"He was always making a song," he said, "about what he'd do when he struck it rich. 'I'll be off home that slick you'll hear the b.u.mp,' he used to say, 'and I'll be planning all the way how I'll burn the cash!'

I'd like to buy the farm for the old dad;--guess Squire'd part all right if I could pa.s.s him enough. As for the old woman, there's just no end to what I'd do,--glad rags and brooches, and help all round the house.

It'd be just Heaven and Witham Gala, playing Providence to the old woman! ... That's what I want my bra.s.s for, when I strike it rich!'"

"A fool's dream!" Sarah said.

"A fine fool's dream."

"Them as dreams over much likely never does nowt else."

He leaned forward still further, the smile more urgent on his lips.

"There was only one thing used to fret him," he went on, "and he spent a powerful lot of time thinking about it, and wearing himself thin.

'S'pose she don't know me when I sail in?' he used to say. 'S'pose I'm that changed I might as well be any other mother's son as well as hers?

There's a mighty pile o' years between us,--big, terrible years! I'd sure break my heart if she didn't know me right off, even if I'd grown a face like a pump-handle and a voice like a prize macaw! But I guess I needn't trouble,' he used to say, 'because mothers always know. I've got that slick by heart,--they always know.'" He waited a moment, and then pressed on, with a note that was like alarm. "Say, he was right, wa'n't he?"--he asked anxiously,--"dead right? It's a sure cinch that mothers always know?"

The force of his demand seemed almost to shake the obstinate figure so cynically aloof. It was as if he were prompting her to something that she knew as well as he, but would not admit for some reason of her own.

Even after he had stopped speaking the demand seemed to persist, and she answered at last with a cold smile on her hard face.

"Nay, my lad," she said sneeringly, "you needn't put yourself about!

Eliza'll be fain to see you, wherever you got your bra.s.s. She'll know you well enough, never fret, wi' yon pack o' cards in your hand!"

His smile died as if she had struck him,--the whole laughing pleasure of him died. "I worked for it honest," he said in reply, but his voice sounded dull and tired. Even in the dusk she might have seen the spirit go out of him, the lines in his face deepen, his head sink, his shoulders droop. The merry boy that had come into the house was gone, leaving the stern man of middle age. Sarah could not see what she had done to him, but she could feel the change. Scenes with Jim in the old days had always ended much as this. Many a time he had come to her full of affection and fun, and in a few moments she had slain them both. He had looked up at her with hurt eyes that still laughed because they couldn't do anything else, and had held to his old cry--"I'm _your_ lad _really_, Aunt Sarah,--same as Geordie is!"

He sat for a few minutes staring at the floor, his pipe with its filled bowl hanging idly from his hand. He seemed to be adjusting himself to new ideas, painfully making room for them by throwing overboard the old.

Then he rose to his feet with a half-sigh, half-yawn,--and laughed.

Sarah heard him, and started,--it was so like the old-time Jim! But though she might have winced in the old days, it did not trouble her now. If she had had no tenderness for the scapegrace lad she was not likely to pity the grown, successful man.... Without looking at her again he went across to the window and stared out. The pane swung open wide on its bent rod, and not a breath of wind troubled its buckled frame. Across the vanished sands the light still glowed from the 'Ship,' red on the dark that seemed like a mere dissolution of everything into mist.

"Old Fleming still at the 'Ship'?" he enquired, keeping his back turned.

"And May?" His voice warmed again on the little name. "May's married this many a year, I guess!"

"Nay, not she!" Sarah said. "She's not wed, nor like to be."

Unconsciously she relaxed a little. "She was always terble sweet on Geordie, was May."

The man looking out smiled at the light as if it had been a face. He spoke low, as if speaking to himself.

"I'd sure forgot!"

"I reckon she's waiting for him yet, but I doubt she'll wait till the Judgment, and after that!"

"She was always a sticker, was May...." He swung round, cheerful again, though lacking the ecstasy with which he had come in. "Sweet on Geordie, was she? Well, I guess a live dog's better than a dead lion!

I'll hop across for a chin."

"You'll loss yourself, crossing t'sand."

"I've crossed it every night in my dreams!" He came back to her, with his face tender again, the thin flame of the candle showing his pleasant eyes and kindly lips. "Say, though!" he added anxiously. "I can come back?"

"Best bide at t' 'Ship.'"

"But I'd a deal rather sleep here!"

"Well, you wain't, and that's flat!"

"There's Geordie's bed, ain't there?" he urged her, in pleading tones.

"I'll lay you've kept it fixed for him all along!"

"Ay,--for Geordie!" said Geordie's mother, setting her mouth.

"Couldn't you kinder think I was Geordie once in a while?"

"Nay."

"Not for a mite of a minute?" His voice shook.

"Nay, not I!"

He lifted his shoulders, and let them droop again. "I'm sure coming back, though!" he finished, in his persistent way.... "Stop a shake, though! What about the tide?"

His eyes turned from old custom to the table over the hearth, and, crossing over to it, he struck a light. The silver box in his hand flashed a tiny scintilla on the dusky air. He looked up at the table, but he did not see it, the match dwindling above his brooding face.

"You might ha' been just a mite glad to see me!" he exclaimed wistfully, stamping it out upon the flags. "Why, you'd never ha' known me from Adam if I hadn't given you the call! It'll give me the knock right out if May don't know me neither when I sail in. They say sweethearts don't forget, no more than mothers, but perhaps it's all a doggoned lie!"

"She was Geordie's la.s.s,--not yours!" Sarah told him, with jealous haste.

"Sure!" he said with a smile, and struck a second match.

Now he looked at the table in earnest, but only for a s.p.a.ce.

"Sat.u.r.day," she heard him murmuring, in an absent voice. "Martinmas, ain't it? ... Tide at ten...."

She made a movement forward and put out her hands.

"Nay, but yon's never----" she began; and stopped.

"Eh, old woman?"

"Nay, it's nowt."

"It's Sat.u.r.day, ain't it?"

"I reckon it is."

"Sat.u.r.day's my day for luck," she heard him saying, as the match died down. "I've got a cinch on Sat.u.r.days, that's sure!" The gaiety in his tone was only a mockery of what it had been before. "Tide at ten, eh?--and it's six, now." He drew his watch from his pocket and gave it a glance. "Well, so long! I'll be right back!"

To both the moments seemed endless in which he moved across the floor.

His look dwelt upon her in a last effort to reach her heart, and then lingered about the room on the dim fellowships of his youth. But even Geordie himself could hardly have touched her in that hour. The strongest motive that had ruled her life had her finally by the throat.

Yet she called to him even as he went, afraid, woman-like, of the sound of the shut door. "Jim!" she flung after him. "Jim, lad! ... Jim!"

"Say! Did you call?" He was back again on wings.

"Nay ... it was nowt." She indicated the pocket-book within reach of her hand. "You'd best take yon truck along wi' you an' all."