There's no telling what blind weather and a blind body's brain may breed.... Ay, well, likely I'll know a bit more about they sort o'

things now...."

III

All old and historical towns seem older and richer in meaning on some days than they do on others. But the old and the rich days are also the most aloof. The towns withdraw, as it were, to ponder on their past.

By some magic of their own they eliminate all the latest features, such as a library, a garage, or a new town hall, and show you nothing but winding alleys filled with leaning walls and mossy roofs. The eye finds for itself with ease things which it has seen for a lifetime and yet never seen,--carved stone dates, colour-washed houses jutting out over worn pillars, grey, mullioned houses tucked away between the shops. The old pigments and figures stand out strangely on the well-known signs, and the old names of the inns make a new music in the ear. The mother-church by the river seems bowed to the earth with the weight of the prayers that cling to her arched roof. The flags in the chancel seem more fragile than they did last week. The whole spirit of the town sinks, as the eyelids of the old sink on a twilit afternoon.

Witham wore this air of detachment when Simon and Sarah came to it to-day, as if it held itself aloof from one of the busiest spectacles of the year. The long main street, rising and dipping, but otherwise running as if on a terrace cut in the side of the hill, was strung from end to end with the scattered units of the road. The ambling traffic blocked and dislocated itself with the automatic ease of a body of folk who are all acquainted with each other's ways. Groups cl.u.s.tered on the pavements, deep in talk, and overflowed carelessly into the street.

Horses' heads came up over their shoulders and car wheels against their knees, without disturbing either their conversation or their nerves.

Sheepdogs hung closely at their masters' heels, or slipped with a c.o.c.ked eye between the hoofs. The shops were full, but those who wandered outside to wait could always find a friend to fill their time. Simon's personal cronies jerked their heads at him as he pa.s.sed, and the busy matrons nodded a greeting as they hurried in front of the horse's nose.

He made as if to draw up at the house of a well-known doctor in the town, but Sarah stopped him before he reached the kerb. "Nay, nay," she said nervously, "it'll likely bide. I don't know as I'm that fain to hear what he's got to say. Anyway, I'd a deal sooner get my marketing done first."

So instead of stopping they went straight to the inn where they had put up on market-day for the last forty years, and where Simon's father had put up before Simon was born. Turning suddenly across the pavement through a narrow entry, they plunged sharply downhill into a sloping yard. The back premises of old houses shut it in on every side, lifting their top windows for a glimpse of the near moor. The inn itself, small and dark, with winding staircases and innumerable doors, had also this sudden vision of a lone, high world against the sky.

An ancient ostler came to help Simon with the horse, while Sarah waited on the sloping stones. The steep yard was full of traps, pushed under sheds or left in the open with their shafts against the ground.

Fleming's dog-cart was there, with its neat body and light wheels; but May was already gone on her business in the town. Simon had an affection for a particular spot of his own, and it always put him about to find it filled. It was taken this morning, he found, though not by May. May would never have played him a trick like that. It was a car that was standing smugly in Simon's place, with a doubled-up driver busy about its wheels. Cars were always intruders in the cobbled old yard, but it was a personal insult to find one in his 'spot.' He went and talked to the driver about it in rising tones, and the driver stood on his head and made biting comments between his feet. A man came to one of the inn windows while the scene was on, and listened attentively to the feast of reason and the flow of soul.

Sarah looked rather white and shaky by the time Simon returned, thinking of something new to say to the very last. He left the newest and best unsaid, however, when he saw her face.

"You'd best set down for a bit," he observed, leading her anxiously towards the inn. "You're fretting yourself about seeing doctor, that's what it is. You'd ha' done better to call as we come in."

But Sarah insisted that she was not troubling about the doctor in the least. She had been right as a bobbin, she said, and then she had suddenly come over all queer. "Happen it's standing that long while you and morter-man sauced each other about car!" she added, with shaky spirit. "You made a terble song about it, I'm sure. Trap'll do well enough where it is."

"I can't abide they morter-folk!" Simon muttered, crestfallen but still vexed. "But never mind about yon. Gang in and set you down. If I happen across May, I'll tell her to look you up."

A door opened at the end of the dark pa.s.sage, showing a warm parlour with flowers and crimson blinds. The stout landlady came swimming towards them, speaking as she swam, so that the vibrations of her welcoming voice reached them first like oncoming waves. Another door opened in the wall on the right, and a man looked out from the dim corner behind.

"That you, Mrs. Thornthet? What?--not so well? Nay, now, it'll never do to start market-day feeling badly, I'm sure! Come along in and rest yourself by t'fire, and a cup of tea'll happen set you right."

Sarah, shaken and faint, and longing to sit down, yet hesitated as if afraid to step inside. It seemed to her, as she paused, that there was some ordeal in front of her which she could not face. Her heart beat and her throat was dry, and though she longed to go in, she was unable to stir. The man inside saw her against a background of misty yard, a white face and homely figure dressed in threadbare black. Once or twice his gaze left her to dwell on Simon, but it was always to the more dramatic figure that it returned. There was a current in the pa.s.sage, full and sweeping like the wind that went before the still, small Voice of G.o.d. Sarah was caught by it, urged forward, filled with it with each breath. But even as she lifted her foot she heard a woman's voice in the room beyond.

"We've Mrs. Will here an' all," the landlady called, as she swam away.

"She'll see to you if there's anything you want, I'm sure."

She might just as well have slammed and locked the door in the old folks' teeth. At once they made a simultaneous movement of recoil, stiffening themselves as if against attack. The spirit in the pa.s.sage died down, leaving it filled to the ceiling with that heavy, chattering voice. Sarah was well away from the doorstep before she opened her mouth.

"Nay, I don't know as I won't go right on, thank ye, Mrs. Bond. I'm feeling a deal better already,--I am that. If I set down, I'll likely not feel like getting up again, and I've a deal to see to in t'town."

Mrs. Bond swam back, concerned and surprised, but Sarah was already well across the yard. Simon, when appealed to, said nothing but, "Nay, I reckon she'll do," and seemed equally bent upon getting himself away.

They retreated hurriedly through the arch that led to the street, leaving Mrs. Bond to say, "Well, I never, now!" to the empty air. The man's face came back to the window as they went, looking after this sudden retirement with a troubled frown.

The driver was still working at his car when he found his pa.s.senger suddenly at his side. He was a queer customer, he thought to himself, looking up at the moody expression on his handsome face. He had behaved like a boy on their early morning ride, continually stopping the car, and then hustling it on again. He had sung and whistled and shouted at people on the road, laughed without any apparent reason, and dug the unfortunate driver in the back. He was clean off it, the man thought, grinning and vexed by turn, and wondering when and where the expedition would end. People as lively as that at blush of dawn were simply asking for slaps before the sun was down. He had steadied a trifle when they reached the Witham road, but the queerest thing of all that he did was that checking behind the traps. The driver was sure he was cracked by the time they got to the town, and he was surer than ever when he came out now and told him to move the car. He might have refused if his fare had not been so big and broad, and if he had not already shown himself generous on the road. As it was, he found himself, after a moment of sulky surprise, helping to push the trap into the disputed place. He still wore his injured expression when he went back to his job, but it was wasted on his employer, who never looked his way. Instead, he was standing and staring at Simon's crazy rig, and he smiled as he stared, but it was not a happy smile. Presently he, too, made his way to the arch, and disappeared into the crowded street.

The old folks had seemed in a terrible hurry to be gone, but, as a matter of fact, they halted as soon as they got outside. "I couldn't ha' gone in there whatever," Sarah said, in an apologetic tone, and Simon nodded, looking anxiously up and down.

"If I could n.o.bbut catch a sight o' May," he muttered worriedly, searching the crowd. "May'd see to you right off, and get you a snack o'

summat an' all. I've Mr. Dent to see about chucking t'farm, and I've a two-three other things to do as well."

But instead of May, who was nowhere to be seen, a man came shyly towards them from a neighbouring group. He was like Simon to look at, only younger and better clad, showing none of the other's signs of trouble and hard toil. His voice was like Simon's, too, when Simon was at his best, but Sarah stiffened when she heard him speak.

"You'll not ha' seen Fleming's la.s.s?" Simon asked, devouring the street, and Will swung about at once to cast his own glance over the press.

"She was by a minute since," he said thoughtfully. "She can't ha' gone far...." He hunted a moment longer, and turned shyly back. "Likely you'll give us a call at Blindbeck this afternoon?"

Sarah said nothing in reply to the invitation, but Simon gave a nod.

"I could do wi' a word wi' you, Will, if you're not throng. It's about time we were thinking o' making a change. Sarah's bothered wi' her eyes."

"Nay, now, that's bad news, to be sure." Will was genuinely concerned.

He glanced at Sarah kindly, though with a diffident air. "Happen a pair o' gla.s.ses'll fix you," he said, in his gentle tones. There was a pause, and then he jerked his head towards the arch that led to the inn.

"I left my missis behind there, talking to Mrs. Bond. If you're thinking o' seeing t'doctor, you'd best have a woman to come along."

"I meant to ax May," Simon said hurriedly, praying for May to spring out of the ground, and, as if by way of reply, she came out of a shop on the far side. He plunged forward, waving and calling her name, and she stopped, smiling, as he caught her by the arm. She was grave at once, however, when she heard what he had to say, and her eyes rested on Sarah with a troubled look. She gave a nod of comprehension when he pointed towards the arch, and, without waiting to hear more, crossed over to Sarah's side. By the time the stranger appeared the women had vanished down the street, while the brothers were making their way to the market square. This was the second time that the Thornthwaites had fled at the sound of a name, and this time, as it happened, May was sent speeding away, too.

IV

May, however, was only thinking of how she could be of use, and was very cheery and pleasant all along the street. Already she had come across one or two pieces of news, and laughed about them to Sarah until Sarah was laughing, too. Once or twice they met somebody who had something else to tell, and they stood on the pavement together and thrashed the matter out. May's laugh sounded young and gay, and a girlish colour came into her cheeks. The old figure beside her seemed to draw vitality from her generous warmth, her brave air which made an adventure of every commonplace of life. Sarah even rose to a joke or two on her own account, and was wonderfully heartened when they got to the doctor's house. She would not hear of having a cup of tea or even a rest. Time enough for such things, she said with spirit, when they were through.

She had both of them, however, at the doctor's, because he would not let her go away without. May took her into the dining-room by his orders, and found her an easy chair beside the fire. A parlourmaid brought a tray, and Sarah drank her tea cheerfully enough, soothed by the comfort and quiet and the presence of some sweet-smelling flower. The doctor had been kindness itself, and had felt a little depressed when he sent the women away. He did not know that the last thing that was in their minds as they sat by the fire was the terrible fact that Sarah was going blind.

They spoke of it, indeed, but only casually, as it were, before pa.s.sing on to the greater thing at its back. Sarah's sense of courtesy forced her at least to give the doctor a pat on the head.

"Ay, he was right kind," she said in a matter-of-fact tone, "and I will say this for him that he seemed to know his job. I've had my doubts for a while there was summat badly wrong. I don't know as it's news to me, after all. As for yon operation he says might do summat for me, I doubt I'm over old. We've no bra.s.s for notions o' that sort, neither, come to that."

"There's hospitals," May said,--"homes and suchlike where they take you free. Plenty of folk go to 'em, even at your age, and they'd see to you well enough, I'm sure."

"Ay, doctor said that an' all," Sarah a.s.sented, though in an uninterested tone. "But I'd only take badly to they sort o' spots now,"

she added, sipping her tea. "I'd be marching out agen, likely, as soon as ever I'd set my foot inside of the door."

"They say folks settle wonderfully when they've made up their minds.

It's worth a bit of trouble, if they put you right."

"Happen," Sarah said casually, and withdrew it at once. "I don't know as it is."

"You're down, that's what it is. You'll feel better after a bit."

"I don't know as I shall."

"You'll feel different about it in a day or two. You'd come through it right as a bobbin. You've pluck enough for ten."