a

noble simplicity which again struck the other dumb. "If I hadn't ha'

lost my temper," she added, "I should ha' said nowt,--_nowt!_"--a

statement so perfectly true in itself that it needed nothing to make it

tell. "I never meant you should hear it so sudden-like," she went on

gently, the kindness growing in her voice. "It's hard lines our Geordie

should ha' done so well for himself, and not your Jim. I never meant to

crow over you about it, Eliza,--I didn't, indeed. I never thought o'

such a thing!"

Eliza was making a noise like a motor-car trying to start, but Sarah

took up her tale before she could reply.

"As for letting Simon give in his notice as we'd fixed, I don't know as

it'll make that much differ, after all. There's my eyes, for one thing,

as I mentioned before. Blind folk is only a nuisance wherever they be,

but they're a real, right-down nuisance on a farm. And Geordie'll want

more nor a farm, I reckon, wi' all yon brass to splash. He'll want

summat wi' stables and gardens and happen fishing an' all,--a grand

gentleman's spot, likely, same as the Hall itself."

Mrs. Will felt the world wheeling rapidly about her, and tried to clutch

at it as it went. Her temples throbbed and her throat worked, and her

staring eyes went blind. She groped her way to the window, and flung up

the stiff sash; and, as she stood there, drawing panting breaths, Simon

and Will came sauntering through the yard. Her eyes, clearing again in

the rush of air, caught the incipient smile on Simon's face, the new

signs of interest and life in his whole look. He could know nothing

about the great news, if what Sarah said was true; the utmost that he

could do was to sense it in the air. But his look of subtle contentment

was a sufficient annoyance in itself. It was the last straw, indeed,

which broke the back of Eliza's self-control. When she turned again her

words and her breath came with the leap of a mountain stream.

"I wonder you're not afraid, Sarah Thornthet, to be setting there

reeling off lies like hanks o' cotton off a bobbin! Happen you're just

thinking you'll get a rise out o' me and mine, but if that's the best

you can do by way of a joke, well, I think nowt on't, and so I tell you!

Geordie coming home wi' brass! Geordie wanting the Hall and suchlike!

Nay, Sarah, I might ha' believed the rest wi' a bit o' pulling and

pushing, but yon last's taking it over far. Why, I'd as lief believe he

was going to get the King's Crown right out, wi' mappen Witham Town Hall

for a spot to live in! As for thinking o' me and my feelings and

suchlike stuff, you've never troubled that much about 'em to start

bothering now. There's only two ways about it, Sarah, and I reckon I

know which it is. It's either a smart lie you've been telling from end

to end, or else it's never Geordie that's coming, but our Jim!"

She choked when she came to the last words, both from sudden

nervousness, and lack of breath, and again Sarah gave her well-bred

laugh.

"I wouldn't be as hard o' faith as you, Eliza," she said placidly,--"not

for a deal! It's you, not me, would have heard if Jim was coming home.

What's Jim to do wi' me?"

"He'd a deal to do wi' you when he was in England, as everybody knows!

Nay, you hated the sight o' him,--that's true enough,--but you were

right keen on trying to set him agen me, all the same. What, the last

letter I had from him,--and terble saucy an' all,--was blacking me over

summat I'd said of you as his lordship didn't like! Nay, if he come

home, Sarah, he'd come to you, not me, and right glad you'd be to have

him while he'd a penny before his teeth! Ay, and why shouldn't our lad

ha' done as well as yours, and happen better, come to that? He was the

smarter lad o' the two, and come o' smarter folk,--ay, but he did now,

Sarah, so you'll kindly shut your mouth! You've only to look at the way

we've done at Blindbeck, me and Will, and then at the mess o' things

you've made at yon pig-hull on the marsh! It stands to reason our lad

would be the likely one to make out, just as it isn't in reason to

expect owt from yours!"

She came a step nearer as she finished, twisting her plump hands, her

voice, as it mounted higher, full of bewilderment and angry tears.

"Will you swear to it Jim isn't coming, Sarah?" she demanded,--"will you

swear? Will you swear as it isn't my lad that's coming and not yours?"

Sarah said, "Ay, I will that!" in a hearty tone, and with such absolute

readiness that Eliza bit her lip. "If you've a Bible anywhere handy,"

she went on tranquilly, "I'll swear to it right off."

But already Eliza had drawn back in order to follow a fresh trail.

Quite suddenly she had perceived the only means of getting at the truth.

"Nay, I'll not trouble you," she sneered. "'Tisn't worth it, after all.

I shouldn't like our grand Family Bible to turn yeller wi' false

swearing! Geordie's letter'll be proof enough, Sarah, now I come to

think on. I'll believe owt about Halls and suchlike, if you'll show me

that!"

She came a step nearer still, holding out her hand, and instantly

Sarah's lips tightened and her eyes narrowed. She might have had a

dozen sacred letters about her, from the look of her, at that moment.

It might have been Geordie's face itself that she guarded from the touch

of Eliza's hands.

"Ay, I'd be like to show you his letter, wouldn't I?" she answered, with

a wicked smile. "You and me have been such terble friends all these

years,--I'd be like to show you owt from my bonny lad! Nay, Eliza, you

know I'd shove it in t'fire unread, afore I'd let you as much as clap

eyes on a single word!"

Eliza wheeled away from her with an angry oath, and began to walk to and

fro, setting the loose planks jumping and creaking under her feet, and

the china rattling and clinking on the shelves. Her hands worked in and

out of each other with convulsive movements, and now and then she flung

out her heavy arms. She was working herself into one of those storms

which the folk at the farm knew only too well, but Sarah, who was the

cause of it, did not seem to care. She, too, however, was breathing

faster than before, and a faint colour had stayed in her waxen cheek.

She still felt as if, in that last bout, she had protected something

vital from Eliza's hands.

"I'll be bound it's Jim!" Eliza was saying senselessly, over and over

again. "I'll swear it's Jim!" ... It was like a giant's voice, Sarah

thought to herself, the voice of a cruel, clumsy giant-child. "You're

telling a lie, Sarah,--a nasty lie! You're jealous, that's what it

is,--jealous and mean! _Geordie_ wi' brass? Not likely! ... Nay, it's

Jim!"

"It's plain enough it's the brass you're after and nowt else," Sarah

said in her cool tones. "You'd have no use for the poor lad if he come

back without a cent!"

But even while the words were on her lips, Eliza, creaking to and fro,

was brought to a sudden halt. The thing that held her was a photograph

of Jim, catching her eye in its frame of crimson plush. If he had been

older when it was taken, it would have been banished long ago, but here

he was only a mischievous baby, struggling in his mother's arms. Eliza

stared at it as she stood in front of the mantelpiece, and quite

suddenly she began to cry. The tears poured down her face, and her

hands trembled and her body shook. Into the brutal voice came a note at

which Sarah, unable to trace the cause, yet quivered in every nerve.

"Nay, then, Sarah, you're wrong, Sarah, you're dead wrong! I'd be glad

to see him just for himself, I would that! He's been nowt but a trouble

and disappointment all his life, but I'd be glad to see him, all the

same." She put out the plump fingers which Sarah loathed, and drew them

caressingly over the baby face. "I can't do wi' failures," she added

brokenly; "they make me wild; and Jim was the only failure Blindbeck

ever hatched. But for all that he was the bonniest baby of the lot, and

there's times I never remember nowt but that. There's days I just ache

for the sound of his voice, and fair break my heart to think he'll never

come back."

There was no doubting the sincerity of her grief, and the big sobs

shaking their way through her shook Sarah, too. Her own lips trembled,

and her eyes filled; her hands quivered on the arms of the chair. She

could not see the pitiful fingers stroking the child's face, but she who

had offered that worship herself needed little help to guess. She had

her revenge in full as she sat and listened to the passion that never

dies, forcing its way upward even through Eliza's leathern soul; but the

revenge was a two-edged sword that wounded herself as well. All the

generosity in her that was still alive and kind would have sprung to the

surface instantly if the story had been true. She would have groped her

way to Eliza's side in an effort to console, and perhaps the lifelong

enemies might have drawn together for once. But the story was not true,

and she had nothing to offer and no right of any sort to speak. She

could only sit where she was and suffer and shake, hating herself more

in this moment of absolute conquest than she had ever hated Eliza in her

darkest hour.

But, as a matter of fact, Eliza's grief would have passed before she

could even have tottered to her feet. Her own lips were still shaking

when Eliza's had hardened again; her own eyes were still wet when

Eliza's were dry with hate. The passion which for a brief moment had

been selfless and sincere was turned once again into the channel of

jealous rage. She swung round so swiftly that her sleeve caught the

little frame, and it fell forward unnoticed with a sharp tinkle of

broken glass.

"There's summat wrong about it all," she cried venomously, "and I'll not

rest till I find out what it is! What's Geordie mean by landing up so

smart, and leaving our Jim a thousand mile behind? It's a nasty sort o'

trick, if it's nothing worse, seeing how they were thick as thieves as

lads. I'll tell you what it is, Sarah, and you may swallow it as you

can,--if Geordie's gitten brass, it's because he's robbed it off our

Jim! Like enough he's put an end to him for it, the poor, honest

lad--knifed him ... finished him ... put him out o' the road...!"

The fierce malice of the voice penetrated into the passage, and carried

its message into the kitchen and the yard. Will and Simon heard it at

the stable door and looked at each other and turned instantly towards

the house. Passing the parlour window, they saw the women rigid on

their feet, and felt the current of hate sweep strongly across their

path. They had a glimpse of Sarah's face, white, blind and quiet: and

Eliza's, vindictive, purple, and bathed with furious tears. Her heavy

tone beat at the other's immobility as if with actual blows, and the

glass in the cabinet rang and rang in sweet reply. Will quickened his

pace as he neared the house, for he knew that Eliza did not always stop

at words. Indeed, her hands were reaching out towards Sarah's throat at

the very moment he stepped inside.

"Whisht, can't ye, Eliza!" he ordered roughly, his voice harsh with the

swift reaction from the little space of content through which he and his

brother had just passed. "What's taken you, missis, to be going on like

yon?"

He was now in the parlour, with Simon at his heels, while the company

from the kitchen clustered round the door. Peering into the tiny arena

round each other's heads, they giggled and whispered, curious and

alarmed. Sarah could hear them stirring and gurgling just beyond her

sight, and felt their rapacious glances fastened upon her face. Sally

tried to push her way through to her aunt's side, but was stopped by the

solid figure of Elliman, set in the very front. The lads had forsaken

the milking to run to the window and peep in, and a dog lifted its

bright head and planted its forefeet on the sill. All the life of the

place seemed drawn to this little room, where at last the women were

fighting things out to the very death.

"What's amiss, d'ye say?" Eliza echoed his speech. "Nay, what isn't

amiss! Here's Sarah has it her Geordie's a-coming home, but never a

word as I can hear about our Jim!"

The eyes of the brothers met in a startled glance, and the red came

painfully into Simon's face. Before they could speak, however, Eliza

swept their intention from them like a western gale.

"What's come to Jim, I want to know? Why isn't it our Jim? Geordie's

made his pile, so Sarah says, but I can't hear of a pile for Jim. He's

dead, that's what it is! ... Geordie's finished him, I'll swear! He's

robbed him! ... knifed him! ... given him a shove in t'beck...!"

Again she made that threatening movement towards Sarah's throat, but

Will put out his hand and caught her by the wrist. Both the giggles and

whispers had died a sudden death, and the lads at the window pressed

nearer and looked scared. Sally succeeded at last in forcing her way

through, careless that Elliman suffered severely as she passed.

"For goodness' sake, stop it, mother!" she cried sharply. "You're fair

daft! Can't you wait to make a stir till Geordie's landed back? He'll

tell us right enough then what's happened to our Jim."

"He'll tell us nowt--nowt----!" Eliza began again on a high note, but

Simon threw up his hand with a sudden snarl.

"Whisht, can't ye! You fair deafen a body, Eliza!" he flung out.

"What's all this stir about Geordie coming back?"

"It's a lie, that's what it is!" Eliza exploded again, and again he

silenced her with an angry "Whisht!" He kept his eyes on her a moment

longer, as if daring her to speak, and then let them travel slowly and

almost reluctantly to his wife's face. He opened his lips to address

her and then changed his mind, turning instead to the crew beyond the

door.

"Tell me about it, can't you?" he demanded angrily. "One o' you speak

up! Emily Marion--Addison--you wi' the fat face!" He jerked a

contemptuous thumb at Elliman, who went crimson with extreme disgust.

"One o' you tell me the meaning o' this precious hullaballoo!"

Elliman looked across to Sally for help, but did not get it. Instead,

she turned her eyes away, ignoring his appeal.

"It's hardly my place to enlighten you, sir," he said, with an offended

shrug, "but I don't mind telling you the little I know. Apparently your

son Geordie is expected soon, and with a fat purse in his pocket to buy

him a welcome home."

"Geordie's coming back, d'ye say?" Simon stared at him with bewildered

eyes.

"So Mrs. Thornthwaite has given us to understand."

"And wi' brass? Plenty o' brass? _Geordie_ wi' brass?"

"Enough and to spare, if all we're told is true."

"Ay, but that's just what it isn't!" Eliza broke out on a peacock

scream, and this time Will actually shook her into silence. The

poignancy of the moment had hushed the rest of the audience into

complete quiet. There was no sound in the room but Eliza's breathing as

Simon turned again to look at his wife.

"What's it all about, Sarah?" he asked quietly, though his voice shook.

"You never said nowt about Geordie coming to me."

In the pause that followed Sally drew away from her aunt's side, as if

conscious that this moment was for the two of them alone. The silence

waited for Sarah's answer, but she could not bring herself to speak. In

the heat of her victory she had forgotten that Simon also would hear the

lying tale. It was the only hitch in the splendid machinery of the lie,

but it was enough in itself to bring the whole of it to the ground.

Here was Simon in front of her, asking for the truth, and if a hundred

Elizas had been present she could still have given him nothing but the

truth. But indeed, at that moment, Eliza, and all that Eliza stood for,

was swept away. In that hush and sudden confronting of souls Sarah and

Simon were indeed alone.

"Geordie's never coming, is he, Sarah?" he asked anxiously. "Nay,

you've dreamed it, my lass! And he's rich, d'ye say?--why, that settles

it right out! Why, it was nobbut the other day he was writing home for

brass!"

Still she did not speak, and quite suddenly he was wroth, vexed by her

mask-like face and the sudden diminishing of his hope.

"Losh, woman!" he cried angrily. "You look half daft! Is yon lad of

ours coming, or is he not? Is it truth you're telling me, or a pack o'

lies?"

She stirred then, moved by the cheated sound in his angry voice. She

gave a sigh. The fooling of Eliza had been utterly great and glorious,

but it had come to an end. "It was just lies," she heard herself saying

in a passionless tone, and then with a last twinge of regret, she sighed

again.

Eliza's scream of "I knew it! I knew it!" merged in the chorus of

exclamation from the group about the door. Will said nothing, fixing

his sister-in-law with his kindly gaze, but Simon fell back muttering,

and staring as if afraid. He wondered, looking at her unemotional face,

whether the trouble about her eyes was beginning to touch her brain.

She herself had said there was no knowing what blind weather might

possibly do, no telling what a blind body's brain might someday suddenly

breed....

He came back to the consciousness of Eliza's voice as a man from the

dead hears the roar of life as he returns.

"I wonder you're not struck down where you stand, Sarah Thornthet! I

wonder you're not liggin' dead on t'floor! But you'll be punished for

it, right enough; you'll be paid for it, never fear! You'll see,

summat'll happen to you afore so long,--I shouldn't wonder if it

happened before morn! Like enough, the next news as we have o'

Geordie'll be as he's dead or drowned.... I'll serve you a slap on

t'lugs, Will, if you can't shape to let me be!"

It was Sally who saved the situation for the second time that day.

"Fetch the trap, Uncle Simon, and look sharp about it!" she commanded

smartly, "and you come and set down, Aunt Sarah, until it's round. Let

her be, can't you!" she added roughly, flinging round on her mother.

"She's that tired and put out she don't know what's she's at."

She shook her fist at the window, and the faces disappeared like morning

frost. Then she turned on the others and ordered them out, too.

"You'd best be getting about your business!" she commanded them, hand on

hip. "You should be in t'dairy this minute, Mary Phyllis,--you know

that as well as me. I'd think shame o' myself, Mr. and Mrs. Addison, to

be helping other folks' wi' their weekly wash! Same to you, Elliman

Wilkinson, and a bit over, come to that! You're not one o' the family

yet by a long chalk, my lad; nay, nor like to be, neither, if you don't

see to mend your ways!"

Eliza still lingered, however, loth that anything should be left unsaid,

but Sally ushered her resolutely to the door. She protested to the last

inch, and the hand that had been denied judgment on Sarah flew up and

slapped Sally's face. The girl looked at her with scornful eyes.

"Ay, you can't keep your hands off folk, can you?" she said bitterly.

"You never could. I remember Jim saying he fair hated you for it when we

were bairns. That was why he always liked Aunt Sarah a deal better than

he liked you!"

"You'll find other folk free wi' their hands," Eliza stormed, "if you're

that free wi' your impident tongue! Yon fool of an Elliman'll stand no

nonsense, for all he looks so new-milk soft! Not that he wants any

truck wi' you at all, as far as I can see. It's Mary Phyllis he can't

take his eyes off, and no wonder, neither. She was always a sight

better-looking than you, and she's younger, by a deal. You're that old

and teptious you fair turn the cream sour just by being along wi't in

t'house! Nay, I reckon you can put wedding and suchlike out o' your

head as soon as you like! _You'll_ never have a house of your own, or a

man to put in it; and as for bairns o' your own to slap, why, you'll

never have none o' _them_...!"

She said the rest to the closed door, a stout, oaken door which even she

was reluctant to attack. In the few pauses that she allowed herself she

could hear nothing inside the room, and presently, tiring of the

one-sided contest, she waddled heavily away along the passage. She was

in the dairy a minute later, and saw through the window the brothers

yoking the old horse. Through the window, too, she caught scraps of

their talk, and strained her ears eagerly to catch its bent. As if by

magic the anger left her face, and a little smile grew happily on her

lips. She even hummed a little tune to herself, as she watched and

listened, leaning against the frame....

The silence persisted in the room that she had left, as if the air was

so laden with words that it would hold no more. Sarah groped her way to

the rocking-chair and sat down again to wait. Sally went to the window,

and stared miserably into the yard. So they waited together until they

heard the rattle of the wheels along the stones....

VII

Even now, however, the Blindbeck comedy was not quite played out. Eliza

had still to give it its finishing touch. The lately routed audience

must have been conscious of this, for they assembled again in order to

watch the Thornthwaites take their leave. As a rule, the Simons simply

faded away, unperceived and unsped of anybody but Will. They were not

welcome when they came, and they were not lamented when they went away.

But to-day Sarah had managed to touch the imagination of the crowd,

arousing unwilling admiration and even respect. The Addisons, for

instance, though outwardly badly shocked, rejoiced by proxy in a crime

which they would never have had the courage to commit themselves. Even

Elliman was heard to remark that Sarah's psychology seemed possibly

worthy of study, after all. The main motive with all, however, was a

sneaking hope that, on some ground or another, the opponents might go

for each other again.

As if by accident, therefore, they drifted out of the house, and on

Sarah's appearance were to be found sitting on rails or pig-sty walls,

or leaning in graceful attitudes against the porch. Sarah could not see

them, but Simon could, and divided a scowl of dislike amongst the lot.

The Thornthwaites were actually settled in the trap when Eliza came

bustling after them into the yard.

It was such a different Eliza, however, that at first it looked as if

the audience were to be cheated of their scene. The virulent harridan

of ten minutes ago had vanished as if she had never been. This Eliza

was hearty, smiling, serene, the smooth-faced, smooth-tongued mocker

which Sarah detested most. Even her hair and dress, lately dishevelled

by rage, were now as tidy and sleek as the fur of a well-brushed cat.

She came to a halt close beside the wheel, and Sarah started when she

heard her speak.

"So you're off, are you, Sarah? Ay, well, you'll be best at home! I

reckon our Sally's right, and you're not yourself at all. Mind and see

doctor again, first thing as ever you can. It's a bad sign, they say, to

go making up fancy tales. Folks as get telling lies is framing for

softening of the brain."

Will looked back with a frown as he hurried on to open the gate.

"We've had enough o' that, missis!" he called sharply. "Just you let

Sarah be!"

Mrs. Will tossed her head, but managed to preserve her compassionate

air.

"Losh, master!" she reproached him loudly. "You've no call to speak so

sharp. I'm meaning kindly enough by poor Sarah here, I'm sure! She's

welcome to tell lies till they turn her black in the face, but it isn't

healthy for her, all the same. I shouldn't like to see poor Sarah in

Garland's Asylum, or some such spot as yon. Ay, well, we'll be having

her close at hand afore so long, and then we can do our best for her

ourselves!"

Sarah started a second time when she said that, and the pig-sty audience

brightened and pricked its ears. Simon muttered an oath and pulled at

the horse until it sidled and backed, forcing the subtle tormentor to

retreat.

"You stand back, missis," he cried angrily, waving a threatening whip,

"and take your long tongue with you, or it'll be tripping us in t'road!"

There was a burst of laughter at this show of wit, and Eliza flared

instantly into open war. She raised her voice after the departing pair,

stepping back heavily upon Elliman's feet.

"You'll have to speak different from that, Mr. Thornthet," she called

shrilly, "if you're coming to Blindbeck to act as our hired man!"

The laughter broke out again, and then stopped, cut short. Simon, red

to the ears, raised the whip violently above the horse's back, but it

was checked before it descended by Sarah's outstretched hand.

"Bide a minute, Simon," she said quietly. "Just hold on. What's Eliza

meaning to say by that?"

Simon looked helplessly about him, noting the interested gaping faces on

all sides. "Ax me on t'road," he said desperately, yearning to get

away. "It's time we were getting on, missis. Ax me on t'road!"

"Nay, ax him now, and ha' done wi' it, Sarah!" Eliza jeered, advancing

again. "Or ax me if you want, and I'll tell you mighty sharp! Likely

you've been wondering what's to come o' you when you leave the farm?

Ay, well, our cowman's job is going begging at present, and I hear your

master's thinking o' taking it on."

There was a pause after that, in which even the pig-sty audience was

hushed as mice, and the fretting horse itself was suddenly still. Those

nearest to Sarah heard her give a sigh, the same little sigh with which

she had loosed her hold on the Parlour Dream. The next moment Simon had

thankfully eased the reins, and the trap went creaking and jolting out

of the still yard....

Eliza watched it triumphantly until the very last, and then, bursting

into a laugh, turned expectantly for applause. But for once her usually

appreciative audience failed her of her due. They avoided her eyes and

looked at their boots, or leaned over the pig-sty walls and pretended a

passionate interest in the pigs. The Addisons, in whom Christian

charity was apt to rise and fall like a turned-on jet, murmured tepid

thanks for their entertainment, and hurried away. Even the smug cousin

refused to play up to Eliza for once, partly because of a latent

fineness of feeling which she had hurt, but chiefly because she had

trodden on his toes. Turning his back determinedly upon Mary Phyllis, he

bent to whisper something in Sally's ear. She hesitated a moment,

lifting her eyes to his sobered face, and then followed him slowly

towards the track across the fields.

VIII

Outside the farmyard wall Sarah again put out a hand to Simon's arm.

"Yon's Taylor's spot, isn't it?" she enquired, as the cottage came up.

"Just hold on a minute, and let me see."

He obeyed, watching her nervously as she bent and peered at the house,

and wondering uneasily what she was about. She knew the house well

enough, both inside and out, so she could not be stopping to look at it

just for that. She must be trying to form some impression of it that was

wholly new, perhaps picturing it as it would be when she had come to

live in it herself.

When he found that she did not speak, he began to offer clipped remarks,

anxiously pointing out objects that she was quite unable to see.

"It's a good house, missis.... You'll remember it's a tidy spot.

There's a fairish garden for cabbishes and the like, and a bit of a

drying-ground as well. As for berry-bushes, there's gooseberry and

black currant and red ... and danged if there isn't a few rasps over at

far side wall an' all!"

Sarah looked away from the house the moment he started to speak, as if

some spell were broken by the sound of his voice. "Ay," she said, with

a total lack of interest, and staring ahead.... "Now, master, we'd best

get on."

Simon, cut off in mid-flight, repeated "Rasps!" in a feeble tone, and

again Sarah said "Ay," and requested him to get on. He drove away

rather reluctantly, looking behind him as he went, and muttering of

Taylor's rasps and cabbishes until they were finally lost to sight.

Now once more they were in the high-flanked lane, with Blindbeck and all

that Blindbeck stood for fallen away at last. The cross went with them,

indeed, but the calvary dropped behind. The horse turned homeward, and,

encouraged by Will's corn, showed a sudden freakish revival of vanished

youth. Bicycles met and passed them in the narrow road, sliding by like

thistledown on a wind, while the riders saw only an elderly couple

apparently half asleep. Yet even the dullest farm-lad would have cried

aloud to them if he had known to what they went. He would have flung

himself off his bicycle and barred the road, a humble but valiant

imitation of an Angel of God.

Evening was coming, but the day was still alive, incredibly long as the

afternoon had seemed. Simon's old watch, put right that morning in

Witham, asserted that it was only half-past four. The atmosphere had

never been really light, and only imperceptibly was it drawing down to

dusk. The grey seemed to have deepened and settled a little, but that

was all. It was a day on which people forgot the time, as Mr. Dent had

said, a day when they had every excuse for forgetting the right time.

Simon felt suddenly as though he had never seen the sun either rise or

set for at least a week. Yesterday there had been only a swift setting,

hurriedly blotted out, and to-day, if there had been any fugitive

brightness of farewell, it must have passed while they were still at the

farm. The night was coming unduly to the grey-green land which had

never had its meed of sun, just as the night came unfairly to lives

whose share of glamour and glory had been missed. He longed to see a

light spring out of the west, showing the silver water in a shining

line, and re-tinting the heavy, neutral-coloured earth.

Sun,--evening sun lying over the sea,--would have made things easier for

both of them, but especially for his wife. Even though there was so

little that she could see, the warmth and light would at least have lain

tenderly upon her lids. Trouble and change were always easier to bear

under a smiling sky; it did not mock at the trouble, as smiling faces so

often seemed to do. Rain and the dark seemed to narrow a trouble in, so

that change was a nameless peril into which each step was into a void.

But there was to be no sun for these lost folk who seemed to be straying

all the day long; only the unstirred breath of the mist in the blotted

west, filling the mighty bowl at whose bottom lay the sea.

They felt strange with each other, now that they were alone, because of

all that the other had done while the two of them were apart. Simon's

sudden decision was as inexplicable to his wife as her afternoon's jest

with Eliza had seemed to him. In his place she would never have stooped

to make of herself the younger brother's man; she would have worked for

the hardest driver amongst them sooner than that. Even the close

affection between the brothers could not dignify the position in her

eyes. She could understand something of Simon's yearning towards the

farm, but Sarah was never the sort of which they make doorkeepers in

Heaven. She would never really have understood the strength of the

pull, even with no Eliza set like a many-eyed monster on the farmyard

wall. He, on the other hand, could not even pretend to understand the

Lie, but then the Vision of the Parlour had been granted to her and not

to him.

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.