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

"You leave Simon be," she cried fiercely,--"let him be! I've had enough o' your worry, without plaguin' him an' all. You get back to your dad, and don't come interfering again. You came between me and my lad, but you shan't meddle wi' my man! You mean well enough, I don't doubt, but you're n.o.bbut a meddler, all the same. It never does to go shoving kindnesses at folk who keep on saying nay. If you force 'em, you do 'em more harm than good in the long run, by a deal. D'you think I want Geordie coming back in rags, as like a tramp on t'roads as a couple o'

peas? D'you think I want a drunken do-nowt loafing about t'spot,--a thief, maybe, or happen summat worse? What sort o' food and drink would yon be to Blindbeck, d'you think? Eliza's gitten enough on her tongue, without the likes o' that! Nay, the lad as went was a limb, but he was bonny and smart, and Eliza'll always think of him like yon. She'll always think in her heart as he was the better o' Jim, for all she talks so loud. But if he come back to shame us, it'd rob me even o' that. I couldn't abide it!" she finished vehemently. "It'd be worse than death.

I'd rather the sea took him afore ever he reached home!"

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

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

She was startled into action again by the old dog's nose thrust kindly into her hand. He had listened to the urgent voices with constantly p.r.i.c.ked ears, knowing by instinct that somebody suffered and was afraid.

Now he came to May, begging her to take charge of her soul, lest he, too, whose only trust was in Man, should suffer fear. She laid her hand for a moment on the warmth of his head, dropping her gaze to meet his upturned eyes. Instantly, however, as if he had brought her a further message, she looked towards the bay, and saw the lamp in her father's window spring to life.

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

She wondered drearily what had become of the pa.s.sionate certainty with which she had set out. The sea still sundered her lover and herself, the bar of the sea so much greater than any possible stretch of land.

There were people to whom the sea was a sort of curse, and perhaps, without knowing it, she was one of those. She loved it, indeed, but she never forgot that it had taken her first hope. Perhaps it mocked at her love as Sarah had mocked her love. Perhaps it was only waiting out in the dark to do her harm....

She made one last entreating movement towards the shadow that was stone, but n.o.body moved in the darkness and n.o.body spoke. She could not be sure at that moment whether Sarah was there, or whether all that she begged of was merely blackened s.p.a.ce. Then she began by degrees to move away, wrenching her feet, as it were, from the ground of the yard.

Sadly, without looking back, she mounted the sea-wall, bowed by her burden of failure and sorrow and self-contempt. But the fear took her again as soon as she faced the sands, and she hurried down the further side. The good angel of the Thornthwaites fled away into the night as if driven by flails.

PART IV

GEORDIE-AN'-JIM

I

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

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

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

The candle, as always, drove the impression of utter desolation home.

No other light produces that same effect of a helpless battle against the dark. No other is so surely a symbol of the defiant human soul, thinking it shines on the vast mysteries of s.p.a.ce. No other shows so clearly the fear of the soul that yet calls its fear by the name of courage and stands straight, and in the midst of the sea of the dark cries to all men to behold that courage and take heart.

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

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

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

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

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

There was a nervous sound in his voice, at which Sarah almost smiled, knowing that his conscience must be ill at ease. She answered "Oh, ay,"

without turning, for she was busy with the fire, which, as if hating the atmosphere into which it was born, was doing its best to escape from it again.

"I'll see to the fire for you, missis," he said, crossing to her side.

"Set you down and be easy a bit. You're likely tired."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sarah received these remarks with an ironic smile.

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

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

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

"Nay, I don't know about that!" ... He was stamping about the floor. "A bit o' tact wi' her, happen? ... nay, dang her, I don't know! ...

Leastways, you needn't ha' tellt her yon rubbish this afternoon," he concluded, brought to a stand.

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

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