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.